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EDWIN     WAUGH. 
(Taken  shortly  before  his  death.; 
From  a  Pliotograph  by  Paul  Lange. 


PAPERS 


OF    THE 


Manchester  Literary  Club 


VOL.    XVI. 

CONTAINING 

I.— The  " Manchester  Quarterly"  for  1890. 
II.— Report,  Proceedings,  &c.,  Session  1889-90, 


.inns    |irvw«.n|> 
DBAKHOATK  AKD  RIDOBFIKLD.  M 


THE 


Manchester    Quarterly 


A    JOURNAL    OF 


LITERATURE     AND     ART. 


VOL.    IX.,     1890. 


PUBLISHED  FOR 

THE    MANCHESTER   LITERARY   CLUB 

BY 

JOHN  HEYWOOD, 

DEANSGATE  AND  RIDGEFIELD,  MANCHESTER ; 
AND  i,  PATERNOSTER  BUILDINGS,  LONDON. 


CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

Matthew  Arnold.  By  C.  E.  TYRKR.  B.A.  With  Portrait  1 

On  Crusts.  By  W.  I.  WILD 20 

Features  of  Fact  and  Fancy  in  the  Works  of  George  Eliot.  By  JAMES  T. 

FOABD  28 

Some  Lancashire  Rhymes.  By  JOHN  MORTIMER  f»5 

In  Memoriam — Henry  La wes.  By  JOHN  BANNISTER 66 

An  Autumn  Evening.  By  J.  A.  QOODACRK  100 

Some  Aspects  of  Browning.  By  GEORGE  MILKER,  C.  E.  TYRER,  JOHN 

MORTIMER,  and  EDMUND  MERCER.  With  Portrait  101 

An  Autumn  Reverie.  By  ALFRED  EDMESTON  127 

The  Philosophy  in  Lever's  "Barrington."  By  EDGAR  ATTK  INS  180 

Leisure  and  Modern  Life.  By  C.  E.  TYRER  147 

"  They  had  been  Friends  in  Youth."  By  THOMAS  NEWBIGGING.  With 

Illustration  by  the  late  W.  G.  Baxter 157 

Concerning  Nature  and  Some  of  Her  Lovers.  By  JOHN  MORTIMER  ...  160 

William  Hazlitt.  By  GEORGE  MILNBR  am  1  JOHN  MORTIMER 187 

Edwin  Waugh.  By  JAMBS  T.  FOARD.  With  Three  Illustrations 197 

Some  Phases  of  Lancashire  Life.  By  BEN  BRIEKLEY  205 

George  Sand  By  J.  ERNEST  PHYTHI AN  211 

My  Cabin  Window.  By  THOMAS  KAY  .240 

Glees  and  Glee  Writers.  By  \V.  I.  \Vn.i,  244 

The  Story  of  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.  By  WILLIAM  E.  A.  AXON  ...  266 

Shakspere's  Alleged  Forgery  of  a  Coat  of  Arms.  By  JAMES  T.  FOARD  270 

The  Counsel  of  Perfection  :  A  Poem.  By  WILLIAM  E.  A.  AXON  236 

The  Library  Table— When  a  Man's  Single  ;  a  Tale  of  Literary  Life  288 


CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

Mr.  Meredith's  Novel*.    By  A.  N.  MONKHOUSK 293 

A  Story  of  a  Picture.     By  JOHN  MORTIMER       323 

John  Leech.    By  HARRY  THORNBBR.    With  Four  Illustrations      328 

A  Note  on  William  Rowlinson.     By  WILLIAM  E.  A.  AXON       354 

Matthew  Arnold  as  Poet.    By  C.  E.  TYRKR        358 

In  Memoriam— Thomas  Ashe.     By  M.  S.  S 386 

Forget-me-not :  a  Poem.     By  J.  B.  OLDHAM      396 

Report  of  Council 405 

Proceedings      411 

Memorial  Notices    451 

List  of  Members      478 

Rules 485 

Index...  489 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Matthew  Arnold.    A  Portrait. 

Robert  Browning.     A  Portrait. 

"  They  had  been  Friends  in  Youth."    A  Sketch  by  the  late  W.  G.  BAXTER. 

Edwin  Waugh.    A  Portrait. 

Facsimile  of  the  First  Draft  in  Pencil  of  "  Come  whoam  to  thi  Childer  an' 

Me." 

The  Old  Clock  Face  at  Rochdale.     Waugh's  Birthplace. 
John  Leech.     Four  Illustrations  from  his  Sketches. 


From  a  photograph  ly  Messrs.  Elliott  and  Fry. 


£•*«/ 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

BY  C.  E.  TYRER,  B.A. 

Quis  desiderio  sit  pudor  aut  modus 
Tarn  cari  capitis  ? 

"TIE  was  always  our  friend."  In  these  words  a  well- 
•*•  A  known  citizen  of  Manchester,  after  speaking  to  me  of 
the  shock  which  Matthew  Arnold's  recent  death  had  caused 
him,  expressed  his  sense  of  the  loss  we  had  sustained.  The 
words  seemed  to  me  so  excellent  and  appropriate,  they 
represented  my  own  feelings  so  well,  that  I  have  ventured 
to  take  them  as  a  kind  of  text  on  which  to  hang  a  few 
observations  on  the  great  man  who  passed  away  from  us 
so  suddenly  in  April,  1888.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  begin  by 
saying  that  I  was  not,  in  the  strict  sense,  acquainted  per- 
sonally with  him,  and  therefore  what  I  have  to  say  about 
him  will  contain  nothing  in  the  way  of  reminiscence  or 
anecdote ;  nothing  but  such  comments  as  any  intelligent 
reader  might  make,  or  such  expressions  of  feeling  as  any 
sympathetic  nature  might  share.  And  yet  I  have  called 
him  a  friend,  and  the  language  is  just.  Friend!  how 
lightly  we  use  the  word, — of  chance  acquaintances,  of  the 
foolish  and  vain  and  frivolous  people  with  whom  we  are 

TH*  MAMcrarra  QUARTBRLY.    No.  XXXIII.,  JANUARY,  1890. 


2  MA  TTHE  W  A  RNOLD. 

brought  into  contact  day  by  day!  How  religiously  we 
should  preserve  it  to  express  the  deepest  feelings  of  our 
nature !  And  these  may  surely  be  called  forth  by  those 
who  have  helped  on  our  inward  life,  who  have  strengthened 
and  sustained  our  spirits  (even  though  they  were  personally 
strangers  to  us,  or  perhaps  belonged  to  an  earlier  genera- 
tion), as  well  as  by  the  friends  who  are  bound  to  us  by 
personal  ties,  and  who  make  our  lives  brighter  by  their 
presence  and  affection.  And  to  few  contemporaries  were 
so  many  of  the  more  thoughtful  spirits  of  our  day  drawn 
delightedly  and  irresistibly  as  to  Matthew  Arnold ; 
and  probably  many  will  feel  with  me  that  they  are  more 
indebted  to  him  for  instruction  and  delight  as  a  prose 
writer,  for  charm  and  consolation  as  a  poet  than  to  any 
other  of  this  generation. 

Something,  perhaps,  of  the  feeling  of  almost  intimacy 
which  he  inspired  in  many  was  due  to  his  engaging  style 
as  a  prose  writer,  to  his  way  of  taking  his  readers  into  his 
confidence,  as  if  he  were  conversing  with  them  and  only 
used  the  medium  of  print  for  the  sake  of  greater  con- 
venience. This  was  never  more  strikingly  shown  than 
in  one  of  the  last  papers  he  ever  wrote,  the  essay  on  "  Civi- 
lization in  the  United  States,"  which  appeared  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century  a  fortnight  before  his  death,  and  in 
which  he  tried  to  show  his  American  friends  the  want  of 
distinction  and  beauty  in  their  civilization ;  narrating  with 
the  greatest  good  humour  and  naivete'  the  personalities  to 
which  he  had  been  exposed  at  the  hands  of  American  journa- 
lists, as  a  specimen  of  the  sort  of  thing  considered  allowable 
to  the  press  over  there  when  dealing  with  public  men.  The 
whole  paper,  though  keen  in  its  insight,  and  touched  here 
and  there  with  sarcastic  humour,  was,  in  its  general  tone, 
so  frank  and  kindly,  so  free  from  any  trace  of  bitterness, 
so  full  of  ripened  wisdom,  that  it  should  have  disarmed 


MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD.  3 

anger  and  been  taken  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  intended, 
as  a  piece  of  wholesome  and  disinterested  criticism,  instead 
of  iirousing  violent  outbursts  of  wrath  and  irritation.  But, 
doubtless,  even  across  the  Atlantic,  all  such  feelings  were, 
for  the  most  part,  stilled  by  the  news  of  his  sudden  death ; 
and  even  those  who  smarted  the  most  under  his  criticism 
would  confess  that  in  him  they  had  lost  a  critic  who  was 
also  a  friend ;  whose  judgments,  if  sometimes  mistaken, 
were  always  kindly  in  motive,  and  who  aimed  truly 
at  advancing  the  best  interests  of  mankind.  When,  on 
that  April  day,  the  news  of  his  death  came  to  us,  thou- 
sands who  never  knew  him  personally  must  have  felt,  as 
Mr.  Alfred  Austin  says  he  did  on  seeing  in  Florence  the 
brief  announcement  in  an  Italian  journal,  that  the  flowers 
had  lost  their  brightness,  and  the  music  had  passed  from 
the  singing  of  the  birds,  that  nothing  for  the  time  had  any 
reality  but  the  meaning  conveyed  in  those  simple  words : 
"  Matthew  Arnold  is  dead." 

And  yet,  so  far  as  he  personally  is  concerned,  there  is 
nothing  to  regret  in  his  death  or  in  the  manner  of  it. 
Happy,  on  the  whole,  in  his  life,  he  was  pre-eminently 
happy  in  his  death.  It  was  a  death  such  as  he  seems  him- 
self to  have  desired — such  as  with  his  unfailing  clear- 
sightedness he  must  have  known  would  one  day  be  his. 
Not  only  was  he  spared — 

"  the  whispering,  crowded  room, 
The  friends  who  come,  and  gaj>e,  and  go  ; 
The  ceremonious  air  of  gloom — 
All  that  makes  death  a  hideous  show." 

Not  only  did  no  "  doctor,  full  of  phrase  and  fame,"  shake  his 
sapient  head  over  him,  nor  "  his  brother  doctor  of  the  soul " — 

11  Can vaw  with  official  breath 
The  future  and  its  viewless  things," 

but  he  never  knew  what  to  a  keen  and  vigorous  intel- 
lect must  be  more  terrible  than  even  the  thought  of 


4  MA  TTHE W  ARNOLD. 

the  death-bed  itself — that  slow  decline  of  the  mental 
and  physical  powers  which  precedes  the  decrepitude  and 
inertness  of  age.  His  nature  seems  to  have  been  ardent 
and  energetic  to  the  last,  and  it  was  in  a  fit  of  almost  boyish 
playfulness  that  he  appears  by  his  indiscretion  to  have 
hastened  the  end.  Buoyancy  seems  the  word  best  descrip- 
tive of  his  temperament,  a  buoyancy  which  rose  superior 
to  all  outward  circumstances  and  inward  trials,  and  never 
deserted  him  to  the  last.  Though  he  had  early  learned  to 
brood  on  "  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth,"  though  the 
difficulties  of  life,  the  decay  of  religious  faith,  and  the 
melancholy  problems  of  modern  society  perplexed  and 
harassed  him,  and  his  poems  continually  reflect  the  profound 
dejection  of  his  spirit;  yet  there  was  something  in  him  which 
seemed  to  rise  superior  to  all  these  things — something  which 
prevented  him  from  wearing  out  his  heart,  like  his  friend 
Clough,  in  fighting  against  the  inevitable,  and  which  enabled 
him  to  find  joy  and  refreshment  and  consolation  in  Nature, 
in  literature,  and  in  some  of  the  aspects  of  human  life. 
Probably  no  English  poet,  save  Wordsworth,  has  found  a 
deeper  or  more  constant  source  of  delight  in  Nature  ;  few 
men  of  culture  have  reaped  a  richer  harvest  of  enjoyment 
from  the  best  literature  of  the  world  ;  while  he  could  find, 
even  in  the  human  scene  which  surrounded  him,  and 
whose  tragical  side  he  so  keenly  realised,  food  for  flashes 
of  gay  humour  and  a  not  ungenial  sarcasm.  How  excel- 
lently well  this  faculty  of  humour  must  have  served  him 
amid  the  troubles  of  life,  and  how  it  must  have  helped  to 
preserve  that  buoyancy  of  spirit  which,  as  I  have  said, 
was  one  of  his  leading  characteristics  !  Of  the  beauty  of 
his  character,  I  must  leave  others  to  speak.  An  intimate 
personal  friend*  has  written  of  him:  "Something  more 

*  Mr.  G.  W.  K.  Russell,  in  the  Manchester  Guardian,  April  17,  1888. 


MA  TTHEW  ARNOLD.  5 

th;in  nature  must  have  gone  to  make  his  constant  un- 
selfishness, his  manly  endurance  of  adverse  fate,  his  noble 
r fulness  under  discouraging  circumstances,  his  buoy- 
ancy in  breasting  difficulties,  his  life-long  solicitude  for  the 
welfare  and  enjoyment  of  those  who  stood  nearest  to  his 
heart.  He  lived  a  life  of  constant  self-denial,  yet  the  word 
never  crossed  his  lips."  And  again:  "The  magnificent 
insouciance  of  his  demeanour  concealed  from  the  outside 
world,  but  never  from  his  friends,  his  boyish  appreciation 
of  kindness,  of  admiration,  of  courteous  attention.  By  his 
daily  and  hourly  practice  he  gave  sweet  and  winning  illus- 
tration of  his  own  doctrine  that  conduct  is  three-fourths 
of  human  life.  To  those  who  have  known  him  intimately, 
life  without  him  can  never  be  quite  the  same  as  it  was 
before."  In  the  "Guesses  at  Truth,"  Julius  Charles  Hare 
has  described  the  character  of  Schleiermacher  in  words 
which  might  almost  be  applied,  it  would  seem,  to  the  poet 
and  friend  we  have  just  lost.  After  defending  the  use  of 
wit  and  irony  in  the  warfare  with  folly  and  wickedness,  he 
proceeds : — 

"  In  like  manner  Schleiermacher,  who  was  gifted  with 
the  keenest  wit,  and  who  was  the  greatest  master  of  irony 
since  Plato,  deemed  it  justifiable  and  right  to  make  use  of 
<>wers,  as  Pascal  also  did,  in  his  polemical  writings. 
Yet  all  who  knew  him  well  declare  that  the  basis  of  his 
character,  the  keynote  of  his  whole  being,  was  love ;  a  love 
which  delighted  in  pouring  out  the  boundless  riches  of  his 
spirit  for  the  edifying  of  such  as  came  near  him,  and  strove 
with  unweariable  zeal  to  make  them  partakers  of  all  that 
he  had.  Hereby  was  his  heart  kept  fresh  through  the 
unceasing  and  often  turbulent  activity  of  his  life,  so  that 
the  subtlety  of  his  understanding  had  no  power  to  corrode 
it;  but  when  he  died  he  was  still,  as  one  of  his  friends 
s;iid  of  him,  ein  ftinf-und-sechzigjahriger  JtiMgling  (a  boy 
of  five  and  sixty)." 


6  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Thinking  of  Arnold  I  could  not  but  think  too  of 
another  friend  we  have  lately  lost,  who  was  the  dear 
personal  friend  of  many  of  us,  and  who  likewise  died 
somewhat  suddenly  at  nearly  the  same  age.  As  we 
listened  to  William  Anderson  O'Conor  while  he  preached 
his  eloquent  sermon  on  the  "  Poetry  of  the  Bible,"  could 
any  of  us  imagine  that  it  was  for  the  last  time  ;  that  the 
mortal  tenement  which  held  that  glowing  spirit,  that  keen 
intellect,  that  rich  and  radiant  humour,  that  tender  and 
affectionate  and  beautiful  nature,  would  henceforth  for  ever 
pass  away  from  our  eyes  ?  With  less  transcendent  gifts, 
comparatively  unknown  to  fame,  he  too — like  Matthew 
Arnold — was  a  man  of  genius ;  like  him,  too,  he  was  not, 
nor  could  ever  have  been,  a  man  of  the  world.  Like  him, 
he  never  ceased  to  be  young  in  spirit,  and  to  each  we  may 
fitly  apply  the  beautiful  classical  adage  :  Quern  Di  diligunt 
moritur  juvenis ;  for  the  gods  loved  each  for  the  loveable- 
ness  of  his  nature,  and  in  spite  of  his  five  and  sixty  years, 
each  died  young. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  attempt  a  general  estimate 
of  Matthew  Arnold's  work,  or  to  give  him  his  place  and 
rank  in  English  literature ;  probably  the  time  has  not 
arrived  for  such  an  estimate,  and  in  any  case,  it  would  be 
presumption  on  my  part  to  essay  one.  What  I  might 
diffidently  venture  to  do,  is  to  point  out  a  few  of  the 
services  which  he  has  rendered  to  us,  services  which  entitle 
him  to  be  called  a  true  friend  of  humanity.  From  one 
point  of  view  his  nature  was  a  many-sided  one,  and  has 
expressed  itself  in  many  directions :  we  may  regard  him  as 
a  critic,  a  social  and  political  reformer,  a  humorist,  a 
theologian,  a  poet.  But  taking  a  wider  view,  all  these 
characters  may  be  summed  up  in  one — he  was  pre- 
eminently, using  the  word  as  he  used  it,  the  critic.  Even 
in  his  poetry,  the  critical  faculty  is  rarely,  if  ever,  wholly 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  7 

dormant,  and  those  who  know  it  best  will  best  understand 
how  he  should  have  been  led  to  adopt  the  curious  definition 
of  literature,  and  of  poetry  as  its  most  important  kind,  as 
"a  criticism  of  life."  But  then  the  word  criticism  in  his 
use  of  it  has  a  meaning  of  vastly  wider  significance  than 
it  bears  in  the  popular  acceptance.  This  is  how  he  defines  it: 
"  A  disinterested  endeavour  to  learn  and  propagate  the  best 
that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world,"  and,  as  he  else- 
where adds,  "  thus  to  establish  a  current  of  fresh  and  true 
ideas."  We  get  here,  I  think,  the  master  thought,  the  guiding 
motive  which  shaped  and  impelled  the  whole  course  of  his 
activity  as  a  student  and  as  a  writer.  He  is  thus,  above 
all,  the  critic  and  the  apostle  of  culture,  culture  in  the 
widest  conception  of  the  term  being  in  his  view  the  end  and 
aim  of  all  true  criticism.  Culture,  with  him,  is  "  a  study  of 
perfection,"  it  "  places  human  perfection  in  an  internal  con- 
dition ;  in  the  growth  and  predominance  of  our  humanity 
proper,  as  distinguished  from  our  animality.  It  places  it 
in  the  ever-increasing  efficacy,  and  in  the  general  har- 
monious expansion  of  all  our  gifts  of  thought  and  feeling 
which  make  the  peculiar  dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of 
human  nature."  It  is  very  important  to  bear  in  mind  that 
culture,  as  he  conceived  it,  was  not  a  thing  for  the  few,  but 
for  the  many,  and  it  was  towards  this  general  diffusion  of 
culture  that  the  true  critic  in  his  view  must  aim, 
and  against  the  monopolisation  of  its  blessings  by  an 
<j\<  lusive  intellectual  aristocracy.  Thus,  he  says:  "Per- 
fection, as  culture  conceives  it,  is  not  possible  while 
the  individual  remains  isolated.  The  individual  is 
ired,  under  pain  of  being  stunted  and  enfeebled  in 
his  own  development  if  he  disobeys,  to  carry  others  along 
with  him  in  his  march  towards  perfection,  to  be  continually 
doing  all  he  can  to  enlarge  and  increase  the  volume  of  the 
human  stream  sweeping  thitherward."  Only  (and  in  this 


8  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Arnold  separates  himself  from  the  ordinary  educational 
reformer  with  religious  or  political  ends  to  serve)  culture 
"  does  not  try  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  inferior  classes, 
it  does  not  try  to  win  them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its  own, 
with  ready-made  judgments  and  watchwords.  It  seeks  to 
do  away  with  classes  ...  to  make  all  men  live  in 
an  atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light."  I  have  dwelt  a 
little  on  this  subject,  and  have  given  these  quotations, 
because  Arnold  has  often  been  regarded  (and  some  I  dare- 
say still  regard  him)  as  a  sort  of  elegant  dilettante,  too 
much  occupied  with  the  delicacy  of  his  own  feelings  and 
ideas  to  have  any  real  solicitude  for  the  toiling  multitude 
around  him,  or  recommending  as  a  panacea  for  the  world's 
ills  some  superfine  nostrum  begot  of  priggishness  and 
affectation.  That  he  had  a  sincere  regard  for  the  well-being 
of  his  fellowmen  seems  to  me  unquestionable,  and  that 
he  did  what  seemed  to  him  best  to  advance  it,  seems 
unquestionable  likewise.  He  was  not,  perhaps,  in  the 
strict  sense,  a  great  teacher,  for  he  had  not  sufficient  moral 
and  spiritual  ardour  for  that,  nor  would  he  have  aspired 
to  the  title.  He  was,  rather,  as  he  would  himself  have 
said,  an  enquirer  after  truth,  and  not  its  expounder  or  pro- 
fessor ;  an  enquirer  who  sought  to  put  others  in  the  right 
way  to  find  it  so  far  as  it  can  be  found;  a  critic  who 
believed  that  by  recommending  culture  as  a  study  of  per- 
fection, an  inward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit,  a 
general  and  an  harmonious  expansion  of  the  human 
faculties,  he  was  doing  the  best  that  in  him  lay  (using 
words  which  he  quotes  from  Bishop  Wilson)  "to  make 
reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail." 

In  the  "Essays  in  Criticism"  Matthew  Arnold  first 
expounded  his  critical  views,  and  this  delightful  book 
contains  many  of  the  best  of  his  literary  judgments,  as 
well  as  the  germs  of  several  of  the  developments,  social, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  9 

political,  and  theological,  afterwards  taken  by  his  critical 
faculty.  This  book  perhaps  contains  fewer  of  the  writer's 
mannerisms  than  any  of  the  later  ones,  and  he  has  certainly 
never  since  surpassed,  if  he  has  equalled,  the  beauty, 
freshness,  and  transparent  clearness  of  its  style;  a  style 
which  he  might  have  formed  under  the  guidance  of  a 
maxim  of  Joubert  quoted  by  him :  "  One  must  never  quit 
sight  of  realities,  and  one  must  employ  one's  expressions 
simply  as  media,  as  glasses,  through  which  one's  thoughts 
can  be  best  made  evident." 

Arnold's  professed  attitude  as  a  critic  is  not  that  of  a 
dogmatist,  but  of  a  seeker  after  truth,  who  aims,  by  bringing 
knowledge,  a  current  of  fresh  and  true  ideas  (to  use  his 
favourite  phrase),  to  bear  upon  the  matter  in  hand,  at 
illuminating  it  and  making  its  true  nature  manifest. 
Thus,  he  says,  "  Judging  is  often  spoken  of  as  the  critic's 
one  business ;  and  so  in  some  sense  it  is.  But  the  judgment 
which  almost  insensibly  forms  itself  in  a  fair  and  clear  mind, 
along  with  fresh  knowledge,  is  the  valuable  one;  and  this 
knowledge,  and  ever- fresh  knowledge,  must  be  the  critic's 
great  care  for  himself."  Again,  in  the  "  Essay  on  Heim- : 
"I  wish  to  decide  nothing  as  of  my  own  authority,  the 
great  art  of  criticism  is  to  get  one's  self  out  of  the  way, 
and  to  let  humanity  decide."  Whether  he  succeeds  always 
and  altogether  in  sustaining  the  role  of  a  Socratic  enquirer, 
humbly  seeking  to  disengage  the  truth,  and  anxious  to  get 
himself  out  of  the  way,  may  be  doubted.  There  seems,  in 
spite  of  himself,  to  have  been  a  latent  dogmatism  in  his 
nature,  a  turn  for  laying  down  the  law  (natural,  perhaps, 
in  the  son  of  a  schoolmaster),  which  is  hardly  rcconciloablo 
..ith  such  an  excessive  modesty  of  attitude.  This,  how- 
ever, hardly  appears  unpleasantly  in  the  "  Essays  in 
ism,"  and  certainly  many  of  the  papers  it  contains, 
especially,  perhaps,  those  on  the  two  Gue'rins,  on  Heine, 


10  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

on  Joubert,  and  on  Marcus  Aurelius  are  so  charming  in 
style,  so  fresh  in  treatment,  so  stimulating  to  a  thoughtful 
mind,  that  it  is  quite  impossible  to  wish  them  other  than 
they  are.  For  delicacy  of  discernment  they  can  hardly  be 
matched  in  our  language,  and  the  book  which  contains 
them,  and  much  more  of  the  highest  interest  and  charm, 
has  probably,  among  all  Arnold's  prose  writings,  the 
greatest  likelihood  of  becoming  a  classic. 

The  posthumous  second  series  of  "  Essays  in  Criticism" 
has  hardly  perhaps  the  same  piquancy  and  freshness  as  the 
earlier  volume,  and,  being  largely  occupied  with  personages 
well  known  to  fame,  is  less  unique  in  subject  as  well  as  in 
treatment,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  full  of  interesting  matter. 
The  essay  on  Keats,  which  appeared  originally  as  the  pre- 
face to  the  selection  from  that  poet  in  "  Ward's  English 
Poets,"  seems  to  me  especially  valuable  for  the  light  it 
throws  on  the  little  understood  nobler  qualities  of  that 
poet's  nature. 

Two  other  books  on  subjects  purely  literary  must  be 
briefly  referred  to,  the  "  Lectures  on  the  Study  of  Celtic 
Literature,"  and  the  "Lectures  on  Translating  Homer." 
Both  of  these,  apart  from  their  critical  value  (and  in  that 
regard  the  value  of  one  of  them,  that  on  Homer,  is 
unquestionably  high),  are  to  the  Arnold-lover  most 
delightful  und  fascinating  reading.  The  concluding  lines 
of  the  latter  volume,  which  is  now  one  of  the  treasures 
of  book  collectors,  may  be  quoted  as  a  good  example  of 
Mr.  Arnold's  prose  style : — 

"  Homer's  grandeur  is  not  the  mixed  and  turbid  grandeur 
of  the  great  poets  of  the  North,  of  the  authors  of  Othello 
and  Faust ;  it  is  a  perfect,  a  lovely  grandeur.  Certainly 
his  poetry  has  all  the  energy  and  power  of  the  poetry  of 
our  ruder  climates ;  but  it  has,  besides,  the  pure  lines  of  an 
Ionian  horizon,  the  liquid  clearness  of  an  Ionian  sky." 


MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD.  1 1 

Arnold's  social,  political,  and  theological  criticisms  have 
excited  far  more  general  attention  than  his  literary  ones, 
and  been  of  much  wider  influence.  In  all  his  criticism, 
however  (but  especially  in  dealing  with  matters  outside 
the  field  of  literature)  his  habit  of  mind  was,  perhaps,  less 
detached,  less  disinterested,  to  use  his  favourite  expression, 
and  more  governed  by  prepossessions  than  he  himself 
imagined  it  to  be.  Moreover,  in  his  writings  on  social 
and  theological  subjects,  and  his  later  prose  books  generally, 
he  shows  an  addiction  to  phrase-making,  to  ringing  the 
changes  on  some  brief  sententious  expression,  original  or 
transferred,  and  seeking  thereby  to  give  it  a  validity  it  by 
no  means  always  possesses.  These  writings  are  thus  made 
to  seem  somewhat  unsatisfactory  to  serious  thinkers  with 
a  turn  for  following  the  lines  of  an  argument,  and  are  like- 
wise thereby  robbed  of  much  of  the  literary  charm  they 
would  otherwise  possess.  That  Arnold,  by  this  habit,  did 
less  than  justice  to  himself,  is,  I  think,  certain.  As  Horace 
asks,  so  we  may  imagine  Arnold  asking — "  Ridentem  dicere 
verum  quid  vetat  ?"  The  air  of  flippancy  his  writing  often 
has  is  only  superficial,  he  is  always  at  bottom  serious.  His 
repetition  of  catch-words  and  short  phrases,  for  which  he 
seemed  almost  to  claim  the  validity  of  axioms,  was  due  to 
his  wish  to  impress  on  his  readers  certain  truths  he  deemed 
of  paramount  importance ;  and  probably  the  love  of  chaff' 
and  badinage,  which  he  derived  partly  from  his  Oxford 
training,  was  indulged  in  no  shallow  or  irreverent  spirit, 
but  to  keep  his  hearers  amused  and  in  good  humour. 

"  Culture  and  Anarchy  "  is  mainly  a  criticism  of  our 
present  social  system,  and  of  some  of  the  popular  schemes 
for  improving  it  and  ivndi-ring  it  worthier  of  our  vaunted 
civilization.  Though,  as  already  said,  he  recommends 
cul tun-  in  its  widest  sense  as  the  best  medicine  for  the  ills 
of  society  (and  culture  may  be  regarded  as  a  sufficiently 


12  MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD. 

positive  idea),  yet  it  is  in  negative  criticism,  rather  than  in 
any  positive  efforts  at  construction,  that  Arnold  spends 
most  of  his  energy,  and  is  on  the  whole  most  successful. 
How  happy,  for  example,  is  his  characterization  of  our 
upper,  middle,  and  lower  classes  respectively,  as  Barbarians, 
Philistines,  Populace ;  and  what  a  flood  of  light  do  these 
names  themselves,  expounded  and  enforced  in  his  own 
happy  manner,  serve  to  throw  on  the  subject !  Again,  how 
admirable  as  a  criticism  of  the  Englishman's  mental  and 
moral  nature  in  its  strength  and  in  its  weakness  is  the 
chapter  on  Hebraism  and  Hellenism  !  The  choice  of  the 
words  themselves  was  almost  a  stroke  of  genius,  and  helps 
to  bring  home  to  us  forcibly  the  two  main  elements  neces- 
sary in  building  up  a  perfect  life ;  the  moral  one,  the  sense 
for  conduct,  and  the  intellectual  and  aesthetic  one,  the 
desire  for  beauty  and  knowledge. 

"  Culture  and  Anarchy"  contains,  however,  one  important 
contribution  towards  a  re-construction  of  society  in  the  doc- 
trine it  expounds  of  the  State  as  the  organ  of  our  collective 
best  self.  This  collective  best  self  in  the  view  of  Dr.  Appleton 
("A  Plea  for  Metaphysic,"  Contemporary  Review,  November, 
1876)  is  identical  with  the  ego  of  Fichte  and  Schelling,  the 
collective  consciousness  of  man  as  a  member  of  society.  It 
occupies  in  Arnold's  system  the  same  function  in  regard  to 
morals  and  practice  as  the  Zeitgeist  in  the  domain  of 
intellect,  and  is,  indeed,  but  another  side  of  the  same 
transforming  influence,  though  Arnold  never  explicitly 
combines  the  two.  "  By  our  every-day  selves,"  says  he, 
"  we  are  separate,  personal,  at  war ;  we  are  only  safe 
from  one  another's  tyranny  when  no  one  has  any  power ; 
and  this  safety,  in  its  turn,  cannot  save  us  from  anarchy 
.  .  .  .  But  by  our  best  self  we  are  united,  impersonal, 
at  harmony."  It  is  in  some  such  embodiment  of  the  collec- 
tive right  reason  of  the  community,  in  the  idea  of  the  State 


M A  TTHE  W  A  RNOLD.  18 

in  a  true  and  living  sense  (such  as.  in  Arnold's  view,  it  by 
no  means  exists  among  us  at  present)  that  we  shall,  he  thinks, 
find  our  safety,  if  we  are  to  find  it  at  all,  in  the  democratical 
era  which  is  already  upon  us.  It  is  largely  in  virtue  of 
this  positive  element  in  "Culture  and  Anarchy"  that  Dr. 
Appleton  considered  Arnold  the  most  important  construc- 
tive intellect  in  the  domain  of  politics  and  religion  since 
Strauss.  And  beneath  its  calm  and  measured  phrases  lies 
half  hidden  a  real  warmth  of  feeling,  a  glow  which  some- 
times reaches  the  surface,  and  reveals  under  the  writer's 
scholarly  and  severe  exterior  a  heart  kindly,  generous, 
true.  "  We  are  all  of  us,"  he  says  in  one  place,  "  in- 
cluded in  some  religious  organisation  or  other  ;  we  all 
call  ourselves,  in  the  sublime  and  aspiring  language  of 
religion,  children  of  God."  Children  of  God;  it  is  an 
immense  pretension ! — and  how  are  we  to  justify  it  ?  By 
the  works  which  we  do,  and  the  words  which  we  speak. 
And  the  work  which  we  collective  children  of  God  do,  our 
grand  centre  of  life,  our  city  which  we  have  builded  for  us 
to  dwell  in,  is  London!  London,  with  its  unutterable 
external  hideousness,  and  with  its  internal  canker  of 
public^  egestas,  privatim  opulentia,  to  use  the  words  which 
Sail ust  puts  into  Cato's  mouth  about  Rome,  unequalled 
in  the  world ! "  Mr.  Ruskin  himself  could  hardly  have 
described  the  contradiction  between  our  professions  and 
our  practice  in  more  telling  or  emphatic  language.  Again, 
in  reproving  the  dull  mechanical  round  of  our  life,  our 
confidently  expressed  belief  that  it  is  in  our  enormous 
wealth,  our  vast  commerce,  our  mineral  treasures,  that  the 
the  true  greatness  of  England  lies,  Arnold  has  done 
excellent  service.  Indeed,  in  his  prose  writings,  and  no- 
where more  than  in  "  Culture  and  Anarchy,"  there  is 
always  manifest  a  high  seriousness,  the  seriousness  of  an 
intellectual  nature,  not  keenly  emotional,  at  least  in  its 


1 4  MA  TTUE  W  A  RNO  LD. 

outward  manifestation,  but   always   having  a   high    aim 
before  it,  and  sincerely  striving  for  that. 

The  most  delightful,  perhaps,  of  Mr.  Arnold's  contribu- 
tions to  the  social  and  political  criticism  of  his  countrymen 
is  the  book  which  he  called,  as  if  with  half  conscious  irony, 
"  Friendship's  Garland."  Here  he  displays  his  happiest 
satirical  gifts,  and  this,  one  may  perhaps  agree  with  John 
Burroughs,*  is  the  only  one  of  his  books  which  can 
properly  be  called  delicious.  It  professes  to  be  a  record 
of  the  conversations,  letters,  and  opinions  of  a  young 
German,  Arminius,  Baron  von  Thunder- ten -Tronckh, 
collected  and  edited  after  his  death  by  his  English 
friend,  Matthew  Arnold.  It  consists  mainly  of  letters 
supposed  to  be  addressed  by  Arnold  and  Arminius  to  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette — Arnold,  while  reporting  the  views  of 
English  society  and  politics  announced  by  the  young 
Prussian,  professing  all  the  while  to  look  at  them  askance 
and  to  be  in  the  main  an  orthodox  Britisher,  though 
occasionally  troubled  with  qualms  of  scepticism.  By  this 
means  Arnold  was  enabled  to  give  a  fuller  scope  to  his 
shafts  of  criticism  than  he  might  have  cared  to  do  in 
proprid  persond,  and  he  directs  them  without  mercy 
against  many  of  the  current  political  and  social  panaceas ; 
the  fetish-worship  of  liberty,  the  compulsory  education  of 
the  lower  orders,  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister. 
From  the  mouth  of  Arminius  we  get  the  first  exposition 
of  the  doctrine  of  Geist,  and  the  whole  book  may  be  looked 
upon  as  a  brilliant  embodiment  of  that  doctrine.  Arnold 
has  given  us  many  specimens  of  his  gifts  as  a  humorist 
(e.g.,  in  the  preface  to  "  Essays  in  Criticism  "),  but  nowhere 
has  he  displayed  his  peculiar  humour,  which  is  a  gentle 
irony,  or  banter,  unique  in  its  way,  that  plays  like  flashes 

*  Matthew  Arnold's  Criticisms  in  the  Century  Magazine  for  June,  1888. 


MA TTUEW  ARNOLD.  15 

of  sheet  lightning  all  round  a  subject,  more  remarkably 
than  in  "  Friendship's  Garland."  An  example  of  this  may 
serve  to  enliven  a  tedious  paper.  Arminius,  as  related  by 
his  English  friend,  goes  out  with  him  into  the  country; 
and  one  morning,  on  arriving  at  the  door  of  the  inn  of  the 
town  where  they  are  staying,  they  find  the  magistrates 
sitting  and  engaged  with  a  poaching  case.  From  con- 
sidering old  Diggs,  the  poacher,  they  go  on  to  the  subject 
of  the  magistrates  and  their  qualifications  for  performing 
the  functions  with  which  they  are  entrusted.  The  aris- 
tocracy is  represented  by  Lord  Lumpington,  the  church 
by  the  Rev.  Esau  Hittall,  and  commerce  by  Mr.  Bottles, 
and  the  qualifications  of  each  are  satirized  with  genial 
impartiality : — 

"  That  is  all  very  well  as  to  their  politics,"  said  Arminius, 
"but  I  want  to  hear  about  their  education  and  intelli- 
gence." "There,  too,  I  can  satisfy  you,"  1  answered. 
"  Lumpington  was  at  Eton.  Hittall  was  on  the  foundation 
at  Charterhouse,  placed  there  by  his  uncle,  a  distinguished 
prelate,  who  was  one  of  the  trustees.  You  know  we 
English  have  no  notion  of  your  bureaucratic  tyranny  of 
treating  the  appointments  to  these  great  foundations  as 
public  patronage,  and  vesting  them  in  a  responsible 
minister;  we  vest  them  in  independent  magnates,  who 
relieve  the  State  of  all  work  and  responsibility,  and  never 
take  a  shilling  of  salary  for  their  trouble.  Hittall  was 
the  last  of  six  nephews  nominated  to  the  Charterhouse 
by  his  uncle,  this  good  prelate,  who  had  thoroughly 
learnt  the  divine  lesson  that  charity  begins  at  home." 
"But  I  want  to  know  what  his  nephew  learnt," 
interrupted  Anninius,  "and  what  Lord  Lumpington 
learnt  at  Eton."  "  They  followed,"  said  I,  "  the  grand,  old, 
fortifying,  classical  curriculum."  "Did  they  know  any- 
thing when  they  left  ? "  asked  Arminius.  "  I  have 


1 6  MA  TTHE  W  A  RNOLD. 

seen  some  longs  and  shorts  of  Hittall's,"  said  I,  "  about 
the  Calydonian  Boar,  which  were  not  bad.  But  you  surely 
don't  need  me  to  tell  you,  Arminius,  that  it  is  rather  in 
training  and  bracing  the  mind  for  future  acquisition,  a 
course  of  mental  gymnastics,  we  call  it,  than  in  teaching 
any  set  thing,  that  the  classical  curriculum  is  so  valuable." 
"  Were  the  minds  of  Lord  Lumpington  and  Mr.  Hittall 
much  braced  by  their  mental  gymnastics?"  enquired 
Arminius.  "  Well,"  I  answered,  "  during  their  three  years 
at  Oxford  they  were  so  much  occupied  with  Bullingdon 
and  hunting  that  there  was  no  great  opportunity  to  judge. 
But  for  my  part  I  have  always  thought  that  their  both 
getting  their  degree  at  last  with  flying  colours,  after  three 
weeks  of  a  famous  coach  for  fast  men,  four  nights  without 
going  to  bed,  and  an  incredible  consumption  of  wet  towels, 
strong  cigars,  and  brandy  and  water,  was  one  of  the  most 
astonishing  feats  of  mental  gymnastics  I  ever  heard  of." 
"  That  will  do  for  the  land  and  the  Church,"  said  Arminius. 
"  And  now  let  us  hear  about  commerce."  "  You  mean 
how  was  Bottles  educated,"  answered  I.  "  Here  we 
get  into  another  line  altogether,  but  a  very  good  line  in  its 
way,  too.  Mr.  Bottles  was  brought  up  at  the  Lycurgus 
House  Academy,  Peckham.  You  are  not  to  suppose 
from  the  name  of  Lycurgus  that  any  Latin  and  Greek  was 
taught  in  the  establishment ;  the  name  indicates  only  the 
moral  discipline,  and  the  strenuous  earnest  character 
imparted  there.  As  to  the  instruction,  the  thoughtful  edu- 
cator who  was  principal  of  the  Lycurgus  House  Academy, 
Archimedes  Silverpump,  Ph.D. — you  must  have  heard  of 
him  in  Germany  ? — had  modern  views.  *  We  must  be  men 
of  our  age/  he  used  to  say.  '  Useful  knowledge,  living  lan- 
guages, and  the  forming  of  the  mind  through  observation 
and  experiment,  these  are  the  fundamental  articles  of  my 
educational  creed/  or,  as  I  have  heard  his  pupil  Bottles  put 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  17 

it  in  his  expansive  moments  after  dinner  (Bottles  used  to 
ask  me  to  dinner  till  that  affair  of  yours  with  him  in  the 
Reigate  train) :  '  Original  man,  Silverpump  !  fine  mind ! 
fine  system  !  None  of  your  antiquated  rubbish — all  practical 
work — latest  discoveries  in  science — mind  constantly  kept 
excited — lots  of  interesting  experiments — lights  of  all  colours 
— fiz!  fiz!  bang!  bang!  That's  what  I  call  forming  a  man/" 
"  And  pray,"  said  Arminius,  impatiently,  "  what  sort  of 
man  do  you  suppose  this  infernal  quack  really  formed  in 
your  precious  friend,  Mr.  Bottles  ?"  "Well,"  I  replied,  "I 
hardly  know  how  to  answer  that  question.  Bottles  has 
inly  made  an  immense  fortune ;  but  as  to  Silverpump's 
effect  on  his  mind,  whether  it  was  from  any  fault  in  the 
Lycurgus  House  system,  whether  it  was  that  from  a  sturdy 
self-reliance  thoroughly  English,  Bottles,  ever  since  he 
quitted  Silverpump,  left  his  mind  wholly  to  itself,  his  daily 
newspaper,  and  the  Particular  Baptist  minister  under  whom 
he  sat,  or  from  whatever  cause  it  was,  certainly  his  mind, 
qua  mind — "  "  You  need  not  go  on,"  interrupted  Arminius, 
with  a  magnificent  wave  of  his  hand,  "  I  know  what  that 
man's  mind,  qua  mind,  is,  well  enough." 

To  Matthew  Arnold's  excursions  in  the  region  of  theological 
criticism  it  is  impossible  to  give  the  praise  which  in  other 
fields  he  generally  deserves.  Some  of  us,  who  have  both 
admired  and  loved  him,  have  felt  a  keen  personal  regret  that 
he  should  have  embarked  on  an  undertaking  for  which  afiko 
by  his  nature  and  his  training  he  was  probably  unfitted, 
namely,  the  reconstruction  of  religion  on  a  rational  l>asis. 
To  a  future  generation  of  students  of  our  literature  it  may 
i  a  curious  and  insoluble  problem  that  a  man  with 
Matthew  Arnold's  subtle  intellect,  so  keen-sighted,  so 
conscious  and  generally  so  regardful  of  limits,  should 
have  essayed  such  a  gigantic  task  and  with  such  a 
ulously  inadequate  equipment.  We  may  partly  explain 


18  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

the  matter,  from  our  knowledge  of  his  antecedents,  and 
the  peculiar  circumstances  under  which  he  grew  up. 
If  "Literature  and  Dogma"  and  "God  and  the  Bible" 
survive  the  wrecks  of  time,  they  are  likely  to  survive 
merely  as  literary  curiosities,  and  it  is  almost  impossible 
that  they  can  have  any  permanent  influence  as  contri- 
butions to  religious  thought.  Admirably  in  his  poems  has 
Arnold  touched  on  religion — would  that  he  had  never 
discussed  it  at  length  in  prose ! 

"  Children  of  men  !  the  unseen  Power,  whose  eye 
For  ever  doth  accompany  mankind, 
Hath  look'd  on  no  religion  scornfully, 
That  men  did  ever  find. 

Which  has  not  taught  weak  wills  how  much  they  can  ? 
Which  has  not  fall'n  on  the  dry  heart  like  rain,? 
Which  has  not  cried  to  sunk,  self  weary  man  : 
Thou  must  be  born  again  ? 

Children  of  men  !  not  that  your  age  excel 
In  pride  of  life  the  ages  of  your  sires  ; 
But  that  you  think  clear,  feel  deep,  bear  fruit  well, 
The  Friend  of  Man  desires." 

It  is  in  such  strains  as  these,  and  not  in  attempting  to 
prove  that  the  Hebrew  Jehovah  was  not  a  personal  God,  or 
that  the  valuable  and  vital  part  of  Christianity  is  untouched 
by  the  total  rejection  of  its  supernatural  element,  that 
Matthew  Arnold  has  done  his  true  work  as  a  spiritual 
teacher. 

"We  may,  indeed,  take  great  and  grave  exception  to  some 
part  of  Arnold's  teaching  and  criticism ;  but  taking  his  work 
as  a  whole,  and  considering  what  a  flood  of  light  he  has 
thrown  upon  the  most  important  matters,  how  he  has  made 
people  think  for  themselves  and  saved  them  from  the  tram- 
mels of  convention,  how  laboriously  and  earnestly  he  has 
worked  in  the  great  cause  of  education,  what  an  exquisite 
gift  of  verse  he  has  bequeathed  for  the  charm  and  solace 
of  mankind — it  is  not  too  much,  perhaps,  to  give  him  the 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


tribute  of  praise  which  he  pays  to  his  father  in  "  Rugby 
Chapel,"  where  he  numbers  him  among  the  soldiers  in  the 
army  of  human  progress — 


"  Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd 
Who  all  round  me  to-day, 
Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 
Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile  ; 
But  souls  temper' d  with  fire, 
Fervent,  heroic,  and  good, 
Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind." 


ON    CRUSTS. 

BY   W.  XYYlLD. 

rFHERE  is  an  infinite  variety  of  crusts  in  this  work-a-day 
.JL  world.  The  man  who  would  describe  them  all  must 
need  a  quantity  of  ink  and  paper,  and  an  unbounded  stock 
of  leisure  and  patience. 

The  geological  crust  has  afforded  food  for  contentions* 
heart  burnings,  and  discussions,  ever  since  the  science  of 
geology  began  to  develop  itself.  The  upholders  of  the 
various  theories  might  always  console  themselves  with  the 
thought  that  whatever  their  opinions  may  have  been  they 
had  at  least  a  solid  foundation ;  and  whether  discoursing 
or  writing  on  the  crust  of  the  earth  in  the  valley,  or  the 
lava  crust  of  the  volcano,  there  was  matter  at  the  root  of 
all  their  conjectures. 

The  beggar's  crust  is  a  repulsive  morsel,  seldom  indeed 
partaken  of  by  the  mendicant  who  knows  his  business.  A 
man  or  woman  whom  misfortune  drives  to  eat  this  fabulous 
portion  has  reached  the  lowest  rung  in  life's  ladder,  and, 
like  the  dwellers  in  the  pit  of  Avernus,  they  can  descend 
no  lower ;  therefore  let  them  take  heart,  for  in  their  case 
any  change  must  be  for  the  better.  Beggars'  crusts  are, 
like  most  other  things,  a  marketable  commodity.  Taken 
singly  their  value  is  small  indeed,  nevertheless  there  is 
money  in  them  when  in  numbers,  as  many  a  tramp's 
lodging-house  can  prove. 


ON  CRUSTS.  21 

The  crust  of  honest  poverty  is  a  crust  with  a  fine  melli- 
fluous flavour  about  it,  embracing,  as  it  does,  not  only  a 
grand  poetic  sentiment,  but  also  a  manly  and  patriotic 
phrase  which  has  done  duty  on  many  a  noble  occasion. 
The  ill-used  workman,  when  on  strike  for  more  leisure  and 
the  same  wages,  is  said  to  consume  this  crust  with  gusto. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  eats  it  only  when  the  trade  union 
funds  have  given  out,  and  in  such  a  case  its  flavour  soon 
palls  upon  his  appetite.  Poverty,  as  a  rule,  is  somewhat 
prodigal  of  crusts ;  it  much  prefers  the  crumb  of  the  loaf, 
leaving  the  crust  for  stronger  stomachs  and  more  healthy 
digestions.  Only  too  often  the  crust  of  honest  poverty 
is  eaten  in  secret,  its  disagreeable  necessity  recognised  not 
by  the  outside  world,  for  only  its  consumers  know  of  its 
existence  until  grim  want  reveals  the  tragedy. 

The  homely  crust  is  one  you  are  often  enough  i'nvited  to 
enjoy  by  one  on  whose  table  you  are  sure  to  find  all  the 
luxuries  that  wealth  can  give.  When  a  man  parades  the 
fact  before  you  that  he  will  be  glad  to  share  his  crust  with 
you,  be  sure  there  is  more  to  follow.  The  pauper,  as  a  rule, 
reveals  not  his  poverty,  neither  does  the  man  with  empty 
cupboard  advise  you  of  the  fact ;  rather  is  it  a  deplorable 
circumstance  he  would  fain  hide  if  he  could,  but  the  being 
of  a  boastful  habit  takes  this  means  of  displaying  the  con- 
tents of  his  bounteous  larder  in  order  that  his  triumph  may 
be  all  the  greater.  The  special  owners  of  the  homely  crust 
are  those  who  have  once  known  the  pinch  of  want  in  all 
its  native  ugliness.  Push,  industry,  and  opportunity  have 
reversed  the  picture,  and  they  now  derive  their  chief  plea- 
ii  the  dispensing  of  a  prodigal  hospitality  marvellous 
to  behold. 

The  new  crust— fresh,  hot,  and  indigestible— is  a  delici- 
ous morsel,  taken  with  impunity  until  the  forties  are 
reached.  It  afterwards  is  the  origin  of  dire  disaster  and 


22  ON  CRUSTS. 

unlimited  pains.  The  taste  for  it  has  perhaps  not  gone ; 
but  alas !  the  internal  disorders  it  creates  are  a  revelation. 
Welcomed  with  a  smile,  it  has  been  known  to  need  in  less 
than  three  hours  after  its  consumption  a  succession  of  hot 
stimulants,  nauseous  mixtures,  and  finally  drastic  measures 
of  a  small  globular  shape,  which,  flint-like  in  their  confor- 
mation, have  resulted  in  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth. 

The  dry  crust  is  an  uninviting  morsel ;  not  an  ounce 
of  nutriment  does  it  contain  within  its  wrinkled  interior. 
Like  its  human  prototype,  the  essence  of  goodness  has 
long  since  left  it.  You  may  rashly  venture  on  a  close 
acquaintance  only  to  meet  with  the  basest  ingratitude,  if 
not  compelled  to  mourn  o'er  slaughtered  innocents  of  the 
top  or  bottom  set.  There  is  a  sawdusty  flavour  paramount 
that  occasions  bitter  reflection,  and  the  consumer  either 
suffers  from  a  raging  thirst  or  is  filled  with  an  unmistak- 
able lack  of  charity  to  all  mankind. 

The  mouldy  crust  is  at  least  honest  in  that  he  dis- 
guiseth  not  his  shortcomings ;  although  grown  old  and 
grey  in  the  service,  no  longer  a  thing  of  beauty 
or  of  joy,  he  never  attempts  to  impose  upon  you, 
and  pass  himself  off  as  a  crust  of  a  few  hours  old.  You 
never  catch  him  bullying  his  tailor  because  his  exterior  is 
not  made  to  appear  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of 
form ;  he  does  not  even  condescend  to  notice  the  countless 
advertisements  anent  "  no  more  grey  hairs."  On  the  con- 
trary, he  feels  that  his  beauty  has  for  ever  gone,  and  he 
puts  on  the  green  and  white  colours  which  proclaim  the 
fact  to  mankind.  You  may  wipe  off  the  signs  of  old  age 
if  you  will,  but  he  does  not  respond  to  your  efforts ;  he 
knows  too  well  you  can  never  bring  him  fresh  from  the 
oven  again,  no  matter  how  much  you  may  cut  and  carve 
him  into  shape. 

The  upper  crust  is  a  crust  of  so  delicate  a  nature  that 


ON  CRUSTS.  28 

the  ordinary  mind  almost  shrinks  from  its  contemplation. 
To  belong  to  a  section  of  mankind  so  elevated  above  their 
fellows ;  to  feel  that  one's  life  is  to  be  an  example  to  one's 
meaner  brethren ;  to  undertake  the  fearful  responsibility 
and  arduous  unremitting  toil  endured  by  the  upper-upper- 
crust  in  the  House  of  Lords ;  to  so  dutifully  lead  the  moral 
life  beautifully  pourtrayed  for  us  in  the  Divorce  Court,  and 
in  the  fashionable  journals  which  chronicle  the  doings  of 
the  upper  ten ;  to  be  able  to  look  down  upon  artists,  lite- 
Tary  men,  professional  men,  merchants,  tradesmen,  and  the 
masses,  as  only  sent  into  the  world  to  minister  to  our  enjoy- 
ment, must  be  a  fearsome  burden.  What  wonder  that  they 
in  whose  veins  runs  the  blue  blood  of  the  upper  crust  have 
to  engage  in  all  the  innocent  and  enjoyable  relaxations  of 
life.  Their  dreadful  consciousness  of  hereditary  greatness 
needs  some  palliative  remedy,  or  human  nature  would  be 
unable  to  stand  the  strain.  Be  thankful,  happy  mortals, 
who  are  more  lowly  born,  that  no  upper  crust  has  been 
your  portion,  and  that  all  its  trouble  and  sorrow  are  to  you 
unknown. 

The  crust  on  wine  is  a  venerable  crust.  "  Old  age  hath 
reverence,"  says  the  poet.  Alas !  poets  are  often  enough 
descendants  of  the  unhappy  pair  whose  career  was  so  sud- 
denly cut  short  hundreds  of  years  ago,  hence  we  do  not  find 
the  saying  true  on  all  occasions.  There  is  a  world  of 
<ieceitfulness,  too,  about  the  crust  on  wine.  The  owner  of 
it  may  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart  pay  due  reverence  to 
its  age  ;  nay,  he  may  appreciate  it  so  highly  as  to  devote 
himself  to  it  until  there  is  no  crust  left  ;  but  the  Nemesis 
of  gout  awaits  him,  and  when  ho  is  made  to  writhe  under 
the  agonies  of  a  swollen  toe  or  a  chalkstono  joint,  he  feels 
the  greatest  enmity  for  the  crust  which  has  proved  so 
faithless,  and  left  behind  it  so  potent  a  sting. 

The  crust  of  society  is  one  that  is  as  brittle  in  the 


24  ON  CRUSTS. 

handling  as  the  shortest  pastry.  It  is,  moreover,  an> 
illusory  crust;  you  have  it  and  you  have  it  not,  for  presto! 
the  slightest  side  wind  that  blows  carries  it  away.  The 
recipient  expected  something  of  so  delightful  a  flavour 
that  his  soul  revelled  in  the  contemplation  thereof.  When 
he  has  tasted  of  its  quality,  there  is  so  much  bitter 
mingled  with  the  sweet  that  the  former  kills  the  latter. 
The  ardent  epicure  in  this  crust  suffers  often  enough  from* 
divers  complaints,  and  such  are  its  fearful  qualities  that  heart 
burnings,  jealousies,  slights,  domestic  broils,  nay,  endless 
disorders,  have  resulted  from  repeated  doses,  and  the  most 
gluttonous  appetite  has  been  sated  with  the  thinly  disguised 
evils  of  society's  crust. 

The  pie  crust  contains  a  lesson  in  its  very  name.  The 
extremes  in  a  man's  nature  meet  on  one  common  level 
when  this  crust  has  to  be  disposed  of.  To  eat  it  comfor- 
tably, it  is  necessary  to  have  unlimited  faith  in  the  abilities 
of  the  person  who  made  it ;  to  also  be  credulous  as  to  the 
properties  of  that  which  it  hides  from  view.  Indigestion, 
follows  in  case  the  crust  be  heavy ;  biliousness  ensues  if  the 
mixture  is  too  rich,  whilst  untold  tribulation  awaits  the 
man  who  rashly  ventures  on  a  second  helping.  There  is  a 
world  of  humour  in  the  crust  of  a  pie  ;  the  outside  so 
tempting  in  colour  or  decoration,  typical  of  the  fair  enslaver 
who  has  already  bound  you  fast  in  silken  chains.  The 
inside  !  Ah  !  there's  the  rub.  Like  the  rest  of  practical 
knowledge,  the  secret  can  only  be  gained  by  experience 
too  often  dearly  bought,  and  worth  nothing  when  bought 
and  paid  for. 

A  fine  old  crusted  temper  is  a  glorious  possession.  Its 
owner  is  capable  of  making  more  lives  uncomfortable  than 
has  ever  been  occasioned  by  the  advent  of  triplets  in  a 
household,  and  that  is  as  dire  a  misfortune  as  any  reason- 
able man  could  expect.  But  the  triplets  either  quietly 


OH  CltrSTS.  25 

depart,  or  else  improve  with  age.  The  crusted  temper  does 
neither.  It  is  as  difficult  to  swallow  as  Jonah  was  to  the 
whale.  Do  what  you  will,  this  crust  will  not  go  down 
smoothly.  Like  the  biting  north-easter  it  nips  you  con- 
tinually, and  seems  to  permeate  everywhere.  One  usually 
speaks  of  a  crusty  temper  as  having  reached  mature  age, 
but  it  needs  not  maturity  to  develop  itself.  When  only 
half  baked,  slack  baked — nay,  often  when  not  baked  at 
all — it  comes  forth  with  as  much  impetuosity  as  though  it 
were  the  most  inviting  and  delicious  morsel  in  the  world. 
Singularly  careless  as  to  its  power  to  please,  we  find  it 
presented  to  us  as  something  we  are  bound  to  swallow  holus- 
bolus;  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that,  unlike  many  other 
crusts,  this  crust  of  temper  has  no  soft  part  in  it.  It  is 
gnarled  and  horny,  and  grates  on  the  teeth  like  sandstone, 
and  can  only  be  washed  down  with  repeated  draughts  of 
patience  and  forbearance.  Some  men  deal  out  doses  of 
this  crust  every  time  they  enter  their  home.  You  can 
generally  distinguish  them  from  others,  because  the 
youngsters  are  missing  when  father  comes  in,  and  if  in  the 
way  by  some  unlocked  for  mischance  they  get  a  crust 
which  sets  them  weeping  for  a  while.  When  such  an  one 
dies,  there  is  as  much  genuine  grief  at  his  decease  as  was 
felt  by  the  mutes  at  the  old  fashioned  funerals,  and  his 
memory  has  around  it  a  fine  old  crusty  flavour  which  has 
been  well  cam 

The  crust  that  surrounds  old  rights,  laws  and  customs, 
is  one  which  the  present  age  cannot  stand.  To  bo  sure  of 
•nee  nowadays  is  to  have  the  elements  of  vitality 
inherent  in  the  thing  itself.  No  use  to  plead  the  crust  of 
usage  or  of  age,  because,  if  useless,  the  old  institutions  live 
not  solely  on  account  of  their  antiquity.  Tho  crust  may 
have  sheltered  the  crumb  for  long  enough,  but  the  time 
comes  when  even  the  brittle  defence  becomes  powcrh 


26  ON  CRUSTS. 

and  the  whole  thing  is  swept  away,  crust  and  crumb 
together. 

The  crust  of  reserve,  which  it  is  said  some  men  possess, 
is  very  like  the  sodden  crust  which  you  are  only  induced 
to  try  and  consume  when  driven  thereto  by  dire  necessity. 
The  words  of  a  popular  song  say — 

"  He's  all  right  when  you  know  him, 
But  you've  got  to  know  him  first." 

But  only  too  often,  when  the  outer  crust  is  broken  through, 
there  is  little  worth  having  behind.  The  sodden  crust  has 
as  uninviting  an  exterior  as  the  surly  and  reserved  man, 
and  the  result  of  testing  them  is  precisely  the  same.  Your 
teeth  stick  into  the  one,  yet  yield  you  no  gratification,  and 
your  intercourse  with  the  other  generally  ends  in  repulse 
and  mystification.  "  A  wonderful  man,  if  you  can  only 
break  through  his  crust  of  reserve."  Yet,  oh !  that  precious 
crust !  How  it  stands  firm  against  even  the  penetrating 
influences  of  geniality  and  goodwill.  At  first  you  may  put 
it  down  to  liver  ;  failing  that,  to  chronic  indigestion  ;  but 
excuse  it  as  you  will,  there  is  a  sodden  flavour  about  it, 
making  it  difficult  to  masticate  or  dispose  of. 

The  brittle  crust  is  by  no  means  rare.  There  has  been 
too  much  heat  attending  its  manufacture.  It  comes  off  in 
flaky  pieces  at  the  slightest  touch,  and  requires  great  care 
in  consumption.  It  is  ready  to  fly  out  aggressively  without 
any  warning,  and  resents  any  liberties  as  though  endued 
with  life  itself.  Of  course,  it  has  no  prototype  in  the  human 
family.  Nobody  knows  the  short  tempered  man  who  is 
overbaked,  and  who  flies  out  at  you  with  an  intensity  that 
is  appalling.  The  one  who  seems  afflicted  with  mental 
corns  all  over  him — corns  on  which  some  one  is  perpetually 
treading,  they  scarcely  know  when  or  how.  If  you  do  know 
such  a  man  pity  him,  for  it  is  more  than  likely  he  will 
suffer  more  as  years  go  on  from  the  rubs  and  crusts  of  life 
than  any  ten  ordinary  beings. 


ON  CRUSTS.  27 

The  friends  whose  advent  occasioned  us  so  many  pangs 
in  infancy,  who  often  in  later  years  gave  us  many  a  sleep- 
less night,  yet  whose  departure  occasioned  much  anguish 
and  sadness,  have  during  their  stay  to  force  their  way 
through  crusts  of  divers  qualities  ere  their  task  is  done, 
and  we  all  of  us  need  a  stout  heart,  a  good  digestion,  and 
an  indomitable  will,  to  break  through  the  mental  and 
physical  crusts  which  we  encounter  day  by  day. 


FEATUEES  OF  FACT  AND  FANCY  IN  THE 
WOKKS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 

BY   JAMES   T.    FOARD. 

POPULAR  taste  is  as  fickle  and  capricious,  as  inex- 
plicable in  its  literary  as  in  its  fashionable 
preferences,  in  its  choice  of  books  as  of  bonnets.  Con- 
siderations of  genuine  taste,  excellence,  or  true  art  have  no 
importance  and  almost  as  little  influence.  The  last  novelty 
is  invariably  the  best  until  it  is  no  longer  the  last  and  the 
next  appears.  He,  indeed,  would  be  a  bold  man  who  ven- 
tured to  prophesy  the  immortality  of  a  season  for  "  the 
book  of  the  season."  It  may  be  dead  in  a  day  as  in  a 
decade.  Shall  we  essay  an  apparently  very  simple 
problem,  and  try  and  ascertain  apart  from  momentary  influ- 
ences what  was  and  is  George  Eliot's  proper  place  in  litera- 
ture ?  Is  she  one  of  the  immortals  ?  Is  it  true,  as  her 
zealous  admirers  suggest,  that  "  she  is  greater  than  Shake- 
speare," that  her  genius  will  "  be  linked  indissolubly  with 
that  of  Goethe's  to  distant  ages,"  or  as  a  still  more  fervid 
disciple  declares,  that,  being  "neither  a  poet  or  genius 
merely,"  she  is,  "  like  Byron,  an  elemental  power,"  what- 
ever that  may  mean.  There  is  no  stint  in  the  adulation  of 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  QEORQE  ELIOT.  29 

modern  critical  cant.  It  is  nothing  if  not  hysterical,  and 
these  are  but  specimens  of  the  tributary  rhetorical 
wreaths  placed  on  her  tomb. 

Apart  from  such  rhapsodical  utterances,  and  the  imme- 
diate glamour  of  her  undeniably  great  gifts,  it  certainly 
appears  to  me  no  unfit  task  to  endeavour  to  guage  her 
influences  on  the  world  of  fiction  and  in  the  domain  of  art 
generally.  In  the  main,  she  exercised  a  beneficent  minis- 
tration in  the  area  of  fiction.  She  was  earnest,  she  was 
sincere,  skilful,  and  accomplished,  and,  if  not  precisely  a 
paragon  among  feminine  writers,  was  almost  without 
parallel.  In  what  follows  I  shall  assess  if  possible 
her  distinct  pre-eminence,  if  any,  in  the  cosmos  of 
literature,  and  discover  what  of  real  merit  and  significance 
lies  under  this  star  pointed  pyramid  of  praise,  this  monu- 
ment of  panegyric  so  lavishly  and  so  senselessly  heaped  up 
above  her  memory. 

I  am  not  sure  that  the  time  has  arrived  when  we  can 
estimate  her  services  to  the  cause  of  true  art,  which  she 
loved  and  adorned,  quite  dispassionately.  We  are  still 
too  much  under  the  influence  of  meaningless  declamation, 
and  vapid  praise  extravagant  as  vain,  to  fix  her  precise 
relationship  to  her  fellows,  her  altitude  among  giants, 
although  we  cannot  quite  sympathise  with  the  extravagant 
and  passionate  adulation  of  some  of  her  devotees.  We 
may  perhaps  discern  a  faint  glimmer  of  absurdity  in  the 
declaration  of  one  of  these  ministering  priests  of  Baal, 
that  "she  was  another  Homer,"  and  that  "'Romola'  was 
the  best  historical  novel  ever  written,"  or  if  not,  in  the 
further  eulogium  "that  'Daniel  Deronda'  is  the  flight 
ird  of  a  soaring  genius,  spurning  earth,  toward  the 
::.  But  our  sense  of  absurdity  is  really  more 
affected  by  the  painful  contortions  of  the  discrimin. 
critic  who  thus  attempts  to  prove  himself  supernally  pro- 


30  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

found,  than  by  the  actual  indecisiveness  of  the  judgment. 
That  true  sense  of  proportion,  which  wisely  knows  what  is 
really  due,  and  is  prepared  to  tender  homage  accordingly, 
is  not  attained.  We  are  still  a  little  too  near  our  mountain, 
and  must  be  guarded,  lest  we  confound  Highgate  Hill 
with  a  peak  of  the  Himalayas. 

For  myself,  I  must  explain,  with  a  perhaps  unnecessary 
disclaimer,  that  I  am  neither  a  poet  nor  an  enthusiast. 
The  heyday  of  the  blood  is  over,  and  I  am  now  nothing* 
if  not  critical.  This  fetish  worship — these  exaggerated 
paeans  of  praise  affright  me.  "  Eternity  "  and  "  for  ever,"  and 
"perennial  sublimity"  are  "prave  'orts,"  but  they  make 
me  pause.  I  desire  to  give  no  meagre  or  grudging  praise, 
would  like  to  essay  a  zealous  appreciation,  if  it  can  only 
be  remotely  discriminative,  but  still  I  cannot,  with  the 
Fortnightly  Review,  say  "  that  Romola  is  like  the  Trans- 
figuration of  Raphael,"  and  I  hope  you  will  not  expect  it 
of  me.  Nor  can  I,  with  the  same  exuberant  eulogy,  link 
this  wondrous  work  "with  the  marvellous  harmonies  ot 
Beethoven  and  the  profundity  and  pathos  of  ^Eschylus,"  or 
concede  that  while  George  Eliot  resembled  Shakespeare, 
Goethe,  Homer,  and  Handel,  it  was  greatly  to  the  dis- 
advantage and  disparagement  of  these  effete  ancients.  I 
shall  prove  but  a  feeble  and  lukewarm  admirer  indeed, 
guaged  by  the  standard  of  these  panegyrists.  I  admire 
"  Adam  Bede  "  as  a  book,  especially  the  noble  personality 
of  the  hero  it  enshrines,  but  cannot  promise  to  tear  and 
rend  myself,  in  the  vehemence  of  my  admiration,  or  fling 
myself  into  convulsions  at  the  tremendous  exorcism. 
Such  homage  as  I  feel  and  am  prepared  to  tender  and 
ask  you  to  share,  I  hope  I  may  say,  in  deprecation, 
to  preserve  undiminished  to  the  end. 

There  is  an  eminently  suggestive  passage  in  ' '  Daniel 
Deronda"  which  will  better  than  any  other  explain  my 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  31 

purpose,  and  furnish  the  key  to  such  remarks  as  I  may 
inuke,  in  these  words: — "  A  human  life,  I  think,  should  be 
well  rooted  in  some  spot  of  a  native  land  where  it  may  get 
the  love  of  tender  kinship,  for  the  face  of  earth,  for  the 
labours  men  go  forth  to,  for  the  sounds  and  accents  that 
haunt  it,  for  whatever  will  give  that  early  home  a  familiar 
unmistakeable  difference  amidst  the  future  widening  of 
knowledge — a  spot  where -the  definiteness  of  early  memories 
may  be  inwrought  with  affection  and  kindly  acquaintance 
with  all  neighbours,  even  to  the  dogs  and  donkeys,  and 
may  spread  not  by  sentimental  effort  and  reflection,  but  as 
a  sweet  habit  of  the  blood." 

I  hope  you  will  agree  with  me  that  this  is  an  exquisite 
passage  when  well  considered,  because  it  is  through  this 
text  that  I  now  hope  to  secure  your  sympathy.  It  is  to 
me  the  true,  the  master-key  of  her  attainments  and 
resources,  of  her  range  of  artistic  excellence,  at  once,  of 
her  art  and  heart.  Her  genius  "  was  rooted  in  a  spot  of  her 
native  land."  That  spot  was  Shakespeare's  county — in 
part  of  that  old  Forest  of  Arden  that  stretched  well  nigh 
from  sea  to  sea,  which  the  poet  has  immortalised.  In  it 
she  had  acquired  "  that  tender  kinship  for  the  sounds  and 
accents  that  haunted  it,  for  that  natural  beauty  which 
elevates  and  graces  it,  and  which  became  a  sweet  habit  of 
her  blood  in  all  her  labours,  and  a  refining  and  subduing 
influence  in  her  best  and  noblest  work." 

Mary  Anne  Evans  was  born  in  the  year  1819  in  the 
South  Farmhouse,  which  stood  and  still  stands  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  (ten  minutes'  walk)  due  south  of  Arbury 
Hall,  and  on  the  Arbury  estate,  the  seat  of  the  Newdegates 
in  Warwickshire.  It  is  this  Arbury  Hall,  which  as 
Cheverel  Manor,  as  Donnithorne  Chase,  as  Monks  Topping,  . 
as  the  Ryelands,  figures  so  largely  in  her  works,  and  it  was 
because  her  life  was  "  so  well  rooted  "  there,  and  of  her 


32  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

kinship  with  that  exquisite  domain  and  its  neighbourhood 
and  people  that  her  books  are  a  treasure  house  of  history, 
of  genuine  feeling,  of  noble  teaching,  and  occasionally  of 
exalted  poetry,  and  that  they  have  been  raised  to  the 
honoured  place  I  hope  they  will  long  continue  to  occupy  in 
the  republic  of  letters.  "  Adam  Bede,"  "  Mr.  Gilfil's  Love 
Story,"  "  Janet's  Repentance,"  "  Amos  Barton,"  "  Felix 
Holt,"  and  many  episodes  in  her  subsequent  books,  all  took 
their  rise  from  and  about  this  spot.  For  the  first  twenty- 
two  years  of  her  life,  save  a  few  months,  she  lived  with  her 
father  at  Griff  House,  which  lies  on  the  high  road  (at  a 
junction  of  three  roads)  between  Coventry  and  Nuneaton, 
close  to  the  sixth  milestone  from  Coventry,  and  two  miles 
from  Nuneaton,  and  less  than  a  mile  from  the  gates  of  Ar- 
bury.  It  is  this  spot,  with  its  varying  aspects,  surroundings, 
and  associations — its  wondrous  hedgerows,  its  mingled  noises 
of  mill  and  loom,  which  she  has  so  minutely  depicted  in  the 
opening  of  "Felix  Holt"  "  as  being  a  spot  neither  of  hills  nor 
vales,  nothing  but  a  monotonous  succession  of  green  fields 
and  hedgerows,  with  some  fine  trees,  where  the  only  water 
to  be  seen  is  the  brown  canal,"  but  still  in  the  heart  of  the 
most  delightful  and  picturesque  scenery  of  the  Midlands, 
that  her  lot  was  fixed.  Here  during  her  earliest  existence 
she  attended  the  parish  school  of  Chilvers  Coton.  At  the 
age  of  five  she  went  to  Miss  Lathom's  seminary  in  the 
adjoining  parish  of  Attleborough  as  a  boarder,  and  two  or 
three  years  after  to  Miss  Wallington's  school  at  Nuneaton. 
In  her  holidays,  in  her  wanderings  with  her  brother,  in  her 
subsequent  home  life  until  March,  1841,  when  she  went 
with  her  father  to  Foleshill,  she  lived  at  Griff,  and 
'absorbed  Milby,  Shepperton,  Knebley,  and  Arbury,  with 
its  glorious  domain,  its  wealth  of  verdure  and  association, 
into  her  veins.  Here  also  passed  in  review  before  the  bright 
observant  eyes  of  this  most  gifted  and  sensitive  girl  the 


FEATURES  IX  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  33 

various  figures  which  again  and  again  people  her  canvas  ; 
the  dramatis  personce  of  the  "  Tales  of  Clerical  Life,"  "The 
Mill  on  the  Floss,"  "Felix  Holt,"  "Adam  Bede,"  "Middle- 
marsh,"  and  albeit,  unconsciously,  and  in  spite  of  herself, 
of  "  Romola."  Here  it  was  she  saw  the  originals  of  those 
"  mixed  human  beings  "  she  has  referred  to  (Cross,  Vol.  I., 
43)  whom  she  has  depicted  so  humorously,  critically, 
dramatically,  and  truly.  As  she  has  herself  said,  "she 
could  not  stir  a  step  aside  from  what  she  felt  to  be 
true  in  human  character."  Here,  then,  she  gleaned  the 
wealthy  storehouse  of  facts,  the  features  of  landscape  and 
of  humanity,  which  she  has  wedded  to  fiction  and  fancy 
in  her  novels,  and  to  this  neighbourhood  and  its  associa- 
tions and  experiences  must  we  turn  for  information  as  to 
the  sources  and  secrets  of  her  artistic  strength,  and  for 
those  features  of  mingled  realism  and  imagination  which 
we  find  combined  in  her  books. 

Let  us  take,  as  an  instance,  one  of  the  earliest  and  one 
of  the  best,  if  not  the  best,  of  all  her  books — "  Adam 
Bede."  What  were  its  actual  incidents  and  origin  ? 

Mary  Ann  Evans,  I  have  explained,  was  born  at  the 
South  Farm,  Arbury,  almost  three-quarters  of  a  mile  due 
south  of  Arbury,  the  Manor  House  or  Hall,  and  within  the 
park  and  domain.  While  a  child  in  arms  of  four  months, 
in  March,  1840,  her  father  removed  to  the  Griff  House, 
where  she  spent  her  childhood,  and  where  her  brother  and 
nephew  still  reside.  And  it  was  her  father  and  his  younger 
and  next  brother  Samuel,  her  mother  (Mrs.  Poyser),  her 
father's  schoolmaster,  Bartle  Massey,  the  Arbury  Hall 
servants,  and  Arbury  Hall  itself,  which  masquerades  as 
Donnathorno  Chase,  and  other  local  features  of  person  and 
place  which  combine  to  make  up  the  constitution  of  the 
book. 

father  (Adam  Bede)  was  one  of  the  younger  sons  of 
3 


34  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

George  Evans,  a  joiner  and  builder,  and  the  grandson  of 
a  tenant  farmer  renting  land  under  the  Newdegates,  at 
West  Hallam,  seven  miles  from  Derby,  and  on  the  road 
thence  to,  and  close  to  Ilkeston,  Nottingham.  Her  grand- 
father's family  consisted  of  seven  children,  Mary  Ann's 
father,  Robert,  being  (the  fourth  son  and  fifth  child)  born 
at  Ellaston,  in  Staffordshire,  near  to  the  banks  of  the  Dove, 
and  about  midway  between  Ashbourne  and  Alton  Towers, 
where  he  afterwards  settled  as  a  carpenter.  Robert  Evans, 
in  1806,  either  followed  Mr.  Francis  Newdegate,  or  attended 
him,  when  he,  on  the  death  of  Sir  Roger  Newdegate,  came 
into  the  property.  Robert  Evans  was  at  this  time  a  house 
carpenter,  and  worked  at  his  trade,  though  destined  soon 
after  to  raise  himself,  by  his  intellectual  attainments  and 
probity,  from  the  position  of  an  artisan  to  that  of  forester, 
then  of  bailiff,  and  of  land  agent,  "  whose  extensive  know- 
ledge in  very  varied  practical  departments  [to  use  George 
Eliot's  own  words]  made  his  services  valued  through  several 
counties."  This  father,  and  his  brother  Samuel,  with 
whom  in  youth  he  had  been  most  associated,  and  to  whom 
the  father's  tenderness  and  reminiscences  of  early  life  most 
referred,  form  the  central  figures  of  the  book.  I  assert 
this  the  more  positively  because  a  very  inaccurate  and 
certain — if  not  self-asserting — writer  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  of  April,  1887,  has  declared  that  it  is  the  por- 
trait of  his  brother  William  Evans,  the  Church  restorer, 
whereas  William,  the  Church  restorer,  was  the  nephew, 
and  not  the  brother,  of  Robert,  and  he  undoubtedly  was 
no  hero  in  the  girl  novelist's  eyes.  Certain  it  is  that  from 
the  Ellaston  Hayslope  workshop,  in  the  character  of  these 
two  brothers,  her  father  and  uncle,  the  escapade  of  her 
Aunt  Ann,  afterwards  Mrs.  Green,  and  from  the  local  sur- 
roundings of  Ellaston,  which  she  had  visited  in  1826,  when 
a  child  of  seven,  and  again  in  June,  1840,  and  Arbury, 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  35 

that  the   chief,  if  not   the  entire  interest  of  the  story 
springs. 

The  novel  opens,  as  you  will  perhaps  remember,  in  the 
year  1799,  in  the  month  of  June,  when  Robert  Evans  was 
in  fact  26,  and  Samuel  (Seth)  22,  and  we  seem  at  once  to 
become  friendly  with  and  interested  in  this  noble,  truth- 
speaking,  stalwart,  village  joiner.  We  see  at  once  how 
the  filial  love  of  the  daughter,  writing  in  all  simplicity 
and  sincerity,  gives  us  an  insight  into  the  character  and 
nature  of  a  real  man.  Love  and  truth  were  the  secrets  of 
her  success.  To  dispose  for  ever  of  the  suggestion  that 
this  was  a  portrait  of  her  cousin  William,  let  us  look  at 
the  features  so  affectionately  limned,  to  reappear  again  in 
Stradivarius  in  the  poem,  and  as  Caleb  Garth  in  "  Middle- 
march,"  and  compare  these  various  studies. 

That  plain  white-aproned  man  who  stood  at  work, 

Patient  and  accurate, 

Who,  God  be  praised,  had  an  eye 

That  winces  at  false  work,  and  loves  the  true, 

With  hand  and  arm  that  played  upon  the  tool 

As  willing  as  any  singing  bird     .... 

And  since  keen  sense  is  love  of  perfectness, 

Made  perfect  violins. 

Compare  this  with  Adam,  "  who'd  work  his  right  hand 
off  sooner  than  deceive  people  with  lies  "  ("  Adam  Bode," 
p.  32),  and  at  pp.  155  and  180,  "Look  at  Adam  as  ho 
stands  on  the  scaffold  with  the  two-foot  rule  in  his  hand, 
whistling  low,  while  he  considers  how  a  difficulty 
about  a  floor  joist  or  a  window  frame  is  to  be  overcome ; 
or  as  he  pushes  one  of  the  younger  workmen  aside  and 
I  his  place  in  upheaving  a  weight  of  timber,  saying, 
'  Let  alone,  lad,  thee's  got  too  much  gristle  in  thy  bones 
yet ' "  (p.  183),  an  incident  which  occurred  in  Robert 
Evans  lit,  in  reference  to  a  rick  ladder,  and  mentioned 
by  Mr.  Cross  (p.  13)  as  an  actual  experience,  and  which 
we,  without  such  information,  would  say  was  evidently  a 
natural  incident  of  fact  and  not  a  suggestion  of  fancy. 


86  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Again,  let  us  take  a  glimpse  at  the  other  surroundings. 
What  has  the  artist  done?  She  has  laid  the  story  at 
Ellaston  (Hayslope)  and  Roston  (Broxton),  the  adjoining 
township,  her  father's  birthplace.  She  has  introduced  her 
aunt  Elizabeth  Evans  as  Dinah,  her  aunt  Ann  as  Hetty, 
the  Davenport  Arms  as  the  Donnithorne  Arms,  made 
Rocester,  Rosseter;  Dovedale,  Eagledale;  Ashbourne,  Oak- 
bourne.  She  has  also  bodily  transferred  the  Corley  Hall 
Farm  from  Warwickshire  to  Derbyshire,  as  the  Old  Hall 
Farm,  and  adopted  it  with  its  charming  pictures  of 
Hetty's  dairy,  the  walnut  tree  avenue,  and  has  also 
re-named  Arbury — similarly  transferred,  with  a  perhaps  in 
a  lady  pardonable  ignorance — "  Donnithorne  Chase,"  a 
chase  being  an  unenclosed  forest,  exempt  from  the  forest 
laws,  and  without  a  mansion,  and  not  the  proper  name  of  a 
manor  house  or  mansion.  But  although  the  landscape  is. 
transferred,  the  features  of  the  local  scenery  she  loved  and 
knew  so  well  are  not  changed.  Although  Donnithorne 
Chase  is  placed  near  Eagledale  it  is  still  Arbury,  as  we  see 
"Adam  Bede"  (pp.  218-19)  where  it  is  described  as 
nothing  but  a  plain  square  mansion  of  Queen  Anne's 
time  (it  was  really  Jacobean  till  altered  by  Sir  Roger), 
but  for  the  remnant  of  an  old  abbey  to  which  it  was 
united  at  one  end.  "  Having  a  stone  staircase  leading 
simply  to  a  long  gallery  above  the  cloisters,  where  all  the 
dusty,  worthless  old  pictures  had  been  banished  for  the 
past  three  generations."  Such  cloisters,  now  walled  in, 
such  a  long  gallery,  used  as  a  lumber  room,  and  still 
holding  the  spinets,  harpsichords,  and  dulcimers  of  ancient 
days,  as  well  as  the  pictures,  still  remain. 

So  again  with  the  Old  Hall  Farm,  which  the  same  reck- 
less and  inaccurate  writer  already  referred  to,  has  assigned 
to  Derbyshire,  and  as  the  Manor  Farm,  Mappleton,  proving 
to  demonstration  that  George  Gough,  his  friend,  was 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  37 

the  husband  of  Mrs.  Poyser.  Listen  to  its  description 
(pp.  59,  68,  185).  How  carefully  and  lovingly  is  all  this 
delineated.  Can  there  be  any  mistake  about  the  reality 
of  this,  when  the  two  frisky  griffins  in  coat  armour  still 
stand,  surmounting  the  brick  pillars,  as  they  are  de- 
picted in  the  frontispiece  in  Blackwood's  edition. 
Corley  Hall,  as  she,  an  enthusiastic  observant  girl, 
saw  it,  noting  down  its  -features,  dreaming  already 
of  some  future  day  when  she  could  use  these  ma- 
terials in  a  novel — still  exists  with  many  of  its  features 
unchanged.  The  grand  double  row  of  walnut  trees,  the 
red-tiled  cowshed,  to  be  seen  from  the  very  doorway 
where  Mrs.  Poyser  spoke  her  mind  to  the  squire.  The 
dairy  (p.  68),  the  rick  yard  (p.  185),  the  little  wooden  gate 
leading  into  the  garden,  once  the  well-tended  kitchen 
garden  of  a  manor  house,  the  handsome  brick  wall  with 
stone  coping,  the  garden  \vhpre  Adam  sought  and  courted 
Hetty,  making  believe  to  gather  currants ;  even  the 
Guelder  roses  that  look  in  at  the  dairy  window — these  are 
all  there  to-day.  "  Adam  Bede  "  was  not  commenced  until 
October  22nd,  1857,  and  did  not  appear  till  July  1st,  1858, 
when  the  authoress  was  in  her  thirty-seventh  year,  and  had 
long  lived  away  from  Warwickshire.  How  then  did  she 
fill  in  these  minute  details?  In  truth,  she  had  made 
these  notes  of  the  place  as  a  girl,  when  she  had  driven 
there  with  her  father  to  collect  Lord  Lifford's  rents,  and 
had  noted  down  then  the  features  which  she  saw.  She 
had  never  been  inside  the  farm  house,  or  she  would  have 
observed  and  noted  the  curious,  quaint,  and  valuable 
Tudor  carvings  in  the  upper  rooma  She  had  looked 
through  tho  windows,  she  had  sat  in  IUT  father's  trap, 
noting  and  wondering  and  revolving,  and  thus  had  gazed 
h.  r  fill  and  drunk  in  every  external  feature  of  the  place, 
and  all  those  minute  details  which  were  to  form  ultimately 
a  species  of  accurate  history  of  the  spot — that  is  all. 


38  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Just  consider  again  the,  to  me,  most  interesting,  vital, 
and  powerfully-written  fourth  chapter  in  the  book,  the 
narrative  which  tells  of  the  home  life  of  these  two  young 
joiners,  the  practical  business  man  and  the  Methody. 
Read  every  word,  and  between  the  lines,  and  see  how 
lovingly,  earnestly,  and  vitally  the  artist  had  thought  out 
each  feature,  trait,  and  lineament  of  the  character  of  the 
two  brothers  and  the  details  of  that  sad,  sad  story  of  Thias 
Bede  and  his  death  at  the  Ellaston  Brook  just  where  the 
plank  bridge  crosses  it  to-day,  and  see  how  genuine  is  this 
realism  compared  with  what  is  called  fiction.  Look  at  the 
picture  (page  38),  where  the  honourable,  truth-loving,  God- 
fearing Saxon  peasant  comes  home  weary  from  his  work, 
tired  and  hungry,  to  find  that  his  father,  of  whom  he  was- 
once  and  as  a  child  so  proud,  the  handsome  stalwart  man 
and  skilful  workman,  in  his  subjection  to  drink  has 
neglected  his  work,  and  stands  fair  to  break  his  promise. 
How  skilfully  and  simply  the  artist  places  before  us  the 
boy's  pride  in  his  active,  clever  father — "  I'm  Thias  Bede's 
lad" — and  passes  on  to  the  picture  of  the  poor  broken- 
down  feckless  drunkard,  who  would  come  in  in  the  early 
morning  light  ashamed  to  meet  his  son's  glance,  and  who 
would  sit  down  looking  older  and  more  tottering  than  he 
had  done  the  morning  before,  and  hang  down  his  head 
examining  the  floor  quarries.  What  an  epic  is  this  of  a  great 
man's  soul,  great  in  its  honesty,  nature,  nobility,  integrity, 
gone  down  to  Orcus,  though  he  be  no  Agamemnon. 
This  chapter,  showing  how  the  coffin  was  made  and  borne 
home,  and  how  the  poor  drunkard  Thias  was  found,  is  to 
my  mind  the  genuine  realism  of  true  art.  Knowing  how 
George  Eliot  worked,  I  suggest  that  it  was  based  on  some 
real  incident  or  episode  in  her  father's  life  or  experiences 
narrated  by  him  ;  but  this  is  pure  surmise,  and  I  can  only 
suggest  it  hypothetically,  supporting  the  inference  by 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  39 

evidence  as  I  proceed.  That  it  is  true  art,  based  on  exact 
knowledge,  not  mere  individualisation,  but  art  as  Crabbe 
and  Wilkie,  or,  for  that  matter,  as  Shakspere  and  Phidias 
understood  it,  based,  to  use  Wilkie's  own  words  in  1805, 
"  on  a  just  representation  of  nature  ; "  not  a  bare  represen- 
tation, but  (to  cite  his  language  at  51)  as  "  adding  mind  to 
form."  Praxiteles  and  Apelles  were  not  the  less  artists 
that  they  needed  the  semi-divine  figure  of  the  Thespian 
Phryne  as  the  model  of  the  Cnidian  Venus — "  Venus 
Anadyomene,"  nor  is  George  Eliot  more  to  be  contemned 
that  she  never  painted  without  a  real  or  living  model  before 
her  anything  she  had  not  seen,  or  known  well,  or  experienced; 
certainly  nothing  by  which  she  attained  success.  I  will  not 
dwell  at  greater  length  on  this,  to  me,  inexpressibly  real, 
earnest,  sincere,  but  by  no  means  faultless,  book  On  the 
first  vindication,  in  full,  of  masculine  power  and  dramatic 
instinct  in  the  feminine  mind.  On  the,  to  me,  first  com- 
plete honest  and  outspoken  defence  of  the  true  dignity  and 
heroism  of  labour  and  truthful  manhood ;  on  the  valiant 
championship  of  genuine  nobility  in  peasant  life,  and  of 
that  old-world  Puritanism  which  still  chastens  and  refines 
and  elevates  common  labour,  which  lies  in  the  honourable 
performance  of  simple  duty.  But  I  cannot  part  with  it  if  I 
would  without  a  word  of  reference  to  the  humour  which 
graces  it,  and  which  is  so  happily  engaged  in  recalling  her 
mother's  incisive  speech. 

Listen  to  Mrs.  Evans,  n&  Pearson,  in  settling  Craig,  the 
Arbury  gardener's  merits,  when  she  says:  "  He  is  like  a 
cock  that  thought  the  sun  had  risen  to  hear  him  crow  ; " 
her  retort  on  Bartle  Massey  :  "  If  the  chaff  cutter  had  the 
making  of  us  we  should  be  all  straw,  I  reck*  Her 

defence  of  her  sex  to  this  crusty  old  bachelor :  "  However, 
I  am  not  denying  the  women  are  foolish,  God  Aim 
made  'em  to  match  the  men  ; "  and  her  final  shot — "  That 
some  folk's  tongues  are  like  the  clocks  as  run  on  striking 


40  MATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

not  to  tell  you  the  time  of  day,  but  because  there's  summat 
wrong  in  their  insides." 

Other  features  to  be  noticed,  but  not  dwelt  upon,  are 
the  portraits  of  her  aunt  and  uncle  Samuel,  of  Wirks- 
worth  (Snowfield),  by  no  means  the  least  interesting  like- 
nesses in  the  book.  The  loving  pourtrayal  of  the  features 
of  her  father's  birthplace,  Ellaston,  and  the  adjoining 
parishes  of  Norbury,  Snelstone,  and  Roston  (Broxton),  and 
of  her  early  playground,  Arbury  Park  and  its  Gothicised 
Elizabethan  mansion,  only  sketched  in  to  be  elaborated 
at  greater  length,  and  with  more  particularity  in  "  Mr.  Gil- 
fil's  Love  Story."  Every  feature  of  this  noble  residence  at 
once — to  use  her  own  words  in  "Deronda" — "historical, 
romantic,  and  homelike."  The  picturesque  architectural 
outgrowth  from  an  abbey,  the  grassy  court  and  Gothic 
cloisters,  etc.,  are  faithfully  reproduced,  even  to  the  Chase 
Farm,  for  which  read  South  Farm,  her  birthplace,  which 
lay  about  ten  minutes'  walking  distance  from  the  abbey,  as 
in  fact  it  does.  Other  aspects  are  the  fir  tree  grove,  with 
its  grand  beeches  and  broad  winding  path,  where  Hetty  and 
Donnithorne  meet ;  the  pool,  the  mossland,  the  rookery,  and 
the  little  brook  and  the  hermitage,  where  the  lovers  have 
stolen  interviews.  The  feeble  parts  of  the  book  are  pre- 
cisely those  which  are  imaginative.  The  incidents  of  the 
child  murder,  the  flight,  the  trial,  Adam's  courtship  of 
Dinah,  etc.  The  first  named  narrative,  we  know,  was 
obtained  from  the  Aunt  Elizabeth  (Cross'  Life,  Vol.  II., 
p.  65.  et  seq.,  in  1839  or  40) — the  interview  at  Griff — at 
which  her  aunt  described  the  scene,  attending  the  woman  to 
her  execution  ;  but  one  and  all  of  these  incidents  lack  the 
vigour,  the  accuracy,  the  actuality  of  real  life.  They  are 
what  is  called  imaginative,  viz.,  incidents  borrowed 
and  grafted  in  to  mend  and  make  the  story ;  but,  unfor- 
tunately, like  cloth  of  gold  pieced  with  linsey  wolsey,  only 
making  us  regret  that  the  rent  has  been  so  repaired. 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  41 

To  pass  on  to  the  "Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,"  we 
know  from  Mr.  Cross's  most  interesting  and  judicious 
life,  that  the  "  Sad  Fortunes  of  Amos  Barton"  was  written 
between  September  and  November,  1856,  and  was  the  first 
of  her  published  novels ;  that  it  was  followed  in  order  of 
composition  and  publication  by  "  Mr.  Gilfil's  Love  Story/' 
which  was  completed  by  May,  1857,  and  that  "Janet's  Re- 
pentance "  was  commenced  in  June  of  the  same  year.  The 
authoress,  in  her  review  of  her  labours  towards  the  close  of 
that  year,  speaks  of  these  three  stories  "  as  a  bit  of  faithful 
work  that  will,  perhaps,  remain  like  a  primrose  in  the 
hedgerow,  and  gladden  and  chasten  hearts  in  years  to 
come."  I  believe  that  her  aspiration  will  be  fulfilled. 
The  two  first  stories,  inferior  to  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss " 
and  "  Middlemarch,"  as  ambitious  artistic  compositions, 
contain  some  of  her  best,  most  simple  and  natural  writing, 
and  are,  in  their  ideal  completeness,  perhaps  among  the 
most  perfect  of  her  works. 

But  my  mission  is  not  criticism,  but  analysis — 
<  tion,  if  you  will.  The  first  of  these  stories,  then, 
is  the  outcome  of  the  authoress's  residence  and  school 
life  in  Chilvers  Coton  (Chelverdestocke,  in  Domesday, 
in  the  Manor  of  Griff),  Attleborough  and  Nun- 
eaton,  being  adjoining  townships.  All  the  characters 
in  the  three  stories  are  distinctly  traceable  por- 
traits of  known  persons,  to  which  Mrs.  Newdegate 
kindly  furnished  me  the  key,  and  all  these  parishes  are 
faithfully  and  literally  represented.  Chilvers  Coton  is 
1  Shepperton ;  Amos  Barton  was  a  Mr.  Gwy ther,  whose 
( Milly  Barton)  lies  buried  in  Chilvers  Coton  church- 
yard, she  having  died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-six,  leaving 
six  children;  Mrs.  Hacket  is  Mary  Anne's  mother,  with 
part  of  her  causticity  of  temper  left  out ;  Hacket  is  her 
father ;  Pilgrim,  the  sputtering  doctor,  all  for  cupping  and 


42  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

cathartics,  tall  and  heavy,  with  an  impediment  in  his 
speech,  and  who  appears  in  all  the  three  stories, 
one  of  the  rival  doctors  of  Coton;  Pratt,  all  for  port 
wine  and  pleasure,  mild  and  middle-sized,  is  the  other. 
Its  plot  was  a  Chilvers  Coton  incident,  and  all  is  to 
the  manner  born  in  "Mr.  Gilfil's  Love  Story." 
We  have,  with  that  pertinacity  of  association — "  adhesive- 
ness" Miss  Evans  called  it — peculiar  to  her,  Arbury  repro- 
duced again  as  Cheverel  Manor;  Sir  Roger  Newdegate, 
the  founder  of  the  Newdegate  prize,  the  benefactor  of 
University  College  and  the  Radcliffe  Library,  is  Sir 
Christopher  Cheverel.  Caterina  is  a  child,  by  name  Sally 
Shilton,  adopted  by  Lady  Newdegate;  Mr.  Gilfil  is  a 
portrait  of  the  Rev.  Bernard  Gilpin  Ebdell,  B.A.,  whose 
wife,  Caterina,  died  1823,  aged  49,  and  who  was  Vicar  for  42 
years,  and  died  August  16,  1828 ;  and  so  were  the  rest  of 
the  persons  introduced,  just  as  carefully  limned  and  stippled 
in,  as  the  Warwickshire  hedgerows,  the  features  of  the 
landscape,  and  the  general  characteristics  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. In  like  manner  "  Janet's  Repentance  "  is  laid 
in  Nuneaton,  the  place,  or  Water  Town  of  the  Nuns — 
The  Nunnery,  here  called  "  Milby,"  from  its  very  noticeable 
and  distinguishing  water  mill.  Dempster,  the  lawyer,  Janet 
(Mrs.  Buchanan)  and  Tryan,  as  well  as  the  minor  figures,  are 
all  portraits  from  life,  of  quite  photographic  accuracy  and 
exactitude.  Handsome  Bob  Lovvne,  the  elderly  Lothario ; 
Landor,  the  attorney ;  Jerome,  the  tanner ;  Miss  Linnett, 
Miss  Pratt,  Janet  herself  were  all  figures  as  real  and  well- 
known  as  Milby  Church,  and  just  as  capable  of  being 
identified. 

Let  us  recal  for  an  instant  or  two  the  life  and  career  of 
the  artist,  in  considering  these  and  other  of  her  works. 
Born  in  1819,  the  youngest  child  of  a  second  marriage,  she 
remained  under  her  father's  roof  (her  mother  died  in  1836) 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT.  4a 

until  he  died  in  1849.  He  had  become  a  comparatively 
affluent,  if  not  a  wealthy,  man.  Self-educated  as  she 
claimed  to  have  been,  she  had  enjoyed  the  aid  of  the  best 
masters  in  Italian,  music,  French,  and  German,  that  the 
neighbourhood  afforded.  She  had  mixed  with  an  unusually 
cultivated  and  cultured  society  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Bray 
and  the  Hennels.  Between  her  twentieth  and  thirtieth  year 
she  had  translated  Strauss's  "  Life  of  Jesus,"  and  in  1851 
had  plunged  as  a  reviewer  and  an  acknowledged  authority 
in  literature  into  London  society.  She  had  contributed 
reviews  and  acted  as  assistant  editor  to  The  Westminster, 
had  travelled  abroad,  visited  and  resided  in  Geneva, 
Weimar,  and  Berlin;  had  met  Mr.  Lewes,  and  founded 
that  association  with  him  that  continued  so  long,  before 
1856.  How  she  came  to  write  novels  is  told  in  Mr.  Cross's 
"  Life."  "  It  had  always  been  a  vague  dream"  of  hers  that 
she  might  write  a  novel  (414),  and  "  the  shadowy  con- 
ception of  what  the  novel  was  to  be,  varied  from  one  epoch 
of  her  life  to  another."  She  had  written  the  introductory 
chapter,  describing  a  Staffordshire  village,  ]>ivMimably 
Kllaston,  and  "  although  materials  were  in  it  for  dramatic 
representation,  it  was  pure  description."  At  Tenby,  how- 
ever, while  holiday-making  with  Lewes,  in  September, 
the  "Sad  Fortunes  of  Amos  Barton"  was  detenu in« •<! 
on  as  the  title  of  the  first  essay,  and  it  was  accordingly 
commenced. 

How  was  it  that  to  the  mature  woman  of  the  world,  aged 
thirty-seven — scholar,  censor,  cynic — who  had  apparently 
flung  all  early  home  associations  to  the  winds — the  scenes 
and  surroundings,  the  very  vital  air,  of  her  early  life — 
those  Warwickshire  lanes,  those  school-girl  associations, 
came  so  vividly  back  ?  In  truth,  she,  as  much  as  Robert 
Elsmere,  had  got  "  the  air  of  the  fells  in  her  blood  "  ;  she 
had  imbibed  the  features  of  her  Warwickshire  home— of 


44  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

its  wondrous  hedgerows,  "  radiant  with  purple-blossomed, 
ruby-berried  nightshade,  and  wild  convolvulus,  and  the 
many -tubed  honeysuckle,  which,  in  its  most  delicate  fra- 
grance, had  a  charm  more  subtle  and  penetrating  than 
beauty,"  till  they  had  become  part  of  herself.  The  park  of 
Arbury,  with  its  mosslands  and  rookery  ;  the  house,  its 
library,  its  books ;  Astley  church,  Chilvers  Coton,  the  canal 
where  she  and  her  brother  fished,  the  pool  in  front  of  the 
great  Hall — that  wonder  of  Gothic  enrichment  to  her 
childish  eyes — with  the  housekeeper's  room,  and  its  jams, 
which  she  had  often  tasted ;  the  keeper's  lodge,  which  she 
made  a  hermitage — these  were  for  ever,  in  spite  of  cynicism 
and  advancing  years,  and  severed  ties,  and  new  associations, 
the  sources  of  her  reveries,  the  sweet  fountains  of  her 
memory  ;  and,  like  Daylesford  to  Warren  Hastings,  this 
little  spot  in  Warwickshire — albeit  no  more  perfect  sylvan 
scenery  lies  this  side  Paradise  than  that  of  Arbury  Park — 
formed  and  framed,  and,  indeed,  bounded,  the  horizon  of 
the  constant  image  of  her  ideal  life. 

The  features  of  the  less  rural  landscape  in  which  the 
story  of  Amos  Barton  is  placed  are  those  of  the  authoress' 
early  school  life.  Shepperton  (Chilvers  Coton)  Church  is 
described  in  the  opening  chapter.  Here,  Sunday  after 
Sunday,  during  her  home  girl  life,  the  future  novelist  wor- 
shipped. Her  brother  still  lives  to  occupy  the  same  pew, 
and  grace  it  by  his  honoured  and  venerable  presence.  It 
is  the  church  of  the  nearest  adjoining  parish.  Here  Mr. 
Gilfil  (Gil pin  Ebdell)  in  the  twenties  and  Mr.  Amos  Barton 
in  the  thirties  ministered.  Amos,  whom  she  so  ruthlessly 
and  caustically  satirises,  was  the  curate  there  at  the  time  of 
Mrs.  Robert  Evans'  death,  in  1836.  In  that  year  also,  Amelia, 
Barton's  loving  wife  Milly  of  the  story,  aged  35,  died, 
leaving  him  a  sorrowing  widower  with  six  small  children, 
as  the  railed  stone  tomb,  standing  between  the  vicarage 
and  the  church  to-day,  still  testifies. 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  45 

The  present  church,  since  the  alterations,  which  the 
novelist  deplores,  were  made,  is  greatly  changed,  but 
the  outside  staircase  to  the  gallery  still  remains,  where 
George  Eliot,  as  a  small  school  girl  (under  nine),  with  a  large 
head  and  piercing  bluish-grey  eyes  and  shaggy,  uncombed 
locks,  not  very  unlike  a  little  untamed  Shetland  pony,  in 
her  fitful  and  impetuous  energies  and  spoiled  wilfulness, 
attended  at  the  clerical  chopping  of  straw  from  "  one  of 
the  old  yellow  series  "  of  sermons  of  Mr.  Gilfil,  which,  in 
spite  of  her  love  for  him,  she  has  so  caustically  described  as 
having  been  heard  "for  the  twentieth  time"  (p.  77).  Here, 
when  she  grew  older  and  was  a  wayward  girl  of  fifteen 
or  sixteen,  eager  for  knowledge,  censorious  of  tongue,  and 
savagely  satirical,  as  you  may  read  in  her  estimate  and 
summary  of  that  worthy  personage,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton, 
that  poor  dull  and  imperfectly  educated  beast  of  burden, 
Mr.  Gwyther,  the  curate,  ministered.  The  episode  of  the 
Countess  at  Camp  Villa  was  a  fact ;  the  death  of  poor 
Milly,  which  first  made  the  success  of  the  story,  was  but 
too  true,  and  was  accentuated  in  the  mind  of  the  girl  by 
the  death  of  her  own  mother,  the  Mrs.  Hacket  of  the  story, 
in  the  same  year. 

"  That  he  best  can  paint  who  feels  the  most,"  to  slightly 
alter  Pope,  and  that  memories  of  her  own  mother  influ- 
enced her  pen  will  be  seen  on  reading  page  65  of  the  story, 
and  her  reflections,  as  an  authoress,  on  Milly's  death. 

"  O  the  anguish  of  thought  that  we  can  never  atone  to 
<>iir  dead  for  the  stinted  affection  we  gave  tlinn,  f.»r  the 
light  answers  wo  returned  to  their  plaints  or  their  pleadings, 
;«r  the  little  reverence  we  showed  to  that  sacred  human 
soul  that  lived  so  close  to  us,  and  was  the  divinest  thing 
God  had  given  us  to  know."  Her  portrait  of  the  pretty 
adventuress,  the  Countess,  is  admirably  severe  and  satiric, 
hardly  less  caustic  is  her  summary  of  Amos.  "  His  plans, 


46  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

like  his  moves  in  chess,  were  all  admirably  well  calculated, 
supposing  the  state  of  the  case  were  otherwise."  "  His  very 
faults  were  middling,  he  was  not  very  ungrammatical,"  &c. 
(42).  His  preaching  was  like  a  Belgian  railway  horn,  "full  of 
praiseworthy  intentions  inadequately  fulfilled. "  His  sermon 
on  the  unleavened  bread  in  the  12th  of  Exodus  "un- 
luckily stopped  short  at  the  dough  tub."  "He  wanted 
small  tact  as  he  wanted  small  cash;"  "wrote  pre-ambulate 
for  perambulate,"  and  "sniffed  greatly."  Assuredly  the 
poor  imperfectly  educated  curate  was  no  favourite  with 
this  blue  stockinged  and  not  a  little  conceited  young  lady 
of  seventeen,  who  evidently  despised  him  for  his  poverty, 
his  ignorance,  and  his  want  of  social  position.  The  refer- 
ences to  his  personal  appearance,  with  features  of  no  par- 
ticular shape,  an  eye  of  no  particular  expression,  pitted 
with  the  smallpox  which  was  of  a  normal  and  indefinite 
kind,  a  narrow  face  of  no  particular  complexion,  with  a 
slope  of  baldness  from  brow  to  crown,  are  rather  merciless, 
and  are  bitten  in  with  aquafortis.  I  pray  that  you  and  I, 
my  friend,  have  no  such  satiric  and  self-satisfied,  self-edu- 
cated miss  to  sit  in  judgment  on  us,  and  discover  "  that  we 
believe  profoundly  in  the  existence  of  the  working  man 
and  our  mission  to  convert  him,"  or  who  finds  out  the 
crevice  in  our  armour,  in  that  we  consider  "  one  of  our 
strong  points  is  that  we  have  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent." 

' '  Mr.  Gilfil's  Love  Story"  is  much  smoother  and  less  splenetic 
reading,  and  has  a  much  more  graceful  and  poetic  charm 
in  its  association  with  Cheverel  Manor  and  the  story  of 
Caterina's  adoption.  Some  of  its  characters  reappear  again 
from  "  Amos  Barton,"  and  are  continued  in  "  Janet's  Ke- 
pentance,"  notably  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evans  as  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hackitt,  Mr.  Bucknill  as  Mr.  Pilgrim,  the  sputtering 
doctor,  and  his  rival  Mr.  Bond,  Mr.  Pratt,  Mr.  Lauder  (the 
attorney,  Mr.  Craddock),  but  the  genuine  charm  of  this 
novelette  is  its  unconscious  autobiography.  George 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT.  47 

Eliot  has  herself  noted  that  we  often  discover  more 
of  a  person's  character  from  what  they  unintentionally 
divulge  and  from  what  they  suppress  than  from  what 
they  ostentatiously  tell.  This  is  very  true  of  this  nar- 
rative. The  unsatisfied  longings  of  the  vain  and  am- 
bitious girl,  having,  as  she  believed  and  has  described, 
"  a  man's  force  of  genius  and  yet  suffering  the  slavery  of 
being  a  girl,"  all  appear  here.  Caterina  is  like  the  authoress 
herself,  "  a  creature  full  of  eager,  passionate  longings  for 
all  that  was  beautiful  and  glad,  thirsty  for  all  knowledge, 
with  an  ear  straining  for  dreamy  music  that  died  away." 
It  is  indeed  a  reminiscence  of  Mary  Ann  Evans  between 
seventeen  and  twenty-one.  Whether  she  had  such  a  loving 
attachment  at  the  same  age  is  more  than  I  can  assert ;  all 
that  appears  to  me  is,  that  the  locket  incident  recorded  of 
Hetty  in  "  Adam  Bede,"  and  of  Tina,  that  forbidden  gift 
hugged  in  secret,  almost  suggests  a  chord  of  memory.  For 
the  rest,  this  love  story  is  a  very  woman's  narrative,  of  a  very 
woman's  wilfulness.  Caterina's  foolish  preference  for  the  cold- 
hearted,  calculating  poltroon  over  the  honourable  manly 
wooer,  her  passion,  vehemence,  and  caprice,  together  with 
her  preference  for  the  spurious  ideal  rather  than  the 
genuinely  real  admirer,  are  all  decidedly  feminine  and 
characteristic.  As  a  recurrent  feature  in  all  the  authoress's 
books,  in  the  experiences  of  Dorothea,  Maggie,  Romola, 
Gwendoline,  Hetty,  there  is  also  evidence  of  a  painful 
want  of  imagination,  or  the  presence  of  an  ever  too  faithful 
memory. 

It  is  so  far  based  on  fact  that  the  second  Lady  Newde- 
gate,  wife  of  Sir  Roger,  a  lady  whose  portrait  is  sketched 
in  from  Romney's  picture  by  the  writer,  adopted  a  girl 
rejoicing  in  the  unromantic  name  of  Sally  Shilton,  who  had 
a  great  gift  for  music,  and  who  was  subsequently  married  to 
the  Rev.  Bernard  Gilpin  Ebdell,  B.  A.,  who  had  the  livings  of 
( 'hi Ivors  Coton  and  Astley  (Shepperton  and  Knobley)  be- 


48  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

stowed  on  him  by  the  Squire  of  Arbury.  Mrs.  Ebdell  (alas 
for  fiction !)  died  at  the  mature  age  of  forty-nine,  and  a  very 
handsome  tablet  over  the  vicarage  pew,  in  Coton  Church, 
indicates  that  fact.  Apart  from  the  charming  and  very 
lovable  portrait  of  Mr.  Bernard  Gilpin  Ebdell,  whom  George 
Eliot  recollected  only  as  a  small  child,  for  he  died  before 
she  was  ten,  the  interest  of  the  picture  centres  in  the 
very  faithful  delineation  of  the  scenery  of  the  Manor  of 
Griff'.  Astley  Church,  "  the  lighthouse  of  Arden,"  as  old 
Dugdale  notes  it,  "  where  the  ways  about  Astley  are  hard 
to  hit,"  and  the  association  of  Arbury  with  the  Gothic 
revivalism  of  Sir  Koger  Newdegate,  the  fine  full  flavoured 
crusted  old  port  of  the  Conservative  Squire,  whose  benefac- 
tions to  art  and  literature  have  been  already  noted,  and 
who  transmuted  Sir  Edmund  Anderton's  irregular 
Elizabethan  structure  into  a  Gothic  palace,  as  the 
authoress  indicates. 

The  aspect  of  the  mansion,  "  a  castellated  house  of  grey 
tinted  stone,"  is  fully  noted  at  pp.  84  and  85  of  the 
ordinary  editions  of  "Scenes  of  Clerical  Life."  The 
architectural  metamorphosis  of  his  old  Elizabethan  family 
mansion  by  Sir  Roger,  is  set  forth  at  page  106.  The 
glory  of  the  housekeeper's  room,  with  its  motto  carved 
in  old  English  letters,  as  you  may  see  it  to-day,  of 
"Fear  God  and  Honour  the  King,"  survives.  The 
building  is  fitted  not  on  to  a  monastery,  but  a  priory, 
founded  as  far  back  as  the  days  of  Fair  Rosamond  and 
Henry  the  Second,  by  Ranulph  de  Studley,  for  the  canons  of 
St.  Augustine.  At  the  time  of  the  dissolution  of  the 
monasteries  it  went  to  Charles  Brandon,  Duke  of  Suffolk. 
In  Elizabeth's  day  it  was  the  seat  of  Sir  Edmund  Anderson, 
L.  C.  J.  of  the  Common  Pleas.  He  exchanged  it  for  other 
lands,  with  one  of  the  Surrey  Newdegates,  more  convenient 
to  his  town  residence  and  town  life.  Sir  Edmund  had  con- 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.      4 a 

verted  the  Priory  into  an  irregular  quadrangular  manor 
in  the  style  of  the  period,  and  it  was  left  to  Sir  Roger 
who  had  visited  Italy,  and  brought  back  very  vivid,  if  not 
enlightened,  views  on  art,  to  make  the  change  which  is 
commented  on,  as  already  mentioned,  so  favourably  by  the 
authoress. 

Astley  Church,  Mr.  GilfiTs  alternate  cure,  and  its 
ancient  castle,  the  seat  of  the  De  Astleys,  deserved  a  more 
encomiastic  and  discriminating  reference  than  the  authoress 
has  conceded  it.  Miss  Evans  loved  nature  and  understood 
it — art  also — but  art  she  did  not  then  understand.  The 
genuine  historic  and  archaeologic  associations  of  Astley,  and 
even  of  Arbury,  were  lost  upon  her.  Her  description  of 
Astley  Church  is  certainly  neither  wise  nor  discriminating. 
She  calls  it  "  a  wonderful  little  church,  with  a  checkered 
pavement,  which  had  once  rung  to  the  iron  tread  of 
military  monks,  with  coats  of  arms  in  clusters  on  the  lofty 
roof,  marble  warriors  and  their  wives  without  noses  occupy- 
ing a  large  proportion  of  the  area,  and  the  twelve  apostles 
(in  reality  the  eighteen  evangelists  and  saints),  their  heads 
very  much  on  one  side,  holding  didactic  ribbons,  painted 
in  fresco  on  the  walls."  These  eighteen  pictures,  nine  on 
each  side  of  the  choir,  which  have  survived  the  spoliation 
of  Empson  and  Dudley,  and  the  iconoclasms  of  Elizabeth 
and  the  Long  Parliament,  are  very  interesting  examples 
of  native  Tudor  art  indeed. 

This  is  a  very  smart  and  superficial  description  certainly, 
but  that  is  all.  The  present  Astley  Church,  by  no  means 
small,  is  just  so  much  as  the  spoiler's  hand  has  left  of  the 
very  noble  collegiate  edifice  which  stood  on  the  same  site, 
and  whose  traditions  carry  us  back  beyond  the  Barons' 
Wars,  and  to  its  first  great  benefactors,  to  the  men  who 
fought  at  Evesham  and  signed  the  dictum  of  Kenilworth. 
It  is  the  chancel,  or  transept,  probably  adapted  and  altered, 
and  in  part  reconstructed,  by  a  person  not  unknown  to 


60  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

history  as  a  famous  letter-writer  in  James  the  First's  day, 
viz.,  Mr.  Chamberlain,  of  the  Court  of  Wards.  Originally 
it  must  have  been  a  cathedral-like  edifice,  and  a  very 
considerable  monastic  establishment,  placed  on  the  site  of 
an  earlier  church,  which  links  us  to  a  King  of  the  West 
Saxons  who  overrun  Mercia  and  Deira,  and  welded  all  into 
one  compact  little  kingdom,  he  being  called  Alfred  the 
Great,  and  this  little  realm  he  made,  being  known  as 
England. 

Arbury  Hall  figures  in  the  novel  as  Cheverel  Manor. 
Sir  Christopher  Cheverel  was  Sir  Roger  Newdegate,  the 
founder  of  the  "  Newdegate  prize,"  and  benefactor  of  the 
Radclifie  Library,  as  already  stated,  who  died  the  very 
year,  1806,  that  Robert  Evans  went  with  Mr.  Francis 
Newdegate,  Sir  Roger's  successor,  to  Arbury.  The  first 
Mrs.  Robert  Evans  was  at  this  time  a  servant  in  the 
Newdegate  household.  She  died  in  1809,  and  is  buried  in 
Astley  Church,  where  a  marble  tablet  commemorates  her 
worth,  and  thus,  no  doubt,  the  story  of  Caterina  and  the 
doings  of  Sir  Christopher  and  his  restorations  and  follies  of 
building,  through  the  authoress's  father,  reached  her  eyes 
and  ears. 

This  association  with  Sir  Roger  gives  certainly  a  semi- 
historic  and  illustrative  character  to  this  part  of  the  story, 
and  more  than  a  mere  local  or  transitory  interest.  It  was 
George  Eliot's  extreme  good  fortune  to  be  connected  with 
two  of  the  loveliest  districts  in  England — the  neighbour- 
hood of  Dovedale  and  Alton  Towers,  and  of  Warwickshire 
and  the  Forest  of  Arden,  from  Maxstoke  to  Stratford. 
Alike  for  picturesque  beauty  and  historic  associations  they 
are  two  as  charming  portions  of  rural  England  as  could 
well  be  named.  "  Mr.  Gilfil's  Love  Story,"  besides  being 
less  corrosively  caustic  in  its  delineation  of  those  poor  crea- 
tures called  men — whether  doctors,  lawyers,  or  parsons — 
witness  the  clerical  meeting  at  Milby,  the  characters  of  Pil- 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  51 

grim  and  Platt,  Dempster  and  Landor,  is  also  much  plea- 
santer,  as  being  less  acrimonious  reading.  The  portrait  study 
of  Bates,  the  Yorkshire  gardener,  and  of  the  scenes  and  con- 
versations in  the  housekeeper's  room,  of  which  George 
Eliot's  memories  were  no  doubt,  if  pleasant,  severe,  are 
not  venomous.  The  lineaments  of  Sarti  and  Motta  are  agree- 
able. Mr.  Gilfil's  picture  is  delicately  penned  in  a  chari- 
table vein,  so  is  that  of  Sir  Christopher  Cheverel,  and  the 
closely  preserved  features  of  the  natural  landscape  prove 
that  the  whole  reminiscence  was  a  labour  of  love,  a  joyful 
reproduction  of  the  author's  childish  memories,  written 
and  published  in  her  later  and  matured  middle  life. 

I  can  only  hurriedly  glance  at  the  rest  of  the  authoress's 
books.  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  the  most  autobiographic 
of  all  her  books;  " Felix  Holt,"  " Middlemarch,"  "Silas 
Marner,"  "  Romola,"  and  "  Daniel  Deronda."  The  scenery 
of  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  is  laid  at  St.  Oggs  or 
Gainsborough ;  its  plot  the  love  for  her  brother, 
Isaac  Pearson  Evans,  and  it  would  have  afforded  me  some 
pleasure  to  have  further  identified  some  of  the  local 
scenery,  and  the  actual  incidents  presented  of  her 
life  in  that  story.  "  Felix  Holt "  opens  with  the  descrip- 
tion of  Griff  and  the  neighbourhood  of  Bedworth,  Chilvers 
Coton,  Stockingford,  and  Arbury.  As  I  did  not  propose  to 
act  as  critic  on  this  occasion,  but  as  humble  cicerone,  it  is 
not  necessary  for  me  to  say  much  about  "  Deronda  "  and 
"Romola,"  save  that  in  the  former  book  Mr.  Oldenport 
(Sir  Christopher  Cheverel)  reappears  as  Grandcourt,  and 
Arbury  as  Monks  Topping  (p.  121)  and  Ryelands  (p.  229), 
with  ceilings  in  the  Italian  style,  and  the  house  in  part 
I  milt  by  Inigo  Jones,  and  an  estate  worth  £12,000  a  year. 
The  central  figure  of  each  novel  is  the  authoress  herself. 
is  Romola  as  she  is  Dorothea,  and  Esther,  and  Maggie, 
and  Caterina,  and  Gwendolene  Harleth  Many  of  the 
scenes  depicted  in  "  Daniel  Deronda  "  as  well  as  "  Romola/' 


52  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

notably  that  with  Klesmer  when  she  nourished  the  hope  of 
becoming  a  great  lyric  artist,  are  autobiographic.  Gwen- 
dolene,  though  the  artist's  ideal  of  her  perfect  self,  is  a  very 
unpleasant  personality.  She  has  a  heart  only  as  good  as  can 
be  made  out  of  brains.  She  has  also  a  much  more  powerful 
capacity  for  dislike  than  for  loving,  and  prefers  much 
more  coldly  and  much  less  strenuously  than  she  despises. 
This  was  George  Eliot's  inherited  idiosyncrasy ;  it  was  a 
Pearson  bequest.  Gwendoline  has  hardly  one  endearing 
attribute.  She  is  very  clever,  very  proud,  intensely  vain, 
self-satisfied,  selfish,  and  self-contained,  but  satiric  and 
conceited  beyond  measure.  She,  too,  has  the  failing 
common  to  all  George  Eliot's  heroines — she  marries  only  to 
despise  her  husband,  to  illustrate  how  much  two  persons 
sworn  to  love  can  hate  each  other.  Deronda,  a  weak 
reflex  of  Disraeli,  is  a  Hebrew,  without  (save  his  love  of 
music)  one  Hebraic  trait.  He  resembles  the  actual 
Hebrew  neither  of  the  Ptolemies  nor  of  to-day  (and  the 
characteristics  of  race  are  inextinguishable),  and  only  as 
much  as  a  Greek  mask,  or  as  one  of  the  painted  lions  on 
inn  signs — blue,  red,  or  golden — resembles  the  real  king  of 
the  forest.  A  Hebrew  face  without  a  Hebrew  feature  is  a 
slight  anomaly.  The  scenes  undoubtedly  with  Cohen 
(pawnbroker)  and  his  family  are  powerfully  drawn  and 
sketched  from  life ;  but  to  me  this  curious  proselytising 
novel "  with  a  purpose,"  wholly  lacks  human  and  intelligent 
interest,  and  in  spite  of  its  autobiographic  glimpses,  in  the 
episode  of  Mrs.  Glasher,  is  singularly  false  and  unreal. 

Romola  is  merely  a  definite  absurdity,  a  picture  of 
"  Italian  life,  which  is  not  Italian,  but  good  Warwickshire, 
and  nothing  else."  Again  marriage  is  a  bond  of  disunion.  It  is 
natural  that  Romola  should  despise  Tito,  perhaps  because 
all  good  people  must ;  but  why  did  she  not  discover  how  base 
and  truly  despicable  he  was,  and  which  everybody  else  saw, 
before  marriage  ?  Mrs.  Casaubon  (Mrs.  Lydgate)  had 


FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.  53 

some  excuse,  Romola  none.  I  have  no  sympathy  with 
these  blind  heroines.  The  talk  of  Tito  and  Bratti  is  not 
Italian,  even  theatrical  Italian,  or  by  courtesy ;  and  this 
attempted  revival  of  the  picturesque  and  marvellous  civili- 
zation of  Florence  in  the  fifteenth  century  is,  I  conceive,  a 
lamentable  failure.  It  is,  indeed,  the  fable  of  the  mountain 
in  labour.  Of  what  use  is  the  invocation  of  such  magni- 
ficent memories  as  those  of  Machiavelli,  Fra  Girolamo, 
Savonarola,  or  of  such  gorgeous  scenery  and  events  as  those 
linked  with  the  Duomo,  the  Via  de  Bardi,  Arno,  Fiesole, 
to  such  an  inadequate  result. 

Before  concluding,  I  wish  to  apologise  for  what  may 
seem,  on  the  whole,  a  depreciatory  notice  of  the  novelist 
that  I,  in  common  with  so  many  others,  profess  to  admire. 
I  have  a  painful  sense  that  my  praise  is  in  some  sort 
niggard;  that  it  lacks  the  elan  and  exuberance  of  en- 
thusiasm, and  that  it  is  rather  critical  (even  censorious) 
than  sympathetic.  The  ardour  of  youth  is  wanting,  but  I 
should  like  to  hear  the  praises  of  a  writer  whom  I  admire 
sounded  in  a  loftier  and  more  generous  key.  What  I 
detest  and  with  all  my  soul  abhor,  and  now  protest  against, 
is  that  indiscriminate  and  undiscriminating  adulation, 
which,  like  the  barking  and  yelping  of  bad  hounds  in  a 
pack,  is  the  zeal  of  dogs  that  have  poor  noses  for  a  scent, 
and  are  only  good  at  filling  up  the  cry.  I  see  no  likeness 
to  Raphael  or  Michael  Angelo,  or  Homer,  or  even  Handel 
in  these  works,  and  I  see  no  reason  for  such  discovery  by 
others— that  is,  if  it  be  a  discovery— and  not  a  false  and 
simulated  and  mock  heroic  enthusiasm.  I  have  purposely 
passed  over  many  aspects  of  excellence  in  the  author,  her 
exquisite  English  nervous  force  and  descriptive  power,  her 
spiritual  thought,  her  religious  feeling,  because  these  are 
in  part  outside  my  purpose,  and  belong  rather  to  mere 
literary  disquisition.  So  also  1  have  been  contented  to  dwell 
on  the  salient  and  sterling  qualities  of  fact  which  elevate 


54  FEATURES  IN  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

and  sustain  her  so-called  imaginative  descriptions  of 
scenery  and  character,  her  vivid  realism  and  actuality, 
rather  than  attempted  to  enumerate  all  the  features  of 
grace,  of  originality,  and  of  fancy,  which  most  command 
my  appreciation,  if  they  fail  to  secure  my  homage. 

The  graces  of  her  style  and  her  merits  as  a  writer  of 
fiction,  I  must  with  equal  brevity  and  injustice  dismiss  on 
the  present  occasion,  hoping  to  return  to  the  theme  at  some 
future  time,  and  not  without  some  pangs  of  remorse, 
because  to  me  the  chief  excellencies  of  all  George  Eliot's 
books,  are  their  psychological  delineation  of  her  own 
wrestlings  of  soul,  doubts  and  trials  and  tribulations,  mental 
and  spiritual,  and  the  autobiographic  insight  that  they 
afford  of  a  very  cultured,  gifted,  and  phenomenally 
masculine  feminine  mind.  Some  few  of  these  traits,  and 
of  the  varying  phases  of  her  remarkable  personality,  it 
would  have  been  a  labour  of  love  to  trace.  As  a  novelist 
she  was  singularly  free  from  class  and  caste  prejudices, 
neither  pharisee  nor  flunkey,  gifted  with  the  most  incisive 
and  rarest  insight  into  individual  character,  with  no  small 
amount  of  sardonic  humour,  and  a  burning  and  ever- 
present  love  of  truth  and  hatred  of  shams.  As  an  authoress 
she  was  educated  in  the  highest  sense,  critical  and 
accurate,  sensitive  and  discriminating,  and  her  works  thus 
form  a  truly  valuable  donation  to  English  literature.  She 
had  no  skill  as  an  artist  in  the  construction  or  arrangement 
of  plots,  no  wide  range  or  universality  of  knowledge  in 
dealing  with  dramatic  character.  What  she  had  seen 
and  knew  she  painted  accurately — she  painted  best,  and  if 
one  may  venture  humbly  on  prophesy,  in  spite  of  very 
many  conspicuous  defects,  and  of  a  very  limited,  spiritual, 
and  metaphysic  vision,  her  works  are  books  that  the  world 
will  not  willingly  let  die. 


SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 

BY   JOHN  MORTIMER. 

TO  turn  from  the  perusal  of  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold,  to  take  up,  as  I  did  the  other  day,  the  copy  of 
the  modest  collection  of  "  Humorous  Rhymes,"  by  "  Ab-o'- 
th'-Yate,"  which  was  shyly  laid  on  the  table  of  the 
Manchester  Literary  Club  by  the  author  not  long  ago, 
is  like  descending  from  Empedocles  on  Etna  to  the 
humble  cottage  of  "  The  Wayvor  o'  Welbrook,"  yet  it  is 
fitting,  I  think,  that  such  a  descent  should  be  made.  It  is 
a  significant  fact  that  regard  for  the  folk  speech  and  the 
literature  that  belongs  to  it  is  a  diminishing  quantity 
amongst  us  in  Lancashire.  Anyone  turning  to  the  first 
volume  of  the  "  Transactions  of  the  Manchester  Literary 
Club  "  will  find  that  this  interest  in  local  things  was  then  a 
predominating  feature.  The  first  paper  in  that  volume  is  one 
on  John  Byrom,  by  John  Eglington  Bailey,  which  is  fol- 
lowed by  an  excellent  dissertation  by  Mr.  George  Milner,  on 
"  The  Dialect  of  Lancashire  as  a  Vehicle  for  Poetry."  Then 
comes  an  essay  which  shows  how  Shakespeare  used  words 
still  in  use  among  Lancashire  folk.  These,  with  critical 
and  biographical  notices  of  Charles  Swain,  then  recently 
dead,  make  up  a  large  portion  of  the  "Transactions"  of 
that  year.  Scattered  over  succeeding  volumes  are 


56  SOME   LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 

ontributions  in  prose  and  verse  by  Edwin  Waugh,  and 
also  several  highly  interesting  papers  descriptive  of 
the  surroundings,  speech,  and  characteristics  of  Lancashire 
folk,  by  that  too-little  esteemed  writer,  and  true  son  of  the 
soil,  Edward  Kirk.  It  should  be  noted,  too,  that  the 
best  collection  extant  of  Ballads  and  Songs  of  Lancashire 
was  compiled  by  Mr.  John  Harland,  and  afterwards  revised 
and  edited  by  T.  T.  Wilkinson,  who  dedicated  the  volume 
to  his  colleagues,  the  President  and  members  of  the  Literary 
Club  ;  and  one  ought  not  to  omit  saying  that  the  interest  in 
the  folk-speech  has  been  shown  in  a  marked  and  important 
way  by  the  publication  of  a  "  Glossary  of  the  Lancashire 
Dialect,"  unfortunately  not  yet  complete,  edited  by  two 
presidents  of  the  Club,  past  and  present.  Among  the  latest 
evenings  devoted  to  local  lore  was  a  memorable  one,  when 
Mr.  Thomas  Newbigging  discoursed  upon  James  Leach,  a 
Lancashire  composer ;  and  the  author  of  the  rhymes  under 
notice,  Mr.  Benjamin  Brierley,  gave  his  views  on  the 
Lancashire  dialect  as  a  literary  medium. 

How  powerful  and  expressive  this  folk-speech  is,  and 
how  fascinating  withal,  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  show. 
Poets  and  prose  writers  innumerable  have  borne  witness 
to  the  charm  of  local  dialect.  Not  to  speak  of  Burns  and 
Scott,  we  know  how  in  later  times  Tennyson  has  loved  it, 
and  in  its  Lincolnshire  form  has  made  the  happiest  use  of 
it  in  his  verse.  Mr.  Axon  has  shown  how  novelists  like 
George  Eliot  and  Thomas  Hardy  have  found  in  it  some  of 
their  happiest  forms  of  expression,  and  one  remembers  how 
the  author  of  "  Tom  Brown's  Schooldays,"  proud  of  being 
a  Wessex  man,  says,  "  There's  nothing  like  the  old  country- 
side for  me,  and  no  music  like  the  twang  of  the  real  old 
Saxon  tongue,  as  one  gets  it  fresh  and  strong  from  the 
White  Horse  Vale." 

Lancashire  has  had  many  literary  lovers  of  its  dialect  and 


SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.  57 

exponents  thereof,  from  "  Tim  Bobbin  "  downwards,  amongst 
whom  are  such  writers  as  Sam  Bamford,  Edwin  Waugh,  Ben 
Brierley,  and  Sam  Laycock.  Homeliness  is  a  characteristic 
of  all  these  authors.  We  are  told  that  when  John  Bright  was 
tempted  by  courtly  attractions,  he  said  that  he  preferred 
to  dwell  among  his  own  people.  In  like  manner  our  best 
local  writers  have  found  the  most  congenial  field  for  their 
labours  in  the  scenes  and  associations  by  which  they  have 
been  surrounded.  Like  Wordsworth,  they  have  brought 
their  poetry  into  "the  huts  where  poor  men  lie."  And 
who  shall  say  that  this  very  provincialism  does  not  touch 
the  universal  when  it  appeals  to  the  highest  and  truest 
instincts  of  humanity  ?  If  you  look  into  the  poetry  of 
Waugh,  and  others  who  have  written  like  him,  or  into  the 
best  prose  of  the  dialect  writers,  you  will  find  that  there  is 
one  prevailing  note,  and  it  is  that  which  Burns  sounded 
when  he  said — 

To  make  a  happy  fireside-clime 

To  weans  and  wife, 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life. 

"  Ab-o'th'-Yate "  is  a  name  well  known  throughout 
Lancashire,  and  beyond  it.  He  is  best  known  as  a  prose 
writer,  and  in  this  direction  he  has  done  voluminous  work, 
and  upon  it  his  fame  will  depend.  He  does  not  affect  to 
be  a  poet,  and  finds  "  Walmsley  Fowt"  a  more  congenial 
place  than  Parnassus.  Like  old  "  George  Ridler,"  he  is  a 
home  bird,  and,  like  him,  he  says  in  a  literary  sense — 

While  vools  gwoea  prating  vur  and  nigh, 
We  stops  at  whum,  my  dog  and  I. 

In  "  Walmsley  Fowt "  he  is  content  to  dwell.  Here  or 
nowhere  is  his  America.  He  is  a  true  son  of  the  soil,  and 
embodies  within  himself  all  the  strong  peculiarities  of  the 
Lancashire  character  plu*  the  power  of  literary  expression. 
Possessed  of  a  sense  of  humour,  allied  to  a  keen  shrewdness 


58  SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 

of  perception,  he  is  quick  to  detect  these  qualities  among 
the  homely  folk  about  him,  and  felicitous  in  his  delinea- 
tions of  what  he  sees.  From  his  great  literary  prototype, 
"  Tim  Bobbin,"  he  has  inherited  a  love  for  practical  joking, 
but  his  style  in  dealing  with  this  disposition  in  the  Lanca- 
shire dialect  is  free  from  the  coarseness  of  the  earlier 
writer.  His  love  for  a  practical  joke  peeps  out  here  and 
there  in  these  rhymes,  blended  with  incidents  of  courting 
and  conviviality.  There  is  also  a  disposition  to  sing  the 
praises  of  home  and  home-brewed  in  conjunction,  as  when 
he  says — 

Ther's  nowt  i'  this  wo'ld  like  my  own  chimly  nook, 

When  my  cheear  up  to  th'  fire  I've  poo'd  ; 
When  th'  wife  has  just  rock'd  th'  little  babby  to  sleep, 

An*  fotched  me  a  mug  o'  whoam-brewed. 
Hoo  smiles,  does  th'  owd  dame,  as  if  nobbut  just  wed, 

When  her  caps  an'  her  napkins  hoo's  blued, 
Then  warms  up  her  face  wi'  a  blink  o'  th'  owd  leet, 

Ut  shines  in  a  mug  o'  whoam-brewed. 

The  love  for  ale,  home-brewed  or  otherwise,  in  the  excess 
of  it,  is  illustrated  in  "  Owd  Pigeon,"  who  presents  an  awful 
example  of  "  the  ruling  passion  strong  in  death. "  In  his  paper 
on  the  Lancashire  dialect,  read  before  the  Literary  Club 
some  years  ago,  the  author  said :  "  An  old  friend  of  mine, 
being  on  his  death-bed,  remarked  to  a  neighbour  who  was 
visiting  him,  '  I  dunno  care  so  mich  about  this  deein' ;  if 
I  could  come  back  wi'  th'  buryin  folk,  an'  have  my  share 
o'  what  there  wur.  I'd  give  a  guarantee  that  I'd  go 
back  to  my  lodgins.' "  We  have  this  turned  into  rhyme 
here,  and  read  how — 

Owd  Pigeon  wur  as  dry  a  brid 

As  ever  swiped  his  drink ; 
He  liked  to  see  a  frothy  pint 

Smile  at  his  nose  an'  wink. 

At  noon  or  neet  'twur  aulus  reet, 

A  quart,  or  pint,  or  gill 
Wur  th'  same  to  him  ;  if  th'  pot  wur  full 

He  never  had  his  fill. 


SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.  59 

If  e'er  he  geet  hia  breeches'  knees 

Beneath  a  taproom  table, 
He'd  sit  an'  drink  an'  smoke  an'  wink 

As  lung  as  he  were  able. 

He'd  grown  so  firm  to  th'  alehouse  nook, 

An'  swiped  so  many  mixtures, 
That  when  it  coom  to  changin'  bonds 

He' re  reckoned  among  th'  fixtures. 

Whene'er  their  Betty  brewed  a  "peck," 

If  he  could  find  a  jug, 
He  wouldno'  wait  till  th'  ale  wur  "  tunned," 

He'd  lade  it  eaut  o'  th'  mug. 

But  poor  owd  Pigeon's  time  had  come, 

An'  when  his  will  he'd  signt, 
He  said  he  ailed  nowt  nobbut  "  drooth," 

An'  begged  for  another  pint. 

His  "  rulin'  passion  "  stuck  till  death, 

An'  as  th'  Slayer  raised  his  dart 
He  licked  his  lips,  an'  faintly  said, 

"Just  mak'  it  int'  a  quart." 

"  I  wouldna'  care  a  pin  for  th'  grave, 

Though  I'm  totterin'  upo'  th'  brink, 
If  I  could  come  back  wi'  th'  buryin'  folk, 
An'  ha'  my  share  o'  th'  drink." 

This  reminds  one  that  a  ruling  passion  of  this  kind  has 
not  been  confined  to  later  times,  and  how  Walter  Mapes, 
sometime  Archdeacon  of  Oxford,  wrote  in  Latin  verse  what 

has,  by  Leigh  Hunt,  been  translated  thus : — 

\ 

I  desire  to  end  my  days 

In  a  tavern  drinking  ; 
May  some  Christian  hold  for  me 

The  glass  when  I  am  shrinking  ; 
That  the  Cherubim  may  say. 

As  they  see  me  shrinking, 
"  God  be  merciful  to  a  soul, 

Of  this  gentleman's  way  of  thinking." 

Regarding  this  custom  of  giving  drink  to  tho  "  burying 
folk,"  one  has  heard  that,  somewhere  Failsworth  way,  there 


60  SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 

dwelt  a  barber,  who  was  always  prepared  to  join  a  funeral 
for  the  sake  of  the  feast  that  followed  it.  Once,  when 
attending  one  of  these  funerals  which  held  out  scant  hopes 
of  any  creature  comforts  for  the  mourners,  he  found  on 
arrival  at  the  churchyard  that  there  was  another  "  buryin'" 
going  on  of  which  he  had  not  heard,  and  in  the  train  of 
which  he  recognized  a  friend.  Ascertaining  from  his 
friend  that  the  "buryin"'  to  which  he  was  attached 
promised  meat  and  drink  galore,  the  barber  said  to  him, 
"  There's  nought  mich  to  be  got  at  th'  end  o'  this  job  o' 
mine,  so  if  yo'  don't  mind,  when  it's  finished,  I'll  go  back 
with  yo'  folk." 

In  "  The  Weaver  of  Welbrook  "  our  rhymer  shows  the 
manly  independence,  honesty,  and  careless  content,  though 
rudely  expressed,  of  many  of  those  old  hand-loom  weavers, 
now  becoming  obsolete,  and  of  which  this  one  of  Wel- 
brook is  a  good  type.  "  The  Wayvor  o'  Welbruck,"  how- 
ever, as  Mr.  Wilkinson  says,  requires  acting  as  well  as 
singing  to  produce  the  proper  effect,  and  is  inimitable 
when  the  author  thus  gives  to  it  all  the  gravity,  the  grunts, 
and  grimaces  of  the  grumbling  old  "wayvor."  It  runs 
thus : — 

Yo'  gentlemen  o  wi'  yo'r  hounds  and  yo'r  parks, 

Yo'  may  gamble  an'  sport  till  yo'  dee  ; 
But  a  quiet  heause  nook,  a  good  wife  an'  a  book 
Are  more  to  th'  likin's  o'  me-e. 

Wi'  my  pickers  an'  pins, 
An'  my  wallers  to  th'  shins, 
My  linderins,  shuttle,  an'  yeald-hook  ; 
My  treadles  an'  sticks, 
My  weight-ropes  an'  bricks — 
What  a  life  !— said  the  Wayvor  o'  Welbrook. 

I  care  no'  for  titles,  nor  heauses,  nor  lond, 

Owd  Jone  's  a  name  fittin'  for  me  ; 
An'  gi'e  me  a  thatch  wi'  a  wooden  dur  latch, 

An'  six  feet  o'  greaund  when  I  dee-e. 
Wi'  my  pickers,  &c. 


SOME   LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.  61 

Some  folk  liken  t'  stuff  their  owd  wallets  wi'  mayte 
Till  they're  as  reaunt  an'  as  brawsen  as  frogs ; 

But  for  me  I'm  content  when  I've  paid  deawn  my  rent, 
Wi'  enoo*  t'  keep  me  up  i'  mi  clogs-ogs. 
Wi*  my  pickers,  &c. 

Yo'  may  turn  up  yo'r  noses  at  me  an'  th*  owd  dame, 

An'  thrutch  us  like  dogs  again  th'  wo'  ; 
But  as  long's  I  con  nayger  I'll  ne'er  be  a  beggar, 

So  I  careno'  a  cuss  for  yo*  o-o. 

Wi1  my  pickers,  &c. 

Then,  Margit,  turn  reaund  that  owd  hum-a-drum  wheel, 

An*  my  shuttle  shall  fly  like  a  brid  ; 
An'  when  I  no  longer  can  use  hont  or  finger, 

They'll  say  while  I  could  do  I  did-id. 
Wi'  my  pickers,  &c. 

Of  the  weaver  when  he  is  a  factory  hand,  in  the  worst 
times,  and  subject  to  the  truck  system,  we  have  a  sample 
in  "  The  Factory  Worker's  Song,"  wherein  a  spirit  of  revolt 
is  manifested : — 

Come  carders  an'  spinners  an'  wayvers  as  weel, 
Stop  yo'r  frames  an'  yo'r  jennies,  strip  roller  an'  creel ; 
Let  yo'r  lathes  cease  to  swing,  an'  yo'r  shuttles  to  fly, 
For  there's  gone  through  owd  England  a  leaud  battle-cry, — 

Derry  deawn  ! 

They'n  turned  eaut  at  Ratchda'  an*  Owdham  an'  Shay 
An'  th'  Stalybridge  lads  are  at  Ash'n  to-day  ; 
"  Pair  wage  for  fair  icark"  is  the  motto  they'n  chose, 
An  what' 11  be  th'  upshot  no  mortal  man  knows. 

Derry  deawn  ! 

Eaur  mesthers  are  screwin*  eaur  noses  to  th'  dust, 
An*  if  we  don't  strike  we'n  no'  maybe  seen  th'  wust ; 
They've  cheeant  up  eaur  bodies  to  slavery's  wheel, 
And  they'd  sell,  if  we'd  let  'em,  eaur  souls  to  th'  deil. 

Derry  down  ! 

Then  the  singer  tells  how  he  works  for  "  Twitcher/'Jat 
th'  Shoddy  Croft  Mill  :- 

He's  mesther,  an*  londlort,  an'  baker  likewise, 
An'  he  finds  me  i'  clooas — though  ne'er  th'  reet  size  ; 
He  praiches  o'th'  Sunday  at  th'  Factory  Fowt  Skoo, 
So  chus  what  else  I'm  short  on  I've  sarmons  enoo. 

Derry  deawn! 


62  SOME   LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 

He  says,  too,  of  his  rent,  that — 

It's  stop't  ov  a  Saturday  eaut  o'  my  wage, 

So  I'm  like  an  owd  brid  ut's  shut  up  in  a  cage. 

When  I  send  deawn  to  th*  shop  for  my  butter  an'  bread, 

He  looks  into  th'  wage -book  to  see  'ut  he's  paid  ; 

I  never  know  th'  price  on't — it's  nothin'  to  me, 

For  he  tells  me  t'  ne'er  fret,  I'se  be  straight  when  I  dee. 

And  so  with  this  he  is  going  to  shake  a  loose  leg  and  be 
free,  for — 

What's  a  mon  if  he  conno'  stond  up  in  his  shoon, 
An'  say,  "  I'm  as  free  as  owt  else  under  th'  moon." 

A  ballad  of  the  Darby  and  Joan  type  tells  of  the  loves 
of  Johnny  and  Peggy,  who,  on  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
their  wedding  day,  discourse  to  each  other  of  their  early 
courtship : — 

It's  two  score  year  an'  ten,  owd  lass  ! 

Sin'  fust  I  coarted  thee  : 
Yo'  lived  that  time  at  Katty  Green, 

At  th'  top  o'  Bowman's  Lea. 

I'd  seen  thee  trip  through  Coppie  Wood, 

I'd  seen  thee  at  th'  steel : 
But  when  I  tried  to  spake  to  thee, 

Heaw  quare  my  heart  did  feel ! 

A  printed  bedgeawn  then  theau  wore, — 

A  hailstorm  pattern  co'ed, — 
Wi'  linsey  skirt  an'  apporn  white, 

An'  bonnet  deep  an'  broad. 

The  bashful  swain  hangs  about  but  dare  not  tell  his 
love,  until  primed  with  fettled  ale  at  th'  Owd  Blue  Bo' 
he  sallies  out  to  the  fair  one's  home  and  there  breathes 
her  name.  With  panting  heart  he  listens  until  he  hears 
a  window  open  above  him,  and — 

Then  summat  coome  plash  on  my  yead, — 

(It  wur  th'  neet  o'th'  weshin'-day, — ) 
An'  I  fund  I're  covered  o'er  wi'  suds 

As  white  as  blossomed  epray. 


SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.  63 

Wi'  pluck  quite  cooled,  I  crept  to'ard  whoam, 

But  vowed  within  mysel', 
If  e'er  I  geet  a  chance  to  do  't, 

I'd  pick  thee  into  th'  well 

He  takes  counsel  with  his  mother,  who  tells  him  she 
"  sarved  his  feyther  wur  nor  that,  and  yet  he  came  again  " 
So  he  takes  heart  of  grace,  and  "swings  his  clogs  again." 
to  Katty  Green,  and  jumps  o'er  the  garden  fence  to  fall  into 
a  fayberry  bush  under  the  window.  But  the  fair  one, 
when  she  hears  him,  is  more  susceptible,  and  the  vows  are 
plighted,  and  the  wedding  follows.  And  now,  as  he  recalls 
these  incidents,  after  fifty  years,  the  old  man  suggests  that 
they  shall  go  through  that  courting  scene  again : — 

"  I'll  goo  eauteide,  an'  knock  at  th'  dur, 

An*  whistle — 'tis  no'  late — 
An'  'stead  o'  breakin'  fayberry  trees, 
I'll  rickle  th'  garden  gate. 

11  Then  theau  mun  come,  an*  say  to  me 

That  word  theau  said  before, 
An'  seeal  eaur  love  i'  th'  poorch,  as  then, 
Wi'  hearty  smacks  a  score ! " 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Peggy,  "  go  thee  eaut, 

An'  play  thy  part  as  t'  con, 
An1  I'll  play  mine  as  if  I'd  ne'er 
Yet  spokken  to  a  mon." 

Agreed— they  each  their  several  parts 

Proceeded  to  fulfil : 
The  old  man  shook  the  garden  gate, 

And  whistled  loud  and  shrill. 

Up  went  the  window  overhead, 

The  curtains  fluttered  white, 
Then  down  on  Johnny's  hatlesa  pat 

A  shower-bath  did  alight 

"  'Od,  sink  thee,  Peg  ! "  the  old  man  cried, 

"  I  bargained  noane  for  that ; 
Theau's  weet  me  through  ;  an'  did  tw  know 
1're  here  witheaut  my  hat  T" 


64  SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 

"  Theau'a  played  thy  part,  an'  I've  played  mine," 

Said  Peggy,  from  her  room  ; 
"  fve  nobbut  sarved  thee  th'  same  to-neet 

At  I  did  th'  fust  neet  theau  coome." 

There  is  a  rhyming  epistle  of  invitation  to  Edwin 
Waugh,  written  in  the  metre  which  Burns  used  so  well 
in  "  Willie's  Awa',"  and  which  is  especially  interesting  in 
a  historical  sense,  because  it  carries  us  back  twenty  years, 
and  contains  allusions  to  Charles  Swain,  Sam  Bamford, 
Charles  Hardwick,  John  Page,  Joseph  Chatwood,  Elijah 
Ridings,  R.  R.  Bealey,  John  Harland,  and  J.  P.  Stokes, 
nearly  all  of  whom  were  members  of  the  Literary  Club 
in  those  days.  The  rhyme  begins : — 

What  ails  thee,  Ned  ?    Thou'rt  not  as  t'wur, 

Or  else  no'  what  I  took  thee  for 

When  fust  thou  made  sich  noise  and  stir 

I'  this  quare  pleck. 
Hast  flown  at  Fame  wi'  sich  a  ber 

As  f  break  thy  neck  ? 

Or  arta  droppin'  fithers,  eh  ; 

An'  keepin'  th'  neest  warm  till  some  day, 

To' art  April -tide,  or  sunny  May, 

When  thou  may'st  spring, 
An'  warble  out  a  new-made  lay, 

On  strengthened  wing  ? 

For  brids  o'  song  mun  ha'  ther  mou't 

As  weel  as  other  brids,  I  doubt ; 

But  though  they  peearch  beneath  a  spout, 

Or  roost  'mong  heather, 
They're  saved  fro*  mony  a  shiverin'  bout 

By  hutchin'  t'gether. 

There  are  some  verses  anent  Sam  Bamford's  grave,  and 
a  conversation  supposed  to  be  held  there  between  the 
living  poet  and  the  dead  one,  which  will  recall  how,  on  a 
memorable  day,  we  laid  that  sturdy  old  reformer  in  his 
grave  on  the  windy  height  of  Middleton  churchyard,  and 
how,  later,  we  repaired  thither  to  inaugurate  a  monument 


SOME  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 


65 


to  his  memory.  The  supposed  conversation  takes  place 
between  the  two  events,  and  has  special  reference  to 
the  latter. 

Whatever  charm  this  folk-speech  may  contain,  or  how- 
ever interesting  it  may  be,  I  fear  that  it  must  disappear 
before  the  spread  of  smoother  speech,  and  the  rugged  but 
expressive  words  contained  in  it  will  have  to  be  rele- 
gated to  the  glossary.  It  is  well,  therefore,  that  we  should 
be  careful  to  preserve  all  the  forms  of  literature  that  have 
sprung  from  it. 


IN  MEMORIAM :  HENEY  LAWES. 

1595—1662. 

BY  JOHN   BANNISTER. 

THIS  day  (21st  October)  is  the  anniversary  of  the  death 
of  one  of  England's  musical  worthies,  who  lived  in 
troublous  times,  when  music  was  almost  dead  in  the  land. 
Henry  Lawes,  who  is  the  subject  of  my  observations,  was 
born  at  Dinton,  in  Wiltshire,  December,  1595,  and  was 
baptised  1st  January,  1595-6.  Other  authorities  say  he  was 
born  in  1600,  and  was  a  native  of  Salisbury,  where  his  father, 
Thomas  Lawes,  was  a  vicar-choral.  We  have  scanty  infor- 
mation of  the  early  life  of  Henry ;  but  he  was  a  pupil  of 
Giovanni  Coperario  (or  plain  John  Cooper,  for  he  was  an 
Englishman),  the  Earl  of  Hertford  bearing  the  expenses  of 
his  tuition. 

Lawes  was  made  a  pistiller*  in  January,  1625,  and  in  the 
following  November  we  find  him  made  a  gentleman  of  the 
Chapel  Royal.  After  this  he  was  appointed  Clerk  of  the 
Cheque,  and  "  a  gentleman  of  the  private  musick  to  King 
Charles  the  First."  It  would  appear  that  Lawes  continued 
in  the  service  of  the  King  until  the  breaking  out  of  the 
rebellion.  From  that  time  he  employed  himself  in  teach- 
ing ladies  to  sing.  He,  however,  retained  his  place  in  the 

*  All  the  lexicographers  are  silent  concerning  this  word  ;  it  probably  might  imply  a 
reader  of  the  Spittles.  Pistel,  in  Chaucer,  implies  not  only  an  Spittle,  but  a  short  lesson. 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES.  87 

Chapel  Royal,  and  at  the  Restoration  he  composed  the 
Coronation  Anthem,  "Zadok  the  Priest,"  for  King  Charles 
the  Second.*  He  died  in  London,  21st  October,  1662, 
and  was  buried  25th  October  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Henry  Lawes  is  considered  a  melodious  and  elegant 
composer  of  songs  and  psalms,  Dr.  Burney  notwithstanding, 
who  says  that  the  greater  part  of  his  productions  are 
"languid  and  insipid:  equally  devoid  of  learning  and 
genius ; "  but  if  we  were  to  judge  of  the  merits  of  Henry 
Lawes  as  a  musician  from  the  numerous  testimonies  of 
contemporary  writers,  we  should  be  compelled  to  rank  him 
amongst  the  first  which  this  country  has  ever  produced. 
Fen  ton  says  that  "the  best  poets  of  Lawes'  time  were 
ambitious  of  having  their  verses  set  to  music  by  this 
admirable  artist,"  and  that  he  was  "usually  called  the 
Father  of  Music." 

There  is  much  evidence  that  he  was  an  industrious 
writer  or  composer  of  music.  The  earliest  date  I  have 
been  enabled  to  find  respecting  his  compositions  is  given 
in  the  Chetham  Society's  series  of  volumes  (Vol.  LXXI.,  pp. 
249,  250,  and  251;  date  18C7f),  where  it  is  stated  that  a 
Masque  was  written  by  Thomas  Carew,  the  songs  being  set 
to  music  by  Henry  Lawes,  one  of  his  Majesty's  musicians. 


•  On  April  28rd,  being  St.  George's  Day,  1681,  the  following  entry  in  the  Cheque 
Book  would  show  the  establishment  of  Charles  the  Second's  Chapel  at  the  time  of  the 
Coronation  :— Ministers :  Dr.  Walter  Jones,  Sub-dean ;  Roger  Nightingale,  Ralph  Amner, 
Philip  Tinker,  John  Saycr,  Durnnt  Hunt,  George  Low,  Henry  Smith,  William  Tucker. 
Organists  :  Edward  Lowe,  William  Child,  Christopher  Gibbons.  Henry  Cook,  Master  of 
the  Children.  Henry  Lawes,  Clerk  of  the  Cheque.  Gentlemen :  Thomas  Piers,  Thomas 
Bastard,  John  Harding,  William  Howes,  Thomas  Blagrove,  Gregory  Thorndall,  Edward 
Bradock,  Henry  I'urcell,  James  Cob,  Nathaniel  Watkins,  John  Cave,  Alfonso  Marsh. 
Raphael  Courtevillo,  Edward  Colman,  Thomas  Purcoll,  Henry  Frost.  John  Ooodgroom, 
George  Betenham,  and  Matthew  Fennel.  Thomas  Haynes,  Serjeant  of  the  Vestry. 
William  Williams,  George  Whittaker,  Yeomen.  Augustine  Cleveland,  Groom. - ["  Burney's 
TlUtory  of  Miwic."  Vol.  III.,  p.  441.] 

t  Masque  by  Thomas  Carew  :-Cojlum  Britannicum.  A  masque  at  Whitehall,  In  the 
Banquettlng  Huuse,  on  Shrove  Tuesday  night,  the  18th  of  February,  1838.  The  Inven- 
tor*. Tho.  Carew.  Inigo  Jones.  Non  habst  ingenium ;  Csasar  asd  Jussit :  habebo,  Cur  me 
posse  negem,  posse  quod  lUe  putat  London,  printed  for  Thomas  Walkley.  1840. 


68  IN  MEMORIAL  HENRY  LAWES. 

This  Masque,  entitled  "  Coelnm  Britannicum,"  was  written 
at  the  particular  command  of  the  King,  and  performed  for 
the  first  time  at  Whitehall  on  the  evening  of  February  18th> 
1633-4.  The  King  himself,  the  Duke  of  Lennox,  the  Earls 
of  Devonshire,  Holland,  Newport,  Elgin,  and  other  noble- 
men and  their  sons;  Lord  Brackley,  Lord  Chandos,  Mr. 
William  Herbert,  Mr.  Thomas  Egerton,  etc.,  appearing 
among  the  masquers.  The  decorations  were  furnished  by 
Inigo  Jones. 

This  piece  was  published  in  1634,  4to,  and  was  for  some 
time,  through  mistake,  attributed  to  Sir  William  Davenant, 
and  inserted  in  the  folio  editions  of  his  works. 

In  the  same  year  (1633)  Henry  Lawes  and  Simon  Ives 
were  ordered  to  compose  the  music  to  a  Masque  by  James 
Shirley,  entitled  "  The  Triumph  of  Peace,"*  which  was  pre- 
sented at  Whitehall,  on  Candlemas  night,  before  the  King 
and  Queen,  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  Four  Inns  of  Court. 
Lawes  and  Ives  received  the  sum  of  £100  for  their  work.f 

The  next  year  (1634)  is  a  memorable  one  in  the  annals  of 
Poetry  and  Music,  as  seeing  the  production  of  the  "Mask 
of  Comus,"  written  by  Milton,  and  the  songs  set  to  music 
by  Henry  Lawes.  From  this  union  sprang  a  friendship 
between  the  two,  as  cordial  as  it  was  lasting.  The  Masque 
of  Comus  was  first  presented  on  Michaelmas  night,  at 
Ludlow  Castle,  in  Shropshire,  for  the  entertainment  of 


*  This  is  stated  on  the  authority  of  Bingley.  Dr.  Barney  says  it  is  doubtful  which  of 
the  brothers  Lawes  it  was ;  but  I  find,  on  the  authority  of  the  Rev.  Alexander  Dyce  (The 
Dramatic  Works  and  Poems  of  James  Shirley,  with  notes  by  the  late  William  Gifford, 
Esq.,  with  additional  notes,  and  some  account  of  Shirley  and  his  writings.  Six  vols., 
date  1833.  Vol.  I.,  p.  24)  that  "  Whitelock  appointed  Simon  Ives  and  William  Lawes  to 
compose  the  airs  and  songs,  and  called  in  the  assistance  of  other  eminent  musicians — 
English,  French,  Italian,  and  Germ  in."  Further,  I  find  that  Shirley  has  written  at  the 
end  of  the  Masque,  "  The  composition  of  the  music  was  performed  by  Mr.  William  Lawea 
and  Mr.  Simon  Ives,  whose  art  gave  an  harmonious  soul  to  the  otherwise  languishing 
numbers."  (Ibid,  VoL  VI. ,  p.  2b4.)  I  think  this  is  conclusive  evidence  that  it  was  Willia.m, 
and  not  Henry  Lawes,  who  contributed  some  of  the  music  to  this  Masque. 

t  A  full  and  elaborate  description  of  everything  connected  with  the  performance  of 
this  Masque  is  given  in  Dr.  Burney's  Hist,  of  Music,  Vol.  III.,  p.  369,  etc.,  d.  1789. 


IN  MEMORIAL  HENRY  LAWBS.  69 

the  Earl  of  Bridgewater  and  others  of  the  neighbour- 
L  Lawes  himself  was  one  of  the  masquers,  playing 
the  part  of  attendant  spirit.  Others  represented  in  this 
Masque  (or  taking  part  in  its  performance)  were  John 
Lord  Viscount  Brackley  (who  was  about  twelve  years  of 
age),  representing  the  1st  Brother;  his  younger  brother 
Thomas,  who  played  2nd  Brother,  and  Lady  Alice  Egerton 
(at  the  time  about  thirteen  years  of  age)  who  acted  the 
part  of  the  Lady.*  The  music  of  this  Masque  was  never 
printed  or  published ;  but  Lawes  edited  Milton's  work  in 
1637,  which  was  published  without  author's  name.  This, 
the  first  edition  of  "  Comus,"  was  dedicated  to  the  before- 
mentioned  John  Lord  Viscount  Brackley,  in  which  Lawes 
says  that  "  although  not  openly  acknowledged  by  the 
author,  yet  it  is  legitimate  offspring,  so  lovely,  and  so 
much  to  be  desired,  that  the  often  copying  of  it  hath 
tired  my  pen,  to  give  my  several  friends  satisfaction,  and 
brought  me  to  the  necessity  of  producing  it  to  the  public 

view."f 

The  songs  "  Sweet  Echo,"  "  Sabrina  fair,"  "  Back,  shep- 
herds, back,"  the  passages  beginning  "  To  the  ocean  now  I 
fly,"  and  "  Now  my  task  is  smoothly  done,"  are  said  to 
have  been  all  the  portions  of  this  drama  that  were  set  to 
music  by  Henry  Lawes.  This  opinion  is  founded  on  a  MS. 
copy  of  the  music,  in  the  composer's  own  handwriting. 
But  notwithstanding  this,  more  seems  to  have  been  pro- 
duced by  Milton's  own  direction.  In  this  Masque  Lawes 
is  spoken  of  as  one — 

Who,  with  his  soft  pipe,  and  smooth-dittied  song, 
Well  knows  to  still  the  wild  wind*  when  they  roar, 
And  hiuh  the  waving  woods. 


•  These  were  the  eon*  and  daughter  of  Thorn**  Egerton,  Bad  of  Bridfewatar. 
t  The  author's  name  first  appeared  In  the  1046 . 


70  72V  ME  MORI  AM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

Also  another  allusion  to  him,  as — 

Thyrsis  ?  whose  artful  strains  have  oft  delayed 
The  huddling  brook  to  hear  his  madrigal, 
And  sweeten'd  every  musk-rose  of  the  dale  ? 

Next  in  order  of  date  we  have  "  A  Paraphrase  upon  the 
Psalms  of  David,  by  G.(eorge)  S.(andys),  Set  to  New 
Tunes,  for  private  Devotion.  And  thorow  Base,  for  Voice 
or  Instrument,  by  Henry  Lawes,"  which  appeared  in  1637. 
Another  edition  in  1638,  and  another  edition  in  1676. 
These  tunes  are  different  from  those  published  in  1648 
entitled  "  Church  Psalmes  put  into  Musick  for  Three 
Voices — Composed  by  Henry  and  William  Lawes,  Brothers 
and  Servants  to  His  Majestie.  With  Divers  Elegies  set 
in  Musick  by  several  friends,  upon  the  death  of  William 
Lawes.  And  at  the  end  of  the  Thorough  Base  (The 
Work  is  in  separate  parts)  are  added  nine  (really  ten) 
Canons  of  Three  and  Four  Voices  made  by  William 
Lawes."  A  copperplate  portrait  of  Charles  I.,  believed  to 
be  the  last  published  in  his  lifetime,  accompanies  each 
part  of  this  last  work,  and  amongst  the  commendatory 
verses  prefixed  to  the  publication,  is  the  following  sonnet, 
addressed  by  Milton  to  Henry  Lawes  in  February,* 
1645-6  :— 

TO  MR.  H.  LAWES  ON  HIS  AIRES.\ 
(In  some  old  copies  the  superscription  is  "To  my  friend,  &c.) 
Harry  whose  tuneful  and  well  measur'd  Song 
First  taught  our  English  Muaick  how  to  span 
£  Words  with  just  note  and  accent,  not  to  scan 
With  Midas  Ears,  committing  short  and  long  ; 
Thy  worth  and  skill  exempts  thee  from  the  throng, 

*  Milton's  MS.  is  dated  February  9,  1645. 

t  The  following  are  notes  on  this  sonnet  by  Thomas  Newton,  D.D.,  in  his  edition  of 
Milton's  Works  (3  vols.),  VoL  III,  p.  521.  d.  1752. 
{  These  two  lines  were  once  thus  in  the  MS.  :— 

"  Words  with  just  notes,  which  till  then  us'd  to  sco.n 

or, — when  most  were  us'd  to  scan 
"With  Midas  ears,  misjoining  short  and  long.1' 

The  word  committing  conveys  with  it  the  idea  of  offending  against  quantity  and 
harmony. 


IN  MEMOR1AM  HENRY  LA  WES.  71 

With  praise  enough  for  Envy  to  look  wan  ; 

*  To  after  age  thou  shall  be  writ  the  man, 

That  with  smooth  air  could'at  humour  best  our  tongue. 

t  Thou  honour'st  verse,  and  Verse  must  send  her  wing 

To  honour  thee,  the  Priest  of  Phoebua  Quire. 

That  tun'st  their  happiest  lines  in  Hymn,  or  Story, 

£  Dante  shall  give  Fame  leave  to  set  thee  higher 

Than  his  Casdla,  whom  he  woo'd  to  sing, 

Met  in  the  milder  shades  of  Purgatory. 

Dr.  Hullah  admits  Milton  to  have  been  a  judge  of  music 
from  his  education  and  attainments,  and,  he  thinks  this 
sonnet  bears  "  testimony,  not  so  much  to  general  excellence, 
as  to  a  specific  faculty,  which  the  subject  of  the  sonnet 
was  the  first  Englishman  to  exercise.  "§ 

This  work  of  1648  was  reprinted,  with  additions,  by 
John  Playford,  in  1669.  A  great  number  of  Lawes'  songs 
are  found  in  a  collection  entitled :  "  Select  Musical  Ayres 
and  Dialogues,"  by  Dr.  Wilson,  Dr.  Charles  Colman,  Henry 
Lawes,  and  William  Webb,  published  in  1652. 

Though  he  was  much  celebrated  as  a  composer,  yet  his 
works  were  circulated  mostly  in  MS.  until  he  published  in 
1653  his  first  book  of  "  Ayres  and  Dialogues  for  One,  Two, 
and  Three  Voices,"  small  folio.  ||  This  work  was  received 
with  such  favour  that  he  was  induced  to  issue  a  second 
book  in  1655,  and  a  third  one  in  1658.  One  of  his  con- 
temporaries recommended  his  second  and  third  books  to 


*  Instead  of  this  line,  waa  the  following  at  first  in  the  MS.  :- 
4 '  And  give*  thee  praise  above  the  pipe  of  Pan  " 
then  altered  to:— 

"  thou  shalt  be  writ  a  man 
"  That  didst  reform  thy  art,  the  chief  among." 

t  "-and  verse  must  Und  her  wing."  There  are  three  MB.  copies  of  this  sonnet, 
two  by  Milton-  the  second  corrected -and  the  third  by  another  hand  ;  and  in  all  of  them 
we  read  "must  Und  her  wing,"  which  we  prefer  to  "must  ttnd,  Ac.,"  as  it  Is  in  the 
printed  copies. 

I  At  Ant  these  were  :- 

"  Fame  by  the  Tuscan's  leave  shall  set  thee  higher 
"  Than  his  Casella,  whom  Dante  woo  d  to  sing." 
|  Frater't  Mn^sint,  VoL  II,  pp.  668-607. 
I  Koto  and  Qwrut,  2nd  series,  VoL  IX,  p.  897. 


72  IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

be  bound  together  as  containing  "  the  choicest  songs  that 
have  been  composed  for  forty  years  past."*  Dr.  Rimbault 
says  that  these  three  books  of  Lawes,  "contain  a  body  of 
elegant  and  spirited  lyric  poetry  which  deserves  to  be 
better  known." 

Lawes  taught  music  to  Lord  Bridgewater's  family,  and 
he  dedicated  his  first  book  of  Ayres,  &c.,  to  Lady  Alice 
Egerton  and  her  sister  Mary  (who,  in  the  meantime  had 
become,  by  marriage,  respectively  Lady  Vaughan  and 
Carbury,  and  Lady  Herbert  of  Cherbury),  in  which  he 
said,  "  no  sooner  I  thought  of  making  these  public  than 
of  inscribing  them  to  your  ladyships ;  most  of  them  being 
composed  when  I  was  employed  by  your  ever-honoured 
parents  to  attend  your  ladyships'  education  in  musick, 
who,  as  in  other  accomplishments  fit  for  persons  of  your 
quality,  excelled  most  ladies,  particularly  in  vocal  musick, 
wherein  you  were  so  absolute  that  you  gave  life  and 
honour  to  all  I  set  and  taught  you." 

He  is  said  to  have  introduced  the  Italian  style  of  music 
into  this  kingdom ;  but  this  rests  upon  no  other  foundation 
than  one  song,  to  be  found  in  this  first  book  we  are  speaking 
about.  In  the  preface  our  author  mentions  his  "  having 
formerly  composed  some  airs  to  Italian  and  Spanish 
words."  He  speaks  of  the  Italians  as  being  great  masters 
of  music,  but,  at  the  same  time,  contends  that  his  own 
nation  "  had  produced  as  many  able  musicians  as  any  in 
Europe."  He  censures  the  partiality  of  the  age  for  songs 
sung  in  a  language  which  the  hearers  do  not  understand, 
and,  in  ridicule  of  it,  speaks  of  a  song  of  his  own  composi- 
tion, printed  at  the  end  of  the  book,  which  was  nothing 
more  than  an  index  of  the  initial  words  of  some  old 
Italian  songs  or  madrigals.  He  says  that  this  index,  which 
he  had  set  to  a  varied  air,  and,  when  read  together,  was  a 

*  Burney,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  476. 


IN  ME  MORI  AM  HENRY  LA  WES.  73 

strange  medley  of  nonsense,  passed  with  a  great  part  of 
the  world  as  an  Italian  song.* 

To  this  first  book  was  prefixed  a  portrait  of  Lawes, 
engraved  by  Faithorne.  A  copy  of  this  portrait  is  given 
in  the  supplementary  volume  of  Sir  John  Hawkins' 
"  History  of  Music,"  and  a  copy  of  the  same  portrait  is 
also  given  in  "Grove's  Dictionary  of  Music  and  Musicians," 
lately  issued.  Two  portraits  (in  oil)  of  Henry  Lawes  were 
exhibited  at  Kensington  in  1866.  One  was  the  property  of 
the  University  of  Oxford  ;  the  other  belonging  to  the  Rev. 
Richard  Okes,  D.D.  No  painter's  name  was  attached  to 
either  in  the  catalogue  of  the  exhibition.-f- 

Lawes  appears  to  have  had  the  strength  of  mind  to 
think  and  act  for  himself,  for  in  another  preface  he  says  : 
"  As  for  myself,  although  I  have  lost  my  fortunes  with  my 
master  (of  blessed  memory),  I  am  not  so  low  as  to  bow  for  a 
subsistence  to  the  follies  of  this  age,  and  to  humour  such  as 
will  seem  to  understand  our  art  better  than  we  that  have 
spent  our  lives  in  it."{ 

In  1656  he  was  engaged,  with  Captain  Henry  Cooke, 
Dr.  Charles  Colman,  and  George  Hudson,  in  providing  the 
music  for  Davenant's  "First  day's  Entertainment  of 
Musick  at  Rutland  House."  Lawes  also  set  the  music  to 
the  songs  in  the  plays  of  William  Cartwright.  There  are  or 
were  in  an  old  choir  book  of  the  Chapel  Royal,  fragments  of 
eight  or  ten  anthems  by  him,  and  the  words  of  several  of 
his  anthems  are  given  in  Clifford's  "Divine  Services  and 
Anthems,"  published  in  1664,  which  disproves  the  opinion 
of  Sir  John  Hawkins  §  that  "  he  was  engaged  in  the 


"  Btngley '•  Biographical  Work  *  (2  rob.  in  IX  P.  188.     d.  1884. 
t  MutictU  Timtt,  Vol.  XIII.,  p.  619.  d.  1868. 

t  Article  "  Henry  LAWM,"  by  Dr.  Rimbault,  in  the  "  Imperial  Dictionary  of  Untoreal 
Biography." 

I  Bingley  ha*  copied  thli  without  acknowledgment. 


74  IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

service  of  the  Church,  but  contributed  nothing  towards, 
the  increase  of  its  stores." 

Many  of  Lawes'  settings,  particularly  the  songs  by  the 
poet,  Waller,  are  to  be  found  in  "  The  Treasury  of  Music," 
published  in  1669,  as  well  as  in  other  collections  printed 
about  the  same  time.  Waller  wrote  the  following  lines  :— 

To  Mr.  HENRY  LAWES,  who  had  then  newly  set  a  song  of  mine 
in  the  year  1635 — 

VERSE  makes  Heroic  virtue  live  ; 

But  you  can  life  to  verses  give. 

As  when  in  open  air  we  blow, 

The  breath  (tho*  strain'd)  sounds  flat  and  low  : 

But  if  a  trumpet  take  the  blast, 

It  lifts  it  high,  and  makes  it  last : 

So  in  your  Airs  our  numbers  drest, 

Make  a  shrill  sally  from  the  breast 

Of  nymphs,  who  singing  what  we  pen'd, 

Our  passions  to  themselves  commend ; 

While  LOVE,  victorious  with  thy  art, 

Governs  at  once  thy  voice,  and  heart. 

You,  by  the  help  of  tune,  and  time, 

Can  make  that  song,  which  was  but  rhyme  : 

NOY*  pleadiug,  no  man  doubts  the  Cause  ; 

Or  questions  verses  set  by  Lawes. 

As  a  church-window,  thick  with  paint, 
Lets  in  a  light  but  dim,  and  faint : 
So  others,  with  division,  hide 
The  light  of  sense,  the  Poet's  pride  : 
But  you  alone  may  truly  boast 
That  not  a  syllable  is  lost : 
The  writer's  and  the  setter's  skill 
At  once  the  ravish'd  ears  do  fill. 
Let  those  who  only  warble  long, 
And  gargle  in  their  throats  a  song, 
Content  themselves  with  UT,  RE,  Ml  ;t 
Let  words  of  sense  be  set  by  thee. 

EDMUND  WALLER. 

Waller's  poems  were  published  in  1645,  and  on  the  title- 

*  Noy.     The  King's  Attorney-General    Fenton. 

t  This  passage  is  an  allusion  to  the  custom  that  some  musicians  of  the  time  had 
fallen  into,  of  composing,  not  to  verse,  but  merely  to  the  syllables  of  Guide's  hexachordr 
which  had  no  meaning.— Bingley. 


IN  MEMORJAM  HENRY  LA  WES.  75 

page  was  printed :  "  All  the  Lyrick  Poems  in  this  book 
were  set  by  Mr.  Henry  Lawes,  of  the  King's  Chapel,  and 
one  of  His  Majesty's  private  musicke." — Percival  Stock- 
dale's  "  Life  of  Waller,"  p.  xlix.  d.  1772. 

Henry  Lawes  was  highly  esteemed  by  his  contem- 
poraries, both  as  a  composer  and  performer.  Milton 
praises  him  in  both  capacities.  Herrick  writes: — 

To  Mr.  HBNRY  LAWKS,  the  excellent  Composer  of  His  Lj ricks. 
Touch  but  thy  lire,  my  Harrie  and  I  heare 
From  thee  some  raptures  of  the  rare  Qotire*  ; 
Then  if  thy  voice  commingle  with  the  string, 
I  heare  in  thee,  the  rare  Lanieret  to  sing, 
Or  curious  Wilson^  ;  tell  me  can'st  thou  be 
Less  than  Apollo,  that  usurp'st  such  three  ? 
Three,  unto  whom  the  whole  world  give  applause  ; 
Yet  their  three  praises  praise  but  one,  that's  Lawes. 

— HBRRICK.     "  Heaperides." 

Lawes  set  the  following  poems  of  Herrick  to  music : — 
"The  Christmas  Caroll,"  "The  New  Yeere's  Gift,  or  Cir- 


*  Gotire,  or  Gotierc,  is  supposed  to  be  the  name  of  a  musician,  but  the  name  is  not 
known  by  any  of  the  authorities  I  have  consulted.  See  Grosart's  edition  of  "  llerrick's 
Works,"  VoL  I.,  p.  67. 

t  Laniero,  Lanier,  or  Laneare  (Nicholas),  musician,  poet,  painter,  and  engraver,  was 
born  in  Italy  about  1588  (Grosart  gives  1568).  He  was  the  son  of  Jerome,  who  emigrated 
with  his  family  to  England  in  the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Evelyn  thus 
notice*  the  father  in  his  diary :— "  August  1,  1652,  came  old  Jerome  Lannier,  of  Green- 
wich, a  man  skilled  in  painting  and  music,  and  another  rare  musician  called  MelL  I 
went  to  sec  his  (Laniere's)  collection  of  pictures,  especially  those  of  Julio  Romano,  which 
surely  had  been  the  King's,  and  an  Egyptian  figure,  etc.  There  were  also  excellent  things 
of  Polydore,  Guido,  Raphael,  and  Tintoretto.  Lannier  had  been  a  domestic  of  Queen 
Klizabeth,  and  showed  me  her  head— an  intaglio  in  a  rare  sardonyx,  cut  by  a  famous 
Italian— which  he  assured  me  waa  exceedingly  like  her."  Nicholas  Laniero  was  one  of 
the  Court  musicians,  and  in  that  capacity  composed  the  music  to  many  of  the  Court 
Masques  written  by  Ben  Jonson,  Campion.  Daniel,  etc.  Some  of  his  songs  are  to  be 
found  in  the  various  collections  published  by  Play  ford  In  the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  and 
they  in  general  display  great  merit  Smith,  in  his  Musica  Antiqua.  has  inserted  one  of 
them,  taken  from  a  Masque  called  "  Luminalia,  or  the  festival  of  light,"  performed  at 
Court  on  the  evening  of  Shrove  Tuesday,  1037,  in  which  the  Queen  and  her  buHes  were 
the  masquers.  Upon  the  accession  of  Charles  I.  he  was  appointed  ••  master  of  his 
Majesty's  music,"  at  a  salary  of  £200  a  year.  He  had,  besides,  the  office  of  closet-keeper 
to  the  King.  As  a  painter,  he  drew  for  his  royal  master  a  picture  of  "  Mary,  Christ,  and 
Joseph ;"  and  his  own  portrait,  painted  by  himself,  with  a  palette  and  pencils  in  his 
hand,  and  musical  notes  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  is  in  the  music  school  of  Oxford.  A  drawing 
book,  etched  by  himself,  is  called  "  Prove  primo  fatte  a  1'acqua  forte  da  N.  Laniere  a 
1'ete  sua  giovanlle  di  sesaante  otto  anni,  1080."  And  on  one  of  his  etching*  he  has  written 


76  /A   MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

cumcision  Song,"  "The  Star  Song,"  and  "The  New 
Charon."  The  three  first  were  performed  before  the  king 
at  Whitehall.§ 

Says  Anthony  Wood — "  The  Songs  in  the  poems  of 
Thomas  Carew,  one  of  the  famed  poets  of  his  time  for  the 
charming  sweetness  of  his  lyric  odes  and  amorous  sonnets, 
were  set  to  musick,  or,  if  you  please,  were  wedded  to  the 
charming  notes  of  Henry  Lawes,  at  that  time  the  prince  of 
musical  composers."  Sir  R.  Steele,  who,  writing  fifty 
years  after  Lawes'  death,  in  the  character  of  an  old  man 
calling  to  mind  "the  impressions  made  upon  his  imagina- 
tion as  a  youth,"  says : — "  I  am  in  raptures  when  I  reflect 
on  the  compositions  of  the  famous  Mr.  Henry  Lawes,  long 
before  Italian  music  was  introduced  in  our  nation. "||  Later 
writers,  however,  have  formed  a  lower  estimate  of  his 
abilites  as  a  composer.  Dr.  Burney  says  that  "all  the 
melodies  of  Henry  Lawes  remind  us  of  recitative  or 
psalmody,  and  scarce  anything  like  an  air  can  be  found 
in  his  whole  Book  of  Ayres.  As  to  his  knowledge  and 


in  Italian.  "Done  in  my  youthful  age  of  seventy -four."  Some  specimens  of  Laniere's 
poetry  are  to  be  found  in  the  Ashmolean  Library  (MS.  36,  37).  Among  Inigo  Jones's 
Sketches  for  Court  Masques  (printed  by  the  Shakspeare  Society)  is  a  "  figure"  of  Nicholas 
Laniere  performing  on  the  harp  (plate  5),  which  is  very  interesting.  Mr.  Collier  thinks 
that  Laniere  played  Orpheus  in  the  "Masque  of  the  Four  Seasons,"  and  that  this  is  the 
drawing  of  him  in  that  character,  which  seems  probable.  Laniere  is  supposed  to  have  died 
in  1661  or  1662,  but  the  fact  is  involved  in  some  obscurity.  He  had  several  brothers  who 
were  employed  in  the  royal  band.  A  petition  of  Thomas  Laniere,  probably  Nicholas'  son, 
dated  June  11,  1660,  is  preserved  in  the  State  Paper  OflBce,  in  which  the  petitioner  prays 
for  some  office  of  "receivership,"  and  says  "  his  ancestors  had  long  been  servants  of  the 
late  King,  and  he  and  his  father  thought  it  disloyal  not  to  want  conveniences  when  the 
royal  possessions  were  violated  by  sacrilegious  hands,  and  served  the  cause  with  the  loss 
of  their  little  all."  E.  P.  B.  [that  is,  E.  F.  Rimbault,  in  "The  Imperial  Dictionary  of 
Universal  Biography."  Edited  by  John  Francis  Waller,  Vol.  III.,  p.  142.  See  also  "  Oroves'8 
Dictionary  of  Music  and  Musicians, '  VoL  II,  p.  90  ;  and  Grosa-t's  Edition  of  "  Herrick's 
Works,"  Vol.  1,  p.  148.]  "Like  Hermit  Poor,"  set  to  music  by  N.  Lanear,  which  is 
printed  with  the  notes  in  a  collection  entitled  "Select  Musical  Ayres  and  Dialogues," 
foL  1659,  p.  1.  [From  "The  Complete  Angler  or  The  Contemplative  Man's  recreation" 
of  Isaac  Walton  and  Charles  Cotton.  Edited  by  John  Major,  p.  425.] 

t  A  celebrated  composer  and  musician.  See  "  Groves's  Dictionary  of  Music,"  etc 
Vol.  IV.,  p.  462 ;  also  Grosart's  Edition  of  "  Herrick's  Works,"  Vol.  I.,  p.  67. 

{  Chetham  Society,  VoL  CI.,  p.  207. 

|  Guardian,  No.  37. 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES.  77 

resources  in  counterpoint,  I  am  certain  that  they  were  neither 
great  nor  profound."  Sir  John  Hawkins  speaks  of  his  music 
as  being  deficient  in  melody  and  "  neither  recitative  nor 
air;  but  in  so  precise  a  medium  between,  that  name  is 
wanting  for  it."  A  writer  in  "  Groves'  Dictionary  of  Music 
and  Musicians "  (Mr.  William  Henry  Husk)  says :  "  Both 
[Burney  and  Hawkins]  appear  to  judge  from  a  false  point  of 
view.  It  was  not  Lawes'  object  to  produce  melody  in  the 
popular  sense  of  the  word,  but  to  set  '  words  with  just  note 
and  accent '  to  make  the  prosody  of  his  text  his  particular 
care,  and  it  was  that  quality  which  induced  all  the  best 
poetical  writers  of  his  day,  from  Milton  and  Waller  down- 
wards, to  desire  that  their  verses  should  be  set  by  him. 
To  effect  his  object  he  employed  a  kind  of  '  Aria  parlante,' 
a  style  of  composition  which,  if  expressively  sung,  would 
cause  as  much  gratification  to  the  cultivated  hearer  as  the 
most  ear-catching  melody  would  to  the  untrained  listener." 
I  have  been  fortunate  to  discover  in  my  researches  the 
opinion  of  the  late  Dr.  Hullah,  than  whom  no  one  was 
better  able  to  judge  of  the  work  and  merits  of  Lawes  as  a 
musician,  which  he  has  given  to  the  world  in  language  so 
warmly  appreciative  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  copying. 
He  says:  "The  life  of  Lawes  (not  at  all  the  same  thing  as 
the  career)  was  a  happy  one.  He  would  seem  to  have 
been  idolised  by  his  friends,  and  his  friends  were  the  very 
salt  of  the  earth.  From  his  youth  up  he  was  ever  in  the 
most  intimate  relation  with  all  that  was  most  worth 
intimacy,  in  an  age  rich  in  great  characters  and  in  great 
deeds."  In  the  three  books  of  Lawes  previously  mentioned, 
there  are  about  200  pieces.  Of  these,  Dr.  Hullah  asks: 
"  Do  they  justify  the  praises  that  have  been  heaped  upon 
them?  Are  Lawes'  melodies  beautiful— his  harmonies 
well  fitted  to  them?  Do  his  compositions  exhibit  that 
exquisite  concordance  of  notes  with  words  of  which  his 
contemporaries  speak  with  such  wonder  and  delight  ? " 


78  IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA.  WES. 

"A  careful  study  of  these  '  Ayres  and  Dialogues'  (per- 
haps a  little  more  careful  than  they  have  met  with  of  late 
years)  emboldens  us  to  answer  these  questions  with  a 
distinct  affirmative.  The  melodies  are,  for  the  most  part, 
beautiful;  not  only  beautiful,  considering  the  period  at 
which  they  were  written,  but  beautiful  for  to-day  and 
to-morrow,  and  a  hundred  years  hence.  There  is  a  fresh- 
ness about  them  which  belongs  to  no  '  period ; '  and  they 
have  an  ease  and  spontaneity  in  which  the  melodies  of 
many  later  and  more  renowned  composers  are  very 
deficient.  .  .  .  Lawes  was  the  first  musician  with  an 
ear  for  the  Rhythmical  relation  of  sounds,  and  the  first 
great  melodist  who  appeared  when  a  race  of  great  har- 
monists had  ceased  to  make  progress.*" 

Dr.  Burney,  in  his  "  History  of  Music,"  dated  1789,  is 
the  most  critical  writer  on  Lawes,  and  has  given  us 
several  specimens  of  Lawes'  compositions,  with  a  record  of 
those  pieces  he  (Dr.  Burney)  considers  the  best.  Amongst 
these  he  mentions  "  Little  Love  serves  my  turn  "  as  "  the 
gayest  air  I  have  seen  of  Henry  Lawes."  Most  pleasing 
are  "  If  when  the  sun,"  "  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest," 
and  "  Come  from  the  Dungeon  to  the  Throne."  Mention 
is  also  made  of  a  song  "  Careless  of  love  and  free  from 
fears  "  as  being  "  one  of  the  most  pleasing  little  airs  that  I 
have  seen  of  this  author."  Allusion  is  also  made  to 
another  song,  "  A  Lover  once  I  did  espy,"  which  he  prints, 
not  for  the  beauty  of  its  melody  or  the  richness  of  its 
harmony,  but  "  for  the  singularity  of  the  measure,  which 
is  such  as  seldom  occurs  " — that  is  |  time. 

It  would  appear  that  our  old  musician  is  best  known  by 
one  of  his  songs  from  Comus — "  Sweet  Echo."  Burney  has 
given  us  this  in  Vol.  III.,  p.  380,  and  also  a  very  severe 
criticism  upon  it,  in  which  he  says,  "  it  is  difficult  to  give  a 

*  Frcuer't  Mag.,  VoL  LL,  p.  566,  date  1855. 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES.  79 

name  ...  to  such  unmeaning  sounds.  The  interval 
from  F  #  to  E  fl  the  seventh  above,  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  disagreeable  notes  in  melody  that  the  scale  could 
furnish."  Of  the  interval  to  which  he  here  alludes  we,  in  our 
day,  have  no  lack.  Notwithstanding  his  severe  strictures, 
he  is  bound  to  confess  that  "  bad  as  the  music  appears  to 
us,  it  seems  to  have  been  sincerely  admired  by  his  contem- 
poraries in  general,"  they  having  but  one  opinion  concern- 
ing the  abilities  of  this  musician. 

I  am  afraid  Dr.  Burney  is  insensible  to  our  composer's 
excellencies ;  certainly  he  cannot  understand  how  he  got 
his  reputation.  He  writes  that  "  his  temper  and  conversa- 
tion must  certainly  have  endeared  him  to  his  acquaintance," 
and  rendered  them  partial  to  his  productions.  He  considers 
that  "  the  praise  of  such  writers  as  Milton  and  Waller  is 
durable  fame,"  yet  he  is  unjust  to  these,  as  well  as  Lawes, 
when  he  insinuates  that  Milton  and  Waller  were  "  pleased 
with  Lawes  for  not  pretending  to  embellish  or  enforce  the 
sentiment  of  their  songs,  but  setting  them  to  sounds,  less 
captivating  than  the  sense."* 

As  we  are  capable  of  judging  the  merits  of  our  musical 
contemporaries,  so  do  I  believe,  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
the  merits  of  contemporary  music  writers  were  as  capable 
of  being  recognised :  that  they  were  recognised  we  have 
undoubted  records.  I  think  therefore  such  recognition 
deserves  our  tender  and  affectionate  remembrance ;  for,  in 
my  opinion,  it  is  unjust  to  the  memories  of  our  older  music 
composers  to  judge  them  by  our  standard,  instead  of  that 
of  their  own  time.  My  desire  is  that  we  may  do  justice 
to  all  our  composers,  and  with  respect  to  the  one  I  have 
u  rit  ten  about,  I  trust  sufficient  has  been  advanced 
to  justify  the  remembrance  of  Henry  Lawes. 

•  Dr.  Burney,  Vol.  HI.,  p.  896. 


80 


IN  MEMORIAL  HENRY  LA  WES. 


APPENDIX  I. 

The  following  is  given  as  a  specimen  of  Lawes'  musical 
style : — 

"WE'LL  ANGLE  AND  ANGLE   AGAIN." 

See  "Walton's  Angler,"  Chap.  XVI.     Original  setting  for  two  voices  (tenor 
and  bass),  by  HENRY  LAWES  ;  the  second  tenor  part  and  the  accompaniment 
for  pianoforte  arranged  for  the  Manchester  Anglers'  Association  by  HENRY 
STEVENS,  Mus.  Bac.,  Cantab.      Reprinted  from  "  Anglers'  Evenings,"  Vol.  II. 
by  permission  of  the  Manchester  Anglers'  Association. 


1ST 

TENOR. 


2ND 

TENOR. 


BASS. 


PIANO. 


1=t 


2 


Man's  life    is    but       vain,    FoV'tis  sub-ject    to     pain    And 


*-* 
Man's     life   is     but      vain,    Man's  life   is     but 


Man's  life    is  but       vain,    For 'tis  sub-ject   to     pain    And 
I          I i       I I I 


IN  MEMORIAM  HEXRY 


SI 


sor-  row,  and  short   as        a  bubble;  'Tis  a  hodge-podge  of  bus'ness  And 


fa 

3=- 

=j-f4«o«l 

i' 

/•  .  \ 

* 

-p— 

±t 

-p- 

*'l 

^ 

^ 

vain,  short     as    a    bub-ble ; 


Tis  a  hodgepodge  of 


iM 


sor -row,  and   short  as       a  bubble;  Tis  a  hodge-podge  of     bus'ness  and 


£m 


±ifc 


mon-ey    and   care,     And    care      and    mon-ey      and  trou-ble. 


jy^-^Hid^  u 


bus  -'ness  and  care,     And    care      and    mon  -'.cy     and    trou  -  ble. 


— w— drH* 
^*_  _*\1 


mon  -  ey    and  care,    And    care     and     mon  -  ey     and    trou  -  blc. 

I  ^          I 


,: 


ft  r  f  w  [  Hfe£j^^{ 

I  VL/  I  *        » 


82 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES. 


^L-j£^^QZ=pggl3=? 


But    we'll  take    no      care  When  the  wea-ther  proves       fair,       Nor 


£=±=i 


But  we'll  take  no        care       When  the  wea-ther  proves 


But    we'll  take    no     care  When  the    wea-ther  proves      fair,       Nor 

I I  i         i  I  I 


3=2 


& 


-+-r 


will    we       vex  now  tho'    it     rain;  We'll   ban-ish    all       sor-row  And 


r   r 


fair,        Nor     vex    tho'  it      rain ; 


We'll    ban-ish    all 


will    we     vex    now  tho'    it    rain ;  We'll   ban  -  ish   all       sor-row  And 

**,        \    \      \     r*\        \    i  i 


SIS 


=& 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES. 


sa 


sing    till      to    •  mor-  row,  And     an  -  gle,  And   an  -  gle      a  -  gain. 


-?  ~ 


sor  -  row,  And     sing  till      to  -  mor-  row,  And    an  -  gle      a  -  gain. 


sing  till     to  -    mor- row,  And     an-  gle,  And   an -gle      a  -  gain. 


^IL  r   <•   i«  I  f  r 
M^  -L  l 


CHORUS. 


=r  r  I 


J  J 


We'll      ban  -  ish       all       sor  -  row,   And          sing     till       to 


i     i| 


S4 


JN  ME  MORI  AM  HENRY  LA  WES. 


mor-row,     And          an  -  gle,    and          an  -  gle 


a  -  gain. 


_J « t r^p: 1 ! , — I , - , 


NOTE. — Bar  19.  The  major  chord  on  the  minor  seventh  of  the  key  is 
retained  as  in  the  original,  being  a  musical  idiom  of  the  age  in  which  HENRY 
LA  WES  wrote.  The  modern  musician  may  object  to  the  "  false  relation  "  which 
results  from  the  use  of  this  chord.  He  cannot  fairly  be  denied  this  privilege, 
but  he  must  settle  his  dispute  with  HENRY  LAWES,  and  not  with  HENRY 
STEVENS. 


APPENDIX  II. 

THE  following  are  taken  from  a  copy  of  Lawes'  "  First 
Book  of  ^Ayres  and  Dialogues  for  One,  Two,  and  Three 
Voyces,"  formerly  belonging  to  the  late  John  Eglington 
Bailey,  but  now  amongst  the  "John  Eglington  Bailey- 
Fuller  Collection,"  presented  to  the  Manchester  Free 
Reference  Library  by  Messrs.  Taylor,  Garnett  and  Co., 
July,  1889  ;— 

To  THE   RIGHT   HONORABLE,   the   two    most    Excellent    Sisters, 
ALICE  Countesse  of  CARBURY,  and  MARY  Lady  HERBERT  of 
Gherbury  and  Castle-Island,  daughters  to  the  Right  Honor- 
able, John  Earle  of  Bridgewater,  Lord  President  of  WALES,  &c. 
I  need  not"tell  your  LADISHIPS,  that  since  my  Attendance  on 
His  late  MAJESTY  (my  most   Gracious  Master)  I  have  neglected 
the  exercisefof  my  Profession.     Yet,  to  debarr  Idlenesse  (which, 
without  vanity  I  may  say,  I  was  never  passionately  in  love  with), 
I  have  made  some  COMPOSITIONS,  which  now  I  resolve  to  publish 
to  the  World.     What  Grounds  and  Motives  lead  me  to  this  Publi- 
cation, I  conceive  not  so  for  your  Ladiships  notice,  having  else- 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES.  85 

where  told  it  to  the  READER  But  no  sooner  I  thought  of  making 
these  Publick,  than  of  inscribing  them  to  your  LADISHIFS,  most 
of  them  being  Composed  when  I  was  employed  by  Your  ever 
Honour'd  Parents  to  attend  Your  LADISHIPP'S  Education  in 
Musick,  who  (as  in  other  Accomplishments  fit  for  Persons  of 
Your  Quality)  excell'd  most  Ladies,  especially  in  VOCALL  MUSICK, 
wherein  You  were  so  absolute,  that  You  gave  Life  and  Honour  to 
all  I  set  and  taught  You  ;  and  that  with  more  Vnderstanding  than 
a  new  Generation  pretending  to  Skill  (I  dare  say)  are  Capable  of. 
I  can  therefore  do  nothing  more  becomming  my  Gratitude  than  a 
Dedication  of  These  (so  much  Your  own)  to  both  Your  LADISHIPS  ; 
and  to  manifest  that  Honour  I  bear  to  the  Memory  of  Your 
deceased  Parents,  whose  Favors  it  is  impossible  to  ever  be 
forgotten  by 

Your  Ladiships  most  humbly  devoted  Servant, 

HENRY   LAWES. 

To  all  Understanders  or  Lovers  of  MUSICK. 
It  is  easie  to  say  I  have  been  much  importun'd,  by  Persons  of 
Quality,  to  Publish  my  COMPOSITIONS  :  But  though  I  can  plead  it 
(and  without  vain  Pretensions)  yet  now  I  shall  wave  it  Nor  was 
I  drawn  to  it  by  any  little  thoughts  of  private  Gain ;  though  men 
of  my  Relations  (as  the  World  now  goes)  are  justly  presum'd  not 
to  overflow ;  and  perhaps  the  matter  will  not  reach  that  value,  let 
the  STATIONER  look  to  that,  who  himselfe  hath  undergone  the  Charge 
and  Trouble  of  the  whole  Impression ;  who  yet  (by  his  favour)  hath 
lately  made  bold  to  print,  in  one  Book,  above  twenty  of  my  songs, 
whereof  I  had  no  knowledge  till  his  book  was  in  the  Presse ;  and  it 
seems  he  found  those  so  acceptable  that  he  is  ready  for  more. 
Therefore  now  the  Question  is  not,  whether  or  no  my  COMPOKI 
shall  be  Publick,  but  whether  they  shall  come  forth  from  me,  or 
from  some  other  hand ;  and  which  of  the  two  is  likeliest  to  afford 
the  true  correct  copies,  I  leave  others  to  judge.  In  this  Book  I 
print  nothing  which  were  publish'd  in  the  former,  or  ever  in  print 
before.  I  can  tell  ye  also,  I  have  often  found  many  of  mine  that 
have  walk'd  abroad  in  other  men's  names :  how  they  came  to  lose 


36  /.V  MBMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

their  Relations  and  had  Anabaptized,  I  think  not  worth  examining. 
Only  I  shall  say,  that  some  who  so  adopted  and  owned  my  Songs 
had  greater  kindnesse  for  the  Children  than  for  the  Father :  else 
sure  they  had  not  bestow'd  some  other  late  Ayres  (which  themselves 
•could  not  own)  upon  Forrainers  and  Strangers,  because  I  COMPOS'D 
them  to  ITALIAN  and  SPANISH  words,  I  should  think  such  an  Injury 
an  unseasonable  Injustice,  since  now  we  live  in  so  sullen  an  Age 
that  our  Profession  itselfe  hath  lost  its  Incouragement.  But  wise 
men  have  observ'd  our  Generation  so  giddy,  that  whatsoever  is 
Native  (be  it  never  so  excellent)  must  lose  its  taste,  because  them- 
selves have  lost  theirs.  For  my  part,  I  professe  (and  such  as 
know  me  can  bear  me  witnesse)  I  desire  to  render  eveiy 
man  his  due,  whether  Strangers  or  Natives.  I  acknowledge  the 
ITALIANS  the  greatest  Masters  of  Musick,  but  yet  not  all.  And 
(without  depressing  the  Honour  of  other  Countries)  I  may  say  our 
own  Nation  hath  had,  and  yet  hath,  as  able  Musitians  as  any  in 
Europe ;  and  many  now  living  (whose  names  I  forbear),  are  excel- 
lent, both  for  the  Voyce  and  Instruments.  But  as  in  Musick  the 
UNISON  and  DIAPASON  are  the  sweetest  of  all  CHORDS,  yet  the 
SECOND  and  the  SEVENTH,  which  stand  next  to  them,  are  more  DIS- 
CORDANT from  them  than  any  other  Notes  in  all  the  SCALE  :  so  to 
Musicians,  a  man's  next  Neighbour  is  the  farthest  from  him,  and 
none  give  so  harsh  a  Report  of  the  ENGLISH  as  the  ENGLISH  them- 
selves. We  should  not  think  Musick  any  stranger  to  this  Island, 
since  our  Ancestors  tell  us  that  the  BRITAIN s  had  Musicians  before 
they  had  Books ;  and  the  ROMANS  that  invaded  us  (who  were  not 
too  forward  to  magnifie  other  Nations)  confesse  what  power  the 
DRUIDS  and  BARDS  had  over  the  People's  affections  by  recording  in 
Songs  the  Deeds  and  Heroick  Spirits,  their  very  LAWS  and  RELIGION 
being  sung  in  Tunes,  and  so  (without  Letters)  transmitted  to  Pos- 
terity ;  wherein  it  seems  they  were  so  dexterous,  that  their  neigh- 
bours out  of  Gaul  came  hither  to  learn  it.  How  their  Successors 
held  it  up  I  know  not :  But  King  HENRY  the  Eight  did  much  ad- 
vance it,  especially  in  the  former  part  of  his  Reign,  when  his  minde 
was  more  intent  upon  Arts  and  Sciences,  at  which  time  he  invited 
all  the  greatest  Masters  out  of  ITALY  and  other  countries,  and 


7.V  MEMORIAL  HENRY  LiWJ-S.  87 

Himselfe  gave  example  by  COMPOSING  with  his  own  hand  two  int  ire 
ICES,  uhich  were  often  sung  in  his  Chappell,  as  the  Lord 
HERBERT  of  CHERBURY  (who  writ  his  Life)  hath  left  upon  Record. 
Since  whose  time  it  prosper'd  mnch  in  the  REIGN  of  Queen  ELIZA- 
BETH, King  JAMES,  and  HIS  late  Majesty.  I  confesse  the  Italian 
Language  may  have  some  advantage  by  being  better  smooth'd 
and  vowell'd  for  Musick,  which  I  found  by  many  Songs  which 
I  set  to  ITALIAN  words :  and  our  English  seems  a  little 
over  clogg'd  with  CONSONANTS  ;  but  that's  much  the  COMPOSER'S 
fault,  who  by  judicious  setting  and  right  tuning  the  words  may 
make  it  smooth  enough.  And  since  our  palates  are  so  much  after 
Novelties,  I  desir'd  to  try  the  GREEK,  having  never  seen  anything 
SET  in  that  Language  by  our  own  Musicians  or  Strangers ;  and 
(by  Composing  some  of  ANACREON'S  Odes)  I  found  the  Greek 
Tongue  full  as  good  as  any  for  Musick,  and  in  some  particulars 
sweeter  than  the  LATINS,  or  those  moderne  ones  that  descended 
from  LATINS.  I  never  lov'd  to  SET  or  sing  words  which  I  do  not 
understand ;  and  when  I  cannot,  I  desir'd  help  of  others  who  were 
able  to  interpret.  But  this  present  generation  is  so  sated  with 
what's  Native,  that  nothing  takes  their  eare  but  what's  sung  in  a 
Language  which  (commonly)  they  understand  as  little  as  they  do 
the  Musick,  and  to  make  them  a  little  sensible  of  this  ridiculous 
humour,  I  took  a  TABLE  or  INDEX  of  old  ITALIAN  Songs  (for  one, 
two,  and  three  voyces)  and  this  INDEX  (which  read  together  made 
a  strange  medley  of  Nonsence)  I  set  to  a  varyed  Ayre,  and  gave 
out  that  it  came  from  ITALY,  whereby  it  hath  passed  for  :i 
ITALIAN  SONG.  This  very  song  I  have  now  printed.  And  if  this 
First  Book  shall  find  acceptance,  I  intend  yearly  to  publish  the 
like ;  for  I  confesse  I  have  a  sufficient  Stock  lying  by  me  (and 
shall  compose  more)  having  had  the  Honour  to  set  the  Verses  of 
the  most,  and  chiefest  Poets  of  our  Times.  As  for  those  Copies  of 
Verses  in  this  Book,  I  have  rcndred  their  Names  who  made 
them,  from  whose  hands  I  received  them.  These  reasons  (with 
some  others  not  here  mentioned)  drew  me  forth  to  this  publication, 
\shich  if  received  with  the  same  heart  that  I  offer  it,  will  1* 
further  Encouragement  for  H.  L. 


88  IN  ME  MORI  AM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

"To  Mr.  HENRY  LAWES,  who  had  then  newly  set  a  song  of 
mine  in  the  year  1635."     See  p.  74. 

To  His  Honour'd  F(riend)  Mr.  HENRY  LAWES, 

on  his  Ayres  and  Dialogues. 
Those  happy  few  who  apprehend  thy  flight, 
Even  above  the  Cloud,  yet  still  in  sight, 
Cannot  by  all  their  Numbers  and  Addresse 
Swell  or  advance  thy  praises,  but  confesse. 
For  thou  art  fix'd  beyond  the  Power  of  Fate 
Since  nothing  that  is  Mortal  can  Create. 
And  is  it  possible  that  thou  should'st  dye 
Who  can'st  bestow  such  Immortality  1 
I  have  not  sought  the  Rules  by  which  yee  try 
When  a  CHORD'S  broke,  or  holds  in  HARMONY  ; 
But  I  am  sure  Thou  hast  a  Soul  within 
As  if  created  for  a  CHERUBIN  ; 
Brim  full  of  Candour  and  wise  Innocence, 
And  is  not  Musick  a  Resultant  thence  ? 
For  sure  the  blunt-billed  Swan's  first  fame  to  sing, 
Sprung  from  the  motion  of  her  spotless  Wing. 
But  sole  Integrity  winns  not  the  Cause, 
For  then  each  honest  man  would  be  a  LAWES  : 
Thou  hast  deep  Judgement,  Phansie,  and  high  sence,. 
Old  and  New  Wit,  steady  Experience ; 
A  Soul  unbrib'd  by  anything  but  Fame, 
Grasping  to  get  nought  but  a  good  great  name. 
Hence  all  thy  AYRES  flow  pure  and  unconfin'd, 
Blown  by  no  mercenary  LAPLAND  Wind, 
No  stoln  or  plunder'd  Phansies,  but  born  free, 
And  so  transmitted  to  Posteritie, 
Which  never  shall  their  well-grown  Honor  blast, 
Since  they  have  Thy,  that's  the  best,  Judgement  past. 
Yet  some,  who  forc'd  t'  admire  Thee,  must  repine 
That  all  Theirs  are  out-done  by  thy  Each  Line ; 
The  Sence  so  humour'd,  and  those  Humours  hit, 


IN  MEMORIAL  JIEXRY  LA  }\  .  89 

Will  call  them  acts  of  FORTUNE,  not  of  WIT  ; 
Hoping  their  want  of  Skill  may  be  thy  Brand 
'Cause  they  have  not  the  Luck  to  Understand ; 
Cry  up  the  WORDS  to  cry  THEE  down,  and  sweare 
Thou  SETT'ST  more  SENCB  then  they  can  meet  elsewhere, 
Concluding  could  themselves  such  VERSES  show 
They  could  produce  such  COMPOSITIONS  too. 

But  is't  thy  fault  if  the  great  Witts  whole  Quire 
Before  all  Others  still  prefer  Thy  Lyre  ? 
They  tasted  All,  and  thine  among  the  rest, 
But  then  return'd  to  Thee,  'cause  Best  was  Best. 
Bid  such  attach  Thy  old  ANACREON'S  Greek, 
Where  the  least  ACCENT  will  cost  Them  a  Week, 
Six  Months  a  VERSE,  and  that  Verse  tun'd  and  scann'd 
(Though  short)  twelve  Years,  an  Age  to  UNDERSTAND  : 
But  thy  Lute,  like  th'  last  Trump,  hath  rais'd  His  Head, 
Who,  er'e  the  GRECIAN  EMPIRE  born,  was  dead. 

Then  let  all  Poetts  bring  all  Verse,  which  They 
May  on  thy  Desk  as  on  an  Altar  lay, 
Where  kindled  by  that  Touch  thy  hand  hath  given, 
'Twill  climb  (whence  Musick  first  came  down)  to  Heaven. 

FRANCIS   FINCH,  Esquire. 

To  the  much  honour'd  Mr.    HENRY    LAWES,  on   his  Book 

of  Ayres. 

That  Princes  dye  not,  they  to  Poetts  owe ; 
Poetts  themselves  do  owe  their  Lives  to  you ; 
Whose  Phansies  soon  would  stifle,  and  declare 
They  could  not  breath  unlesse  you  lent  them  Ayre. 
Tis  that  inspires  their  Feet,  which  else  but  crawle 
As  JUDGES  walk  th'  old  Measures  round  the  Hall, 
Untill  the  featherM  heels  of  Youth  advance 
And  raise  their  dull  pace  up  into  a  Dance : 
Your  Art  such  Motion  to  our  Versos  brings 
We  can  but  give  them  Feet,  you  give  them  Wings. 

WILL.  BARKER 


90  IN  MEMORIAL  HEXRY  LA  WES. 

To  his  much  honour'd  F(riend)  MR.  HENRY   LAWES,  on   his 
Book  of  Ayres. 

Father  of  Numbers,  who  hast  still  thought  fit 

To  tune  thyselfe,  and  then  SET  others  Wit ; 

Forgive  my  Zeale,  who  with  my  Sprig  of  Bayes 

Do  Crowd  into  the  CHORUS  of  thy  Praise. 

For  Silence  were,  when  LAWES  is  nam'd  a  wrong, 

The  Subject  and  the  Master  of  all  Song  : 

Who  ne'r  dost  dive  for  Pebbles,  undermine 

Mountains  to  make  old  rusty  Iron  shine  : 

But  hast  made  Great  things  Greater,  do'st  dispense 

Lustre  to  Wit,  by  adding  Sence  to  Sence. 

For  Passions  are  not  Passions,  'till  they  be 

Rais'd  to  that  height,  which  they  expect  from  Thee  : 

And  all  this  is  thyselfe ;  Thy  Name's  not  grown 

Broader  by  putting  on  a  Cap  or  Gown ; 

Who  like  those  Jockies  that  do  often  sell 

An  old  worn  Jade,  because  he's  saddled  well : 

No ;  Thou  can'st  humour  all  that  Wit  can  teach, 

Which  those  that  are  but  Note-men  cannot  reach  : 

Thou'rt  all  so  fit,  that  some  have  passed  their  Votes, 

Thy  Notes  beget  the  Words,  not  Words  thy  Notes. 

T.  NORTON. 


"To  my  ever  honour'd  Friend  and  Father,  Mr.  HENRY  LAWES, 
on  his  Book  of  Ayres. 

Father  of  MUSICK  and  MUSITIANS  too 

And  Father  of  the  MUSKS,  All's  thy  due : 

For  not  a  drop  that  flows  from  HELICON 

But  AYB'D  by  thee  grows  streight  into  a  Song. 

So  as  when  Light  about  the  World  was  spread 

All  kind  of  Colours,  Black,  White,  Green,  and  Red, 

Soon  mixt  with  Substances,  and  grew  to  be 

Plants,  Grasse,  and  Flowrs,  which  All's  but  HARMONY. 


AY  ME  MORI  AM  HENRY  LA  WES.  91 

Thou  mak'st  the  GRAVB  and  LIGHT  together  chime, 
Both  joyntly  dance,  yet  keep  their  own  true  time  ; 
The  winning  DORICK,  that  best  loves  the  Harp ; 
The  PHRYGIAN,  thats  as  sweet,  though  far  more  sharp ; 
The  IONICK,  sober  LYDIAN  mood, 
Which  every  care  sucks  in,  and  cryes,  'tis  good  : 
Thou  hitt'st  them  all ;  their  SPIRIT,  TONE,  and  PAUSE, 
Have  all  conspir'd  to  meet  and  honour  LA  WES. 

No  pointing  COMMA,  COLON,  halfe  so  well 
Renders  the  Breath  of  Sence ;  they  cannot  tell 
The  just  Proportion  how  each  word  should  go, 
To  rise  and  fall,  run  swiftly  or  march  slow ; 
Thou  shew'st  'tis  MUSICK  only  must  do  this, 
Which  as  thou  handiest  it  can  never  miss ; 
All  may  be  SUNG  or  READ,  which  thou  hast  drest, 
Both  are  the  same,  save  that  the  SINGING'S  best. 

Thy  Muse  can  make  this  sad,  raise  that  to  Life, 
Inflaming  one,  smoothing  down  th'  others  Strife, 
Meer  Words,  when  measured  best,  are  Words  alone, 
Till  quickned  by  their  nearest  Friend  a  Tone  : 
And  then  when  SENSE  and  perfect  CONCORDS  meet, 
Though  th1  Story  bitter  be,  Tunes  make  it  sweet : 
Thy  Ariadne's  Grief's  so  fitly  shown 
As  bring's  us  PLEASURE  from  the  saddest  GROAN. 

And  all  this  is  thine  own,  thy  true-born  Heir ; 
Nor  stoln  at  home,  nor  Forrain  far-fctcht  Ware 
Made  good  by. Mountebanks,  who  loud  must  cry 
Till  some  believe,  and  do  as  dearly  buy ; 
Which  when  they've  try'd,  not  better  nor  yet  more 
They  find,  than  what  does  grow  at  their  own  door. 
For  when  such  Mountains  swell  with  mighty  Birth, 
We  find  some  poor  small  petty  thing  creep  forth. 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

But  I'm  too  short  to  speak  thee,  I've  no  Praise 
To  give,  but  what  I  gather  from  thy  Bayes : 
My  narrow  Hive's  supply'd  from  thy  full  Flowr, 
Nor  does  thy  Ocean  Praise  know  Bank  or  Shoar : 
Yet  this  I  dare  attest,  that  who  shall  look 
And  understand  as  well  as  read  the  Book, 
Must  say  that  here  both  WIT  and  MUSICK  meet ; 
Like  the  great  Giant's  Riddle  STRONG  and  SWEET. 

JOHN   COBB, 

To  his  Honour'd  Friend,  Mr.  Henry  Lawes,  upon  his  Book 

of  Ayres. 
Musick  thou  Soul  of  Verse,  gently  inspire 

My  untun'd  Phansie  with  some  sprightly  AYRE, 
'Tis  fittest  now  that  I  thy  ayd  require, 

While  I  sing  thee  and  thy  LA  WES  prepare : 
For  the  high  Raptures  of  a  lofty  strain 
Charm  equall  with  the  Bowr's  AONIAN. 
'Twere  in  me  rudeness,  not  to  blazon  forth 
(Father  in  MUSICK)  thy  deserved  praise, 
Who  oft  have  been,  to  witness  thy  rare  worth, 
A  ravish't  hearer  of  thy  skilfull  Lay's. 

Thy  Lay's  that  wont  to  lend  a  soaring  wing, 
And  to  my  tardy  Muse  fresh  ardour  bring. 

While  brightest  DAMES,  the  splendour  of  the  Court, 

Themselves  a  silent  MUSICK  to  the  Eye, 
Would  oft  to  hear  thy  solemn  AYRES  resort, 
Making  thereby  a  double  Harmony : 

'Tis  hard  to  judge  which  adds  the  most  delight, 
To  th'  Bare  thy  Charms,  or  theirs  unto  the  Sight. 

But  this  is  sure,  had  STRADA'S  Nightingale 

Heard  the  soft  murmurs  of  thy  AYRY  LUTE, 
She  doubting  lest  her  own  sweet  voyce  should  fail 
To  hear  thy  sweeter  AYRES,  had  quite  been  mute, 
Such  Vertue  dwels  in  Harmony  divine 
(Admired  LA  WES)  and  above  all  in  thine. 


IN  MEMORIAL  HENRY  LA  WES.  93 

The  DORICK  Sage,  and  the  mild  LYDIAN, 
The  sad  LACONICK  unto  Wars  exciting, 
Th'  ^EOLIAN  Grave,  the  PHRYGIAN  mournfull  strain, 
The  smooth  JONICK  carelessly  delighting, 

There  calmly  meet,  and  cheerfully  agree, 
Various  themselves,  to  make  one  Symphony. 

If  we  long  since  could  boast  thy  purest  vain, 

More  then  old  GREECE  the  RHODOPSIAN  Lyre 
•Or  LATIAN  Bowres  of  late  Marenzo's  strain, 

How  much  must  our  applause  advance  thee  higher  ? 

When  thy  yet  more  harmonious  birth  shall  bring 
To  us  new  Joyes,  new  Pleasures  to  the  Spring. 

The  Woods  wild  Songsters,  wonder  will  surprize, 

Hearing  the  sweet  Art  of  thy  well  tun'd  Notes, 
What  new  unwonted  chime  ?  'tis  that  outvies 
The  Native  sweetness  of  their  liquid  throats, 

Which  while  in  vain  they  strive  to  emulate 
Anothers  MUSICK'S  Duell  they'l  create. 

Whether  pure  Anthem's  fill  the  sacred  Quire, 

Or  Lady's  Chambers  the  Lute's  trembling  voice, 
Or  Rurall  Song's  the  Country  Swains  admire, 
Thy  large  Invention  still  affords  us  choice ; 

Tis  to  thy  Skill,  that  we  indebted  are, 
What  ever  Musick  hath  of  neat  and  rare. 

To  thee  the  choicest  Witts  of  ENGLAND  owe 

The  Life  of  their  fam'd  Verse,  that  ne'r  shall  dye, 
For  thou  hast  made  their  rich  conceits  to  flow 
In  streams  more  rich  to  lasting  memory, 

Such  MUSICK  needs  must  steal  our  souls  away, 
Where  Voice  and  Verse  do  meet,  where  Love  and 
Phansie  play. 

EDWAKD    PHILLIPS. 


94  IN  MEMORIAL  HENRY  LAWES. 

To  my  Honoured  Friend,  Mr.  Henry  Lawes,  upon  his  Book  of  Ayres 

To  calm  the  rugged  Ocean,  and  asswage 

The  horrid  tempests  in  their  highest  rage, 

To  tame  the  wildest  Beasts,  to  still  the  Winds, 

And  quell  the  fury  of  distemper'd  minds, 

Making  the  Pensive  merry,  th'  overjolly 

Composing  to  a  sober  melancholy : 

These  are  th'  effects  of  sacred  harmonic  ; 

Which  being  an  Art  so  well  attained  by  thee, 

(Most  Honour'd  LAWES),  what  can  we  less  then  number 

Thy  Works  with  theirs  who  were  the  Ancients  wonder  ? 

And  give  thee  equall  praise ;  but  I  forget ; 

For  we  do  owe  thee  a  far  greater  debt, 

The  charming  sweetness  of  whose  shorter  Lay's, 

Not  only  we  do  hear  with  great  amaze, 

But  they  have  low  descended  to  the  deep, 

And  wak'ned  THESEUS  Queen  from  Stygian  sleep ; 

Who  sighting  ORPHEUS,  comes  to  beg  of  thee 

To  ayd  her  with  thy  pow'rfull  harmonic, 

Knowing  thy  strains  more  truly  can  expresse 

Her  sense  of  THESEUS  strange  forgetfulnesse  ; 

Which  makes  us  here  to  double  thy  Renown ; 

Hereafter  thou  shalt  wear  fair  ARIADNE'S  Crown. 

JOHN  PHILLIPS. 


To  my  Dear  and  Honour'd  Friend,  Mr.  HENRY  LAWES,  upon 
his  Incomparable  Book  of  Songs. 

I  Am  no  Poet,  yet  I  will  rehearse 
My  Virgin  Muse,  though  in  unpolisht  Verse, 
Perhaps  the  immature  and  lib'rall  sence, 
(Yet  better  than  those  Ignorants  commence, 
Who  boldly  dare  their  scandalous  censures  throw, 
And  judge  of  things  (I'le  swear)  they  do  not  know,) 
Will  be  some  unpleasing ;  but  what  then  ? 
Must  they  not  know  their  wild  pretensions,  when 


7.V   MEMORIAL  HESRY  LA  WES.  95 

Unnat'rally  they'l  raise  a  Forrain  Name, 
And  blast  the  Honour  of  their  Native  Fame  1 
But  stay  ;  Will  this  reclaim  them?  No,  thev're  mad  ; 
Their  Reason  is  infatuate,  and  clad 
In  such  a  stupified  ignorance  : 
Nothing  will  please  that  is  not  come  from  France 
Or  Italy  ;  but  let  them  have  their  will, 
Whilst  we  unto  thy  Noble  Art  and  Skill 
Do  sacriBce  our  admirations  : 
The  tribute's  just,  and  other  Nations 
Cannot  but  pay  it  too,  when  they  shall  seo 
Their  best  of  Labours  thus  outdone  by  Thee  ; 
Or  else  amaz'd  to  see  thy  English  Ay  re- 
Past  imitation  ;  they  will  dispaire, 
And  wonder  we  can  surfeit  with  such  meat, 
So  rare,  so  rich,  so  pleasant,  so  compleat. 
Be  happy  then ;  Thou  art  above  all  hate ; 
Thy  great  abil'ties  have  outgrown  thy  Fate. 
Thy  Fortune  soars  aloft ;  thou  art  renown'd  : 
Thy  Fame's  with  Judgements  approbation  crown d, 
And  in  this  verse,  (as  I  disclaim  all  "Wit 
So  'twas  thy  worth.  ol.li^M  my  fancy  t'  it. 

JO.  CARWAKDEN. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  the  pieces  in  this  book.     The  sub-titles 
in  brackets  are  at  the  head  of  each  piece  : — 

THE  TABLK,  WITH  THE  NAMES  OF  THOSE  WHO  WKRK  AUTHORS  OF  TIIK  V 


A— Ariadne— p.  1 Mr.  William  Cartwright,  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford 

[The  Story  of  Theseus  and  Ariadne.] 

Am  I  dispia'd  because  you  say— p.   19 Mr.  Robert  Herick. 

[To  hia  Miatreas  objecting  hia  Age.] 

Amarantha  sweet  and  fair— p.    15  «'.,]    Richard  Lorclace 

[To  Amarantha,  to  diahevell  her  haire.] 

Aak  me  why  I  send  you  here—  p.  24  Mr.  Herick. 

PrimroM.] 

B— Begone,  begone  thou  perjur'd  man— p.    .  llcury  Law**. 

[No  Constancy  in  Mnn.] 


36  AV  ME  MORI  AM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

•C — Careless  of  Love,  and  free  from  Fears — p.  11  Carew  Raleigh,  Esquire. 

[The  Surprise.] 

Chloris  your  self  you  so  excell — p.  14    Edmond  Waller,  Esquire. 

[To  the  same  Lady,  singing  the  former  Song  (on  p.  13).] 

Cselia,  thy  bright  Angel's  Face— p.  17 Thomas,  Earle  of  Winchelsea. 

[The  Cfclestiall  Mistress.] 

Canst  thou  love  me,  and  yet  doubt — p.  23 William,  Earle  of  Pembrooke. 

[The  Heart  entire.] 

Come  my  Lucasta — p.  25 Sir  Charles  Lucas. 

[Love  and  Loyalty.] 

Come  heavy  Souls — p.  28 Dr.  William  Stroud,  Oratour  of  th 

[Desperato's  Banquet.]  University  of  Oxford. 

Come,  come  thou  glorious  Object — p.  30    Sir  William  Killigrew. 

[Beauty  Paramont.] 

Come  my  Sweet  whilst  every  strain — p.  32    Mr.  Cartwright. 

[Love  and  Musick.] 

D  —  Dearest  do  not  nowd^lay  me — p.  20 Mr.  Henry  Harington,  Son  to  Sir 

Henry  Harington. 

[To  his  Mistress  upon  his  going  to  travel.] 

F — Farewell  fair  Saint — p.  10... Mr.  Tho.  Cary,  Son  to  the  Earle  of  Monmouth, 

and  of  the  Bedchamber  to  his  late  Majesty. 
[To  his  Mistress  going  to  Sea.] 

G —  Gaze  not  on  Swann's— p.  15 Mr.  Henry  Noel,  Son  to  the  L.  Viscoun^ 

Cambden. 
[Beauty's  Excellency.] 

Give  me  more  Love  or  more  Disdain — p.  21  ...Mr.  Tho.  Carew,  Gentleman 
of  the  Privy  Chamber,  and  Sewer  to  his  late  Majesty. 
[Mediocrity  in  Love  rejected.] 

H— He  that  love's  a  Rosie  Cheek— p.  12    Mr.  Carew. 

[Disdaine  returned.] 

I  —  I  long  to  sing  the  Seidge  of  Troy — p.  27    Mr.  John  Berkenhead. 

[ANACREON'S  Ode  call'd  The  LUTE,  Englished  and  to  be  sung  by  a 
Basse  alone.] 

If  when  the  Sun  at  Noon— p.  18     Mr.  Carew. 

[Night  and  Day  to  his  Mistress.] 

It  is  not  that  I  love  you  lease— p.  22 Mr.  Waller. 

[The  Selfe  Banished.] 

Imbre  lachrymarum  largo— p.  36 Mr.  Thomas  Fuller,  Batch.  Divinity. 

[An  Eccho.] 

L  —  Ladies  who  gild  the  glitt'ring  noon — p,  35 Mr.  Francis  Lenton. 

[Beauties  Eclypsed.] 

Lately  on  yonder  swelling  bush— p.  24  Mr.  Waller. 

[The  Bud.] 


/.V   MEMORIAL  HENRY  LAWES.  97 

Lovely  Chloris  though  thine  eyes— p.  20 Mr.  Henry  Key  nolds. 

[Love  above  Beauty.] 

T — The  Day's  returned— p.  33 Mr.  BerkenheacL 

[An  Anniversary  on  the  Nuptials  of  JOHN  Earle  of  Bridgewater,  July  22, 1652.] 

Till  now  I  never  did  believe— p.  16 Sir  Thomas  Neville. 

[The  Reform'd  Lover.] 

Till  I  beheld  fair  (?<rfta'«  face— p.  25 Francis  Finch,  Esquire. 

[O«LIA  Singing.] 

Tis  true,  fair  C»lia— p.  29 Mr.  Henry  Bathurst 

[To  C^ILIA,  inviting  her  to  Marriage.] 

Thou  are  so  Fair  and  Yong— p.  31 Mr.  Aurelian  Townshend. 

[Youth  and  Beauty.] 

'Tis  wine  that  inspir's— p.  32 Lord  Broughall. 

[The  excellency  of  Wine.] 

Two  hundred  minutes  are  run  down — p.  34 Mr.  Berkenhead. 

[Staying  in  LONDON  after  the  Act  for  Banishment  and  going  to  meet  a  Friend 
who  sail'd  the  hour  appoynted.] 

V — Venus  redress  a  wrong— p.  7 Mr.  Cartwright. 

[A  Complaint  against  CUPID.] 

W — Whenthou  poor  Excommunicate— p.  8    Mr.  Carew. 

[To  his  Inconstant  Mistris.] 

When  on  the  Altar  of  my  hand— p.  9  Mr.  Carew. 

[In  the  Person  of  a  Lady  to  her  inconstant  servant] 

While  I  listen  to  thy  Voyce—  p.  13  Mr.  Waller. 

[To  a  Lady  Singing.] 
[Title  of  this  song  in  Greek  letters]— p.  26.     Anacreon's  Ode,  called  the 

Lute. 

In  quel  gelato  core  TAVOLA.    Last  Pag.  in  the  Book— By  divers  and 
sundry  Authors. 

[Tavola.] 

DIALOGUES  AND  SONGS  FOR  Two  VOYCBS. 

Distressed  Pilgrim,  A    Dialogue    betwixt  Cordanu*  and  an  A  moral— p.  1. 

Col.  Francis  Lovelace. 

[  For  two  trebles.    A  Dialogue  betwixt  CORD  ANUS  and  AMORBT,  on  a  Lost  Heart] 
Aged  Man  that  moves  these  Fields,  A  Dialogue  betwixt  Time  and  a  Pilgrime— p.  3. 

Mr.  Aurelian  Townshend. 
[A  Dialogue  betwixt  Toil  and  a  Pilgrime.] 

As  GKLIA  rested  in  the  shade,  A  Dialogue  betwixt  Clean  and  Oalia—p.  5. 

Mr.  Tho.  Carew. 

[A  Pastoral  Dialogue  betwixt  CLEON  and  OBLIA.] 

Bacchut  Facchtu  nil  our  brains— p.  9  .  Mr.  Townahend, 

[For  one  or  two  Yoyoes.    A  Bacchanal!.] 

7 


98  IN  MEMO RI AM  HENRY  LA  WES. 

Go  thou  emblem  of  my  heart — p.  10    Mr.  Harrington. 

[A  2  Voc.  Basse  &  Cant.  Upon  a  Crown'd  Heart  sent  to  a  Cruell  Mistress.] 

O  the  fickle  state  of  Lovers     Mr.  Francis  Quarles. 

[A  2  Voc.  Basse  &  Cant.     [The  fickle  state  of  Lovers.] 

Music  thou  Queen  of  Souls— p.  14    Mr.  Tho.  Eandolph,  of  Trinity 

Colledge,  Cambridge. 
[A  2  Voc.  Basse  &  Cant.     The  Power  of  Musick.] 

ATRES  AND  SONGS  FOR  THREE  VOYCES. 

Come  Chloris,  hie  we  to  the  Bower — p.  16    Mr.  Henry  Reynolds. 

[Heere  beginneth   short  Ayres  for  one,  two  or  three  Voyces, 
CHLORIS  taking  the  Ayre.] 

Though  my  Tormentfar  exceeds — p.  17 Mr.  Harrington. 

[For  one,  two  or  three  voyces.     A  smile,  or  Frown.] 

If  my  Mistress  fix  her  Eye — p.  18  Mr.  Harrington. 

[For  one,  two  or  three  Voyces.     The  Captive  Lover.] 

Keep  on  your  Vaile — p.  19    Dr.  Stroud. 

[For  one,  two  or  three  voyces.     To  a  Lady  putting  off  her  Veile.] 

Thou  Shepheard  whose  intentive  eye — p.  20 Mr.  Townshend. 

[For  one,  two  or  three  voyces.    In  praise  of  his  Mistress.] 

0  now  the  certain  Cause  I  know — p.  21 Mr.  Cartwright. 

[For  one,  two  or  three  Voyces.     To  a  Lady  weeping.] 

Sing  fair  Clorinda — p.  22    Sr.  William  Davenant. 

[A.  3.  voc.] 

Grieve  not  Dear  Love — p.  24 John  Earle  of  Bristoll. 

[a.  3  voc.] 

Ladyes  whose  smooth  and  Dainty  Skin — p.  26 Mr.  Harrington. 

[a.  3.  voc.     A  caution  to  faire  Ladies.] 

At  the  end  of  the  Work,  after  the  last  piece,  "Tavola,"  are 

the  following  advertisements  : — 

Musick  Books  Printed  for  John  Playford,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  Shop  in  the 
Inner  Temple,  near  the  Church  Doore. 

TJie  First  Set  of  Psalms  for  three  Voyces,  with  a  Thorough  Basse  for  the  Organ, 
or  Theorbo-Lute,  composed  by  Mr.  William  Child,  late  Organist  of  Windsor , 
the  which  are  engraven  upon  Copper.  Select  Musical  A  yres  and  Dialogues 
in  foly  for  1,  2,  and  3  Voyces,  Composed  by  Dr.  John  Wilson,  Dr.  Charles 
Colman,  Mr.  Henry  Lawes,  Mr.  Nich.  Lanear,  Mr.  William  Ccesar,  and 
others  newly  re-printed  with  Large  Additions. 

Mustek's  Recreation,  or  a  choice  Collection  of  Excellent  Lessons  for  the  Lyra 
Violl,  containing  117  Lessons,  Composed  to  severall  new  Tunings,  by  the 
most  eminent  Masters  now  living.  Also  Dr.  Campion's  Book  of , Ayres,  f or 
2,  3,  and  4  Voyces. 

The  First  Book  of  Ayres  and  Dialogues  in  fol.  for  1,  2,  and  3  Voyces,  by  Mr. 
enry  Lawes. 


IN  MEMORIAM  HENRY  LAWES.  99 

Catch  that  Catch  con,  or  an  new  Collection  of  Catches,  Rounds,  and  Outturns, 

containing  150.     Published  by  Mr.  John  Hilton,  Batchelor  in  Mutuck. 
Orlando  Gibbons  3.  Part  Fantazes,  for  2  Trebles  and  a  Basse  engraven  uppon 

Copper. 

Mr.  Michael  Easts  7.  Set  of  Pantaza  for  the  Violls  of  2,  3,  and  4,  Parts. 
The  Dancing  Master,  or  plain  and  easie  Rules  for  the  Dancing  of  Country 

Dances,  with  the  Tunes  before  each  Dance  to  play  on  the  TREBLE  VIOLIN 

containing  112  Dances. 
A  New  Book  of  Lessons  with  Instructions  for  the  Cithern  and  Gittem. 

Allo  [?  also]  all  sorts  of  Rul'd  Paper  and  Rul'd  Books  ready  bound  up,  and  sold 
at  his  Shop. 

FINIS. 


AN  AUTUMN  EVENING. 

BY  J.    A.    GOODACRE. 

THOUGH  fast  the  daylight  dies,  and  round  my  room 
The  gathering  night  with  noiseless  footstep  falls, 
Trailing  her  shadow  o'er  the  darkening  walls, 
And  shrouding  me  with  the  increasing  gloom, 
Till  all  is  lone  and  silent  as  the  tomb ; 

Yet  no  such  shade  my  musing  mind  enthrals, 
A  well-known  voice  beyond  the  darkness  calls, 
And  far-off  lamps  for  me  their  lights  relume. 

Thus  may  it  be  when  life's  descending  sun 
No  more  with  full  meridian  glory  glows ; 

0  may  there  be,  when  life's  short  day  is  done, 
And  all  around  the  shades  of  evening  close, 
A  fairer  light  than  when  the  morn  arose, 

A  kindlier  voice  than  when  the  day  begun. 


ROBERT      BROWNING. 

Prom  a  Photograph,  by  permitsion  of  W.  H.  Grove,  Ilk,  Brompton  Road,  W. 


SOME  ASPECTS   OF  BEOWNING. 

BROWNING'S   VERSIFICATION. 

THE  verse  ot  a  great  poet  can  never  be  regarded  as 
adventitious  or  external.  Verse  itself  is,  indeed,  to 
begin  with,  only  one  of  the  accidents  of  poetry,  and  with 
the  indifferent  poet  it  remains  so.  He  regards  it  only  as  a 
medium.  He  finds  it  ready-made  to  his  hand.  He  takes 
it  up  and  lays  it  down,  neither  influencing  it  nor  being 
influenced  by  it.  With  a  poet  of  the  higher  rank  it  is 
not  so.  Verse  is  always  to  him  not  an  accident  but  an 
essential.  He  adopts,  it  may  be,  a  traditional  form,  but 
none  the  less  by  the  force  of  strength  and  the  subtlety  of 
art  he  subdues  it  to  his  own  purposes.  Versification  is  to 
the  true  poet  what  gtyle  is  to  the  prose-writer.  It  is  part 
of  himself.  There  is  no  greater  literary  heresy  than  this — 
that  a  man  may  be  a  poor  prose-writer  and  yet  have  a 
noble  style  ;  may  be  a  mediocre  poet  and  yet  be  possessed 
of  an  elevated  and  exquisite  scheme  of  verse. 

To  inquire,  therefore,  into  the  versification  of  a  writer  is 
to  go  to  the  heart  of  the  matter  at  once.  Browning's 
versification  was  like  his  poetry — profound  and  subtK  in 
its  conception,  but  imperfect  and  unfinished ;  strong,  but 

TB>  HA»rii0TEft  QUARTERLY.    No.  XXXIV.,  APRIL,  1890. 


102  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

seldom  sweet;  wayward  and  spasmodic  rather  than  sus- 
tained ;  full  of  phrases  so  modelled  that  they  grip  you, 
and  of  beauties  which  startle  even  while  they  vanish.     As 
it  was  with  Carlyle's  prose  so  it  was  with  Browning's  verse. 
Its  ruggedness,  its  perverseness,  its  singularity,  its  short- 
hand elisions — so  to  speak — were  ever  increasing  with  the 
increase  of  years ;  but  all  the  same,  it  never  lost  its  attrac- 
tion, because  the  student  felt  that  thoughts  and  words, 
whatever  might  be  their  perplexities  and  oddities,  were 
both  the  honest  and  natural  outcome  of  an  earnest  and 
noble  spirit,  and  not  affectations  wilfully  flaunted  in  the 
face  of  the  reader,  or  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  concealing 
conscious  weakness  and  insufficiency.      The  comparison 
which  we  make  between  Carlyle's  "  Essay  on  Burns,"  for 
instance,  and  his  "  Latter  Day  Pamphlets,"  will  hold  good 
with  regard  to  Browning's   "  Pauline,"  and  most  of  his 
later  poems.     If  I  am  asked  to  indicate  some  broad  and 
universally  applicable  characteristic  of  Browning's  versifi- 
cation, I  should  say  that  his  lines  contain  fewer  accented 
syllables,  in  proportion,  than  those  of  any  other  great  poet. 
His  blank  verse  has  no  roll  in  it,  no  stately  march ;  but  it 
turns  a  corner  with  admirable  agility  and  swiftness.     It  is 
often  conversational,   and   always   dramatic,   rather  than 
epic.     Its  model,  if  it  have  a  model,  will  be  found,  not 
in  Milton,  but  in  the  lighter  and  more  familiar  parts  of 
Shakespeare.   One  of  its  merits  is  that  even  when  apparently 
most  disjointed  and  inharmonious,  it  resolves  itself  into 
correct  measure  if    the  accents  be  carefully  placed  in 
accordance  with  such  intelligent   emphasis  as  the  sense 
demands.     It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  reading  aloud  of 
Browning's  blank  verse  is  a  test  of  three   things — your 
power  of  intellectual  apprehension,   your  knowledge  of 
metre,  and  your  appreciation  of  sound  and  reasonable 
elocution.     It  is  difficult  to  give  an  illustration  of  this  on 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  103 

the  printed  page.  I  can  only  ask  the  reader  to  turn  for 
himself  to  such  a  passage  as  that  in  "  Bishop  Blougram's 
Apology,"  which  begins — 

But,  friend, 

We  speak  of  what  is  ;  not  of  what  might  be, 
And  how  'twere  better  if  'twere  otherwise. 

and  onward  to  the  line — 

That  hatch  should  rustle  with  sufficient  straw. 

In  lyric  measures,  Browning  was  not  wholly  successful. 
This  was  not  because  he  did  not  thoroughly  understand 
his  art,  not  because  he  had  not  a  correct  ear ;  it  was  the 
result  of  his  deliberately  chosen  method.  In  perfect 
poetry,  that  upon  which  we  dwell  with  unmixed  pleasure, 
grammatical  construction  and  metre,  sense  and  rhyme,  act 
and  re-act  upon  each  other  until  a  harmonious  whole 
completely  fused  in  the  alembic  of  the  imagination  is  the 
happy  result.  When  Browning's  versification  is  most 
harsh,  it  is  because  this  fusion  has  only  been  partially 
accomplished.  I  do  not  presume  to  say  that  his  mode  of 
composition  was  actually  that  which  I  am  about  to 
indicate,  but  his  verses  often  leave  you  with  the  im- 
pression that  they  were  written  straight  off,  as  a  draft,  in 
vigorous  and  picturesque  prose;  that  the  lines  wero 
afterwards  cut  up  into  proper  lengths,  adaptation  being 
effected  by  elision  and  inversion,  and  that,  finally,  such 
rhymes  were  added  as  came  most  quickly  to  hand  Of 
course  the  strong  sense  is  there,  the  poetic  metaphor  is 
there,  but  the  expression  is  not  that  which  poetry 
demands.  Let  me  take  an  illustration  from  his  last 
volume.  The  poem  entitled  "  Reverie  "  begins  thus — 

I  know  there  shall  dawn  *  day — 

Is  it  here,  on  homely  earth  ? 
Is  it  yonder,  worlds  away, 

Where  the  strange  and  new  have  birth, 
That  Power  comet  full  in  play  f 


104  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

IB  it  here,  with  grass  about, 

Under  befriending  trees ; 
When  shy  buds  venture  out, 

And  the  air  by  mild  degrees 
Puts  Winter's  death  past  doubt  ? 

Now  this,  although  not  wanting  in  touches  which  are 
characteristic  of  the  writer,  is  legitimate  verse,  and  even  if 
it  were  written  as  prose  its  lyric  character  would  still 
be  manifest;  but  immediately  after  we  come  upon  the 
following : — "  Somewhere,  below,  above,  shall  a  day  dawn 
— this  I  know — when  Power,  which  vainly  strove  my 
weakness  to  o'erthrow,  shall  triumph.  I  breathe,  I  move, 
I  truly  am,  at  last !  For  a  veil  is  rent  between  me  and  the 
truth  which  passed  fitful,  half-guessed,  half-seen,  grasped 
at ;  not  gained,  held  fast."  Of  this  passage  two  things 
may  be  said.  A  few  slight  changes  would  turn  it  into 
respectable  prose  ;  but  no  change  in  the  mode  of  printing 
can  transform  it  into  permissible  verse. 

Another  reason  for  the  peculiarities  so  noticeable  in 
Browning's  versification  may  be  found  in  the  character  of 
his  mind.  The  production  of  a  perfect  lyric  requires  the 
presence  of  two  seemingly  incongruous  qualities — im- 
passioned spontaneity  and  severe  restraint.  Browning 
had  spontaneity  enough,  but  too  little  restraint.  He 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  follow  every  vagrant 
idea,  every  far-fetched  image,  every  quaint  conceit  which 
rose  before  his  fertile  fancy.  That  Browning  could r 
however,  when  he  cared  to  exercise  restraint,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  sustain  the  originating  lyric  impulse,  produce 
verse  of  the  finest  character,  I  should  be  the  last  to  deny. 
As  instances  of  this  (a  few  only  out  of  many)  I  may 
mention  the  "Cavalier  Tunes" — 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing. — 

The  "  Lost  Leader  "— 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 
Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  SROWXIXQ.  105 

•"  How  they  brought  the  good  news  from  Ghent  to  Aix," 
which  is  as  swift  and  breathless  as  the  ride  which  it  relates, 
and  withal  as  regular  in  its  music  as  must  have  been  the 
sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs.  "  Evelyn  Hope  " — 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 
Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour — 

And  the  ever-delightful  "Home  Thoughts  from  England" — 

Oh  !  to  be  in  England, 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England, 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  in  the  orchard  bough 

In  England — now  ! 

Surely  we  shall  all  regret  that  the  man  who  could  give  us 
verse  so  exquisitely  perfect  as  is  this  last  citation,  should 
not  have  more  frequently  found  himself  in  the  vein  for  its 
production. 

I  should  be  sorry  to  close  this  brief  paper  without 
acknowledging  my  deep  sense  of  Browning's  unique  great- 
ness, his  unmatched  power  of  mental  analysis  and  intro- 
spection, his  honesty,  his  manliness,  his  unswerving  faith 
in  an  age  of  doubt,  and  his  firm  grasp  of  truth  in  the 
midst  of  feeble  vacillation.  He  is  a  man  who  may  be  taken 
at  his  own  valuation — a  mode  of  appraisement  not  often  to 
be  adopted — the  valuation  which  he  sets  upon  himself  in  the 
noble  "  Epilogue  "  to  "  Asolando "  as  one  whose  courage 
would  not  let  him  turn  his  back  upon  the  foe ;  whose  hope- 
fulness was  so  strong  that  he  never  doubted  but  that  the 
clouds  would  break ;  who  never  dreamed  that  wrong  would 
triumph,  though  the  right  was  often  worsted ;  who  held 
that  we  only  fall  in  order  that  wo  may  rise ;  that  when  we 
are  baffled  it  is  that  we  may  return  to  the  fight  and  fight 
better  than  before  ;  and,  lastly,  that  when  all  seems  to  be 
over,  we  sleep  only  that  we  may  wake  to  a  higher  and 


106  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

fuller  life  in  the  great  Hereafter.  Such  was  the  man ;  and 
with  all  our  hearts  we  answer  his  touching  invitation,  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  world's  noontide  bustle,  as  he  wished 
we  should,  we  greet  his  unseen  ghost  with  a  cheer — 

Strive  and  thrive  !     Speed,  fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here  ! 

GEORGE  MILKER. 


BROWNING    AND    TENNYSON.* 

The  simultaneous  appearance  of  two  volumes  of  versa 
by  two  poets  who  have  for  so  long  held  a  chief  place  in 
the  admiration  of  lovers  of  poetry  among  English-speaking 
peoples,  two  poets  who  have  retained  their  powers  of 
intellect  and  imagination  undiminished  to  a  period  con- 
siderably beyond  the  allotted  span  of  life,  is  in  itself  an 
event  of  the  highest  interest,  an  interest  which  has  been 
accentuated  in  a  melancholy  fashion  by  the  immediately 
succeeding  death  of  the  younger  of  the  two.  The  occasion 
is  a  tempting  one  for  essaying  the  comparison  of  the  work 
of  two  men  so  diversely  great  as  Tennyson  and  Browning ; 
and  this  I  propose  to  do  very  briefly,  premising  that  my 
acquaintance  with  Browning  is  almost  altogether  confined 
to  his  shorter  works,  though  it  is  on  these,  as  I  think  it  is 
pretty  generally  agreed,  that  a  large,  perhaps  the  larger, 
part  of  his  fame  will  ultimately  rest. 

Firstly,  then,  Browning  is  a  great  teacher  through  the 
medium  of  verse  ;  Tennyson  a  great  artist.  Browning  is 
occupied  primarily  with  the  message  he  has  to  deliver ; 
Tennyson  with  the  fashion  of  delivering  it.  The  matter 
or  the  soul  of  his  verse  (for  in  this  connection  the  words 
are  synonymous)  is  Browning's  great  concern  ;  the  form  of 


*  "  Asolaudo :  Fancies  and  Facts,"  by  Robert  Browning.  London :  Smith,  Elder, 
and  Co.,  1890.  "Demeter  and  other  Poems,"  by  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson.  London: 
Macmillan,  1889. 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  107 

it  Tennyson's.     Yet  though  this,  broadly  speaking,  seems 
a  true  discrimination,  it  must  not  be  taken  too  absolutely. 
All  the  technique  in  the  universe  would  never  of  itself 
have  produced  "Rizpah"  or  "In  Memoriam";  whilst,  on 
the  other  hand,  in  such  pieces  as  "  Evelyn  Hope  "  or  "  A 
Toccata  of  Galuppi's,"  or  many  of  his  shorter  lyrics,  Brown- 
ing has  touched  a  point  of  artistic  perfection  hardly  sur- 
passed by  Tennyson.    But,  with  certain  reservations,  the 
contrast  is  a  true  one;  it  is  a  contrast  such  as  we  may 
find   between   the  man  who  produces  pictures  finished 
ad  unguem  and  the  man  who,  lacking  technical  perfec- 
tion, pours  forth  his  soul  on  the    canvas ;    or   between 
the  musician  (be  he  composer,   vocalist,  or  executant), 
whose  unrivalled  technique  is  the  boast  and  envy  of  his 
compeers,   and    the  one    who,   with    indifferent    aids    of 
skill  or  voice,  yet  seems  to  utter  forth  his  very  nature. 
It  may  seem  a  hard  saying,  but  the  fact  that  Tennyson 
belongs,  in  the   main,  to  the  first  of  these  two   classes 
goes  far  to  explain  the  sense  of  something  wanting  which 
he  inspires,  as  I  have  reason  to  believe,  hi  many  of  his 
readers  and  admirers.     It  is  not  merely  that  he  is  some- 
times trivial,  not  unfrequently  prosaic,   and  too  much 
occupied  with  mere  prettiness  for  so  great  an  artist — the 
cause  is  a  deeper  one.    Keenly  conscious  of  the  exquisite- 
ness  of  his  art  at  its  best,  nay,  of  the  high  and  noble 
aims  to  which  he  has  often  dedicated  his  powers,  they 
are  not  deeply  stirred,  for  no  sympathetic  glow  has  passed 
from  the  poet's  soul  to  the  soul  of  his  readers.     In  Brown- 
ing,  on  the  other  hand,   one   hears,  even   beneath  his 
ruggedest  verse,  the  beating  of  a  human  heart ;  it  is  a 
great  spirit,  a  great  and  noble  personality  with  which  one 
comes  into  contact  through  the  medium  of  his  art ;  and 
hence  the  exaltation  and  the  profound  sympathy  v 
he  inspires  in  those  who  feel  his  power. 


1 08  SOME  A  SPECTS  OF  PRO  WNINO. 

A  second  point  of  divergence,  partly  implied  in  the  first, 
is  that  there  are  no  personages  in  Tennyson  (no  men  and 
women  which,  once  beheld  and  known,  live  henceforth  in 
the  imagination  as  real  beings),  while  in  Browning,  taking 
his  shorter  poems  alone,  what  a  gallery  we  have !  Who  can 
ever  forget  the  sceptical  bishop  Blougram,  or  that  other 
bishop  of  the  Renaissance,  reflecting  its  sensuality,  its 
paganism,  its  classical  lore,  its  Christian  superstition,  who 
on  his  death-bed  bids  his  "  nephews  "  erect  him  a  splendid 
tomb  in  St.  Praxed's  Church  ?  Who  can  forget  the  cruel, 
sensual,  superstitious  monk  of  the  Spanish  cloister,  or 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  or  Herve'  Kiel,  or  Ivan  Ivanovich? 
Tennyson  has  no  figures  to  set  beside  any  of  them,  unless 
such  a  photograph  of  the  common-place  as  "  The  Northern 
Farmer"  be  so  considered.  In  those  highly-wrought 
cabinet  pictures  (as  they  have  been  called),  "  The  Idylls  of 
the  King,"  the  figure  of  the  blameless  Arthur  is  but  a  little 
more  shadowy  than  those  of  his  knights  and  their  ladies; 
while  of  that  other  blameless  Arthur,  the  friend  of  the 
poet's  youth,  no  living  image  stands  out  from  the  prolonged, 
the  artful,  the  beautiful  and  noble  strains  of  "In  Memoriam/ 
In  "  Maud,"  perhaps  the  most  powerful  of  all  Tennyson's 
longer  poems,  the  passion  of  the  lovers  is  certainly  a  very 
real  thing ;  but  neither  of  Maud  nor  of  her  lover  can  it  be 
said  that  they  live  henceforth  with  the  reader  as  a  part  of 
"his  study  of  imagination."  Tennyson,  to  put  it  briefly, 
tells  us  all  about  his  characters,  but  he  lacks  in  general 
that  vital  sympathy  with  them,  that  power  of  entering  into 
their  very  souls,  which  could  alone  enable  him  to  bring 
those  souls  by  the  means  of  his  art  into  true  and  living 
relation  with  the  souls  of  others. 

Thirdly,  Tennyson  is  the  poet  of  law,  of  order,  of  the 
established  course  of  things ;  while  Browning  accepts  man 
and  the  world  in  their  totality,  the  evil  with  the  good,  not 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  109 

ignoring  the  fact  that  it  is  evil,  yet  not  repelled  by  it,  as 
believing  it  will  ultimately  issue  in  and  be  absorbed  by 
the  good.  The  latter's  sympathy,  in  short,  is  with  man  as 
man  ;  Tennyson's  with  man  as  moulded  by  moral  and  reli- 
gious culture.  He  could  never  have  conceived  or  composed 
a  piece,  for  instance,  like  "  Porphyria's  Lover."  Such  a  story 
of  lawless  love,  leading  to  lawless  crime,  would  have  had  no 
attractions  for  him  ;  or  if  he  had  told  it  at  all,  it  would  have 
been  done,  not  dramatically,  but  to  point  a  moral.  Perhaps, 
however,  "  The  Sisters"  may  be  named  as  an  instance  to  the 
contrary,  and  indeed  there  is  so  much  in  Tennyson — 
examples  of  such  varied  power — that  it  is  somewhat  rash 
perhaps  to  make  any  absolute  statements  about  him.  He 
cares  not  for  the  wild,  the  untamed,  either  in  man  or  in 
nature ;  the  man  who  dies  for  king,  or  wife,  or  country ; 
the  woman  who  for  devotion  to  husband  or  child,  dares 
and  endures  the  worst,  these  demand  and  claim  his 
sympathetic  interest,  as  examples  of  obedience  to  that 
duty  which  is  law.  He  is  by  nature,  I  take  it,  a 
typical  Britisher,  whose  essential  Conservatism  and  in- 
sularity of  mind  is  not  seriously  affected,  though  he  pro- 
fesses to  be  an  ardent  Liberal  and  a  large-hearted  lover  of 
his  race,  and  who  has  little  sympathy  with  any  struggles  for 
freedom  which  outrage  his  own  sense  of  what  is  fit  and 
proper.  Browning,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  genuine  cosmo- 
politan, not  therefore  the  less  a  true  patriot.  It  happens 
a  little  singularly  that  in  the  one  instance  in  which 
Browning  and  Tennyson  have  come  into  something 
like  direct  rivalry,  in  the  twin  ballads  of  "Herve'  Kiel" 
and  "The  Revenge,"  we  should  have  an  illustration  of 
this,  Tennyson's  naval  hero  being  an  Englishman,  who 
defies  "  the  dogs  of  Spain,"  Browning's,  a  Breton  pilot 
who  saves  the  remnant  of  the  French  fleet  from  their 
English  pursuers  after  the  victory  of  the  Hogue.  As  a 


110  SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING. 

lover  of  law  and  order  in  the  material  no  less  than  in 
the  moral  world,  mountain-scenery  of  the  grandest  kind 
does  not  really  attract  Tennyson ;  it  is  too  shapeless  and 
chaotic.  His  ideal  landscape  is  an  English  landscape ; 
his  ideal  home  an  English  home,  removed  a  little,  yet 
not  too  far,  from  the  haunts  of  men  : 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 

To  the  rapture  of  Wordsworth  as  he  stands  at  dawn 
on  some  lonely  peak  watching  the  sun  "  arise  and  bathe 
the  world  in  light ;"  to  the  emotion  of  Shelley,  lingering 
one  June  day  on  the  Bridge  of  Arve  in  presence  of  the 
vision  of  Mont  Blanc  nay,  to  Matthew  Arnold's  feeling  for 
nature  in  the  poems  called  "  Switzerland,"  there  is  not  the 
faintest  parallel  in  Tennyson.  He  has,  indeed,  some  very 
picturesque  passages  on  certain  effects  of  mountain  land- 
scape as  of  other  landscape,  but  nothing  which  ever 
makes  the  reader  feel  that  the  spirit  of  the  mountains  has 
entered  into  his  spirit.  Browning,  again,  cares  little  for 
nature  in  comparison  with  man,  or  save  as  a  background 
for  his  being  and  doing  and  suffering ;  but  he  has  a  much 
deeper  feeling  for  the  sublime  in  nature  than  Tennyson,  or 
at  least  a  much  greater  power  of  making  his  readers  feel  it. 
Let  any  one  compare,  for  example,  the  opening  lines  of 
"  QEnone"  (and  a  more  exquisitely  wrought  picture  of  a 
mountain  landscape  it  would  be  hard  to  find  in  English 
verse)  with  those  lines  from  "  The  Englishman  in  Italy," 
which  describe  a  ride  on  mule-back  to  the  summit  of  Calvano 
and  the  view  therefrom,  lines  in  which  the  poet  seems 
to  have  caught  the  very  spirit  of  the  landscape  he  de- 
scribes : — 

God's  own  profound 

Was  above  me,  and  round  me  the  mountains,  and  under,  the  sea, 
And  within  me  my  heart  to  bear  witness  what  was  and  shall  be. 

Fourthly,  and  this  is  my  last  point,  Browning  is  a  poet 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  Ill 

of  an  assured  faith,  Tennyson  of  a  struggling  uncertain 
one.  That  Browning  accepted  any  one  of  the  current 
creeds  I  do  not  for  a  moment  suppose,  but  he  believes  in 
two  things ;  he  believes  in  God,  and  he  believes  in  man — 
in  man  because  in  God.  There  is  no  thought  recurring 
more  persistently  in  his  writings  than  that  of  the  infinite 
possibilities  of  the  individual  human  existence.  Man's  life 
here  is  but  a  link  in  a  chain,  a  stage  in  the  development 
of  the  soul;  and  in  this  light  failure,  imperfection,  the 
pursuit  of  impossible  ideals  are  better  than  any  so-called 
successes,  because  they  point  to  something  beyond. 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped : 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  would'st  fain  arrest : 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

Thus,  believing  in  God  and  in  the  enduring  life,  the 
boundless  future  of  the  soul  He  has  made,  Browning  be- 
lieves in  himself  and  in  his  art.  Not  only,  as  we  know 
from  many  poems  of  his,  has  he  been  deeply  affected  by 
and  can  nobly  interpret  the  other  arts,  as  music  and  paint- 
ing ;  but  his  ambition  is  all  embracing,  and  would  claim 
for  itself,  ultimately,  the  whole  field  of  art : — 

I  shall  never,  in  the  yean  remaining, 

Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me  ; 

So  it  teems :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me  ; 

Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  live*,  God  willing — 

All  the  gift*  from  all  the  height*,  your  own,  Love. 


112  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

With  Tennyson  it  is  quite  different.  His  belief  in  the 
spiritual  world  and  in  a  future  life  does  not  seem  to  have 
coine  to  him  by  intuition,  as  with  Browning,  but  by  emo- 
tional compulsion ;  and  to  be  only  maintained  at  the  cost 
of  a  constant  intellectual  struggle  with  the  direst  scepticism. 
He  is  thus  profoundly  troubled  by  the  revelations  of 
science,  which  seem  not  at  all  to  disturb  Browning,  who 
would  have  maintained,  I  doubt  not,  that  a  single  human 
soul  is  a  more  marvellous  and  a  more  awful  thing  to  con- 
template than  the  whole  material  universe.  Neither  in 
"The  Two  Voices,"  nor  in  "In  Memoriam,"  can  one  resist 
the  conclusion  that  the  poet  is  forcing  himself  to  believe, 
against  the  demands  of  his  intellect,  and  the  impressive 
poem,  "  Vastness,"  in  his  last  volume,  points  to  the  same 
conclusion.  He  also  feels  deeply  his  own  insignificance  in 
the  presence  of  the  ages  and  the  worlds;  his  songs,  he 
thinks,  will  soon  pass  into  the  gulf  of  time,  and  be  lost  for 
ever.  Those  terrible  Muses,  Astronomy  and  Geology,  are 
seated  (he  tells  us  in  a  poem  in  his  last  volume)  on  the 
twin  peaks  of  Parnassus,  and  blast  the  poet's  laureate 
crown  with  their  awful  shadows. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  quote  the  two  poems  which  close 
the  two  last  volumes  of  these  great  poets,  the  final  volume 
of  one — both,  singularly  enough,  dealing  with  the  thought 
of  death  and  what  may  be  beyond  it,  and  illustrating  re- 
markably their  own  respective  attitudes  in  presence  of  the 
great  mystery.  Here  is  Tennyson's : — 

CROSSING  THE  BAR. 
Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  11 S 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  Badness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark  ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

Exquisite,  indeed !  Perhaps,  as  a  piece  of  art,  an 
example  of  a  fine,  a  moving  conception,  expressed  in 
perfect  verse.  Tennyson  himself  has  never  surpassed  it,  at 
any  rate  in  the  form  of  a  short  lyric.  But  how  solemn  a 
note  is  struck  here,  more  solemn  than  when  he  describes 
the  passing  of  his  own  Arthur,  of  whom  ran  the  weird 
rhyme,  "  From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes." 
Compare  it  with  the  jubilant  note,  as  of  a  warrior  trium- 
phant, the  full  assurance  of  faith,  in  the  answering 
poem  of  Browning,  a  poem  vastly  inferior  as  art,  but  which 
sums  up  as  it  were  the  spirit  of  the  man  and  his  life ;  a 
poem  not  unworthy  of  the  poet  of  "  Prospice  "  and  "  Childe 
Roland."  The  impetuous  rush  of  the  language  forms  of 
itself  a  fine  contrast  to  the  slow,  solemn  cadences  of  the 
other.  Here,  then,  is  the  "  Epilogue  "  to  "  Asolando  " : — 

At  the  midnight,  in  the  silence  of  the  Bleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

Will  they  pass  to  where— by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  BO  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
—Pity  me  ? 

Oh  to  love  BO,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken  ! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly  f 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel, 
Being — who  f 

One  who  never  turned  his  back,  but  marched  breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 

Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted*  wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  tight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 


114  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

No,  at  noonday,  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time, 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive  !"  cry  "Speed,  fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here  ! " 

C.  E.  TYRER. 


THE   MELODY    OF   BROWNING. 

Where  is  any  certain  tune 
Of  measured  music  in  such  notes  as  these  ? 

— E.  B.  Broioning. 

"  The  melody  of  Browning  \  "  I  fancy  I  hear  some  jesting 
sceptic  exclaim,  "  better  follow  the  example  of  the 
writer  of  the  famous  chapter  on  '  The  Snakes  of  Iceland/ 
and  say  there  is  no  melody  in  Browning,  and  so  make  an 
end  of  your  subject.  Your  poet  does  but  remind  one  of 
the  man  in  the  play  who  is  constantly  repressing  his  dis- 
position to  song  by  exclaiming  '  Down,  melody,  down ! ' ' 
To  criticism  of  such  a  light  and  flippant  character,  however, 
one  does  not  care  in  this  instance  to  listen,  preferring 
rather  to  remind  the  jester  of  those  lines  : — 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 
With  thy  shallow  wit, 
For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  a  matter  beyond  doubt  that,  to  the 
average  reader  outside  the  Browning  Society,  Browning  is 
regarded  as  an  unmelodious  poet.  Of  his  obscurity  there 
is  no  question ;  even  his  most  devoted  admirers  must  in 
reading  him,  especially  in  poems  of  the  "Sordello"  type, 
have  often  felt — 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 

But  that  there  is  much  melody  in  his  verse  is  by  no  means 
so  readily  admitted.  If  there  is  any  music  in  him,  say 
some,  it  is  more  perplexing  than  tuneful.  To  correct  such 
an  impression  in  a  critical  or  analytical  way  is  not  pos- 


SOME  A  SPECTS  OP  BRO  WN1NQ.  115 

sible  within  the  narrow  limits  allowed  to  such  a  paper  as 
this,  and  the  best  one  can  do  in  the  circumstances  must 
assume  merely  an  illustrative  form. 

That  Browning  is  a  great  poet — how  great  we  may  not 
have  quite  recognized  yet — must,  I  think,  be  admitted. 
Now  a  great  poet  is  of  necessity  a  great  singer.  That  is 
of  the  very  essence  of  the  case.  Deep  down  in  him  there 
must  be  a  sense  of  harmony,  and  what  we  call  his  poetry  is 
the  thought  within  him  moving  to  music  and  finding 
musical  expression. 

He  must,  more  or  less,  be  one  who — 

Through  long  days  of  labour 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  hears  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wondrous  melodies. 

The  value  and  worth  of  the  song  will  depend  upon  the 
quality  of  the  soul  which  produces  it.  It  may  be  mere 
rhyme  and  jingle,  but  that  is  not  what  we  want.  In  that 
case  prose  is  preferable.  As  Carlyle,  distinguishing  between 
true  song  and  rhyme,  says,  song  is  the  Heroic  of  speech. 
"All  old  poems — Homer's  and  the  rest — are  authentically 
songs ;  I  would  say,  in  strictness,  that  all  right  poems  are, 
that  whatsoever  is  not  song  is  probably  no  Poem  but  a  piece 
of  Prose  cramped  into  jingling  lines — to  the  great  injury  of 
the  grammar,  to  the  great  grief  of  the  reader  for  the  most 
part ;  what  we  want  to  get  at  is  the  thought  the  man  had, 
if  he  had  any ;  why  should  he  twist  it  into  jingle  if  he 
could  speak  it  out  plainly  ?  It  is  only  when  the  heart  of 
hi IM  is  rapt  into  true  passion  of  melody  and  the  very  tones 
of  him  become  musical  by  the  greatness,  depth,  and  music 
of  his  thought  that  we  can  give  him  right  to  rhyme  and 
sing;  that  we  call  him  a  Poet,  and  listen  to  him  as  the 
Heroic  of  speakers — whose  speech  is  song."  We  have,  in 
the  first  place,  then  to  keep  fast  hold  of  this  idea  that  t  ho 


116  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

poet  must  be  a  singer.  What  he  is  singing  about,  the 
value  of  his  song,  and  his  form  of  expression  are  subjects  for 
critical  consideration.  The  true  singer  is  one  whose 
message  can  only  be  given  to  us  in  song,  varying,  it  may 
be,  from  rhythmical  chant  or  measured  recitative  to  the 
sweetest  and  most  melodious  combination  of  words.  Of 
the  highest  effort  of  this  soul  expression  Mrs.  Browning 
has  said : — 

With  stammering  lips  and  insufficient  sound 

I  strive  and  struggle  to  deliver  right 

That  music  of  my  nature,  day  and  night 

With  dream  and  thought  and  feeling,  interwound  : 

And  inly  answering  all  the  senses  round 

With  octaves  of  a  mystic  depth  and  height, 

Which  step  out  grandly  to  the  infinite 

From  the  dark  edges  of  the  sensual  ground  ; 

This  song  of  soul  I  struggle  to  outbear 

Through  portals  of  the  sense,  sublime  and  whole, 

And  utter  all  myself  into  the  air. 

Now  I  am  one  of  those  who  think  that  Browning  might 
have  used  these  words  himself  if  he  could  have  found  the 
same  form  of  utterance  as  his  more  musical  wife,  and  this 
leads  me  to  the  consideration  of  the  different  forms  of  ex- 
pression. The  music  in  a  poem  is  not  always  that  which 
is  the  result  of  its  construction.  There  is,  sometimes,  an 
inner  harmony  proceeding  from  the  thought  itself,  which, 
though  it  does  not  strike  the  ear  may  touch  the  soul,  and 
I  doubt  not  that  those  whose  spirits  are  attuned  to  that  of 
the  poet  may  recognize  an  undertone  of  melodious  sweet- 
ness, a  "singing  in  the  sails  which  is  not  of  the  breeze  " — even 
in  those  rugged,  inverted,  elliptical  utterances  of  Browning 
which  to  duller  souls  seem  sometimes  to  vex  the  grammar 
and  obscure  the  sense.  After  all,  given  a  certain  depth  of 
thought  and  purpose  in  the  poet,  the  power  of  recognizing 
his  music  is  a  matter  of  sympathy  in  ear  and  tune.  It 
was  no  proof  that  it  is  not  possible  to  produce  the  divinest 
strains  from  a  violin  because  Dr.  Johnson  could  not  recog- 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  117 

nize  it,  and  said  that  he  would  that  such  music  were  impos- 
sible. On  the  other  hand,  old  Sir  Thomas  Browne  says  in 
the  "  Religio  Medici,"  that  "  the  tavern  music  which  makes 
one  man  merry  and  another  mad,  strikes  in  me  a  deep  fit 
of  devotion."  So,  in  poetry,  there  are  those  who  find  har- 
mony and  melodious  thought  and  the  subtlest  poetical 
music  in  that  rhyme  and  rhythm-despising  poet,  Walt 
Whitman. 

Browning's  poetry  is  like  the  music  of  some  of  the  great 
composers,  Wagner,  for  instance,  it  is  of  a  complex  kind, 
developing  from  within  and  revealing  itself  with  a  closer 
acquaintance  and  an  increased  knowledge.  Matter,  with 
him,  is  more  important  than  smoothness  of  form  and  ex- 
pression. The  beauty  of  the  idea  reveals  itself  beneath 
the  ruggedness  of  the  utterance,  and  in  his  central  thought 
you  find  the  inner  melody.  He  never  seems  to  wed  thought 
to  words  simply  for  the  purposes  of  musical  cadence  as 
Tennyson  does ;  nowhere  in  him  will  you  find  such  sweet- 
ness of  expression  as  in  that  choric  song  of  "The  Lotos 
Eaters."  You  remember  it : — 

There  is  sweet  music,  here,  that  softer  falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 

Or  night  dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 

Of  shadowy  granite  in  a  gleaming  pass  ; 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 

Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  : 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 

And  thro*  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 

Nowhere  has  Browning  such  melodious  songs,  com- 
mending themselves  to  the  popular  ear,  as  are  scattered 
through  the  "Princess"  and  the  "Idylls  of  the  King." 
Still  it  would  be  wrong  to  say  that  there  is  not  much  music 
in  Browning's  utterance,  as  a  few  illustrations  will  help  to 
show.  He  gives  us  snatches  of  sweetness  sometimes  in 

9 


118  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

his  longer  poems,  which  come  like  the  sweet  airs  in  a  long- 
drawn  complex  sjTnphony,  such  for  instance  as  that  song 
in  "  Paracelsus/''  which  begins — 

Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave, 
A  gallant  armament. 

In  "  Pippa  Passes,"  which,  though  blank  verse  is  in  it- 
self, full  of  musical  cadences,  you  have  such  songs  as 
these — 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill  side's  dew  pearled  ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God's  in  His  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world  ! 

and  this — 

You'll  love  me  yet  ! — and  I  can  tarry 

Your  love's  protracted  growing  : 
June  reared  that  bunch  of  flowers  you  carry 

From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 

I  plant  a  heartful  now  :  some  seed 

At  least,  is  sure  to  strike 
And  yield — what  you'll  not  pluck  indeed, 

Not  love,  but,  maybe,  like. 

You'll  look,  at  least,  on  love's  remains, 

A  grave's  one  violet : 
Your  look  ?  that  pays  a  thousand  pains. 

What's  death  ?    You'll  love  me  yet ! 

Then  there  are  some  lines  in  that  poem  styled — "  In  a 
Gondola,"  which  haunt  one  with  their  rhythmical  sweet- 
ness— 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest  ? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast  ? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet  sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows  just 
Eluding  water  lily  leaves, 
An  inch  from  death's  black  fingers,  thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must  ; 
Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves  ? 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  119 

Browning's  most  melodious  verse  is  of  course  to  be  found 
in  his  Lyrics.  In  "  Pisgah  sights  "  we  have  such  lines  as 

these—- 
Could I  but  live  again 
Twice  my  life  over, 
Would  I  once  strive  again  ? 

Would  not  I  cover 
Quietly  all  of  it- 
Greed  and  ambition — 
So,  from  the  pall  of  it 
Pass  to  fruition  ? 

Then  regarding  body  and  spirit,  we  have  these : — 

Waft  of  soul's  wing  ! 
What  lies  above  ? 
Sunshine  and  love, 
Skyblue  and  spring  ! 

Body  hides — where  ? 
Ferns  of  all  feather, 
Mosses  and  heather, 
Yours  be  the  care  ! 

Of  those  notes  of  sweetness  which  can  only  be  lightly  or 
occasionally  touched  here,  there  occur  these  in  the  poem 
"  Memorabilia  " : — 

Ah  !  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 

And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 
And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 

How  strange  it  seems,  and  new  ! 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt 

Yet  a  hand's  breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about ; 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather, 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 
A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  ! 

Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 

Some  of  Browning's  sweetest  tones  are  to  be  found  in  his 
"  Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad."  Who  does  not  frequently, 
as  spring  comes  round,  find  himself  speaking  these  lines  ? 


120  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

Oh  !  to  be  in  England 

Now,  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees  some  morning  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs,  and  the  brushwood  sheaf, 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now  ! 
And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  ! 
Hark  !  where  my  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field,  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 

That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 

And  then  there  is  that  other  patriotic  and  melodious 
outburst  in  "  Home  Thoughts  from  the  Sea  " : — 

Nobly,  nobly,  Cape  St.  Vincent  to  the  North-west  died  away  ; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz  Bay  ; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar  lay, 
In  the'dimmest  North-east  distance  dawned  Gibraltar  grand  and  gray  ; 
"Herejand  here  did  England  help  me  ;  how  can  I  help  England  ?"  say, 
Whoso  turns  as  I  this  evening  turn  to  God  to  praise  and  pray. 

He  can  be  rhythmical,  too,  with  something  of  fine 
scorn  mingled  with  regret,  in  the  "Lost  Leader" : — 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 

We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honoured  him, 

Laved  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents 

Made  him  a  pattern  to  live  and  to  die  ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  they  watch  from  their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves  ! 

How  tenderly  pathetically  musical  he  can  be  you  have 
evidence  in  such  a  lay  as  that  on  Evelyn  Hope,  of  which 
these  are  the  first  and  last  stanzas : — 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  121 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour, 
That  is  her  bookshelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium  flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass  ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed  I  think  : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass, 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinges'  chink  ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  would  hold  ? 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So  hush,  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  ; 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand  ; 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep  ! 

Tou  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 

How  he  sometimes  can  give  you  a  pathetic  idea  more 
exquisitely  expressive  as  such  than  the  form  in  which  it  is 
conveyed  you  find  in  "  May  and  Death." 

I  wish  that  when  you  died  last  May, 

Charles,  there  had  died  along  with  you 
Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things  ; 

Ay,  and  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

A  foolish  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps  ! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening-ends. 

Only,  one  little  sight,  one  plant, 
Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 

Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 

Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between, — 

That,  they  might  spare  ;  a  certain  wood 

Might  miss  the  plant ;  their  loss  were  small  : 

But  I, — whene'er  the  leaf  grows  there, 
It*  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that's  all, 

Browning  was  unquestionably  a  musician  in  soul,  but 
something  at  times  came  between  thought  and  expression 
to  mar  the  artistic  form.  Like  all  true  poets  and  musicians, 
he  had  that  yearning  for  completeness  which  comes  of  the 


122  SO  ME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

consciousness  of  half  attained  results.  What  he  says  of 
the  musician  Abt  Vogler  he  doubtless  meant  for  himself. 
He  tells  us  how  that — 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist ; 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself  ;  no  beauty,  nor  good  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist 

When  eternity  affirms  this  conception  of  an  hour. 

The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky, 

Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard  ; 
Enough  that  he  heard  it  once  :  we  shall  hear  it  by-and-by. 

Though  in  such  poems  as  "  Saul "  there  is  often  a  fine 
rhythmical  chant,  it  must  be  confessed  that  in  the 
majority  of  Browning's  larger  efforts  the  lights  are 
broken,  the  expression  comes,  as  it  were,  stammeringly, 
and  the  music  is  disturbed  and  perplexed.  At  such 
times  the  poet's  soul  is — 

Like  an  ^Eolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes. 

JOHN  MORTIMER. 


A   POET'S   PARTING   GIFT. 

"  Mid  the  dark,  a  gleam 
Of  yet  another  morning  breaks, 
And  like  the  hand  which  ends  a  dream, 
Death,  with  the  might  of  his  sunbeam, 
Touches  the  flesh  and  the  soul  awakes." 

The  Flight  of  the  Duchess. 

On  the  morning  of  Thursday,  December  12th,  1889, 
was  given  to  the  world  a  small  volume  of  poems, 
gems  threaded  upon  one  string,  and  titled  "Asolando"; 
and  while  yet  the  world's  readers  were  eagerly  delighting 
in  the  gift,  their  pleasure  was  saddened  by  the  news 
flashed  on  the  same  evening  from  Venice  that  the  giver 
had  gone  "  the  way  of  the  roses." 

To  u  thoughtful  reader  of  Robert  Browning's  poems,  this 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  123 

circumstance  invests  this,  the  poet's  latest  and  last  work, 
with  a  pathetic  interest.  It  is  as  though  a  friend  giving  a 
token  should  be  taken  while  it  was  yet  warm  with  his  life- 
heat,  and  his  words  of  love  and  friendship  were  yet  tingling 
the  ears  of  the  receiver.  The  gift,  however  humble  in 
comparison  with  previous  ones,  would  still  be  valued  on 
account  of  the  circumstances  associated  with  it.  But, 
apart  from  these,  the  book  under  notice  is  not,  compared 
with  its  author's  earlier  work,  by  any  means  to  be  con- 
sidered humble.  If  it  is  not  an  advance  beyond  his 
highest  work,  it  is  in  no  sense  retrograde.  His  sign-manual 
is  upon  every  page,  and  the  writing  thereof  is  as  vigorous, 
bold,  earnest,  and  manly  as  it  hitherto  has  been.  He  has 
worked  with  an  energy  as  fiery  as  ever,  whose  very  fierce- 
ness probably  burnt  itself  out  while  it  was  yet  apparently 
strong;  for  the  volume  contains  no  mark  that  might 
signify,  even  to  any  one  knowing  the  writer's  physical  con- 
dition at  the  time,  that  it  was  to  be  his  last.  It  does  not 
lead  us  to  believe  that  he  had  retired — 

Apart 

With  the  hoarded  memories  of  the  heart, 
And  gathered  all  to  the  very  least 
Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast 
Let  fall  through  eagerness  to  find 
The  crowning  dainties  yet  behind. 

Indeed  the  Epilogue  seems  rather  to  hint  that  he  was  in 
the  midst  of  his  work. 

The  title  "Asolando"  is,  in  the  dedication  (dated  so 
recently  as  October  15th,  1889),  declared  to  be  taken  from 
a  late  Latin  word  "  Asolare  " — to  disport  in  the  open  air, 
amuse  one's-self  at  random ;  and  though,  to  a  man  with  u 
mind  as  incisive  as  was  Robert  Browning's,  the  poems  may 
be  amusement,  there  is  yet  much  in  them  that  requires 
thought,  and  thought  too  of  the  kind  that  he  insisted 
upon,  that  does  not  "allow  one  to  lie  on  a  couch  and 
smoke  meanwhile,"  as  he  once  said. 


124  SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING. 

He  begins  with  a  Prologue : — 

The  poet's  age  is  sad  :  for  why  ? 
In  youth,  the  natural  world  could  show 
No  common  object  but  his  eye 
At  once  involved  with  alien  glow — 
His  own  soul's  iris-bow. 

And  now  a  flower  is  just  a  flower  : 
Man,  bird,  beast  are  but  beast,  bird,  man — 
Simply  themselves,  uncinct  by  dower 
Of  dyes  which,  when  life's  day  began, 
Round  each  in  glory  ran. 

What  to  his  younger  eyes  was  a  fiery  bush  is  to  his  aged 
ones  still  a  bush — but  bare.  How  is  this  ?  Is  it  he  who 
sees  and  hears  wrongly  ? 

No,  for  the  purged  ear  apprehends 
Earth's  import,  not  the  eye  late  dazed  : 
The  voice  said  "  Call  my  works  thy  friends  ! 
At  Nature  dost  thou  shrink  amazed  ? 
God  is  it  who  transcends  ! " 

Then  follow  twenty-eight  short  poems  in  that  dramatic 
style,  the  alleged  ruggedness  and  obscurity  of  which  have 
been  productive  of  so  much  discussion.  There  are  stories 
of  love,  art,  music,  and  religion,  each  with  its  message  and 
its  clear  insight  into  motive.  Of  the  first  and  second 
"Beatrice  Signorini"  is  a  fine  example,  analogous  to 
"  Andrea  del  Sarto."  "  Flute  music  with  an  accompani- 
ment," very  suggestive,  too,  of  its  title,  is  a  poem  which 
will  rouse  the  ire  of  a  musician  whose  only  music  is  the 
classical — the  ultra-earthly  ;  for  it  is  a  plea  for  considera- 
tion for  those  who  have  learnt  enough  to  please  themselves 
and  their  friends  without  a  thought  of  what  the  masters 
can  accomplish.  "  The  Cardinal  and  the  Dog,"  "  The  Bean 
Feast,"  "The  Pope  and  the  Net,"  "Ponte  dell'  Angelo 
Venice,"  each  give  a  religious  experience,  with  its  reasons 
and  result.  For  simplicity,  sweetness,  and  passion  we  may 
turn  to  "  Humility." 


SOME  ASPECTS  OP  BROWNING.  125 

What  girl  but,  having  gathered  flowers, 
Stript  the  beds  and  spoilt  the  bowers, 
From  the  lapful  light  she  carries 
Drops  a  careless  bud  ? — nor  tarries 
To  regain  the  waif  and  stray  : 
"  Store  enough  for  home  " — she'll  say. 

So  say  I  too  :  give  your  lover 
Heaps  of  loving — under,  over, 
Whelm  him — make  the  one  the  wealthy ! 
Am  I  all  so  poor  who — stealthy 
Work  it  was  ! — picked  up  what  fell : 
Not  the  worst  bud — who  can  tell  ? 

And— 

A   PEARL,   A   GIRL. 

A  simple  ring  with  a  single  stone 
To  the  vulgar  eye  no  stone  of  price  : 
Whisper  the  right  word,  that  alone — 
Forth  starts  a  sprite,  like  fire  from  ice, 
And  lo,  you  are  lord  (says  an  Eastern  scroll) 
Of  heaven  and  earth,  lord  whole  and  sole 
Through  the  power  in  a  pearl. 

A  woman  ('tis  I  this  time  that  say) 

With  little  the  world  counts  worthy  praise  : 

Utter  the  true  word— out  and  away 

Escapes  her  soul :  I  am  wrapt  in  blaze, 

Creation's  lord,  of  heaven  and  earth 

Lord  whole  and  sole — by  a  minute's  birth — 

Through  the  love  in  a  girl  ! 

"  Muckle-mouth  Meg "  is  a  bright  and  spirited  version 
of  the  old  ballad,  and  we  have  a  shaft  of  satire  at  vivisec- 
tion in  "Arcades  Ambo,"  and  another  at  the  slaughter  of 
birds  for  dress  purposes  in  "  The  Lady  and  the  Painter," 
which  glances  in  its  flight  on  the  "  British  Matron." 

The  last  poem  in  the  book  is  "  Reverie,"  in  which  the 
poet  from  his  age  looked  back  and  pondered  (as  he  sang 

in  an  early  poem) : — 

On  the  entire  past 
Laid  together  thus  at  laat 
When  the  twilight  help*  to  fuse 
The  first  fresh  with  the  faded  hue*, 
And  the  outline  of  the  whole 
Grandly  fronts  for  once  the  soul. 


126  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  BROWNING. 

And  after  considering  his  life  and  the  conflict  of  what  is 
called  good,  and  what  is  called  evil,  he  concluded  thus — 

Then  life  is — to  wake  not  sleep, 

Rise  and  not  rest,  but  press 
From  earth's  level  where  blindly  creep 

Things  perfected,  more  or  less, 
To  the  heaven's  height,  far  and  steep, 

Where,  amid  what  strifes  and  storms 

May  wait  the  adventurous  quest, 
Power  is  Love — transports,  transforms 

Who  aspired  from  worst  to  best, 
Sought  the  soul's  world,  spurned  the  worms'. 

I  have  faith  such  end  shall  be  : 

From  the  first,  Power  was — I  knew. 
Life  has  made  clear  to  me 

That,  strive  but  for  closer  view, 
Love  were  as  plain  to  see. 

When  see  ?    When  there  dawns  a  day, 

If  not  on  the  homely  earth, 
Then  yonder,  worlds  away, 

Where  the  strange  and  new  have  birth, 
And  Power  comes  full  in  play. 

A  fitting  farewell  to  earth  by  the  poet,  whose  new  day  has 
dawned,  and  who  rests,  as  he  has  worked — under  the  hand 

of  God. 

EDMUND  MERCER. 


AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE. 

BY   ALFRED  EDMESTON. 

OF  late  within  a  wood  I  strayed, 
What  time  rich  autumn  tints  abound ; 
The  yellow  leaves  bestrew  the  ground, 
And  silent  all  the  darkening  glade. 

Without,  no  reapers'  voices  ring, 
Filling  the  fields  with  cheerful  din, 
For  harvest  safe  is  garnered  in ; 

Mute  are  the  brooks,  "and  no  birds  sing." 

And  all  about  is  still  as  death, 

Save  tap  of  leaves  that  shivering  fall, 
As  though  they  felt  their  snowy  pall, 

Or  hast'ning  Winter's  icy  breath. 

It  is  that  hour  we  vainly  flee, 
When  all  the  past  comes  surging  in, 
With  all  the  mighty  Might-have-been 

That  is  not,  and  shall  never  be. 

And  thus  I  muse  disconsolate 

On  love,  and  friends  beyond  recall, 
On  creeping  age,  the  stirring  call 

To  worthy  deeds,  and  all  my  fate. 


128  AN  AUTUMN  REVERIE. 

Oh  withered  leaves !  Oh  withered  lives ! 

What  contrast  here,  what  parallel ! 

The  leaves,  though  sere,  are  lovely  still, 
Whilst  I — what  beauty  here  survives. 

Oh  fruitless  days  !  Oh  wasted  powers ! 
How  rankling  is  your  memory  here, 
Where  harvest  glads  the  ageing  year 

With  plenteous  fruits  of  golden  hours. 

What  sadder  irony  than  this 

On  man's  vain-glory  in  his  mind — 
That  Nature's  self  shall  quell  and  bind, 

The  earth  subdue  and  make  it  his — 

That  Nature,  working,  through  a  clod 
Lacking  e'en  instinct  of  the  beast, 
Still  ever  at  her  harvest  feast 

Lays  the  meet  sheaves  before  her  God ; 

And  man,  with  high  volition  crowned — 
Promethean  fire  from  heaven  rapt — 
In  idlesse  or  vain  dreamings  lapped , 

His  harvest  rotting  all  around ! 

Or  he — if  not  of  those  who  sit 
Languid  'neath  Pleasure's  soft  caress — 
Content  perforce  with  half-success, 

Or  o'er  his  work  sees  "  Failure  "  writ ! 

Oh  wasted  powers !  Oh  shame  and  grief ! 
That  Nature  working  through  a  clod 
Her  kindly  fruits  pours  on  the  sod, 

And  I  bring  not  a  single  sheaf. 

Yet  let  not  vain  regrets  deride, 

The  puissant  mind,  man's  noblest  dower ; 
It  is  a  gift  of  highest  power, 

And  He  who  gave  it  still  can  guide. 


AN  AUTUMN  REVERIE.  129 

The  Will,  with  might  supreme  impress'd, 
No  'prentice  hand  unskilled  can  wield ; 
E'en  Nature's  self  at  last  shall  yield 

Obedience  to  its  high  behest. 

Yet  hath  her  voice  some  notes  of  glee 
Man's  troubled  soul  with  Hope  to  thrill ; 
And  I  would  fain  that  Hope  distill 

To  dream  on,  if  nought  else  may  be. 

These  shrivelled  leaves  that  crumbling  lie, 
As  seasons  roll  shall  change  to  store 
Of  living  sap  for  some  bright  flower 

That  lifts  to  heaven  its  radiant  eye. 

So  though  I  bring  no  garnered  grain, 
And  many  wasted  hours  regret, 
Some  kindly  hearts  may  bless  me  yet, 

Nor  deem  my  life  lived  all  in  vain. 


THE     PHILOSOPHY    IN    LEVER'S 
"BARRINGTON." 

BY   EDGAE  ATTKINS. 

T)HILOSOPHY,  like  orange-peel,  is  often  stumbled 
•*-  upon  unexpectedly.  The  result  from  either  agency 
is  similar — a  sudden  change  in  the  immediately  precedent 
chain  of  thought.  In  the  garden  of  literature  fiction  is  as 
plentiful  as  grass  in  the  field.  Although,  in  consequence 
of  its  vast  quantity,  it  may  be  of  small  intrinsic  value,  the 
soil  which  it  hides  is  as  likely  to  contain  earth's  most 
precious  gems,  as  is  that  of  the  choicest  flowers  or  the 
grandest  oaks. 

Lever  will,  doubtless,  always  be  classed  as  a  prolific 
writer  of  "ordinary  fiction."  To  demonstrate  that  he  was 
a  philosopher,  entitled  to  rank  with  Carlyle,  Emerson, 
Spencer,  and  Kant,  is  a  task  not  here  undertaken  or 
designed. 

Unfortunately,  for  the  permanence  of  his  fame,  he  did 
not  possess  transcendental  haze — a  gift  confined  to 
those  really  great  authors  who  begin  to  write  on  a  subject, 
forget  what  it  is,  and  continue  writing.  So  his  fiction  is 
clear ;  so  intelligible  in  fact  that  it  is  needless  to  make  a  study 
of  several  other  volumes  (of  diverse  conclusions)  as  a  prepa- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  7A  LEVER'S  "  BARRINOTON."          131 

ration  to  the  understanding  of  one  of  his.  Readers  are  not 
told  that  "  with  action  appropriate  were  cast  earth's  sable 
jewels  to  the  cremative  blast,"  but  merely  that  fresh  coals 
were  put  in  the  stove.  How  disappointing  to  those  who 
deem  haze  only  entitled  to  worship,  and  the  power  of  clear 
and  graphic  expression  unworthy  of  cultivation.  This 
intelligibility  is  a  grave  error  of  judgment  on  the  author's 
part ;  it  excludes  him  from  any  possibility  of  taking  rank 
amongst  poets,  whether  of  the  prose  or  verse  order. 
To-day  it  is  idle  to  expect  such  rank,  unless  an  author  be 
able  to  produce  a  comprehensive  but  incomprehensible 
chaotic  combination  of  caliginous  chords  completely  con- 
founding commentators. 

But,  whilst  disclaiming  any  intention  of  unduly  exalting 
Lever,  it  is  proposed  by  an  examination  of  his  novel, 
"  Barrington,"  to  try  to  show  that  he  had  in  his  own 
character  a  true  vein  of  sound  philosophy. 

In  the  work  the  author  frequently  speaks  of  the 
"temperament"  of  his  characters,  seemingly  using  the 
term  in  contra-distinction  to  character,  and  rightly  so. 
Temperament,  it  is  conceived,  is  the  predisposing  influence 
which  impels  those  actions  and  thoughts  which  demonstrate 
character.  It  is  the  fuel ;  character  is  the  fire  it  produces. 
By  an  inverse  process  of  analysis  character  may  be  regarded 
as  the  actions  which  prove  the  temperament,  though,  to  the 
casual  observer,  they  may  seem  in  direct  opposition  to  itt 
Here  is  an  instance  in  Lever's  words :  "  Gambling  .  .  . 
is  not  the  vice  of  cold,  selfish,  and  sordid  men,  but  of 
warm,  rash,  sometimes  over-generous  temperaments.  .  .  . 
The  professional  playman  is,  of  all  others,  .  .  .  least 
of  a  gamester  in  his  heart;  his  superiority  lying  in  the 
simple  fact  that  his  passions  are  never  engaged,  his  interest 
never  stir: 

Every  one  will  agree  that  "in  all  our  moral  chemistry 


132  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  "  BARRINGTON." 

we  have  never  yet  hit  upon  an  antidote  to  a  chilling 
reception."  Perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  it  is  the 
accident  of  temperament.  Thus  a  person  of  feeble 
perceptive  power  may  call  at  a  friend's  house,  and, 
although  shown  into  a  cold  room  without  being  asked  to 
sit  down,  he  will  remain  for  an  hour  providing  the  whole 
of  the  conversation,  regardless  of  the  most  violent  rattling 
of  crockery  in  an  adjoining  room.  The  same  person  bears 
himself  well  in  the  converse  case  of  a  genial  reception 
under  a  misapprehension.  Some  few  months  ago  a  man 
called  at  a  house  in  the  suburbs  of  Manchester  and  inquired 
for  the  master.  He  was  out :  the  inquirer  was  asked  in  : 

time  passed,  but  Mr. did  not  appear.     The  caller  was 

invited  to  a  glass  of  ale  which,  not  liking  to  seem  unappre- 

ciative,  was  accepted.     Still  Mr. tarried.    The  supper 

hour  approached ;  the  waiting  guest  was  asked  to  join  the 
family  board.  His  compliant  nature  yielded,  and  his 
appetite,  no  doubt,  did  yeoman  service  in  a  manner  indica- 
tive of  a  stomach  at  work  and  a  mind  at  rest.  Supper  was 
barely  finished  ere  Mr.  — . —  got  home,  to  receive  from  the 
stranger  within  his  gates  a  document  containing  a  pious 
reference  to  the  Grace  of  God,  vulgarly  called  a  writ. 

It  is  a  pleasant  reflection  for  that  portion  of  mankind — 
probably  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  us — who  are  wanting  in 
any  distinguishing  ability  that  that  is,  in  itself,  a  recom- 
mendation, if  not  for  the  world's  respect,  at  least  for  its 
goodwill.  We  seldom  hear  of  a  genius  being  a  capital 
fellow  to  go  away  from  home  with,  to  fetch  into  your  house 
if  the  water  pipe  bursts,  or  to  take  a  basin  of  beef  tea  to 
your  servant's  sick  mother  when  the  daughter  is  wanted 
because  company  is  coming.  Lever  depicts  a  man  of  firm 
and  commanding  disposition — without  which,  in  its  proper 
sphere,  it  is  not  likely  much  will  be  accomplished — and 
remarks,  "  It  is  a  fact,  and  not  a  very  agreeable  fact  either, 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVER'S  " BARRINQTON."          133 

that  a  man  with  a  mass  of  noble  qualities  may  fail  to 
attract  that  kindliness  and  good  feeling  towards  himself 
which  a  far  less  worthy  individual,  merely  by  certain  traits, 
or  by  the  semblance  of  them,  of  a  yielding,  passive  nature, 
is  almost  sure  to  acquire." 

Critics,  competent  and  otherwise,  dispute  perennially  the 
proper  estimate  to  be  placed  on  distinguished  men ;  it  is 
generally  supposed  this  dispute  is  without  end,  and  there- 
fore that  it  bears  some  resemblance  to  a  guinea-pig.  Lever 
solves  it  very  simply — "  The  price  a  man  puts  on  himself 
is  the  very  highest  penny  the  world  will  ever  bid  for  him ; 
he'll  not  always  get  that,  but  he'll  never — no  never,  get  a 
farthing  beyond  it."  No  doubt  there  is  much  truth  in  this, 
but  as  for  the  vast  majority  of  us,  there  is  "no  offer"  in 
the  world's  auction,  we  are  irresistibly  forced  to  the  con- 
clusion that  there  must  be  an  immense  stock  of  lumber,  not 
likely  to  be  decreased,  in  a  world,  seemingly  but  a  nursery, 
in  which  it  is  terrible  to  contemplate  that  no  suggestion  to 
restrict  the  output  is  ever  heard. 

There  is  a  type  of  man,  whose  mouth,  when  not  engaged 
in  the  dental  prologue  to  nutrition,  operates  only  as  an  au- 
tomatic sluice-gate  for  the  emission  of  floods  of  capital  "I's." 
He  is  called  an  egotist.  Excluding  him,  there  is,  amongst  men 
generally,  not  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  with  the  gifts,  if  any, 
which  they  may  possess,  but  rather  a  desire  that  some- 
thing were  added.  The  consciousness  of  the  power  of  verse 
may  be  accompanied  with  a  contemporaneous  deep  regret 
for  the  absence  of  music,  song,  or  painting.  This  feeling 
is  necessary  ;  otherwise  each  possessor  of  one  talent  would 
be  wrapped  up  in  the  proud  satisfaction  it  might  afford 
him,  and  it  would  preclude  striving  after  anything  further, 
leading  to  that  process  of  decay  which  is  the  punishment 
of  inertia  in  a  life  in  which  there  is  ever  present  constant 
indicia  of  the  necessity  for  progress.  The  feeling  is  an 
10 


334  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVER'S  "  BARRINQTON." 

outcome  of  a  well-known  law,  of  which  Lever  says  "  there 
is  a  law  of  compensation  even  for  the  small  things  of  this 
life,  and,  by  the  wise  enactments  of  that  law,  human  hap- 
piness, on  the  whole,  is  pretty  equally  distributed.  The 
rich  man,  probably,  never  felt  one  tithe  of  the  enjoyment 
in  his  noble  demesne  that  it  yielded  to  some  poor  artisan, 
who  strolled  through  it  on  a  holiday,  and  tasted  at  once 
the  charm  of  a  woodland  scene  with  all  the  rapturous  de- 
light of  a  day  of  rest."  The  concluding  lines  of  the 
foregoing  passage  suggest  a  curious  inconsistency.  A 
marked  characteristic  of  the  day  is  its  philanthropy, 
individual  and  vicarious — chiefly  the  latter.  Amongst 
the  numerous  persons  so  placed  that  no  trade  difficulty 
(unless  it  relates  to  gas)  can  inconvenience  them,  who 
are  ever  ready  to  foment  labour  disputes,  how  few 
there  are  who  would  permit  the  workmen  to  walk  through 
their  grounds  on  Sunday.  When  they  quote  the  Fourth 
Commandment  one  feels  that  their  piety  is  as  fixed  as  are 
the  colours  of  the  chameleon.  Surely  for  them,  Lever 
wrote,  "  It  is  marvellous  how  quickly  a  kind  action,  done  to 
another,  reconciles  a  man  to  himself.  Doubtless,  con- 
science, at  such  times,  condescends  to  play  the  courtier,, 
and  whispers  '  What  a  good  fellow  you  are  !  and  how  unjust 
the  world  is  when  it  calls  you  cold,  and  haughty,  and 
ungenial ! ' ' 

Lever  seems  to  have  had  a  very  cordial  dislike  to  the 
masculine  woman — the  pet  "vertical  dromedary"  of  the 
present  day — for  he  makes  one  of  his  characters  say— 
"Manly  young  ladies  are  the  hardiest  things  in  nature. 
They  are  as  insensible  to  danger  as  they  are  to— 
"shame,"  added  the  lady  referred  to.  Judged  by  his 
writings,  he  was  not  wanting  in  admiration  of  the  sex ; 
but  probably,  whilst  approving  the  advancement  of  woman 
in  every  possible  way,  he  would  have  carefully  avoided 
transforming  man  from  her  protector  to  her  rival. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  "  BARRING  TON."         135 

There  can  hardly  be  any  doubt  as  to  the  side  on  which 
he  would  be  ranged  on  the  recently  mooted  question 
"  Shall  women  smoke  ? "  If  a  merely  manly  woman  were 
so  objectionable  to  him,  how  would  he  have  contemplated 
a  smoking  mother,  rocking  her  infant  and  ever  and  anon 
stopping  to  spit  over  its  cradle  ?  From  cigarettes  to 
"  churchwardens  "  is  not  a  very  far  cry. 

Just  as  the  grass  of  Spring  hides  the  fallen  leaves  of  the 
previous  Autumn,  new  desires,  provoked  by  fresh  impres- 
sions on  the  eye  or  the  ear,  are  incessantly  crowding  out 
their  predecessors.  For  the  time  they  may  have  given 
such  enjoyment  that  one  may  be  disposed  to  believe  that 
long  desired  content  has  come.  A  house  may  have  been 
taken  that  is  everything  wished,  whilst  its  situation  pre- 
cludes hope  of  improvement.  A  visit  to  a  neighbour,  resi- 
dent five  minutes'  walk  away,  annihilates  all  the  charm 
previously  experienced.  The  former  content  becomes  an 
unbearable  desire  to  acquire  your  host's  house.  Your  own 
ceases  to  charm ;  the  mind  busies  itself  with  wondering  if 
there  be  a  mortgage  on  his  premises,  and  if  the  interest  is 
in  arrear.  The  neatly  kept  walks  and  faultless  glass-houses, 
indicative  of  the  absence  of  pecuniary  embarrassment, 
have  no  power  to  please. 

Pleasure  is  far  less  lasting,  and  incomparably  more  brittle, 
than  pain.  Of  this  Lever  must  have  been  acutely  conscious 
to  write  "  Have  you  never  felt  ...  in  gazing  on  some 
fair  landscape,  with  mountain,  and  stream,  and  forest 
before  you,  that  the  scene  was  perfect,  wanting  nothing  in 
form,  or  tone,  or  colour,  till  suddenly  a  flash  of  strong 
_rht  from  behind  a  cloud  lit  up  some  spot  with  a 
glorious  lustre,  to  fade  away  as  quickly  into  the  cold  tint 
it  had  worn  before — have  you  not  felt  then  that  the  picture 
had  lost  its  marvellous  attraction,  and  that  the  very  soul 
of  its  beauty  had  departed  ?  In  vain  you  try  to  recall  the 


136  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVER'S  "  BARRING  TON." 

past  impression ;  your  memory  will  mourn  over  the  lost, 
and  refuse  to  be  comforted.  And  so  it  is  often  in  life.  The 
momentary  charm  that  came  unexpectedly  can  become  all 
in  all  to  our  imaginations,  and  its  departure  leave  a  blank, 
like  a  death,  behind  it." 

This  passage  is  full  of  philosophic  thought.  The 
equally  balanced  power  of  the  mind,  for  the  reception 
of  pleasant  impressions  and  the  reverse,  is  aptly  illus- 
trated. The  complete,  and,  for  the  moment,  supposed 
perfect  beauty  of  the  scene,  then  the  bursting  of  the  sun- 
light upon  it,  instantly  sweeping  away  the  lesser  pleasure  of 
the  preceding  second,  and  holding  the  gaze  spellbound,  the 
equally  rapid  withdrawal  of  the  light,  transforming  that 
which  had  been  a  source  of  pleasure  into  a  mere  shadow- 
land — a  veritable  graveyard  of  memory,  is  all  impressibly 
put.  The  exhilarating  effect  entirely  destroyed,  the  spirits, 
perhaps  set  in  a  lower  key  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  the  mind, 
unwilling  to  lose  its  hold  of  the  picture,  vainly  goading  the 
memory  to  recall  the  past  impression ;  the  brief  limit  of 
the  period  of  pleasure,  the  far  more  prolonged  one  of 
regret ;  then  too,  the  emphatic  nature  of  the  mental  blank, 
"  like  a  death,"  all  these  are  forcibly  suggested. 

Lever  must  have  been  keenly  sensitive  to  disappoint- 
ment to  write  "  the  memory  of  our  happiest  moments  ought 
ever  to  be  of  the  very  faintest  and  weakest,  since,  could  we 
recall  them  in  all  their  fulness  and  freshness,  the  recollec- 
tion would  only  serve  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  age,  and 
embitter  all  its  daily  trials.  Nor  is  it,  altogether,  a  question 
of  memory  !  It  is  in  the  very  essence  of  happiness  to  be 
indescribable.  Who  could  impart  in  words  the  simple 
pleasure  he  has  felt  as  he  lay  day-dreaming  in  the  deep 
grass,  lulled  by  the  humming  insect,  or  the  splash  of  falling 
water,  with  teeming  fancy  peopling  the  space  around,  and 
blending  the  possible  with  the  actual  ?  The  more  exquisite 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  AV  LEVERS  "  BARRINOTON."          137 

the  sense  of  enjoyment,  the  more  it  will  defy  delineation." 
With  much  of  this  there  is  no  disposition  to  quarrel. 
But  are  we  prepared  to  concede  that  "  the  memory  of  our 
happiest  moments  ought  ever  to  be  of  the  very  faintest  "  ? 
There  is  a  marked  distinction  between  the  recollection  of 
a  good  dinner  and  that  of  a  happy  event.  The  sensation 
of  the  former  is  probably  pathological,  and  so  unpleasant. 
The  exact  converse  is  true  of  the  latter.  Recalling  happy 
memories  is  itself  the  reproduction  of  happiness.  Imme- 
diately the  mind  ceases  to  be  concentrated  on  the  accom- 
plishment of  some  additional  object  it  turns  its  marvellous 
cylinder — memory ;  the  pleasure  of  so  doing  is  propor- 
tionate to  the  brightness  of  the  scenes  there  graven.  A 
life  with  an  ample  reserve  fund  of  accumulated  pleasure 
is — if  a  paradox  may  be  allowed — much  further  from  joyful 
bankruptcy  than  one  in  the  contrary  condition.  It  may  be 
objected  that  a  fall  to  a  lower  position  may  be  embittered 
by  the  remembrance  of  former  greatness.  No  doubt ;  but 
in  that  case,  it  is  not  the  possession  of  the  good  storehouse 
which  produces  the  unhappiness,  but  the  fear  that  it  is 
unlikely  to  be  further  replenished.  That  man's  state  is 
truly  lamentable  to  whom  at  every  reverie — 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  "  his  "  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

Probably  none  will  dispute  the  indescribability  of  plea- 
sure. It  is  doubtful  if  any  can  ever  be  exactly  repro- 
duced— a  circumstance  which  adds  greatly  to  its  piquancy. 
Every  reproduction  differs  in  its  degree.  If  incapable 
of  exact  reproduction,  how  much  more  of  absolutely 
accurate  description. 

The  absence  of  the  power  of  imaginative  memory 
is,  in  Lever's  judgment,  not  without  compensation. 
Ho  remarks  "for  the  true  luxury  of  idleness  there  is 
nothing  like  the  temperament  devoid  of  fancy.  There  is 


138  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  "  BARRINGTON." 

a  grand  breadth  about  those  quiet  peaceful  minds  over 
which  no  shadows  flit,  and  which  can  find  sufficient  occu- 
pation through  the  senses,  and  never  have  to  go  "within" 
for  their  resources.  These  men  can  sit  the  livelong  day 
and  watch  the  tide  break  over  a  rock,  or  see  the  sparrow 
teach  her  young  to  fly,  or  gaze  on  the  bee  as  he  dives  into 
the  deep  cup  of  the  foxglove,  and  actually  need  no  more 
to  fill  the  hours.  For  them  there  is  no  memory  with  its 
dark  byegones ;  there  is  no  looming  future  with  its  possible 
misfortunes;  there  is  simply  a  half-sleepy  present,  with 
soft  sounds  and  sweet  odours  through  it — a  balmy  kind 
of  stupor,  from  which  the  awakening  comes  without  a 
shock." 

That  is  the  type  of  man  who  will  have  a  hansom,  ready 
at  the  door,  to  take  him  to  the  cricket  match  immediately 
on  the  termination  of  a  meeting  of  his  creditors;  a  man  of 
sincere  though  brief  religious  creed — dum  spiro  spero. 

Dr.  Dill,  one  of  Barrington's  neighbours,  says  sarcasti- 
cally:  "How  I  like  to  hear  about  hope.  I  never  knew  a 
fellow  worth  sixpence  that  had  that  cant  of  '  hope  *  in  his 
mouth."  It  will  not  be  supposed  the  doctor  alludes  to  hope 
in  the  sense  of  belief  in  ultimately  succeeding  ;  it  would  be 
idle  to  suggest  that  anyone  would  go  from  Joppa  to  Jericho 
in  the  fixed  belief  that  his  destination  had  already  been 
destroyed  by  an  earthquake,  or  begin  to  build  a  house 
having  no  hope  it  would  be  possible  to  get  bricks  for  it ; 
but  the  sanguine,  hope-overloaded  being,  who  sits  in  the 
highway  of  life,  with  the  "madding  crowd"  ever  pressing  by 
him,  content  to  "  hope  "  that  a  railway  is  sure  to  be  made 
to  take  him  to  his  desired  goal,  is  certain  ultimately  to 
become  a  repulsive  excrescence  on  his  friends — a  veritable 
parasite.  Sooner  or  later  he  descends  to,  and  is  regarded 
as  a  godsend  by,  the  philanthropists.  But  they  are  a 
singular  lot,  and  (exclusive  of  many  most  honourable 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  "  BARRINGTON."  139 

exceptions)  are  either  crafty  gratuitous  self-advertisers,  or 
individuals  with  hearts  of  milk  and  brains  of  the  con- 
sistency of  butter  when  exposed  to  the  heat  of  the  summer 
sun.  Hope,  though  it  animates  the  resolute  and  ener- 
getic, is  never  by  them  permitted  to  usurp  action,  not- 
withstanding that  it  "  springs  eternal  in  the  human 
breast." 

"What  is  easily  acquired  is  little  valued"  is  a  trite 
observation.  A  generally  accepted  standard  of  value  is  the 
price  paid  for  possession.  Arguing  upon  that  hypothesis, 
evidence  is  not  wanting  that  Lever  paid  his  lawyer  very 
small  fees,  else  he  would  not  have  written,  "  I'd  rather 
have  the  unbought  judgment  of  a  shrewd  man  of  the  world 
than  a  score  of  opinions  based  upon  the  quips  and  cranks 
of  an  attorney's  instructions."  That  may  be  all  very  well, 
but  what  becomes  of  the  "  shrewd  man  of  the  world  "  when 
opposed  to  another  "  shrewd  man  of  the  world,"  plus 
attorney  ? 

The  reference  to  shrewdness,  a  compound  of  foresight 
and  common  sense,  reminds  one  that  the  latter  quality  has 
never  been  attributed  to  any  source.  If  a  man  have  eleven 
starving  children,  and  another  expected  ;  if  a  drunken 
engine  driver  wreck  a  train ;  if  the  mother  of  six  babes  go 
to  the  theatre  dressed  in  a  partial  negation  of  clothes,  take 
cold,  and  die,  each  atrocity  is  beplastered  upon  a  much 
maligned  Providence,  which,  if  the  attribution  were  not 
utterly  unjustifiable,  would  seem  to  be  guided  by  imbecility. 
Who  ever  heard  common  sense  attributed  to  the  same 
source  ? 

What's  in  a  name  ?  Hot-pot  by  any  other  cognomen 
would  be  equally  indigestible!  Persistent  adherence  in 
a  course  of  action  is  called  by  those  who  approve  it  perse- 
verance, obstinacy  by  those  who  disapprove.  He  who  goes 
on  his  own  way  without  consulting  any  one  is  certain  to 


140  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVER'S  "HARRINGTON." 

gather  a  few  unfavourable  critics ;  yet  he  is  the  most 
likely  to  achieve  success.  "  Men  of  a  strong  temperament," 
says  Lever,  "  and  with  a  large  share  of  self-dependence, 
generally  get  credit  from  the  world  for  obstinacy,  just 
because  the  road  they  see  out  of  difficulties  is  not  the  popular 
one."  The  truth  of  this  is  demonstrated  daily.  The  spirit 
which  ridiculed  Jonas  Hanway  and  his  umbrella  and 
opposed  railways  is  not  yet  dead  ;  incidents  from  time  to- 
time  arising  force  the  conclusion  that  it  is  an  ingrained 
part  of  human  nature  much  comforted  by  the  reflection 
that— 

'Tis  well  the  sun  and  moon  are  placed  so  high, 

Or  some  reforming  ass, 

To  light  the  world  with  gas, 
Would  pull  them  from  the  sky. 

There  are  many  objects  in  Nature  the  benefits  of  the- 
existence  of  which  are  not  apparent  on  the  first  view.  It 
has  been  said  that,  like  potatoes,  there  is  every  year  a 
fresh  crop  of  fools.  Can  there  be  any  good  in  them  ? 
Certainly.  Is  not  the  result  of  the  deliberations  of  a  body 
of  men,  individually  fools,  "  collective  wisdom  "  ?  It  is 
asserted  that  men  are  all  fools.  As  if  that  were  not  suf- 
ficiently humiliating,  one  admitted  authority,  speaking  in 
that  state  of  hurry  which  is  so  favourable  to  the  incautious- 
escape  of  truth,  said  "  All  men  are  liars." 

The  numerous  chained  ex-cupids  who  some  time  since 
slipped  their  matrimonial  muzzles  and  prejudicially  inter- 
fered with  the  interest  taken  in  the  money  market  column 
of  the  Daily  Telegraph,  would  have  seized  with  avidity  on 
the  following  passage : — 

Colonel  Hunter  finding  Mrs.  Dill  reading  "Clarissa, 
Harlowe,"  an  edition  seemingly  in  nine  volumes,  says: 
"  Take  my  word  for  it,  madam,  nobody  could  spare 
time  nowadays  to  make  love  in  nine  volumes.  Life's 
too  short  for  it."  ....  "Ay,  ay,"  croaked  Major 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  " EARRINQTON."          141 

McCormick  ;  "  marry  in  haste  " — "  Or  "  (interposed  Hunter) 
"repent  that  you  didn't.  That's  the  true  meaning  of 
the  adage."  "The  major"  (remarked  Miss  Dill)  "would 
rather  apply  leisure  to  the  marriage,  and  make  the  repent- 
ance come  " — "  As  soon  as  possible  afterwards,"  said  Miss 
Dinah,  tartly. 

If  it  be  true,  as  Shakespeare  writes,  that  "  Love  is  a  smoke 
raised  with  the  fumes  of  sighs,"  it  is  a  mournful  scientific 
truth  that  the  outcome  of  nine  volumes  of  fumes  would  more 
probably  be  an  inquest  than  a  wedding  cake.  The  problem 
of  the  cure  of  this  amorous  "smoke  nuisance"  has  exercised 
many  minds.  Miss  Dill,  whom  Colonel  Hunter  "  held  in 
solution,"  by  a  casual  remark  went  a  long  way  towards 
solving  it.  Speaking  of  her,  Hunter  says:  "We  were 
parting — a  rather  soft  bit  of  parting,  too — and  I  said 
something  about  my  coming  back  with  a  wooden  leg,  and 
she  said,  '  No !  have  it  of  cork,  they  make  them  so  cleverly 
now.' "  We  may  infer  that,  as  he  went  on  his  way,  he  said 
to  himself: — 

Tis  sad  to  know  that  woman's  heart 

So  oft  is  cold  and  cruel, 
And  what  should  be  her  warmest  part 

Is  but  an  icy  jewel. 

Judged  by  "Barrington"  alone,  Lever  does  not  appear 
to  be  a  very  subtle  analyst  of  character,  but  he  certainly 
did  not  overlook  the  fact  that,  as  an  old  Derry  woman 
remarked  to  him,  "It  takes  a'  kind  o'  folk  to  mak'  a  world, 
and  that  amongst  them  are  those  singular  beings  whose 
chief  delight  is  to  make  themselves  miserable.  The  amuse- 
ment has  one  point  in  its  favour,  which  will  commend  it  to 
political  economists, — it  is  cheap. 

Colonel  Hunter  and  Major  McCormick  travelled  together 
on  a  jaunting  car.  After  ten  miles  of  silence,  Hunter  (an 
Englishman)  remarked  to  his  companion,  "  Splendid  road; 
one  of  the  best  I  ever  travelled  on.' 


142  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  "  BARRINQTON." 

11  Why  wouldn't  it  be,  when  they  can  assess  the  county 
for  it?" 

"  It's  a  fine  country,  and  abounds  in  handsome  places." 

"  And  well  mortgaged,  too,  the  most  of  them." 

"  One  might  imagine  himself  in  England.' 

"  So  he  might  for  the  matter  of  taxes.  I  don't  see  much 
difference." 

Happily  Lever  did  not  pursue  the  conversation  very 
much  further,  or  it  might  have  terminated  like  a  hitherto 
unrecorded  one — "  Go  to  the  devil — "  "  Sir,  I  do  not  wish 
to  meet  you  again.'1 

In  the  struggle  for  existence  the  victor  often  finds  his 
crown  painful  to  wear.  Hunter  had  just  been  appointed 
to  supersede  an  old  friend.  His  situation  gave  rise  to  the 
following : — "  There  are  few  more  painful  situations  in  life 
than  to  find  our  advancement — the  long  wished  and  strived 
for  promotion — achieved  at  the  cost  of  some  dearly-loved 
friend ;  to  know  that  our  road  to  fortune  has  led  us  across 
the  figure  of  an  old  comrade,  and  that  he  who  would  have 
been  the  first  to  hail  our  success  is  already  bewailing  his 
own  defeat." 

Strong  physical  courage  is  often  co-existent  with  extreme 
sensitiveness.  The  novelist  admirably  describes  that  con- 
dition. "  That  combination  of  high-heartedness  and  bash- 
fulness,  a  blended  temerity  and  timidity — by  no  means 
an  uncommon  temperament — renders  a  man's  position  in 
the  embarrassments  of  life  one  of  downright  suffering. 
There  are  operators  who  feel  the  knife  more  sensitively 
than  the  patients.  Few  know  what  torments  such  men 
conceal  under  a  manner  of  seeming  slap-dash  and  care- 
lessness." 

Easy  confidence  and  real  ability  are  not   necessarily 
allied.     There  is  none  more  confident  than  he  whose  intel- 
igence  is  not  sufficient  to  show  him  his  own  unfitness. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  "  BARRINQTON."          143 

Necessity  is  the  mother  of  Invention,  but  Desire  never 
appears  to  have  had  the  advantage  of  a  parental  relation. 
Barrington  and  his  man  Darby  were  engaged  selecting 
an  outfit  for  the  former,  who  was  about  to  go  abroad. 
"  Them's  elegant  black  satin  breeches,"  said  Darby,  whose 
eyes  of  covetousness  were  actually  rooted  on  the  object  of  his 
desire.  This  leads  the  novelist  to  remark,  "  the  total  un- 
suitability  to  his  condition  of  any  object  seems  rather  to 
enhance  its  virtue  in  the  eyes  of  a  lower  Irishman,  and  a 
hat  or  a  coat,  which  he  could  not,  by  any  possibility,  wear 
in  public,  might  still  be  to  him  things  to  covet  and 
desire."  Is  this  correct  ?  Is  not  the  true  inference  that 
desire  is  provoked,  as  Kant  would  say,  without  any  regard 
to  a  posteriori  considerations  ?  The  passage  serves  to 
emphasise  a  marked  difference  between  the  way  in  which 
the  English  and  the  Irish  estimate  their  lower  orders. 
The  former,  when  antagonistic,  will  describe  the  de- 
mocracy as  shams  and  humbugs.  Those  terms  indicate 
anger,  and,  therefore,  that  credit  is  given  for  some  degree 
of  intelligence,  for  although  a  man  may  quarrel  with  his 
man-servant  or  his  maid-servant,  or  even  his  wife,  he  would 
not  do  so  with  his  ox  or  his  ass ;  but  the  upper  Irish  often 
seem  to  regard  their  own  "  lower  orders  "  more  as  quadru- 
peds than  as  beings  similar  to  themselves,  and  apparently 
treat  them  with  scornful  pity. 

We  are  very  prone  to  think  ourselves  courageous  if  we 
pursue  a  course  of  action  which  we  know  will  meet  with 
general  disapproval.  "  It's  all  brag — all  nonsense,"  says 
Colonel  Hunter.  "  The  very  effrontery  with  which  you  fancy 
you  are  braving  public  opinion  is  only  Dutch  courage. 
What  each  of  us  in  his  heart  thinks  of  himself  is  only  the 
reflex  of  the  world's  estimate  of  him — at  least,  what  he 
imagines  it  to  be.  ...  If  you  want  the  concentrated 
essence  of  public  opinion,  you  have  only  to  do  something 


144  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  " BARR1NGTON." 

which  shall  irritate  and  astonish  the  half  dozen  people 
with  whom  you  live  in  intimacy." 

True  enough.  There  is  no  need  to  go  abroad  for  public 
opinion.  Let  any  one  who  thinks  he  can  paint,  and  wants 
to  test  opinion,  submit  to  his  brothers  and  sisters  at  break- 
fast in  the  morning,  a  landscape  with  cattle  drinking. 
Will  not  Jack  say  "The  animals  are  rather  large  for 
rabbits"?  Whilst  Tom,  who  only  left  school  a  week  since 
for  a  surveyor's  office,  suggests  that  "  the  district  would 
look  better  if  it  were  drained."  Then  let  the  artist  ask  his 
sister  how  she  likes  the  picture.  "Oh,  a  picture,  is  it? 
Why  didn't  you  get  some  one  who  can  write  to  put  a  label 
on  it  to  say  so  ? "  The  critics  who  thus  use  the  scalpel  are 
probably  not  a  whit  worse  than  the  generality  of  mankind. 
As  Barrington  says  to  his  sister,  "Men  do  these  things 
every  day,  Dinah,  and  there  is  no  harm  in  it."  Mark  this 
philosophical  rejoinder,  "  That  all  depends  upon  whom  the 
man  is.  The  volatile  gaiety  of  a  high  spirited  nature, 
eager  for  effect  and  fond  of  sensation,  will  lead  to  many  an 
indiscretion ;  but  very  different  from  this  is  the  well 
weighed  sarcasm  of  a  more  serious  mind,  who  not  only 
shoots  his  gun  home,  but  takes  time  to  sight  ere  he  fires  it/ 

From  novel  reading  to  the  principles  of  punishment  is 
a  far  cry,  but  Dinah's  answer  is  a  crushing  blow  to  nearly 
every  criticism  by  the  lay  public  on  the  sentences  of 
trained  judges.  The  differentiation  of  sentences  for  seem- 
ingly similar  offences  is  in  reality  an  indispensable  con- 
dition of  strict  justice.  A  man  of  very  quick  temper  may 
fell  another  to  the  ground,  be  himself  instantly  over- 
whelmed with  regret,  and  take  every  means  to  succour  the 
fallen.  His  act  is  the  result  of  impulse,  from  which 
malice  may  be  almost  wholly  absent.  Could  the  same  be 
said  about  the  cool,  placid,  immovable  individual  who 
would  leave  his  victim  on  the  earth,  profoundly  indif- 
ferent whether  he  could  rise  or  not  ? 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVER'S  "  BARRINQTON."         145 

It  could  not  be  directly  gleaned  from  "  Barrington"  that 
Lever  had  ever  actually  studied  medicine ;  but  could  any- 
one doubt  that  he  thoroughly  understood  the  subject 
after  reading,  "  Sympathy,  like  a  fashionable  physician,  is 
wonderfully  successful  where  there  is  little  the  matter." 

His  observations  on  the  dissolution  of  friendship,  which 
a  change  of  circumstances  efiects,  are  worthy  of  record : — 
"  There  is  nothing  more  true,  indeed,  than  the  oft-uttered 
scoff  on  the  hollowness  of  those  friendships  which  attach 
to  the  days  of  prosperous  fortune,  and  the  world  is  very 
prone  to  point  to  the  utter  loneliness  of  him  who  has  been 
shipwrecked  by  Fate ;  but  let  us  be  just  in  our  severity, 
and  let  us  own  that  a  man's  belongings,  his  associates,  his, 
what  common  parlance  calls,  friends,  are  the  mere  acci- 
dents of  his  station,  and  they  no  more  accompany  him  in 
his  fall  than  do  the  luxuries  he  has  forfeited.  From  the 
level  from  which  he  has  lapsed  they  have  not  descended. 
They  are,  there,  living  to-day  as  they  lived  yesterday.  If 
their  sympathy  is  not  with  him,  it  is  because  neither  are 
they  themselves,  they  cross  each  other  no  more.  Such 
friendships  are  like  the  contracts  made  with  a  crew  for  a 
particular  voyage — they  end  with  the  cruise." 

Much  has  been  written  about  the  relations  between 
colonies  and  the  mother  country,  but  (slightly  transposed) 
nothing  has  excelled  in  philosophic  truth — "  Colonies,  like 
children,  are  only  governable  when  helpless." 

"  Barrington  "  is  perhaps  a  very  ordinary  novel,  one  in 
which  we  should  scarcely  expect  to  find  gems  of  wisdom. 
This  paper  does  not  profess  to  be  an  exhaustive  array  of 
all  that  can  be  there  found,  but  it  is  hoped  enough  has 
been  done  to  show  that  the  book  contains  more  than  would 
be  observed  by  the  hasty  glance  usually  bestowed  on  such 
fiction.  A  novel  is  none  the  less  entertaining  because  of 
the  absence  of  wise  thoughts;  but  their  inclusion  is  a 


146  THE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LEVERS  "  BARRINQTON." 

distinct  advantage,  and  serves  sometimes  to  implant  them 
in  minds  which  would  have  revolted  from  any  book  con- 
taining them  in  an  apparently  serious  form.  The  attractive 
appearance  of  a  pill  need  not  derogate  from  its  intended 
effect. 

It  is  said  what  is  longest  waited  for  is  most  appreciated. 
Upon  that  principle  the  conclusion  of  this  paper,  because 
it  is  the  conclusion,  will  be  heartily  welcomed.  Perhaps 
it  will  be  agreed  it  is  lamentable  it  was  ever  born ;  but,  if 
so,  there  will  be  a  consensus  of  opinion  that  its  epitaph 
should  be — 

Confusion,  chaos,  idle  twaddle, 

Its  sense  and  meaning  naught. 
Alas !  that  any  theme  should  waddle 

So  far  from  realms  of  thought. 


LEISUEE   AND    MODERN   LIFE. 

BY   C.    E.   TYRER. 

— We,  brought  forth  and  rear'd  in  hours 

Of  change,  alarm,  surprise — 
What  shelter  to  grow  ripe  is  ours  ? 

What  leisure  to  grow  wise  ? 

IN  a  letter  addressed  by  Thackeray  to  Mark  Lemon,  which 
has  only  recently  seen  the  light,  the  gieat  novelist, 
after  inveighing  against  the  desire  for  happiness  as  a  con- 
temptible thing,  goes  on  to  abuse  leisure.  "  Leisure,"  says 
he,  "  is  a  very  pleasant  garment  to  look  at,  but  it  is  a  very 
bad  one  to  wear.  The  ruin  of  thousands — aye,  and  of 
millions — may  be  traced  to  it."  A  plausible  enough  view 
this,  one  will  admit,  and  a  widely  prevalent  one ;  but  not 
therefore,  even  with  Thackeray's  imprimatur,  to  be  ac- 
cepted without  due  deliberation. 

It  all  depends,  I  grant,  on  what  you  mean  by  leisure. 
Leisure,  in  my  definition  of  it,  is  an  outward  condition  of 
human  life  which  does  not  interfere  with  its  inward  de- 
velopment; rather  which  fosters  it,  and  helps  a  man  to  live 
his  real  life.  Many,  doubtless,  find  their  real  life  in  action— 


148  LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE. 

on  the  field  of  battle,  in  travel  and  adventure ;  some,  it 
may  be,  even  in  the  mill,  the  warehouse,  and  the  bank. 
It  is,  indeed,  hard  to  believe  that  the  capacity  for  business, 
as  we  understand  the  word,  can  ever  have  been  the  highest 
natural  gift  and  endowment  of  any  human  being.  At  any 
rate,  many,  perhaps  most,  of  those  whose  energies  have 
been  drawn  by  necessity  or  circumstance  into  the  fields  of 
commerce  and  finance,  do  not  lead  their  real  lives  there. 
Men  who  do  not  possess  what,  as  Stevenson  says,  are 
"  quaintly  but  happily  denominated  private  means,"  must 
perforce,  under  the  existing  state  of  things,  give  up  the 
best  part  of  their  waking  hours  to  some  Brodstudium, 
which,  in  ninety-nine  cases  in  a  hundred,  means  drudgery 
of  some  kind,  and  live  in  the  poor  residue  so  much  of  their 
real  life,  the  life  for  which  they  were  born,  as  in  the 
circumstances  of  the  case  is  in  them  to  live.  "  That,"  says 
Lamb,  "is  the  only  true  Time,  which  a  man  can  properly 
call  his  own,  that  which  he  has  all  to  himself ;  the  rest, 
though  in  some  sense  he  may  be  said  to  live  in  it,  is  other 
people's  Time,  not  his." 

So  much  of  their  real  life,  the  life  for  which  they  were 
born,  as  is  in  them  to  live:  is  either  the  amount  or  the  qua- 
lity of  this  calculated  to  inspire  enthusiasm?  Men  of  genius 
like  Thackeray  doubtless  live  their  real  lives,  for  genius,  as 
a  rule,  tramples  upon  all  obstacles ;  but  what  of  the  multi- 
tude, who  yet  perhaps  have  in  their  nature  some  sparks  of  a 
divine  life,  or  as  theologians  say,  souls  to  save?  "Most  men, 
even  in  this  comparatively  free  country  (says  Thoreau, 
speaking  of  the  United  States,  but  it  is  just  as  true  of  our 
own  land),  through  mere  ignorance  and  mistake,  are  so 
occupied  with  the  factitious  cares  and  superfluously  coarse 
labours  of  life,  that  its  finer  fruits  cannot  be  plucked  by 
them.  Their  fingers,  from  excessive  toil,  are  too  clumsy, 
and  tremble  too  much  for  that."  It  is  certainly  true  that 


LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE.  149 

men  are  so  occupied ;  but  that  it  is  by  mere  ignorance  and 
mistake  is  not  perhaps  so  certain.  It  was  a  fine  thing  for 
Thoreau  to  adventure  boldly  upon  life  as  he  did,  and  at  the 
cost  of  a  few  weeks  yearly  work  in  land-surveying  to  main- 
tain himself,  albeit  with  Spartan  simplicity,  and  atone  for 
his  "plain  living"  by  "high  thinking"  and  the  loving  obser- 
vation of  nature.  But  we  cannot  all  be  Thoreaus,  and  build 
ourselves  huts  on  the  frontiers  of  civilization,  in  a  noble 
disregard  of  conventionalities  and  the  remonstrances  of  our 
friends.  Physically,  most  of  us  are  unfit  for  such  a  life  (even 
Thoreau  probably  shortened  his  days  by  the  hardships  to 
which  he  exposed  himself),  and  the  circumstances  of  our 
lives  prevent  it;  but  how  enormously  are  we  the  losers 
thereby !  A  philosopher  who  paced  the  dingy  depressing 
thoroughfares  of  our  melancholy  city,  and  watched  the 
crowds  hurrying  to  and  fro,  those  keen,  restless, 
absorbed,  sordid,  soulless  faces,  that  ceaseless  stream 
of  eager  life  —  would  he  not  ask  himself  sadly  and 
solemnly,  "  Whence  comes  this  stream,  and  whither  does 
it  go?" 

Hies,  ah  !  from  whence,  from  native  ground  ? 
And  to  what  goal,  what  ending,  bound  ? 

In  a  few  years  the  individual  faces  of  the  crowd  will  be 
missed  from  its  ranks,  but  the  crowd  will  still  be  there,  the 
same  crowd,  though  not  the  same  faces ;  still,  and  still,  as 
though  it  were  a  part  of  the  eternal  course  of  things,  that 
restless  stream  of  humanity  will  bo  hurrying  by.  Is  it  a 
noble,  an  inspiring  spectacle  ?  The  individual  elements  of 
that  crowd,  as  one  catches  a  moment's  glimpse  of  them — do 
they  look  as  if  they  lived  their  real  lives,  or  rather,  as  if 
they  had  any  real  lives  to  live? 

They  para  me  by  like  shadows,  crowds  on  crowds, 

Dim  ghosts  of  men  that  hover  to  and  fro, 
Hugging  their  bodies  round  them,  like  thin  shrouds, 

Wherein  their  souls  were  buried  long  ago. 

11 


150  LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE. 

Most  of  us,  in  our  tender  years,  were  religiously  in- 
structed to  take  to  heart  the  great  Dr.  Watts's  pathetic 
•complaint,  how — 

Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  hands  to  do. 

But,  not  quite  so  fast,  reverend  sir,  by  your  leave.    It  is  not 
the  idle  hand,  but  the  empty  unoccupied  mind,  that  is 
mostly  the  great  evil  and  source  of  evil.     In  Mr.  T.  C.  Hors- 
fall's  admirable  letter  in  the  Times  of  November  26,  1889, 
on  "  Pictures  in  Schools,"  he  states,  on  the  authority  of 
Mr.  Oakley,  one  of  ELM.  Inspectors  of  Schools,  that  there 
are  children  in  our  densely  populated  districts,  who  hardly 
know  what  a  flower  is,  who  have  never  seen  a  primrose  or 
a  violet.     Their  poor  little  hands  are  not  likely  to  be  idle ; 
they  will  have  to  earn  their  living  early  enough,  and  be 
sharp  about  it  (well   if  it  is  honestly  done,  and  not  by 
picking    and    stealing);    but   what    about    their   minds, 
their  souls  ?     To  grow  up  in  a  world  of  narrow,  mean, 
smoke-ridden  streets;   to  have  that  as  their  world,  and 
to  know  no  other;  to  be  early  habituated  to  such  things 
as  brutal  street  fights,  and  the  foul  language  of  drunken 
women  staggering  home  from  the  gin-shop  at  the  corner — 
what  a  world,  what  a  life  !     Is  not   an   order   of  things 
self-condemned,  which  renders  possible  such  a  develop- 
ment of  the  lower,  with  such  an  entire  disregard  of  the 
higher  nature  ?     Mr.  R.  L.  Stevenson,  in  his  "  Apology 
for  Idlers,"  a  delightful  paper,  a  little  extravagant,  perhaps, 
and  meant  to  be  so,  but  full  of  a  wisdom  which  is  not  of 
this  world,  shall  tell  us  of  a  different  class  of  wasted  lives. 
"  There  is  a  sort  of  dead-alive  hackneyed  people  about, 
who  are  scarcely  conscious  of  living  except  in  the  exercise  of 
some   conventional  occupation.     Bring  these  fellows  into 
the  country,  or  set  them  aboard  ship,  and  you  will  see 
how  they  pine  for  the  desk  and  the  study.     They  have  no 


LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE.  151 

curiosity  ;  they  cannot  give  themselves  over  to  random 
provocations ;  they  do  not  take  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of 
their  faculties  for  its  own  sake ;  and  unless  Necessity  lays 
about  them  with  a  stick,  they  must  even  stand  still.  .  .  . 
When  they  do  not  require  to  go  to  the  office,  when  they  are 
not  hungry,  and  have  no  mind  to  drink,  the  whole  breath- 
ing world  is  a  blank  to  them.  .  .  .  They  have  been  to 
school  and  college,  but  all  the  while  they  had  their  eye 
on  the  medal ;  they  have  gone  about  in  the  world  and 
mixed  with  clever  people,  but  all  the  while  they  are 
thinking  of  their  own  affairs.  .  .  .  This  does  not  ap- 
peal to  me  as  being  Success  in  Life." 

What  is  the  course  of  the  life 
Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth  ? — 
Most  men  eddy  about 
Here  and  there — eat  and  drink, 
Chatter  and  love  and  hate, 
Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 
Aloft,  are  hurl'd  in  the  dust, 
Striving  blindly,  achieving 
Nothing  ;  and  then  they  die, 
Perish  !  and  no  one  asks 
Who  or  what  they  have  been, 
More  than  he  asks  what  waves 
In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild 
Of  the  midmost  ocean,  have  swell'd, 
Foam'd  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 

Everything,  in  fact,  now-a-days,  militates  against  leisure, 
as  I  understand  it.  Milton  talks  of  "  Retired  Leisure,  who, 
in  trim  gardens,  takes  his  pleasure."  But  now,  the  trim 
gardens  have  all  been  turned  into  tennis  grounds,  where  each 
summer  evening  goes  on  the  new  tournament  of  love  and 
war,  and  as  for  "  Retired  Leisure,"  why,  there  is  no  such 
person.  The  man  of  leisure,  so-called,  if  he  be  not  a  mere 
lounger  and  loafer,  has  a  thousand  things  to  do,  a  thousand 
books  to  read,  a  thousand  schemes  of  politics,  or  philan- 
thropy, or  social  reform  jostling  each  other  in  his  poor  brain. 


152  LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE. 

There  is  feverishness  in  the  very  air  of  our  cities,  and  the 
most  thorough-going  quietist  cannot  but  in  some  degree 
catch  the  infection.  We  hardly  seem  to  realise  that  there 
ever  was  a  time  when  men  did  not  trample  on  each  other's 
toes  in  the  mad  rush  after  wealth,  or  distinction,  or  noto- 
riety. 

A  man  indeed  may  be  found  here  and  there  who  pursues 
his  own  course  regardless  of  these  things,  like  the  Swiss 
savant  mentioned  by  Sir  John  Lubbock  in  his  weak  and 
foolish  little  book  "  The  Pleasures  of  Life,"  who,  out  of  an 
income  of  £100  a  year  managed  to  support  a  museum  of 
lacustrine  antiquities,  and  who  told  Sir  John,  who 
marvelled  that  so  eminent  a  man  should  be  content  with 
so  little,  that  he  valued  his  leisure  above  all  things,  and 
would  not  resign  it  at  any  price.  Would  that  men  could 
realise,  with  Wordsworth,  how  priceless  a  boon,  beyond  all 
wealth,  is  "  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye,"  or  take  to  heart 
the  many  noble  words  of  a  great  teacher  of  our  day,  who, 
at  the  end  of  "Modern  Painters  "  says — "  While  I  rejoice 
at  all  recovery  from  monasticism,  which  leads  to  practical 
and  healthy  action  in  the  world,  I  must,  in  closing  this 
work,  severely  guard  my  pupils  from  the  thought  that 
sacred  rest  may  be  honourably  exchanged  for  selfish  and 
mindless  activity." 

The  world  is  still  glorious  as  of  old.  Nature  still  calls 
man — calls  him  perhaps  more  tenderly  than  in  past  ages 
— into  those  hidden  recesses  where  she  unveils  her 
mysterious  loveliness,  but  few  have  time  or  inclination  to- 
follow  her  there.  How,  in  the  hurry  of  travel,  in  which 
men  seek  a  change  from  the  hurry  of  business,  should  they 
learn  to  know  Nature  as  she  is  ?  Art  in  poetry,  painting, 
sculpture,  music,  the  drama,  still  offers  men  her  inspira- 
tion, her  sweet  consoling  charm  ;  but  now-a-days,  with  all 
•our  material  aids,  we  are  badly  placed  for  receiving  such 


LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE.  153 

influences  as  she  has  to  impart.  Wearied  physically  and 
mentally,  as  most  men  are,  how  should  their  emotional 
activities  be  acute !  Hence  the  love  for  tidbits  and 
snippets,  for  books  of  selections  and  operatic  gems.  Men 
still  write  epics,  but  who  reads  them  ?  Perhaps  they  are 
not  often  very  good ;  perhaps  their  authors  might  spend 
their  time  better  than  in  writing  them ;  but  if  they  were 
as  great  as  the  "  Divine  Comedy,"  or  "  Paradise  Lost,"  their 
length  and  dryness  would  frighten  the  general  reader. 
They  would  rather  read  reviews  of  them,  as  they  listen  to 
lectures  on  the  great  books  of  the  past. 

It  has,  however,  not  always  been  so.  We  know  how  the 
strains  of  Greek  rhapsodists,  of  Celtic  bards  and  Icelandic 
skalds,  were  welcomed  and  applauded  in  the  courts  of  kings 
and  the  huts  of  peasants,  and  how  the  Greek  drama  was  a 
living  drama,  because  it  had  a  home  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people.  The  great  Madonna  which  Cimabue  painted  for 
the  altar-piece  of  Santa  Maria  Novella  in  Florence  was  (so 
Vasari  tells  us)  uncovered  amid  the  joyous  acclamations 
of  the  people,  and  carried  from  the  painter's  studio  to  the 
church  with  festive  pomp  and  processions.  The  Florentines 
of  the  thirteenth  century  were  perhaps  our  inferiors  in 
many  respects,  but  their  sense  of  the  beautiful  was  fresh 
And  unjaded,  nor  was  its  development  hindered,  as  with  us, 
by  the  constant  presence  of  everything  that  is  hideous. 
Our  faculties  are  too  tired  either  to  perceive  clearly  or  to 
feel  keenly ;  the  relish  of  the  fruit  has  gone  before  it  has 
been  tasted. 

Meanwhile,  Nature  and  Art  remain  for  man,  and  if  we 
cannot  make  our  fellows  enjoy  them  and  live  in  them, 
some  of  us,  for  our  parts,  can  feel,  in  some  measure,  the 
truth  of  such  words  as  those  of  poor  Richard  Jeffories  in 
4 'The  Pageant  of  Summer:"  "The  hours  when  the  mind 
is  absorbed  by  beauty  are  the  only  hours  when  we  really 


154  LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE. 

live,  so  that  the  longer  we  can  stay  among  these  things  so 
much  the  more  is  snatched  from  inevitable  time.  .  .  . 
Those  are  the  only  hours  that  are  not  wasted — those 
hours  that  absorb  the  soul  and  fill  it  with  beauty.  This 
is  real  life,  and  all  else  is  illusion,  or  mere  endurance." 
Beside  these  words,  I  will  place  some  by  a  man  who  had 
not  much,  perhaps,  in  common  with  Jefferies  in  his  general 
tastes  and  sympathies,  the  gentle  "  Elia :  "  "  Man,  I  verily 
believe,  is  out  of  his  element  as  long  as  he  is  operative.  I 
am  altogether  for  the  life  contemplative.  Will  no  kindly 
earthquake  come  and  swallow  up  those  accursed  cotton 
mills  ?  Take  me  that  lumber  of  a  desk  there,  and  bowl  it 
down — 

As  low  as  to  the  fiends." 

"  Leisure  is  gone,"  said  George  Eliot  in  "  Adam  Bede," 
"gone  where  the  spinning-wheels  are  gone,  and  the  pack- 
horses,  and  the  slow  waggons,  and  the  pedlars  who  brought 
bargains  to  the  doors  on  sunny  afternoons.  Ingenious 
philosophers  tell  you,  perhaps,  that  the  great  work  of  the 
steam-engine  is  to  create  leisure  for  mankind.  Do  not 
believe  them ;  it  only  creates  a  vacuum  for  eager  thought 
to  rush  in."  "  Good  old  leisure  !  "  "  Fine  old  leisure ! "  (as 
the  great  novelist  proceeds  to  characterise  the  genuine 
original  article)  is  he  indeed  gone  from  us  for  ever  ?  Will 
he  never  to  the  end  of  time  "  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the 
moon  ? "  I  fear  he  will  not.  It  may  indeed  be  that  by  the 
progress  of  science  in  providing  appliances  for  shortening 
and  simplifying  labour,  by  the  improvement  of  the 
condition  of  the  masses  of  the  people  in  regard  to  the  gross 
material  needs  of  life,  by  a  natural  wholesome  reaction 
against  the  feverish  rush  and  worry  of  existence, 
leisure  may  again  be  possible  for  man.  But  even 
if  it  should,  and  so  far  as  we  see  at  present  the  tendency  is 
towards  keener  and  fiercer  competition,  both  in  the 


LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE.  155 

mart  and  the  academy,  towards  a  more  and  more  brutal 
struggle  for  existence,  it  will  not  be  the  old  leisure.  Within 
this  century  of  ours  a  shadow,  hardly  guessed  before,  has 
passed  over  the  face  of  man  ;  he  has  become  self-conscious, 
distrustful  of  himself,  morbidly  apprehensive  of  those 
terrible  forces  and  that  vast  material  system  in  the  presence 
of  which  he  finds  himself  an  atom.  Carlyle  and  Leigh 
Hunt  (to  quote  a  story  related  by  John  Cameron)  were 
once  walking  home  on  a  brilliant  starlight  night,  and 
Hunt,  with  the  easy-going  optimism  of  his  kindly 
nature,  was  enlarging  on  the  magnificence  of  the  spec- 
tacle, and  on  the  consolatory  thought  that  those 
distant  shining  worlds  might  be  the  happy  homes 
of  untold  millions  of  sentient  beings.  "  Ech,  mon ! "  burst 
out  Carlyle,  "  but  it's  a  sad  sicht."  And  Carlyle  spoke 
truly.  The  conscious  presence  of  this  infinitely  vast 
and  awful  universe — at  once  fascinating  and  defying  the 
intellect — is  a  terrible  burden  for  the  poor  frail  human 
spirit.  How  can  we  desire  leisure  if  it  will  only  furnish 
the  occasion  and  opportunity  for  dwelling  on  such  thoughts? 
Yet  man,  as  he  floats  down  the  stream  of  time  towards  its 
ocean  bourne,  may  learn  to  feel  a  majestic  consolation  in 
contemplating  the  scene  around  him,  and  the  great  waters 
around  and  the  shining  heavens  above  bring  peace  to  his 
weary  time-worn  spirit. 

This  tract  which  the  River  of  Time 
Now  flows  through  with  us,  is  the  Plain. 
Gone  ia  the  calm  of  its  earlier  shore. 
Border'd  by  cities,  and  hoarse 
With  a  thousand  cries  is  its  stream. 
And  we  on  its  breast,  our  minds 
Are  confused  as  the  cries  which  we  hear, 

Changing  and  short  as  the  sights  which  we  see. 

And  we  say  that  repose  baa  fled 
For  ever  the  course  of  the  River  of  Time. 
That  cities  will  crowd  to  its  edge 
In  a  blacker  inceosanter  line  ; 


156  LEISURE  AND  MODERN  LIFE. 

That  the  din  will  be  more  on  its  banks, 
Denser  the  trade  on  its  stream, 
Flatter  the  plain  where  it  flows, 

Fiercer  the  sun  overhead. 
That  never  will  those  on  its  breast 
See  an  ennobling  sight, 
Drink  of  the  feeling  of  quiet  again. 

But  what  was  before  us  we  know  not, 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 

Haply,  the  River  of  Time, 
As  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 
Fling  their  wavering  lights 
On  a  wider  statelier  stream — 
May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 
Of  its  early  mountainous  shore, 
Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 

And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 
Of  the  grey  expanse  where  he  floats 
Freshening  its  current  and  spotted  with  foam 
As  it  draws  to  the  Ocean,  may  strike 
Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast : 

As  the  pale  Waste  widens  around  him — 
As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away — 
As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 
Brings  up  the  stream 
Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  Sea. 


THEY   HAD   BEEN   FRIENDS  IN   YOUTH 


"THEY  HAD   BEEN  FRIENDS   IN  YOUTH." 

A  Character  Sketch  by  the  late  W.  G.  Baxter. 

BY  THOMAS   NEWBIGGING. 

A  FEW  years  ago  Mr.  Nodal  performed  an  acceptable 
service  in  placing  before  the  members  of  the  Man- 
chester Literary  Club  a  list  of  the  names  of  deceased 
Lancashire  artists.  It  is  well  to  be  thus  reminded  occa- 
sionally of  those  who  have  contributed  so  largely  to  our 
pleasure  in  the  domain  of  art.  Not  that  one  ever  really 
forgets  them,  but  a  spoken  acknowledgment  for  pleasure 
received  is  a  graceful  and  grateful  duty — grateful  to  those 
who  undertake  the  duty,  and  to  those  who  are  the  subject 
of  it. 

I  make  no  pretensions  to  being  a  critic  of  art  subjects, 
but,  like  many  another  man  equally  modest,  I  may  admit 
to  experiencing  at  times  the  truth  that  "one  touch  of 
nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin." 

I  have  derived  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  from  this  sketch 
of  Baxter's.  It  is  one  of  a  series  that  appeared  a  few  years 
back  in  the  Manchester  periodical  Momus,  now  defunct, 
and  is  an  attempt,  a  most  graphic  and  successful  attempt, 
in  my  opinion,  to  illustrate  Coleridge's  suggestive  line — 

They  had  been  friends  in  youth. 

The  picture  tells  its  own  story,  and  needs  but  few  descrip- 
tive words  of  mine. 


158  "THEY  HAD  BEEN  FRIENDS  IN  YOUTH." 

The  purse-proud  merchant  or  banker,  and  his  seedy 
friend  of  bygone  days,  are  an  interesting  study ;  the  former 
fat,  sleek,  comfortable-looking,  and  contented  with  himself, 
dressed  in  his  well-fitting  and  fine  broadcloth,  with  the 
flower  in  his  button-hole.  His  ample  waistcoat  covers  a 
paunch  of  aldermanic  proportions.  The  respectability  of 
his  jaunty  white  hat,  toned  down  with  the  mourning  band 
round  it,  is  unquestionable.  His  massive  gold  guard  and 
seal  harmonise  with  the  pillared  door  of  his  mansion. 
Clearly  he  has  thriven  in  business.  He  has  got  plenty  of 
wool  on  his  back.  With  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he 
fingers  the  loose  cash  they  contain ;  whilst  the  expression 
of  his  countenance — with  much  of  the  animal  in  it,  and  by 
no  means  sympathetic — as  he  glances  superciliously  at  the 
friend  of  his  youth,  is  clearly  suggestive  of  the  recollection 
of  bygone  days  in  association  with  that  friend  whom  he 
now  pretends  to  have  forgotten. 

Turn  now  to  the  other  character  in  the  picture — the 
quondam  friend — who,  notwithstanding  his  seedy  hat  and 
patched  shoes,  is  as  well  got  up,  in  view  of  his  present 
visit,  as  his  limited  means  would  allow.  Look  at  his 
pinched  and  ill-fitting  coat ;  it  has  been  carefully  brushed, 
but  no  amount  of  brushing  could  restore  its  faded  colour. 
His  gloves  suggest,  rather  than  hide,  the  scrubbiness  of  his 
worn  fingers ;  the  shirt  collar  is  faultless — probably  he  has 
no  shirt  to  his  back — but  it  does  not  beseem  his  other 
habiliments.  There  is  a  woe-begoneness  in  the  twist  of  his 
head  and  the  expression  of  his  countenance.  His  thin 
locks  are  carefully  combed  back  over  his  ears.  There  is  a 
hollo wness  about  his  chest  and  waist  that  bespeaks  his 
poverty  and  his  meagre  daily  fare,  and  he  touches  rather 
than  leans  against  the  pillar,  as  though  he  felt  it  a  pre- 
sumption to  venture  so  far. 

It  is  idle  to  speculate  on  the  causes  of  his  ill-fortune. 


"THEY  HAD  BEEN  FRIENDS  IN  YOUTH."  159 

Possibly  he  may  have  "  wasted  his  substance  in  riotous 
living " ;  or  it  may  be  that  delicate  health  and  the  Fates 
have  been  against  him.  Perhaps  he  is  a  poor  poet,  with 
his  head  in  the  clouds,  and  with  but  little  aptitude  for 
business.  But,  whatever  the  cause,  there  is  no  mistaking 
his  present  impecunious  condition. 

The  characters  are  evidently  much  about  the  same  age, 
but  the  circumstances  of  each  in  the  interval  between 
youth  and,  say,  fifty  years,  have  produced  the  present 
contrast.  The  attitude  and  expression  of  both  are  natural, 
and  absolutely  faultless. 

The  correctness  of  the  drawing  is  remarkable.  There  is 
in  the  picture  a  happy  blending  of  the  humorous  and  the 
pathetic,  such  as  could  only  have  been  depicted  by  a  man 
of  varied  and  extraordinary  gifta  Indeed,  it  is  the  possession 
of  this  quality  that  is  oftenest  the  indication  of  the  presence 
of  genius. 

Taken  altogether,  the  sketch  is  one  of  great  power,  and 
does  credit  to  the  artistic  and  imaginative  faculty  possessed 
by  its  gifted  and  now,  alas !  deceased  author. 


CONCEENING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER 
LOVERS, 

BY   JOHN  MORTIMEK. 

T  ONCE  heard  the  President  of  a  literary  club  remark  that 
J-  it  not  unfrequently  happened  that  the  title  was  the  best 
part  of  a  paper,  and  the  remark  comes  back  to  me  with 
considerable  force  now  I  have  written  down  the  heading 
of  this  one.  When  the  subject  first  presented  itself  to  my 
mind  it  was  as  a  title,  a  luminous  point,  with  an  atmosphere 
about  it  of  the  haziest  kind,  which  might  or  might  not 
become  clear  with  the  growing  time,  and  with  a  light  that 
would  develop  from  within.  But  now,  alas,  when  I  come  to 
deal  with  it,  I  am  confronted  with  difficulties  which  did 
not  present  themselves  on  its  first  inception.  How  easy  it 
is  for  us  to  select  texts  and  how  hard  sometimes  to  preach 
sermons  from  them.  How  in  the  first  place  am  I  to  deal 
with  Nature  ?  Though  I  may  say  with  the  Laureate, 
that— 

My  love  for  nature  is  as  old  as  I, 

I  am  no  naturalist  in  the  true  sense,  and  have  no  scientific 
knowledge  of  Nature,  and  were  I  to  set  up  for  an  interpreter 
of  her  mysteries,  I  should,  as  Mrs.  Browning  says,  be — 

Thrown  out  by  an  easy  cowslip  in  the  text. 

Nature  indeed !    Think  for  a  moment  of  what  is  conveyed 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       161 

by  the  expression.  As  Emerson  says,  "  Philosophically  con- 
sidered, the  universe  is  composed  of  Nature  and  the  soul," 
so  then  everything  outside  the  soul  of  man,  his  body  in- 
cluded, must  be  regarded  as  Nature.  Though  when  man 
deals  with  the  materials  of  Nature  for  constructive  purposes 
we  call  the  results  art,  there  is  no  such  distinction  in 
reality,  for  as  Shakespeare  says,  "This  is  an  art  which 
Nature  makes,"  or  "  change  it  rather  and  the  art  itself  is 
Nature." 

So  in  my  perplexity  I  am  obliged  to  fall  back  upon  strict 
limitations,  or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  on  at  all,  and  here  I 
am  reminded  of  what  Mr.  Ruskin  has  said  of  himself  in  cir- 
cumstances which  in  some  respects  are  similar.  Walking 
one  day  along  a  road  in  Switzerland,  which  commanded  a 
wide-reaching  and  magnificent  view,  he  could  not  under- 
stand how  it  was  that  in  such  circumstances  he  could 
enjoy  nothing ;  until  at  last  he  found  that  it  was  the  vast- 
ness  of  the  view  that  was  too  much  for  him,  and  that  if  he 
turned  from  the  grander  objects  and  confined  himself  to 
one  thing,  and  that  a  little  thing,  a  tuft  of  moss,  or  a  single 
crag,  or  a  wreath  or  two  of  foam  at  the  foot  of  a  waterfall, 
he  began  to  enjoy  it  directly,  because,  as  he  says,  "  I  had 
mind  enough  to  put  into  the  thing,  and  the  enjoyment 
arose  from  the  quantity  of  imaginative  energy  I  could 
bring  to  bear  upon  it ;  but  when  I  looked  or  thought  of  all 
together  I  had  not  mind  enough  to  give  to  all  and  none 
was  of  any  value."  And  so  he  turned  away  from  tho 
mountains  and  the  grander  objects  of  the  scene,  and  took 
up  with  some  ants  in  the  road,  and  watched  them  trying 
to  convey  little  bits  of  sticks,  and  found  great  content- 
ment in  the  change.  In  like  manner  do  I  find  a  way  out 
of  my  perplexity  and  a  relief  from  the  overwhelming  vast- 
ness  of  my  subject,  by  circumscribing  the  area  in  which 
my  thoughts  are  to  be  exercised.  I  propose  then  in  deal- 


162      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS. 

ing  with  Nature,  to  select  that  aspect  of  it  which  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  life  of  the  woods  and  fields,  the  flowers  and 
trees.  Wordsworth  says — 

There  is  a  tree  of  many  one, 

A  single  field  of  all  that  I  have  looked  upon, 

so  still  further  limiting  the  area  of  vision,  I  would  say  that 
of  all  the  landscapes  I  have  viewed  there  is  one  little  nook, 

A  place  of  nestling  green  for  poets  made, 

representative  of  this  aspect  of  Nature,  which  presents  it- 
self to  my  mind  as  an  open  air  study.  The  good  effect  of 
this  will  be  to  focus  one's  thoughts,  as  it  were,  and  keep 
them  from  soaring  too  sublimely  into  the  general. 

There  is  nothing  very  remarkable,  perhaps,  in  this  nook, 
which,  to  some  minds,  may  seem  commonplace  enough,  but 
a  little  bit  of  Nature  often  suffices  for  meditation  and  enjoy- 
ment in  the  absence  of  larger  opportunities,  for,  as  Coleridge 
says — 

No  plot  so  narrow,  be  but  Nature  there, 
No  waste  so  vacant,  but  may  well  employ 
Each  faculty  of  sense,  and  keep  the  heart 
Awake  to  love  and  beauty  ! 

I  was  reading  the  other  day  how  Richard  Jefferies,  when 
living  in  London,  was  wont  to  make  a  daily  pilgrimage  to 
an  aspen  by  a  brook,  his  object  being  to  escape  from  cer- 
tain narrowing  and  mind-clouding  influences  of  the  city, 
and  to  get  out  for  a  little  while  to  Nature  and  the  sun.  In 
like  manner  for  myself  has  this  nook  marked  the  limit  of 
many  walks  from  the  city,  and  so  I  have  conceived  an 
affection  for  it,  and  it  has  come  to  pass  that  in  all  my 
thinking  of  what  I  should  say  this  bit  of  landscape 
would  come  up  before  my  mind's  eye  continually  and 
would  not  be  shut  out. 

It  is  a  long  narrow   strip  of  woodland  which   fills  a 
groove  of  the  land,   with  sloping  fields  on  either  side, 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.        163 

and  it  lies  in  a  favourite  region  of  mine,  some  miles 
away  from  the  city,  which  I  like  to  call  my  Pleasaunce. 
There  are  many  paths  through  the  broad  fields  that  lie 
about,  but  there  is  one  which  leads  to  the  clough,  along 
which  my  feet  frequently  stray.  This  path  crosses  the 
woodland  dipping  down  to  it  suddenly,  to  rise  again  still 
more  steeply  on  the  opposite  side.  A  brook  babbles 
between,  winding  about  among  the  trees,  and  is  spanned 
by  a  bridge  consisting  of  two  rough-hewn  logs  laid  side  by 
side.  The  lover  of  Nature  who  may  come  here  may  wish 
to  leave  the  path  and  wander  through  the  leafy  covert,  but  a 
white  notice  board,  with  a  black  legend  inscribed  thereon, 
which  the  squire  has  caused  to  be  placed  high  up  on  the  grey- 
green  bole  of  an  ash  tree,  will  warn  him  that  if  he  does  so 
stray  it  will  be  at  the  risk  of  grievous  penalties.  But  if 
he  is  a  philosopher  he  will  not  be  troubled  by  this.  He 
will  have  no  quarrel  with  the  squire  for  wishing  to  shut 
out  trespassers  and  preserve  his  game,  and  the  less  so 
because  the  woodland  is  so  open  that  he  can  see  much  of 
the  interior,  and  may  let  his  imagination  wander  into  dim 
distances  where  his  footsteps  may  not  tread.  He  will, 
perhaps,  remember,  too,  that  there  is  in  every  landscape 
something  which  the  proprietors  thereof  cannot  hold 
exclusively.  As  Emerson  says :  "  The  charming  landscape 
which  I  saw  this  morning  is  indubitably  made  up  of  some 
twenty  or  thirty  farms.  Miller  owns  this  field,  Locke  that, 
and  Manning  the  woodland  beyond.  But  none  of  them 
owns  the  landscape.  .  .  .  This  is  the  best  part  of  these 
men's  farms,  yet  in  this  their  warranty-deeds  give  no 
title." 

Here,  then,  to  this  green  hollow  I  have  often  come  to 
muse  on  Nature's  doings.  There  is  a  sense  of  seclusion, 
because  the  green  banks  seem  to  shut  out  the  world 
beyond.  If  you  go  up  to  the  ridge  above  you  can  see 


164      CONCERNING  NA  TURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LO  VERS. 

over  a  great  tract  of  country  to  the  bordering  hills,  but 
standing  by  the  bridge,  the  view  is  limited  to  the  trees 
and  the  tangled  underwood  and  the  open  spaces  of  grass 
that  lie  between.  So  hidden  are  you  in  the  hollow  that 
Lampe,  the  hare,  seeking  the  covert,  will  not  see  you  until 
his  whiskered  face  appears  upon  the  verge  of  the  slope,  a 
few  yards  away,  and,  moving  in  that  direction  yourself, 
you  may  startle  a  pheasant  from  the  grassy  margin  of  the 
brook.  There  is  much  bird  life  about,  and  the  cooing  of 
the  wood-pigeons,  high  up  on  firry  boughs  among  the 
remoter  trees,  will  come  to  your  ears  with  a  sense  of 
soothing  in  the  sound. 

The  woodland  is  a  flowery  place,  and  in  the  spring  I  go 
there  to  find  the  early  celandines  and  the  gentle  wind- 
blown anemones.  Here,  too,  clumps  of  pale  primroses 
may  be  found,  though  sparingly.  The  red  campion  is  less 
rare,  and  in  its  season  reddens  the  woodland  everywhere. 
The  marsh-marigold,  too,  flames  out  from  many  moist 
places,  and  the  margin  of  the  brook  is  whitened  with  the 
flowers  of  the  wood  garlic.  Then,  in  their  turn,  come  the 
hyacinths  that — 

Ring  their  purple  bells 

Into  the  drowsy  ear  of  fragrant  May, 

and  high  above  them  the  untrimmed  hedgerow  is  white 
with  hawthorn,  and  there,  too,  among  the  wild  roses, 

The  red  honeysuckle  sits  aloft. 

Following  these  in  turn  come  the  proud  foxgloves — 

That  wave  their  crimson  wands 

In  solemn  beauty  o'er  the  summer  woods. 


And,  as  they  fade,  the  feathery  meadow-sweet, 
With  undulating  censer  prodigal, 
Drugs  the  warm  breezes  with  its  potent  breath 
Through  all  the  leafy  shrines  ubiquitous. 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       165 

In  the  late  summer  the  willow-herb  mingles  with  the 
meadow-sweet,  and  here  and  there  from  among  its  sheaves 
of  sword-like  leaves  the  golden  iris  unfolds  its  flowers. 

In  winter,  when  all  the  flowers  and  tall  grasses  are  dead, 
the  leafy  nook  is  bare  enough,  the  firs  only  among  the 
trees  remaining  green,  and  then  the  water  in  the  brook 
has  a  wan  look,  and  seems  to  flow  with  a  sad  complaining. 
When  I  went  to  visit  the  place  on  a  late  November  day, 
the  sallowness  of  winter  was  obtaining  among  the  withered 
grasses  and  tall  umbelliferous  plants,  the  last  leaf  was  flut- 
tering on  the  willow,  and  only  the  trailing  brambles  showed 
any  greenness  of  foliage  among  the  tangled  underwood. 
No  flower  was  there  to  be  seen,  save  beneath  an  outer 
hedgerow,  and  there  I  gathered  some  dwarf  blooms  of  the 
wild  pansy— heartsease  they  call  it — typical  of  thoughts, 
and  a  fitting  text  flower  for  one  who  was  thinking  of 
Nature  and  of  those  who  love  her.  The  brook  was  in 
spate  after  recent  rains,  and  the  flood  water  in  its  flow 
washed  the  leaves  of  a  close  clinging  plant,  still  looking 
green  and  glossy,  in  which  I  recognised  the  liver  wort.  I 
remember  being  told  in  my  youth  that  its  leaves  resembled 
the  organ  whose  name  it  bears,  and  that  it  was  good,  in  a 
medicinal  sense,  for  complaints  in,  that  region.  Seen  here* 
it  reminded  me  that  it  has  been  said,  that  what  is  called  a 
love  of  Nature  may  in  some  of  its  manifestations  be  traced 
to  no  loftier  source  than  a  disorganised  condition  of  health. 
Lowell,  for  instance,  tells  us  that  a  great  deal  of  the  love  of 
Nature  in  these  days  is  sentimental,  and  as  such  is  a  mark 
of  disease — that  "it  is  one  more  symptom  of  the  general 
liver  complaint."  Regarding  the  disposition  in  these  days 
to  indulge  in  descriptive  writing,  he  says,  "  If  matters  go 
on  as  they  have  done,  and  everybody  must  needs  blab  of 
all  the  favours  that  have  been  done  him  by  roadside,  and 
river  brink,  and  woodland  walk,  as  if  to  kiss  and  tell 

12 


166      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LOVERS. 

no  longer  treachery,  it  will  be  a  positive  refreshment  to 
meet  a  man  who  is  as  superbly  indifferent  to  Nature  as 
she  is  to  him."  The  moral  of  all  which  is,  that  when  a  man 
finds  himself  getting  sentimental  over  a  specimen  of  liver 
wort,  it  will  be  well  to  consider  whether  an  inward  appli- 
cation of  it  is  not  desirable  to  clear  his  mental  vision.  Such 
a  reflection  comes  like  a  ghost  to  trouble  joy ;  but  we  will 
not  be  discouraged  by  it,  but  try  to  look  at  Nature  honestly, 
and  with  a  healthy,  open  mind. 

When  I  wander  by  the  woodland  side  or  sit  on  the  green 
bank  above  it,  on  a  summer  day  when  the  sky  is  blue  and 
all  the  trees  are  in  leaf,  and  the  green  carpet  beneath  is 
dappled  with  flowers,  if  I  try  to  realize  my  position  amid 
all  these  beautiful  and  beneficial  influences,  I  am  carried 
back  to  that  definition  of  Emerson's,  and  am  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  Nature  is  everything  outside  the  individual 
soul.  That  inward  me,  that  mysterious  Ego,  comes  from 
an  unseen  source  of  life,  and  is  individualized,  as  it  were, 
within  its  own  environment,  which  I  call  myself.  From 
that  same  source  of  life  this  material  woodland  upon 
which  I  am  looking  has  been  developed,  and  the  expression 
of  it  fixed  in  its  varying  forms.  If  then  I  consider  that 
behind  this  outward  matter  there  is  a  creative  life,  and  that 
every  manifestation  of  that  life  in  the  natural  world  is  a 
veil  hiding  that  source  of  life;  that  the  individual  soul  is  an 
emanation  from  the  same  life,  and  behind  it  is  also  a  mys- 
tery, I  can  understand  to  what  profound  depths  of  specu- 
lation the  sight  of  the  simplest  expression  of  that  outward 
life  may  lead.  It  exists  there,  a  material  creation  between 
two  mysteries  and  two  eternities.  It  follows  therefore 
that  those  who  have  regarded  Nature  most  seriously  have 
had  the  sense  of  this  mystery  most  distinctly  before  them. 
But  as  there  are  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  so  there  are 
all  sorts  of  souls,  some  of  them  being  but  little  removed 
above  the  animals  in  their  sense  of  natural  surroundings. 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       167 

Wordsworth  and  "  Peter  Bell "  are  fair  samples  of  the  two 
extremes.  To  the  potter,  as  everyone  knows,  the  prim- 
rose was  only  a  natural  yellow  primrose,  not  unacceptable 
to  his  eyes,  perhaps,  but  bringing  no  message,  and  rousing 
no  reflections.  To  the  poet  it  brought  thoughts  too  deep 
for  tears,  and  it  was  his  aim  in  looking  at  it  to  try  to  get 
at  its  essence,  as  it  were,  to  the  creative  thought  behind  it, 
and  to  shape,  if  possible,  some  hopeful  religion  from  the 
fact  of  its  existence.  Between  these  two  extremes  there  are 
all  sorts  of  ways  in  which  men  look  at  Nature.  Illustrations 
of  these  extremes  come  to  one  in  odd  forms  sometimes.  I 
was  walking  the  other  day  through  a  mill  where  flannel 
weaving  was  going  on,  and  had  to  make  my  way  carefully 
among  crowded  looms  where  the  shuttles  were  busy  flying 
to  and  fro.  When  I  had  reached  the  limits  of  the  room, 
and  came  to  the  window  places,  I  found  that  some  of  the 
workers  had  put  there  pots  of  choice  ferns  and  plants.  It 
was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  come  upon  evidences  of  a  love  of 
Nature  hi  such  an  unexpected  place,  and  as  I  passed  by,  I 
nibbed  the  leaf  of  a  scented  geranium  lightly  between  my 
fingers,  and  got  from  it  a  fragrance  that  was  grateful  in  that 
warm  atmosphere.  Now  I  might  do  these  lovers  of  Nature 
an  injustice  in  supposing  that  their  object  hi  placing  the 
plants  here  was  only  the  gratification  of  a  botanical  taste,  or 
some  sensuous  enjoyment  of  the  beauty  of  them,  but  I  could 
not  help  wondering  if  these  weavers  knew  anything  of  that 
deeper  thought  to  which  Goethe  has  given  expression,  and 
in  which  Nature  is  represented  to  us  as  a  weaver  at  the  loom 
of  time.  You  know  the  poet  says  in  "  Faust"  that  the  Earth 
Spirit  is  at  work  weaving  the  living  visible  garment  of 
God.  The  Erdgeist  says : — 

In  Being's  floods,  in  Action's  storm, 
I  walk  and  work,  above,  beneath, 
Work  and  weave,  in  endless  motion  ! 
Birth  and  Death, 
An  infinite  ocean ; 


168      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LOVERS. 

A  seizing  and  giving 
The  fire  of  Living : 
Tis  thus  at  the  roaring  Loom  of  Time  I  ply, 

And  weave  for  God  the  Garment  thou  eeest  Him  by. 

In  contemplating  my  bit  of  woodland  I  may  be  a  potter 
or  a  poet — may  see  Nature  through  the  eyes  of  Peter  Bell, 
or  those  of  Wordsworth  or  Goethe,  or  through  any  medium 
that  lies  between  those  two.  It  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of 
this  relation  of  the  soul  to  the  outer  world  that  what  we 
look  on  will  receive  its  light  and  colour  from  the  seeing 
power  within.  In  the  well  known  words  of  Coleridge  this 
is  very  truthfully  expressed.  The  poet  says — 

0  lady  !  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live  : 
Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 
And  would  we  aught  behold  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor,  loveless,  over  anxious  crowd, 
Ah,  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 
A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element. 

So  according  to  my  nature  I  may  deal  with  that  other 
Nature.  If  I  am  sensuously  disposed,  I  may  gather  the 
flowers  and  enjoy  them  for  their  scent  and  beauty,  and 
having  so  enjoyed  them,  may  throw  them  away,  as  children 
do,  to  wither  on  the  path.  If  the  attitude  of  my  mind  is 
purely  scientific,  I  may  take  the  flowers  to  pieces,  and 
examine  into  the  mechanism  of  their  construction  with  a 
cold  intellectual  scrutiny,  and  be  of  those  who — 

Love  not  the  flower  they  pluck,  and  know  it  not, 
And  all  their  botany  is  Latin  names. 

If  I  am  a  natural  philosopher,  as  Oersted  was,  I  may 
speculate  upon  the  life-giving  power  manifested  in  the 
flower  or  plant  and  recognize  therein  an  embodiment  in 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       169 

material  forms  of  spiritual  ideas — may  see  what  is  called 
generally  a  soul  in  Nature.  If  I  am  a  poet  who  is  trying 
to  get  at  the  essences  of  things  in  another  way,  I  may 
associate  these  flowers  with  the  emotions  and  passions  of 
life,  its  hopes  and  aspirations  and  tender  musings,  and  in 
the  blending  of  this  soul-life  with  that  other  may  achieve 
some  new  creation  of  ideas. 

Then,  too,  looking  at  Nature  through  the  medium  of  my 
own  nature,  I  shall  be  influenced  variously  according  to  my 
moods.  To  go  back  to  the  Coleridge  idea,  I  shall  receive 
but  what  I  give.  Or,  to  put  it  in  another  way,  "  Nature,"  as 
Emerson  says,  "  always  wears  the  colours  of  the  spirit.  To 
a  man  labouring  under  calamity  the  heat  of  his  own  fire 
hath  sadness  in  it.  Then  there  is  a  kind  of  contempt  of 
the  landscape  felt  by  him  who  has  lost  a  friend.  The  sky 
is  less  grateful  as  it  shuts  down  over  less  worth  in  the 
population."  So  I  may  come  some  day  to  the  woodland 
and  find  nothing  joyous  in  it. 

This  spirit  of  mine,  which  is  independent  of  it,  some- 
thing apart  from  it,  may  be  thrown  back  upon  the  sense  of 
its  own  sorrows.  You  remember  perhaps  how  this  experi- 
ence is  conveyed  in  one  of  the  saddest  passages  in  our 
literature.  It  is  Mr.  Ruskin  who  gives  utterance  to  it,  and 
it  is  eloquent  as  to  the  insufficiency  of  a  love  of  Nature 
where  human  loss  is  concerned.  He  says :  "  Morning 
breaks,  as  I  write,  along  those  Coniston  Fells,  and  the  level 
mists,  motionless  and  grey  beneath  the  rose  of  the  moor- 
lands, veil  the  lower  woods  and  the  sleeping  village,  and  the 
long  lawns  by  the  lake  shore.  Oh  that  some  one  had  but 
told  me,  in  my  youth,  when  all  my  heart  seemed  to  be  set  on 
these  colours  and  clouds,  that  appear  for  a  little  while 
then  vanish  away,  how  little  my  love  of  them  would  serve 
me,  when  the  silence  of  lawn  and  wood,  in  the  dews  of 
morning,  should  be  completed ;  and  all  my  thoughts  be  of 
those  whom  by  neither  I  was  to  meet  more ! ' 


170      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LOVERS. 

On  the  other  hand,  relief  from  pain  and  sorrow  elicits 
joy  from  natural  objects.  As  Gray  says : — 

See  the  wretch  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost ; 

And  breathe  and  walk  again  ; 
The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  paradise. 

As  one  cannot  help  looking  at  flowers,  and  trees,  and  all 
natural  things  through  the  medium  of  other  men's  thoughts, 
one  is  naturally  led  to  think  at  times  of  those  who  have 
loved  Nature,  and  to  what  ends  they  have  loved.  Most 
people  love  Nature  in  some  fashion  and  according  to  their 
several  tastes.  This  affection  may  go  no  deeper  than  a 
sense  of  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  green  fields,  and  the  rest- 
fulness  and  beauty  associated  with  them.  Horace  could 
not  be  called  a  lover  of  Nature  in  the  special  sense,  but  he 
often  sighed  for  the  quiet  of  his  Sabine  farm.  In  Rome, 
feeling  that  he  was  losing  the  sunshine  of  his  days,  he 
would  say — 

Oh,  when  again 
Shall  I  behold  the  rural  plain, 
And  when,  with  books  of  sages  deep, 
Sequestered  ease  and  gentle  sleep, 
In  sweet  oblivion — blissful  balm — 
The  busy  cares  of  life  becalm. 

Most  people  love  Nature  in  her  floral  aspect.  Flowers 
enter  into  all  the  conditions  of  life.  They  are  found  in 
the  hands  of  children,  in  household  places,  at  marriage 
feasts,  and  on  the  graves  of  the  dead.  As  Ruskin  says, 
"  They  seem  intended  for  the  solace  of  ordinary  humanity ; 
children  love  them;  quiet,  tender,  contented,  ordinary 
people  love  them  as  they  grow ;  luxurious  and  disorderly 
people  rejoice  in  them  gathered.  They  are  the  cottager's 
treasures,  and  in  the  crowded  towns  mark  as  with  a  little 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       171 

broken  fragment  of  rainbow  the  windows  of  the  workers, 
in  whose  hearts  rests  the  covenant  of  peace."  But  it  is  of 
some  special  types  selected  from  the  multitude  of  lovers 
that  one  has  visions  in  these  woodland  places.  Affection 
for  Nature  may  vary  through  infinite  degrees.  It  may 
exist  devoid  of  all  human  sympathy.  When  I  look  on 
Nature  I  have  in  my  mind  a  lover  of  the  observant  kind, 
whose  affection  goes  no  deeper  than  scientific  research.  A 
botanist  of  such  a  type  coming  to  the  woodland  may  tell 
me  all  the  names  of  the  trees  and  plants,  their  various 
properties  and  uses,  and  the  conditions  of  their  lives,  but 
may  display  no  further  interest  in  them.  What  he  has 
got  to  impart  may  be  very  valuable ;  it  may  add  to  my 
knowledge,  but  it  does  not  touch  me  in  the  finer  sense. 
This  observant  regard  of  Nature  may  exist,  however,  with 
something  suggestive  of  a  deeper  love.  Dear  old  Gilbert 
White,  of  Selborne,  was  of  this  type.  No  one  will  doubt 
for  a  moment  that  he  was  a  true  lover  of  Nature  ;  his  love, 
however,  was  of  the  observing,  rather  than  the  emotional, 
kind.  He  was  not  troubled  with  any  anxious  "questionings 
of  sense  and  outward  things,"  and  you  will  search  in  vain 
for  any  transcendentalism  in  his  epistles.  He  looked  on 
Nature  with  the  eye  of  a  naturalist,  and  nothing  there  was 
unworthy  of  his  regard.  He  was  quick  to  recognise  the 
existence  and  importance  of  the  humblest  link  in  the 
chain  of  Nature,  and  anticipated  Darwin  in  dealing  with 
earth  worms.  You  will  remember  that  well  known  letter 
of  his  on  the  subject,  in  which  he  tells  us  how  the  humble 
worms  do  their  share  in  renewing  the  soil,  and  how  unwise 
and  shortsighted  gardeners  and  farmers  were  in  dealing 
with  them.  In  his  own  modest,  unassuming  way  he  gives 
the  results  of  his  observation,  in  order,  he  says,  to  set  the 
inquisitive  and  discerning  to  work.  Gilbert  White  ex- 
plores his  lawn  by  candle-light,  to  watch  the  earth  worms  at 


172      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS. 

work,  and  in  the  later  time  Darwin  does  the  same  with  his 
lamp,  and  we  seem  to  see  the  inspiring  cause  of  a  recent 
most  interesting  book  of  the  later  naturalist  in  the  remark 
of  the  earlier  one,  that  "  a  good  monograph  of  worms 
would  afford  much  entertainment  and  information  at  the 
same  time,  and  would  open  a  large  and  new  field  in 
natural  history."  You  can  see  that  he  is  deeply  interested 
in  every  living  thing  that  comes  under  his  notice,  and  that 
there  is  a  strain  of  tenderness  and  affection  in  his  nature ; 
but  he  is  not  demonstrative,  and  his  love  is  marked  by 
much  practical,  homely  common  sense.  To  illustrate  his 
way  of  looking  at  Nature,  I  must  anticipate  a  little,  and 
contrast  him  with  a  lover  of  the  later  time,  Richard 
Jefferies.  They  are  both  regarding  the  common  rush  that 
grows  there  in  the  ditch.  Says  Jefferies,  in  his  "  Pageant 
of  Summer  " :  "  Green  rushes  long  and  thick  standing  up 
above  the  edge  of  the  ditch,  told  the  hour  of  the  year  as 
distinctly  as  the  shadow  on  the  dial  the  hour  of  the  day. 
Green  and  thick  and  sappy  to  the  touch,  they  felt  like 
summer,  soft  and  elastic,  as  if  full  of  life,  mere  rushes 
though  they  were.  On  the  fingers  they  left  a  green  scent, 
.  .  .  .  some  of  the  sweetness  of  the  air  had  entered 
into  their  fibres,  and  the  rushes — the  common  rushes — 
were  full  of  beautiful  summer."  Now  Gilbert  White  has  a 
letter  devoted  to  rushes,  but  it  is  not  the  poetical  or 
beautiful  aspect  that  strikes  him,  but  the  uses  to  which 
they  may  be  put  to  provide  cheap  lights  for  the  poor  folk 
that  engages  his  attention,  and  he  is  most  minute  in  his 
instructions  how  to  make  rush  lights.  Another  illustration 
may  be  given  of  his  way  of  regarding  flowers  and  the  order 
of  their  procession  through  the  year.  It  has  struck  him  as 
one  of  the  strangest  things  about  plants  that  they  should 
have  different  times  of  blossoming.  He  says,  "  Some  produce 
their  flowers  in  the  winter  or  very  first  dawnings  of  spring, 
many  when  the  spring  is  established,  some  at  midsummer, 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       173 

and  some  not  till  autumn."  He  selects  the  wild  crocus  of 
the  spring  and  autumn  as  curious  examples  of  this  law  of 
blossoming.  These  crocuses  do  not  grow  in  my  wood- 
land place,  but  may  be  gathered  not  far  away.  Regarding 
their  times  of  flowering  he  says,  "  This  circumstance  is  one 
of  the  wonders  of  the  creation,  little  noticed  because  a 
common  occurrence;  yet  ought  not  to  be  overlooked  on 
account  of  its  being  familiar,  since  it  would  be  as  difficult 
to  be  explained  as  the  most  stupendous  phenomenon  in 
Nature. 

Say  what  impels,  amidst  surrounding  snow 
Congealed,  the  crocus'  flaming  bud  to  glow  ? 
Say  what  retards,  amidst  the  summer's  blaze, 
The  autumnal  bulb,  till  pale,  declining  days  ? 
The  God  of  seasons  ;  whose  pervading  power 
Controls  the  sun,  or  sheds  the  fleecy  shower, 
He  bids  each  flower  His  quickening  word  obey  ; 
Or  to  each  lingering  bloom  enjoins  delay. 

You  see  that  in  a  simple,  believing,  child-like  way  he  is 
content  to  refer  all  the  mysteries  of  creation  to  the  great 
creative  power,  and  there  rest  satisfied. 

As  the  vision  of  the  historian  of  Selborne  fades,  there 
comes  up  that  of  another  country  clergyman,  like  White, 
a  bachelor,  and  who  also  loved  Nature  in  his  own  way, 
which  is  a  typical  one.  Parson  Herrick  was  a  poet  who 
lived  for  a  long  time  at  Dean  Priors,  in  Devonshire. 
There  he  sang  in  pastorals  the  praise  of  country  life,  but  it 
is  very  doubtful  whether  there  was  not  more  than  a  suspi- 
cion of  affectation  in  his  singing.  Gilbert  White  was  born, 
lived,  and  died  in  Selborne,  and  could  never  at  any  time 
be  tempted  to  leave  it.  On  the  other  hand,  Herrick 
fretted  and  fumed  and  was  discontented  with  his  condition, 
or  affected  to  be  so.  Yet  he  must  have  loved  the  flowers, 
I  imagine.  He  did  not  study  them  as  a  naturalist,  but 
dealt  with  them  as  a  poet,  allying  them  to  all  sorts  of 
quaint  conceits  and  pathetic  fallacies,  toying  with  them  in 


174      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LOVERS. 

a  playful  way,  grieving  over  their  withering,  and  never 
so  happy  as  when  associating  their  beauty,  sweetness,  and 
perfume  with  some  lady  of  his  love — Julia,  Corinna,  Althea, 
or  Silvia.  He  loves  the  roses,  but  there  is  no  rosebush  like 
his  Julia's  cheeks. 

One  ask'd  me  where  the  roses  grew — 

I  bade  him  not  go  seek, 
But  forthwith  bade  my  Julia  shew 

A  bud  on  either  cheek. 

The  daisies  are  asked  not  to  close  their  eyes  till  Julia 
closes  hers. 

Shut  not  so  soon  :  the  dull-eyed  night 

Has  not,  as  yet  begun 
To  make  a  seizure  on  the  light, 

Or  to  seal  up  the  sun. 

No  marigolds  yet  closed  are, 

No  shadows  yet  appear  : 
Nor  doth  the  early  shepherd's  star 

Shine  like  a  spangle  here. 

Stay  but  till  my  Julia  close 

Her  life-begetting  eye ; 
And  let  the  whole  world  then  dispose 

Itself  to  live,  or  die. 

The  loiterer  who  muses  by  field  or  woodland  must  needs 
often  have  Herrick  in  his  mind  with  his  quaint  fancies 
about  the  flowers  and  their  origin.  This  is  the  way  he  tells 
us  how  violets  became  blue — 

Love  on  a  day,  wise  poets  tell, 

Some  time  in  wrangling  spent, 
Whether  the  violet  should  excel 

Or  she,  in  sweetest  scent. 

But  Venus  having  lost  the  day, 

Poor  girls,  she  fell  ou  you, 
And  beat  ye  so,  as  some  dare  say, 

Her  blows  did  make  ye  blue. 

And  this  is  how  the  rose  became  red — 

'Tis  said  as  Cupid  danc'd  among 
The  gods  he  down  the  nectar  flung  ; 
Which,  on  the  white  rose  being  shed, 
Made  it  for  ever  after  red. 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       175 

The  serious,  tender,  reflective  element  in  Herrick  is 
shown  in  his  regret  at  the  sense  of  decay  and  death  in  the 
too  quick  withering  of  his  favourites.  Says  he — 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying  : 
And  this  same  flower,  that  smiles  today  ; 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

And  of  the  blossoms,  he  asks — 

What !  were  you  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 

'Twas  pity  nature  brought  ye  forth 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 

Like  you — a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

No  one  with  a  knowledge  of  English  poetry  surely  ever 
sees  a  daffodil  without  thinking  of  Herrick,  who  divides 
with  Wordsworth  the  honour  of  being  the  flower's  poet. 
He  says — 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet,  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  its  noon. 

Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hastening  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  evensong. 
And  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along  ! 
We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you  ; 

We  have  aa  short  a  spring, 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  anything : 
We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


176       CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS. 

Herrick  may  be  taken  as  a  type  of  a  sensuous  lover  of 
Nature,  whose  love  has  a  human  reference,  full,  as  we  have 
seen,  of  poetical  exaggerations.  His  soul  was  touched  to 
fine  issues  by  contact  with  Nature,  but  not  very  deeply  or 
seriously. 

Now  these  poetical  lovers  differ  from  the  naturalist 
observers  in  trying  to  get  at  what  they  call  the  essence  of 
Nature.  They  are  not  so  much  interested  in  the  vegetable 
life  as  that  other  life  which  is  the  product  of  the  contact 
of  natural  things  with  their  own  spirits.  A  flower  lives 
in  another  sense  and  assumes  another  form  when  it  is  so 
dealt  with.  This  essence  is  called  the  real  life  of  Nature. 
The  craving  for  identification  with  it  is  very  forcibly 
expressed  in  a  passage  from  Maurice  de  Guerin.  He  says, 
"  I  return,  as  you  see,  to  my  old  brooding  over  the  world 
of  Nature,  that  line  which  my  thoughts  irresistibly  take ; 
a  sort  of  passion,  which  gives  me  enthusiasm,  tears,  bursts 
of  joy,  and  an  eternal  food  for  musing ;  and  yet  I  am 
neither  philosopher  nor  naturalist,  nor  anything  learned 
whatsoever.  There  is  one  word  which  is  the  God  of  my 
imagination,  the  tyrant,  I  ought  rather  to  say,  that 
fascinates  it,  lures  it  onward,  gives  it  work  to  do  without 
ceasing,  and  will  finally  carry  it  I  know  not  where ;  the 
word  Life." 

Keats  is  an  example  of  the  sensuous  lover  of  this  type, 
one  who  for  a  long  time  lived  in  sensations,  emotions,  and 
tendencies  that  came  to  him  from  contact  with  the  natural 
world,  without  any  attempt  on  his  part  to  crystallize  his 
feelings  into  human  reference  or  moral  interpretation. 

Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  lover  who  was 
not  content  with  sensuous  enjoyment,  but  who  realized 
the  sense  of  the  inner  life  of  Nature  in  a  deeper  degree, 
and  took  upon  himself  the  duty  of  interpreting  it  and 
giving  it  human  reference  in  the  profoundest  sense,  to  the 
extent  even  of  formulating  a  religion  from  it.  He  says — 


CONCERTINO  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       177 

On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  life, 

Musing  in  solitude,  I  oft  perceive 

Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 

Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight, 

Pure,  or  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mixed  ; 

And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts, 

And  dear  remembrances,  whose  presence  soothes 

Or  elevates  the  Mind,  intent  to  weigh 

The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 

He  believed,  as  you  know,  that  the  mind  was  exquisitely 
adapted  to  the  external  world  and  the  external  world  to 
the  mind,  and  by  the  action  and  reaction  of  these  a  new 
creation  was  accomplished  by  the  poet.  As  clearly  as  any 
pagan  did,  or  Goethe  in  later  times,  he  in  another  sense 
realizes  the  presence  of  a  spirit  in  Nature,  and  in  the  lines 
written  above  Tintern  he  tells  us  how  this  influence  comes 
to  him.  He  says — 

And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime, 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  ; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things. 

So  keen  is  the  sense  of  this  soul  in  Nature  that  he  some- 
times seems  to  lose  the  consciousness  of  his  material  life  in 
its  presence.  He  tells  of  moods  in  which  we  are  led  gently 
on — 

Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul. 

And  it  is  at  such  times  that  he  is  enabled,  as  he  says,  to 
see  into  the  life  of  things.  This  consciousness  of  the  pre- 
sence of  a  soul  in  Nature  is  not  an  affectation  in  Words- 


178      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LOVERS. 

worth,  and  is  to  be  specially  regarded  as  a  phenomenon  of 
emotional  love.  Elsewhere,  in  his  "  Ode  on  Intimations  of 
Immortality,"  he  speaks  of — 

Those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 

When  asked  one  day  what  he  meant  by  those  lines,  he 
said  that  he  was  sometimes  so  withdrawn  in  spirit  from 
outward  things  that  he  had  to  grasp  some  material  sub- 
stance to  assure  himself  of  the  actual  world  in  which  he 
was.  He  is  avowedly  a  worshipper  of  this  soul  in  Nature, 
a  mystic  indeed,  who  recognizes,  as  he  says — 

In  Nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart, 
And  soul  of  all  my  moral  being. 

One  cannot  say,  perhaps,  that  one  has  realized  so  deepl 
as  the  poet  has  done  this  inner  life  of  things ;  but  remem- 
bering what  he  has  said,  one  cannot  look  upon  a  bit  of 
woodland  beauty  without  in  some  sense  feeling  that  there  is 
a  spirit  in  the  wood,  and  that  possibly  if  one  could  feel  all 
its  influences  the  impulse  from  it  might — 

Teach  us  more  of  man, 

Of  moral  evil  and  of  good 

Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Believing,  as  he  did,  that  "the  gods  approve  the  depth 
and  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul,"  and  that  there  is,  if  we 
will  look  for  it,  a  central  peace  at  the  heart  of  endless 
agitation,  his  Gospel  of  Nature  was  of  the  quiet,  trustful 
kind.  In  this  woodland  nook,  as  I  have  said,  you  may 
sometimes  hear  the  cooing  of  the  wood-pigeons  coming 
from  the  remoter  trees.  This  was  a  music  dear  to  the 
poet,  and  he  uses  it  to  illustrate  his  love  for  peaceful 
things.  He  has  been  describing  the  song  of  the  night- 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.       179 

ingale,  with  its  fiery  heart  and  fierce  tumultuous  harmony 
suggestive  of  passion  and  unrest ;  a  sort  of  music  dear  to 
the  heart  of  Heine  and  many  another  poet,  Keats  in- 
cluded. Afterwards  he  goes  on  to  say — 

I  heard  a  Stock -dove  sing  or  say 
His  homely  tale  this  very  day  ; 
His  voice  was  buried  among  trees 
Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze  : 
He  did  not  cease  ;  but  cooed,  and  cooed, 
And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed. 
He  sang  of  love  with  quiet  blending, 
Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending  ; 
Of  serious  faith  and  inward  glee, 
That  was  the  Song — the  Song  for  me  ! 

Many  other  lovers  of  Nature  there  are  upon  whom  one 
would  like  to  dwell,  but  time  and  space  are  pressing. 
There  is,  for  instance,  the  transcendental  lover,  of  whom 
Emerson  is  the  purest  type,  who  seeks  for  the  finer 
effluences  of  things,  the  idea  behind  the  material  fact,  and 
finds  all  sorts  of  occult  meanings  in  Nature.  Then  there 
is  the  lover  of  the  hermit  type,  of  which  Thoreau,  Emer- 
son's disciple,  is  the  chief  example ;  he  who  went  out  from 
the  society  of  Concord  and  built  himself  a  hut  under  the 
pine  trees  by  Walden  Pond,  and  there  cultivated  the 
closest  relations  with  all  living  things.  He  tried  in  his 
eccentric  way  to  get  back  to  first  principles,  and  formulate 
a  criticism  of  life  from  the  companionship  of  Nature.  He 
was  a  sort  of  monk,  who  left  the  world  for  a  time  to 
worship  in  an  oratory  of  his  own  in  the  great  cathedral  of 
Nature.  He  was  an  ascetic,  and  it  turned  out  in  his  case, 
as  in  many  others,  that  asceticism,  whether  in  a  love  of 
Nature  or  in  any  other  form,  is  not  the  true  life  of  man. 
He  was  a  compound  of  the  naturalist  and  the  poet.  There 
was  nothing  too  minute  for  his  observation  in  outward 
things,  and  the  same  microscopical  investigation  was 
applied  to  himself.  As  Lowell  says,  "  Trifles  are  recorded 


180      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS. 

with  an  over-minute  punctuality  and  conscientiousness  of 
detail.  He  records  the  state  of  his  personal  thermometer 
thirteen  times  a  day."  But  one  cannot  linger  over 
Thoreau,  but  would  turn  for  a  moment  to  a  lover  of  a 
later  time,  with  whom  his  name  has  been  associated,  but 
who  touches  us  closer  than  the  New  England  devotee. 
No  loiterer  by  field-path  or  woodland  side  in  these 
days  should  be  unacquainted  with  Richard  Jefferies. 
If  ever  there  was  a  passionate  pilgrim  lover  of  nature  it 
was  he.  I  often  think  of  him  when  I  walk  the  woodland 
ways  and  gather  the  wild  flowers,  because  many  of  the 
experiences  he  has  recorded  seem  to  be  so  similar  to  one's 
own.  How  closely  does  this  confession  come  home ! 
"  Before  I  had  any  conscious  thought  it  was  a  delight  to 
me  to  find  wild  flowers,  just  to  see  them.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  gather  them  and  to  take  them  home ;  a  pleasure  to 
show  them  to  others — to  keep  them  as  long  as  they  would 
live,  to  decorate  the  room  with  them,  to  arrange  them  care- 
lessly with  grasses,  green  sprays,  tree  bloom — large  branches 
of  chestnut  snapped  off,  and  set  by  a  picture  perhaps. 
.  .  .  All  the  world  is  young  to  a  boy,  and  thought  has 
not  entered  into  it.  ...  The  various  hues  of  the  petals, 
placed  without  any  knowledge  of  colour  contrast,  no  note 
even  of  colour  save  that  it  was  bright,  and  the  mind  was 
made  happy  without  consideration  of  those  ideals  and 
hopes  afterwards  asssociated  with  the  azure  of  the  sky 
above  the  fir  trees.  ...  A  fresh  footpath,  a  fresh 
flower,  a  fresh  delight.  The  reeds,  the  grasses,  the 
rushes — unknown  and  new  things  at  every  step — some- 
thing always  to  find,  no  barren  spot  anywhere,  or  same- 
ness. Every  day  the  grass  painted  anew,  and  its 
green  seen  for  the  first  time ;  not  the  old  green,  but  a 
novel  hue  and  spectacle  like  the  first  view  of  the  sea.  If 
we  had  never  before  looked  on  the  earth,  but  suddenly 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LOVERS.       181 

came  to  it,  man  or  woman  grown,  set  down  in  a  summer 
mead,  would  it  not  seem  to  us  a  radiant  vision  ?  The  hues, 
the  shapes,  the  song,  the  life  of  the  birds ;  above  all,  the 
sunlight,  the  breath  of  heaven,  resting  on  it ;  the  mind 
would  be  filled  with  its  glory,  unable  to  grasp  it,  hardly 
believing  that  such  things  could  be  mere  matter  and  no 
more." 

Emerson  says  that  as  we  grow  older  we  care  less  for  the 
flowers.  He  says,  "Flowers  so  strictly  belong  to  youth 
that  we  adult  men  soon  come  to  feel  that  their  beautiful 
generations  concern  not  us.  We  have  had  our  day — now 
let  the  children  have  theirs.  The  flowers  jilt  us,  and  we 
are  old  bachelors  with  our  ridiculous  tenderness."  But 
says  Jefferies  of  the  wonderful  charm  of  flowers  as  seen  in 
later  life  : — "  So  it  seemed  to  me  as  a  boy,  sweet  and  new 
like  this  each  morning ;  and  even  now,  after  the  years  have 
passed,  and  the  lines  they  have  worn  in  the  forehead,  the 
summer  mead  shines  as  bright  and  fresh  as  when  my  foot 
first  touched  the  grass.  It  has  another  meaning  now  ;  the 
sunshine  and  the  flowers  speak  differently,  for  a  heart  that 
has  once  known  sorrow  reads  behind  the  page,  and  sees 
sadness  in  joy.  But  the  freshness  is  still  there;  the  dew 
washes  the  colours  before  dawn.  Unconscious  happiness  in 
finding  wild  flowers — unconscious  and  unquestioning,  and 
therefore  unbounded." 

Like  many  other  lovers  of  Nature,  Jefferies  did  not  dis- 
play a  scientific  attitude  of  mind.  Wordsworth  was  no 
botanist,  and  Thoreau  maintained  that  to  look  on  Nature 
scientifically  was  to  have  one's  heart  turned  to  stone. 
Jefferies  says,  "  I  will  not  permit  myself  to  be  taken  captive 
by  observing  physical  phenomena,  as  many  evidently  are ; " 
and  his  eulogiser,  Mr.  Besant,  says :  "  I  do  not  gather  from 
any  page  of  his  works  that  ho  was  a  scientific  botanist, 
entomologist,  or  ornithologist ;"  nevertheless,  he  observed 
13 


182      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  HER  LOVERS. 

as  minutely  as  Gilbert  White,  and  with  this  difference  also, 
that  he  sought  a  kind  of  sympathetic  identification  with 
Nature.  We  know  in  how  matter-of-fact  a  way  the  histo- 
rian of  Selborne  kept  his  chronicle.  When  Jefferies  was 
laid  aside  by  sickness,  and  could  not  get  out  into  the  fields, 
he  enquires  pathetically,  "I  wonder  to  myself  how  they 
can  all  get  on  without  me — how  they  manage,  bird  and 
flower,  without  me  to  keep  the  calendar  for  them ;  for  I 
noted  it  so  carefully  and  lovingly  day  by  day."  Keats  was 
not  more  sensitive  to  grace  and  beauty,  to  all  delightful 
sensations  of  sight,  and  sound,  and  fragrance.  His  soul 
seemed  literally  to  hunger  and  thirst  for  all  that  was 
beautiful  in  the  material  world. 

Those  who  would  know  how  Jefferies  loved  Nature 
should  read  "The  Story  of  My  Heart."  Wordsworth's 
love  was  calm,  cold,  and  philosophic,  when  contrasted 
with  his.  He  craved  for  even  a  closer  affinity  with 
Nature  than  the  poet  expresses.  Could  any  poet,  pagan 
or  other,  yearn  for  a  closer  affinity  than  this?  He  has 
gone  up  into  a  hollow  of  the  hills  to  commune  with  his 
love.  He  says,  "  Sometimes  on  lying  down  on  the  sward  I 
first  looked  up  at  the  sky,  gazing  for  a  long  time  till  I 
€ould  see  deep  into  the  azure,  and  my  eyes  were  full  of  the 
colour;  then  I  turned  my  face  to  the  grass  and  thyme, 
placing  my  hands  at  each  side  of  my  face  so  as  to  shut  out 
everything  and  hide  myself.  Having  drunk  deeply  of  the 
heaven  above  and  felt  the  most  glorious  beauty  of  the  day, 
and  remembering  the  old,  old  sea  which  (as  it  seemed  to 
me)  was  but  just  yonder  at  the  edge,  I  now  became  lost, 
and  absorbed  into  the  being  or  existence  of  the  universe. 
I  felt  down  deep  into  the  earth  and  under,  and  high  above 
into  the  sky,  and  further  still  to  the  sun  and  stars.  Still 
further,  beyond  the  stars  into  the  hollow  of  space,  and 
losing  my  separateness  of  being,  came  to  seem  like  a 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SO  MB  OP  HER  LOVERS.       183 

part  of  the  whole.  Then  I  whispered  to  the  earth  beneath 
through  the  grass  and  thyme,  down  into  the  depths  of  its 
ear,  and  again  up  to  the  starry  space  hid  behind  the  blue 
of  day."  Then  again  he  says,  "  I  used  to  lie  down  in 
solitary  corners  at  full  length  on  my  back,  so  as  to  feel 
the  embrace  of  the  earth.  The  grass  stood  high  above 
me,  and  the  shadows  of  the  tree  branches  danced  upon  my 
face.  I  looked  up  at  the  sky  with  half-closed  eyes  to  bear 
the  dazzling  light.  Bees  buzzed  over,  sometimes  a  butter- 
fly passed,  there  was  a  hum  in  the  air,  greenfinches  sang 
in  the  hedge.  ...  I  was  plunged  deep  in  existence, 
and  with  all  that  existence  I  prayed" 

The  object  of  all  his  passionate  yearning  was  a  higher 
soul  life.  He  felt  his  own  individuality  of  soul  as  some- 
thing distinct  from  Nature,  with  infinite  possibilities  of 
beautiful  life  for  it.  He  wished  to  reach  at  some  idea 
beyond  Nature,  even  beyond  Deity,  he  says.  He  tried  to 
get  at  this  fuller  life  through  Nature,  but  he  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  a  Sphinx,  and  he  found  also  that  with  all  her 
graceful  and  beautiful  gifts  Nature  was  calmly  indifferent 
to  him  and  his  yearnings.  But  he  believes  in  the  soul-life 
still,  as  something  more  sublime  and  real  than  Nature  her- 
self. He  says :  "  I  need  no  earth,  or  sea  or  sun,  to  think 
my  thought.  If  my  thought  part — the  pysche — were 
entirely  separated  from  the  body  and  from  the  earth,  I 
should  of  myself  desire  the  same.  In  itself  my  soul 
desires,  my  existence,  my  soul  existence,  is  in  itself  my 
prayer,  and  so  long  as  it  exists  so  long  will  it  pray  that  I 
may  have  the  fullest  soul  life."  Like  Wordsworth,  Jefferies 
regarded  humanity  and  its  interests  as  more  important 
than  aspects  of  Nature.  Wordsworth's  great  gospel  was 
"  what  one  is,  why  may  not  millions  be,"  and  JeiTcrios 
craved  for  a  perfection  of  physical  and  spiritual  beauty  in 
mankind. 


184      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OF  UER  LOVERS. 

Often  when  walking  by  the  woodland  side  I  think  of 
these  and  many  other  lovers  of  Nature,  who,  like  last 
year's  flowers,  are  dust  again — 

Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 
With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees  ; 

and  so  thinking,  I  remember  how  some  of  them  contem- 
plated the  end  of  the  pilgrimage,  and  of  the  loving. 

Says  Emerson,  sounding  the  same  note  of  faith  in 
Nature  which  Wordsworth  did  when  he  said  that  she 
never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her — 

For  nature  ever  faithful  is, 
To  such  as  trust  her  faithfulness — 
When  the  forest  shall  mislead  me, 
When  the  night  and  morning  lie, 
When  sea  and  land  refuse  to  feed  me, 
'Twill  be  time  enough  to  die. 
Then  will  yet  my  mother  yield, 
A  pillow  in  her  greenest  field, 
Nor  the  June  flowers  scorn  to  cover, 
The  clay  of  their  departed  lover. 

Says  Thoreau :  "  For  joy  I  could  embrace  the  earth ;  I 
shall  delight  to  be  buried  in  it."  Says  Heine :  "  A  tree 
will  shadow  my  grave.  I  would  gladly  have  it  a  palm, 
but  that  tree  will  not  grow  in  the  north.  It  will  be  a 
linden,  and  on  summer  evenings  lovers  will  sit  there  and 
caress  ;  the  greenfinch,  who  rocks  himself  on  the  branches, 
will  be  listening  silently ;  and  my  linden  will  rustle  ten- 
derly over  the  heads  of  the  happy  ones,  who  will  still  be 
so  happy  that  they  will  have  no  time  to  read  what  is 
written  on  the  white  tombstone.  But  when,  later,  the 
lover  has  lost  his  love,  then  he  will  come  again  to  the 
well-known  linden,  and  sigh  and  weep,  and  gaze  long  and 
oft  upon  the  stone,  and  read  the  inscription.  '  He  loved 
the  flowers  of  Brenta.' " 

But  we  know,  alas,  that  in  whatever  way  men  may  love 
Nature,  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  is  indifferent  to  their  loves. 


CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS.        185 

The  lovers  come  and  go,  they  sing  their  songs,  and  then  in 
a  little  while  they  are  silent,  and  are  laid  in  the  flowery 
lap  of  earth,  but  Nature  remains  calm  and  inscrutable  as  a 
Sphinx,  ever  renewing  her  beauty,  and  ever  finding  new 
wooers  to  replace  the  old  loves.  When  Wordsworth  lay 
dead,  Matthew  Arnold,  sitting  in  his  boat  on  the  moonlit 
lake,  and  looking  on  the  mountains,  which  the  poet  loved  so 
well,  with  their  peaks  seen  standing  out  clear  above  the 
valley  mists  in  the  pure  June  night,  spoke  thus — 

Rydal  and  Fairfield  are  there  ; 

In  the  shadow  Wordsworth  lies  dead, 

So  is  it,  so  it  will  be  for  aye, 

Nature  is  fresh  as  of  old, 

Is  lovely  :  a  mortal  is  dead. 

Then  occurs  to  him  the  question — is  it,  after  all,  this 
Nature  or  the  lover's  soul  which  gives  the  charm  to  what 
is  seen  ? 

For  oh,  is  it  you,  is  it  you, 

Moonlight,  and  shadow,  and  lake, 

And  mountains  that  fill  us  with  joy, 

Or  the  poet  who  sings  you  so  well  ? 

Is  it  you,  0  Beauty,  O  Grace, 

O  Charm,  0  Romance  that  we  feel, 

Or  the  voice  which  reveals  what  you  are  ? 

Nature  repli 


"  Loveliness,  Magic,  and  Grace, 
They  are  here — they  are  set  in  the  world — 
They  abide— and  the  finest  of  souls 
Has  not  been  thrilled  by  them  all, 
Nor  the  dullest  been  dead  to  them  quite. 
The  poet  who  sings  them  may  die, 
But  they  are  immortal  and  live, 
For  they  are  the  life  of  the  world. 

Race  after  race,  man  after  man, 
Have  dream'd  that  my  secret  was  theirs, 
Have  thought  that  I  liv'd  but  for  them, 
That  they  were  my  glory  and  joy — 
They  are  dust,  they  are  changed,  they  are  gone— 
I  remain." 


186      CONCERNING  NATURE  AND  SOME  OP  HER  LOVERS. 

And  so,  whether  I  go  to  the  woodland  again  or  not,  the- 
flowers  will  be  there  in  the  spring,  and  the  brook  will 
babble  on  its  way  as  of  old  among  the  trees,  and  my 
presence  or  absence  will  be  of  little  account  in  the  expres- 
sion of  life  there.  The  consideration  of  this  indifference, 
this  want  of  response  to  my  affection,  need  not  trouble  me. 
The  flowers  and  trees  come  and  go  as  men  do.  It  is  not 
they  which  abide,  but  the  principle  of  life  in  the  whole 
which  is  permanent.  Sufficient  for  me  be  it  if  contact 
with  this  other  manifestation  of  life  has  brought  some  sense 
of  peace,  some  thrill  of  joy.  The  association  with  my 
woodland  place  will  not  have  been  in  vain  if  I  have  only 
been  able  occasionally  to  gather  a  little  heart's  ease  there 
to  cheer  the  discontent  of  a  wintry  day. 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.* 

BY   GEORGE   MILNER  AND  JOHN  MORTIMER. 

MR.  IRELAND'S  "  Hazlitt,"  recently  published  in  " The 
Cavendish  Library,"  is  a  boon  to  his  generation.  Human 
nature  is  so  often  perversely  occupied  in  doing  the  thing 
for  which  it  is  ill-fitted  that  we  may  be  thankful  when  a 
man  sets  himself  the  task  for  which  he  seems  pre-ordained. 
There  are  probably  few  men  in  England  more  competent 
to  deal  with  Hazlitt  and  those  who  were  his  friends  than 
Mr.  Alexander  Ireland.  He  knows  his  subject  with  an 
absolute  thoroughness.  He  is  an  avowed  and  ardent 
admirer,  but  his  love  is  tempered  with  judgment  and  his 
praise  is  never  fanatical.  The  student  of  literature  has  a 
prejudice  against  "  selections,"  but  the  present  volume  is 
entirely  justifiable.  It*is  more  than  that — it  was  needed. 
Hazlitt 's  published  writings  extend  to  about  thirty-five 
volumes.  The  collected  edition,  edited  by  his  son,  deals 
only  with  about  half  of  these,  and  is  itself  in  seven  volumes. 
It  must  be  admitted  also  that  Hazlitt  is  an  unequal  writer. 
He  invites  selection  and  compression.  The  casual  con- 
temporary reader,  flooded  as  ho  is  with  an  over-increasing 
stream  of  books,  probably  knows  Hazlitt  only  as  a  name, 

•  William  Ha/Jitt,  EsMyint  and  Critic.     Hy  Alexander  Ireland. 


188  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

and  is  not  likely  to  make  intimate  acquaintance  with  him 
in  his  original  dress.  For  him  the  volume  before  us  will 
be  adequate  and  sufficient.  Its  five  hundred  pages  will 
introduce  to  his  notice  some  of  the  finest  criticism  of  which 
the  English  language  can  boast,  and  will  make  him  the 
possessor  of  passages  whose  eloquence  and  personal  charm 
have  made  them  the  life-long  delight  of  an  earlier  race  of 
readers. 

The  great  merit  of  Mr.  Ireland's  selections  lies  in  the 
fact  that  they  are  clearly  the  outcome  of  long  and  loving 
familiarity  with  his  author  rather  than  of  set  intention  to 
•  bring  together  so  much  as  would  make  a  desirable  volume. 
He  has  also  wisely  given  some  of  the  best  and  most  famous 
essays  without  abridgement.  Among  these  are  the 
"  Character  of  Hamlet,"  in  which  Mr.  Ireland  thinks 
Hazlitt's  own  idiosyncrasies  are  repeated  side  by  side  with 
those  of  Shakespeare's  creations.  "  My  First  Acquaintance 
with  Poets,"  "  On  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen," 
and  "  On  Going  a  Journey."  Almost  the  whole  of  the  fine 
"  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Elizabethan  Literature"  is 
also  given,  and,  at  least,  one  essay  which  has  not  been  pre- 
viously published — "The  Sick  Chamber" — which  was 
written  only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death.  No  extracts 
are  given  from  that  strange  production,  "Liber  Amoris,  or 
the  New  Pygmalion,"  but  the  singular  circumstances  under 
which  it  was  composed  are  sufficiently  set  forth  in  the 
admirable  Memoir  and  Critical  Estimate  which  precedes 
the  volume.  The  reader  who  is  not  already  familiar  with 
Hazlitt's  wonderful  power  and  versatility  should  peruse 
first  the  essay  on  "My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets," 
and  should  then  turn  to  the  paper  written  in  1822,  and 
descriptive  of  a  prize  fight.  Mr.  George  Saintsbury,  in  a 
recent  paper,  concludes  Hazlitt  to  be  our  greatest  English 
critic.  If  we  take  into  account  his  extraordinary  range  of 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  189 

subject,  we  shall  probably  admit  the  correctness  of  this 
judgment.  He  worked  in  every  vein — books,  pictures, 
morals,  manners,  religion,  even  pugilism — nothing  came 
amiss  to  his  facile  pen,  or  left  his  hands  untouched  by 
literary  grace  and  something,  at  least,  of  the  distinction  of 
genius.  GEORGE  MILKER. 

I  am  commencing  these  rough  notes  as  I  rest  against  the 
side  of  an  old  boat  drawn  up  on  the  shingle  of  the 
sea-shore,  from  which,  were  there  not  just  now  a  dim  haze 
obscuring  the  view,  I  might  have  sight  of  that  opposite 
shore  from  which  Mr.  Ireland  has  dated  the  preface  to  his 
latest  volume.  That  volume  is  beside  me  now,  and 
wandering  along  by  the  sea  I  have  spent  some  pleasant 
hours  in  reading  the  memoir  of  Hazlitt,  and  in  renew- 
ing my  acquaintance  with  those  familiar  essays  which  Mr. 
Ireland  has  included  in  his  admirable  selections.  Such 
comparatively  close  proximity  to  that  Southport  shore 
seems  to  bring  me  within  touch  of  the  editor  and  critic  of 
Hazlitt,  and  enables  me  in  some  sense  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  his  work.  The  association  of  ideas  carries  me 
still  further  back,  for,  in  the  friend  of  Leigh  Hunt,  I  seem 
to  find  a  living  link  with  the  group  of  essayists  of  which 
Hazlitt  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant.  Perhaps  there  are 
few  men  amongst  us  just  now  in  whom  the  spirit  of  that 
time  survives  so  strongly  as  it  does  in  our  esteemed  friend 
whom  we  are  glad  to  count  amongst  the  members  of  the 
Manchester  Literary  Club,  and  it  is  interesting  in  this 
•connection  to  be  reminded  that,  to  a  paper  read  by  Mr. 
Ireland  to  that  Club,  we  may  probably  trace  the  origin  of 
the  present  volume. 

When  Mr.  Ireland  deals  with  a  theme  which  he  has 
made  peculiarly  his  own,  he  does  so  in  the  spirit  of  an 
enthusiast ;  but  it  is  an  enthusiasm  tempered  with  a  fine 


190  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

common  sense.  He  never  allows  his  admiration  to  cloud 
his  mental  vision,  or  warp  his  judgment.  In  his  Memoir 
he  has  given  us  a  graphic  outline  of  Hazlitt,  in  which  his 
faults  and  foibles  are  placed  side  by  side  with  his  better 
qualities.  It  is  easier  to  pull  down  than  to  build  up  ;  but, 
like  a  true  critic,  Mr.  Ireland  has  not  set  himself  to  the 
work  of  destruction,  but  rather  that  of  rearing  some  abiding 
edifice  of  excellence  from  materials  of  the  worthiest  kind 
which  he  has  found  in  his  favourite  author. 

I  have  described  the  book  as  Mr.  Ireland's  Hazlitt, 
and  have  used  this  term  advisedly.  We  have  given  to  us 
here,  Hazlitt,  as  that  author  has  presented  himself,  and 
taken  shape,  in  Mr.  Ireland's  mind.  No  two  men  have 
exactly  the  same  view  of  an  author.  In  the  mind  of  the 
reader  there  are  always  processes  going  on  of  a  critical, 
selective,  and  creative  kind,  with,  consequently,  varied 
results.  In  like  manner,  no  author  is  quite  the  same 
both  in  his  books  and  his  personality.  It  is  often  better 
to  know  a  man  only  as  he  presents  himself  to  us  in  his 
books,  and  leave  the  personal  knowledge  of  him  unknown ; 
for,  after  all,  the  man  as  we  find  him  in  his  books  is  the 
man  we  have  to  deal  with.  He  has  written  himself  down 
there,  at  his  best  or  worst,  as  far  as  his  literary  personality 
is  concerned.  We  find  Hazlitt  himself  discoursing  on 
the  identity  of  an  author  with  his  books,  and  doubtless  it 
is  with  something  of  a  personal  reference  that  he  says — 
"  An  author,  I  grant,  may  be  deficient  in  dress  or  address, 
may  neglect  his  person  and  his  fortune — 

But  his  soul  is  fair, 
Bright  as  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen  ! 

He  may  be  full  of  inconsistencies  elsewhere,  but  he  is 

himself  in  his  books An  author's  appearance 

or    his    actions  may    not    square    with  his   theories  or 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  191 

descriptions ;  but  his  mind  is  seen  in  his  writings,  as  his 
face  is  in  the  glass."  So  in  this  case  we  have  Hazlitt,  the 
man  as  he  presented  himself  to  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances ;  Hazlitt,  the  author,  as  we  find  him  in  his 
books ;  and,  in  the  volume  of  selections  before  us,  we  have 
Hazlitt  as  he  has  shaped  himself  in  the  mind  of  his  latest 
editor  and  critic.  The  better  Hazlitt  of  the  two  first  is 
the  one  we  have  in  his  books.  This  seems  unquestionable, 
as  Mr.  Ireland,  with  all  his  sweet  reasonableness  and  desire 
to  present  his  subject  in  the  fairest  light  consistent  with 
truth,  seems  compelled  to  admit.  One  of  the  most  charm- 
ing essays  in  this  volume  is  the  one  "  On  persons  one 
would  wish  to  have  seen,"  a  subject  suggested  by  Charles 
Lamb  at  an  evening  party.  Now,  though  we  might  have 
some  curiosity  to  see  Hazlitt,  it  would  appear  from  the 
evidence  of  reliable  witnesses,  that  it  was  not  as  desirable 
to  know  him.  One  of  his  critics,  whom  Mr.  Ireland 
quotes,  says — "  Hazlitt  must  have  been  one  of  the  most 
uncomfortable  of  all  English  men  of  letters,  who  can  be 
called  great,  to  know  as  a  friend  ;"  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  goes  on  to  say  that,  "  He  is  certainly  to  those  who 
know  him  only  as  readers  one  of  the  most  fruitful  both  in 
instruction  and  delight,"  an  opinion  which  many  of  us 
will  very  heartily  endorse. 

From  the  descriptions  of  him  which  Mr.  Ireland  has 
gathered  together  in  his  Memoir,  we  get  the  portrait  of  a 
handsome,  dark,  eager-eyed,  unkempt,  slovenly,  slouching, 
ill -regulated,  irascible  man,  who  had  need,  as  Lamb  hinted, 
of  "  something  of  a  better  temper,"  if  not  of  "  a  smoother 
head  of  hair."  In  his  domestic  affairs  ho  was  not  happy. 
His  first  wife  was,  by  her  own  consent,  divorced  from  him, 
being  quite  willing  to  separate.  A  second  wife,  after  a 
journey  on  the  Continent,  left  him  to  find  his  way  home 
alone,  and  afterwards  sent  a  message  to  the  effect  that  she 


192  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

desired  to  see  him  no  more.  His  loves  were  erratic,  though 
in  justice  it  should  be  said  that  they  appear  to  have  been 
platonic.  He  went  more  than  three-parts  mad  over  a 
tailor's  daughter  of  no  particular  mental  or  outward 
attractions,  and  wrote  and  talked  of  his  love  in  a  manner 
which  suggested  mental  aberration.  He  quarrelled  with 
his  friends,  was  wilful  and  wayward  in  his  temper,  and  at 
times  appeared  spiteful,  and  all  this  without,  it  would 
seem,  being  a  man  of  vicious  intention,  in  evidence  of 
which  we  find  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  while  noting  in  his 
diary  the  fact  that  he  had  finally  cut  Hazlitt,  appending 
this  qualifying  remark,  "  I  have  heard  Lamb  say  '  Hazlitt 
does  bad  actions,  without  being  a  bad  man.' " 

Mr.  Ireland's  presentation  of  the  man  Hazlitt  is  singu- 
larly fair  and  discriminating.  He  has  blended  the  lights 
and  the  shadows  of  his  portrait  with  conscientious  and 
artistic  truthfulness.  He  has  dwelt  upon  whatever  was 
attractive  in  Hazlitt  with  the  eagerness  of  a  thoroughly 
genial-minded  critic,  and  what  he  has  said  of  Lamb's 
estimate  may  be  said  of  his  own.  He  tells  us  that  "  Lamb, 
with  his  fine  sense  of  the  weakness,  no  less  than  of  the 
strength  of  human  nature,  always  made  allowance  for 
Hazlitt 's  errors  and  inconsistencies,  treating  them  with  a 
wise  and  just  consideration.  ...  In  canvassing  his 
faults  of  character,  he  always  bore  in  mind,  and  called  to 
mind  in  others,  the  rare  and  admirable  qualities  by  which 
they  were  accompanied,  and  with  which  they  were  probably 
naturally  linked." 

Hazlitt,  as  we  find  him  in  his  books,  is  a  many-sided 
man.  He  is  at  once  a  critic  of  art  and  literature,  an 
original  thinker  of  a  philosophic  kind,  and  a  powerful 
political  writer.  His  political  writing  is  of  minor  interest 
to  us  now.  It  is  as  an  essayist  and  critic  that  he  will  live. 
There  is  much  agreement  of  opinion  in  this  direction. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  193 

Confining  ourselves  to  this  view  of  him,  we  find  that  he 
has  a  strong  claim  to  the  title  of  a  nineteenth  century 
Montaigne,  and  what  he  has  said  of  the  earlier  essayist 
may  be  said  of  himself — "  He  had  the  courage  to  say  as  an 
author  what  he  felt  as  a  man,  and  as  courage  is  generally 
the  effect  of  conscious  strength,  he  was  probably  led  to  do 
so  by  the  richness,  truth,  and  force  of  his  own  observations 
on  books  and  men.  He  was  in  the  truest  sense  a  man  of 
original  mind ;  that  is,  he  had  the  power  of  looking  at 
things  for  himself,  or  as  they  really  were,  instead  of  blindly 
trusting  to,  and  fondly  repeating  what  others  told  him 
that  they  were."  It  was  in  the  region  of  the  humanities 
that  he  excelled.  He  may  have  created  animosities,  but, 
as  Mr.  Ireland  reminds  us,  Wilson  has  said,  "  the  animosities 
are  mortal,  the  humanities  live  for  ever."  In  his  literary 
criticism,  as  Mr.  Ireland  has  pointed  out,  Hazlitt's  method 
was  a  new  one.  His  effort  was  directed  to  the  exposition 
of  an  author,  the  presentation  of  him  and  his  subject  from 
what  was  written,  rather  than  the  formulation  of  a  criticism 
of  his  own  from  outside.  He  seems  to  possess  the  faculty 
of  catching  an  author's  spirit  and  communicating  it  in  an 
illustrative  way  to  others.  You  recognise  this  disposition 
as  pervading  his  essays,  and  along  with  it  the  evidences 
everywhere  of  a  keen,  subtle  insight.  In  this  literary 
criticism,  too,  his  attitude  is  from  choice,  appreciative,  and 
everywhere  you  are  struck  by  his  desire  to  deal  impartially 
and  hold  the  balance  fairly.  He  might  quarrel  with 
Wordsworth  for  political  reasons,  and  say  things  of  him 
which  pained  the  poet's  friends ;  but  that  does  not  prevent 
him  saying  also  that  "Wordsworth  is  the  most  original 
poet  now  living,"  with  much  else  of  a  highly  eulogistic 
kind.  Then  how  sharply  he  hits  off  characteristics,  as 
when  he  describes  Gray  as  "a  looker-on  at  the  game 
of  human  life/'  himself  living  a  life  which  was  a  luxurious 


194  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

thoughtful  dream;  or,  when  having  dwelt  on  Swift's 
splenetic  strength,  he  says  that,  "in  other  respects,  and 
except  from  the  sparkling  effervescence  of  his  gall,  Swift's 
brain  was  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit  after  a  voyage." 
Of  Cowper  he  says,  "  There  is  an  effeminacy  about  him 
which  shrinks  from  and  repels  common  and  hearty 
sympathy.  With  all  his  boasted  simplicity  and  love  of 
the  country  he  seldom  launches  out  into  general  descrip- 
tions of  nature ;  he  looks  at  her  over  his  clipped  hedges 
and  from  his  well-swept  garden  walks ;  or,  if  he  makes  a 
bolder  experiment  now  and  then,  it  is  with  an  air  of 
precaution,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  being  caught  in  a 
shower  of  rain,  or  of  not  being  able,  in  case  of  any  un- 
toward accident,  to  make  good  his  retreat  home.  He 
shakes  hands  with  nature  with  a  pair  of  fashionable  gloves 
on,  and  leads  his  '  Yashti '  forth  to  public  view  with  a  look 
of  consciousness  and  attention  to  etiquette,  as  a  fine 
gentleman  hands  a  lady  out  to  dance  a  minuet."  After 
his  walks  he  is  glad  to  get  back  to  the  drawing-room, 
the  ladies,  and  the  loud  hissing  urn.  But  for  all  that, 
Hazlitt  hastens  to  tell  us  that  Cowper  is  a  genuine  poet, 
and  deserves  all  his  reputation.  How  happily,  too,  he 
hits  off  characteristics  of  style,  as  when  in  illustration  of 
that  of  Coleridge  he  says:  "One  of  his  sentences  winds  its 
'forlorn  way  obscure'  over  the  page  like  a  patriarchal 
procession,  with  camels  laden,  wreathed  turbans,  house- 
hold wealth,  the  whole  riches  of  the  author's  mind  poured 
out  upon  the  barren  waste  of  his  subject.  The  palm  tree 
spreads  its  sterile  branches  overhead,  and  the  land  of 
promise  is  seen  in  the  distance."  How  kindly,  too,  he 
talks  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  was  one  of  his  heroes,  saying  of 
his  prejudices:  "They  are  not  time-serving,  heartless, 
hypocritical  prejudices,  but  deep,  inwoven,  not  to  be  rooted 
out  but  with  life  and  hope I  do  not  hate,  but 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  1»5 

love  him  for  them.  They  were  between  himself  and  his 
conscience,  and  should  be  left  to  that  higher  tribunal,  'where 
they  in  trembling  hope  repose,  the  bosom  of  his  Father 
and  his  God ! '  In  a  word,  he  has  left  behind  him  few  wiser 
or  better  men." 

When  Hazlitt  leaves  the  domain  of  criticism  and  enters 
upon  that  of  constructive  literature  dealing  with  the 
humanities,  he  is  many-sided  and  brilliant.  He  can  give 
you  graphic  and  charmingly  descriptive  sketches  like  that 
"  On  going  a  journey ;"  or  insights  into  men  and  manners 
as  they  presented  themselves  in  the  coffee-houses  or  the 
taverns;  can  describe  with  equal  vividness  a  picture,  a 
play,  or  a  prize-fight,  and  turn  from  the  latter  to  discourse 
beautifully  to  a  schoolboy  on  "  The  Conduct  of  Life."  He 
can  play  the  part  of  the  moral  philosopher  in  such  essays 
as  "Living  to  One's  Self,"  "Thought  and  Action,"  "On 
Good  Nature,"  and  "  On  Religious  Hypocrisy."  Very 
charming  also  he  can  be  in  the  glimpses  he  gives  us  of  the 
characters  and  manners  of  the  men  of  his  time,  Charles 
Lamb,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  the  rest.  To  look  down  the  list 
of  subjects  which  Mr.  Ireland  has  included  in  his  selections 
is  to  recognise  the  variety  and  versatility  of  his  pen.  Of 
his  own  style  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  terse,  epigrammatic, 
sometimes  paradoxical,  and  generally  piquant  and 
picturesque.  When  he  is  bitter  his  bitterness  is  extreme. 
Take,  for  instance,  his  letter  to  Gifford,  which  begins  in 
this  way  : — "  Sir,  you  have  an  ugly  trick  of  saying  what  is 
not  true  of  anyone  you  do  not  like ;  and  it  will  be  the 
object  of  this  letter  to  cure  you  of  it.  You  say  what  you 
please  of  others ;  it  is  time  you  were  told  what  you  are. 
In  doing  this,  give  me  leave  to  borrow  the  familiarity  of 
your  style:  for  the  fidelity  of  the  picture  I  shall  be 
answerable.  You  are  a  little  person,  but  a  considerable 
cat's-paw,  and  so  far  worthy  of  notice.  Your  clandestine 


196  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

connection  with  persons  high  in  office  constantly  influences 
your  opinions,  and  alone  gives  importance  to  them.  You 
are  the  Government  critic,  a  character  nicely  differing 
from  that  of  a  Government  spy,  the  invisible  link  that 
connects  literature  with  the  police." 

In  concluding  these  brief  notes  on  Mr.  Ireland's  book, 
it  may  be  said  that  he  has  given  us  a  most  comprehensive 
view  of  Hazlitt,  leaving  no  feature  of  his  character  or 
work  untouched.  That  the  Hazlitt  of  Mr.  Ireland  is  the 
true  one  most  of  us  will,  doubtless,  be  ready  to  admit. 
Whether  he  will  succeed  in  the  excellent  purpose  to  which 
he  has  devoted  himself,  that  of  drawing  attention  to  a 
somewhat-neglected  author,  remains  to  be  seen.  The 
work  he  has  done  is  a  seasonable  and  fitting  one, 
and  if  he  does  not  command  success,  he  has,  at  least, 
deserved  it. 

JOHN  MORTIMER. 


EDWIN     WAUGH. 

BY  JAMES  T.    FOARD. 

QTANDING  beside  the  open  grave  of  Edwin  Waugh,  on 
^  that  lovely  spring  day,  the  3rd  of  May,  amid  the 
hurry  of  fond  and  tender  recollections  aroused  by  the 
terribly  significant  words  of  the  burial  service,  one  thought 
would  assert  itself,  that  the  homage  then  being  paid  was 
not  merely  the  world's,  but  was,  in  truth,  heaven's  own 
justice.  The  tribute  of  respect,  honest,  earnest,  tender 
and  true,  was  just.  The  very  representative  men  clustered 
about  his  grave  were  his  old  and  dear  friends.  They  sadly 
and  sincerely  mourned  his  loss.  How  many  wealthy  and 
worldly  prosperous  men  attain  the  honour  of  being  so 
mourned  !  The  eternal  principles  of  truth  asserted  them- 
selves, and  reverence  was  being  paid  to  the  last  remains  of 
one  who  was  in  his  way  an  honest  craftsman,  true  as  steel, 
without  a  thread  of  sham  or  imposture  in  web  or  weft. 
There  wa's  no  pretence  either  in  the  sense  of  bereavement 
and  loss.  A  man  had  died — there  are  not  many  human 
beings  who  can  strictly  claim  this  lofty  title — and  people 
who  revered  his  teaching,  his  principles  of  labour,  the 
solid  value  of  his  work,  were  there  to  confess  their  sense  of 
obligation,  and  in  spite  of  his  death  in  the  fulness  of  time, 
the  reality  of  the  world's  loss. 

THE  MAXcnxvrn  QUARTERLY.    No.  XXXV.,  JULY,  1890. 


198  EDWIN  WAUQH. 

Personally,  although  by  no  means  inclined  to  enthusiasm, 
and  believing  reckless  praise  to  be  rank  poison,  I  think 
Waugh  entitled  to  much  higher  honour  in  his  vocation  as 
a  poet  than  he  has  ever  received,  or  is  likely  to  attain  for 
some  years  to  come.     He  was  a  genuine  bard.     A  man  of 
the  people,  who   shaped   the  best   thoughts,   aspirations, 
hopes,  and  love  of  Lancashire  men  in  words.     In  this  sense 
he  was  a  Burns,  or  a  Beranger.   In  spite  of  a  limited  recog- 
nition, and  the  disadvantage  he  laboured  under  of  writing 
in  a  dialect,  much  of  his  verse  may  claim  not  merely  to  be 
poetry,  but  poetry  of  a  very  high  order  of  art,  natural, 
melodious,  dramatic,  and  real.     No  comparison  is  made 
between  Waugh  and  Burns,  and  the  lion  flamboyant  need 
not  erect  its  mane ;  but  there  are  several  ballads  of  Waugh's 
that  would  stand  but   little  behind  all   but  the  best   of 
Burns.     In  true  tenderness  and  affection,  perfect  melody, 
kindly  humour;    in  dealing  with   the  pure    and   simple 
affections  of  honest,  virtuous,  simple  folk,  there  are  few 
ballads,  ancient    or  modern,   to   beat   some  of   his   best. 
Waugh  wrote  for  bread,  and,  like  all  who  write  under  such 
conditions,  wrote  too  much,  for  equal  verse  or  to  maintain 
uniform  excellence.     A  great  deal  of  his  work  was  for  the 
day  and  of  the  day.     But  the  best  dialect  poems  of  so 
skilled  a  craftsman  as  the  Laureate — "The  Lincolnshire 
Farmer  " — are  less  perfectly  natural  and  spontaneous,  and 
apparently  real,  for  all  poetry  is  but  seeming,  than  are 
«' Gentle  Jone,"   "Tickle  Times,"    "Little  Willy,"  "The 
dule's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine,"  "  Come  whoam  to  thi  childer 
an'  me,"  and  many  others.      He  had  none  of  the  fierce 
earnestness,  the  swift  vehemence,  the  intense,  and,  in  spite 
of  lowland  birth,  the  Celtic  fire  and  enthusiasm  of  blood 
of   the  Scottish    national    poet;    but   in  pure  unstinted 
sympathy,  in  that  tender  sensibility  to  and  with  human 
sorrow  and  suffering,  and  with  all  those  lowly  virtues  that 


FAC-SIMILE    OF    THE    FIRST    DRAFT    IN    PENCIL    OF 
"COME    WHOAM    TO    THI    CHILDER    AN     ME." 


Ut-z4{_. 


?• ' 


EDWIN  WAUOH.  199 

blossom  like  mid  flowers  amid  the  stormy  paths  and  upon 
the  bleak  moorland  of  the  city  peasant's  life,  he  is  more 
than  his  equal.  There  is  no  grain  of  affectation  or  cant  in 
his  voiced  expression  of  the  starving  weaver's  misery 
during  the  cotton  famine,  with  all  his  clothes  in  pawn,  the 
cupboards  bare  and  without  a  crumb,  silently  and  slowly 
and  without  complaint  starving,  growing  leaner  and  leaner, 
despair  looking  out  of  his  hungry  eyes  upon  his  suffering 
little  ones  clustered  about  him.  There  is  not  an  atom  of 
pretence  about  it,  or  of  sentiment,  or  fine  imagery ;  it  is 
too  real  for  that. 

But  when  a  mon's  honestly  willin', 
And  never  a  stroke  to  be  had, 
And  clemmin'  for  want  of  a  shillin' 
No  wonder  that  he  should  be  sad. 
It  troubles  his  heart  to  keep  seem' 
His  little  birds  feeding  o*  th'  air  ; 
And  it  feels  very  hard  to  be  deein', 
And  never  a  mortal  to  care. 

A  good  many  people  would  not  understand  this  as  poetry  at 
all.  It  has  no  loves  and  doves,  nor  prettily- turned  phrases ; 
it  is  inferior  in  melody  to  much  of  his  verse.  But  then 
they  have  never  starved  by  inches,  and  cannot  judge.  It 
has  a  gasp  of  misery  in  it  that  must  have  been  felt  to  be 
understood. 

This  reality  of  true  feeling  and  sentiment  welled  up  in 
all  he  wrote.  The  sincere  and  puritan  grit  of  the  man,  his 
love  of  truth  in  all  things,  was  the  key  to  his  singular 
accuracy  of  thought  and  of  verbal  expression,  as  well  as 
of  his  love  for  the  purest  domestic  and  home  virtues,  and 
that  intense  purity  of  idea  and  sentiment  which  marked 
all  he  wrote.  He  could  not  lie  in  his  work,  when  ho  was 
seeming  most.  He  appeared  to  feel,  perhaps  did  feel,  all 
he  wrote.  On  this  account,  as  a  discriminating  and  rarely 
just  critic  wrote  a  few  weeks  since  in  the  Saturday  Review, 
his  prose  story  of  the  Cotton  Famine  is  worth  tons  of  blue 


200  EDWIN  WAUOH. 

books;  it  epitomises  the  sufferings,  the  sorrows,  the 
struggles  of  the  manful  folk  among  whom  he  had  been 
reared  and  lived.  It  is  an  Iliad  of  their  great  war  with 
disease  and  hunger  and  death,  of  their  long  fight  and  their 
ultimate  triumph.  What  a  bitter  story  it  is,  even  in  mere 
narration,  and  what  must  it  have  been  to  endure.  What 
heroism  and  pathos  is  enshrined  in  its  grand  feats  of  priva- 
tion meekly  and  uncomplainingly  endured,  of  families 
stripped  to  the  bare  ground  of  all  worldly  possessions,  of 
their  furniture  and  clothing  sold  piecemeal,  bitterly  and 
sadly,  to  keep  bare  life  within  the  walls  of  their  emaciated 
bodies.  Families  out  of  work  for  seventeen  weeks,  and 
having  short  time  for  months  before.  A  dreary  story  in  its 
monotone  of  misery,  with  touches  of  brightening  humour 
and  noble  faith,  beside  which  Ugolino's  pales  its  horrors  as 
being  but  a  disordered  dream. 

Son  of  a  shoemaker — cobbler,  if  you  will — he  was  neither 
ashamed  of  his  parentage,  nor  his  class,  nor  his  father's  craft. 
On  the  contrary,  he  turned  with  fondness,  even  love,  to 
the  joys  of  its  career.  "  Heigh,  ho,  for  Cobblers,"  and  "  The 
Lapstone  Song,"  are  instances.  These  were  part  of  the 
simplicity  of  the  man,  of  his  truthfulness  and  naturalness. 
He  had  no  taint  of  the  slightest  imposture,  and  he  hated 
pretence,  or  cant,  or  sham  in  any  form  as  poison.  George 
Eliot's  actual  pride  in  her  joiner  father,  stripped  of  affecta- 
tion and  the  desire  to  make  him  appear  as  a  reputed  land 
surveyor,  was  not  one  whit  more  sincere  than  Waugh's 
love  of  his  father's  calling  He  could  not  act  lies  even  in 
jest.  This  reality  is,  in  part,  the  measure  of  his  Muse.  He 
aspiied  to  no  classic  themes.  He  had  not,  like  Burns, 
Clarindas  and  Sylvanders,  Strephons  and  Chloes,  Damons 
and  Phyllises.  If  the  "vision  and  the  faculty  divine"  were 
his ;  his  rhyme  has  "  no  figures  and  no  phantasies."  His 
muse  was  no  "  eagle  soaring  and  screaming  in  the  teeth  of 


EDWIN  WAUOH.  201 

the  storm."  It  neither  soared  nor  screamed.  It  aspired  to 
no  visions  of  purple  and  fine  gold,  to  no  beatific  visions  of 
the  splendour  of  Attic  life,  or  of  the  glamour  of  the  ^Egean, 
or  to  those  classic  glories,  which  he  could  neither  realise  nor 
understand ;  his  honesty  taught  him  that  the  false  doctrines 
of  taste  live  for  a  brief  season  only,  but  that  accuracy  in 
art  makes  "  the  productions  of  genius  live  for  all  time." 

In  truth,  the  best  aspects  of  an  ordinary  and  common- 
place but  loving  and  trusting  humanity  on  its  heroic  side, 
when  trampling  on  unforeseen  calamity  and  overcoming 
evil,  were  his  themes.  He  in  no  sense  "  lived  hi  the  rainbow, 
or  played  in  the  plighted  clouds."  His  soul  moved  not 
"  amid  the  regalities,  but  the  humanities  of  life,"  not  com- 
monly or  meanly,  but  with  a  true  sense  of  manhood's 
elevation  and  sterling  nobility.  In  this  sense  his  nature 
was  subdued,  and  "touched  to  fine  issues."  He  had 
learned  in  suffering  what  he  taught  in  song.  Man  proudly, 
silently,  manfully,  without  "  whimpering,"  wrestling  against 
unmerited  misfortune,  sorrow,  and  chill  penury,  the  bleak 
moorland  of  town  manufacturing  life,  where  there  is  no 
room  for  pleasant  verdure,  where  no  visions  of  Prospero's 
enchanted  isle,  no  yellow  sands,  no  pleasant  noises,  no 
aerial  graces,  no  dainty  loveliness  of  elfin  beauty  to  intrude ; 
nothing  but  a  boggart,  a  few  tufts  of  heather,  and  the  green 
moss,  but  where  there  was  still  room  for  the  lark. 

Though  we  livin  o*  th*  floor  same  as  layrocks, 
We'n  go  up,  like  layrocks,  to  sing  I 

These  were  his  sources  of  inspiration,  the  key  to  his 
philosophy  and  teaching,  to  what  is  genuine  poetry  in  his 
writing,  and  to  so  much  of  his  native  folk-talk  as  will  live 
for  evermore. 

I  cannot  claim  for  Waugh  any  very  exalted  place 
among  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  the  true  bards,  who 
have  dignified  and  elevated  the  ideal  of  a  nation's  life.  He 


202  EDWIN  WAUOH. 

did  not  aspire  to  such  honour.     He  himself  would  have 
been  the  last  person  to  claim  it. 

.     .    .     .  His  rustic  tongue 

Ne'er  knew  to  puzzle  right  nor  varnish  wrong. 

His  poetry  was  simple  song  for  simple  folk,  but  it  was 
good.  Its  philosophy  and  theme  was  a  genuine  belief  in 
God's  goodness  as  an  actual  thing,  in  spite  of  clouds ;  in  the 
eternal  verities;  that  virtue  is  better  than  vice — nobler, 
sweeter,  more  lovely  ;  that  home  affections — sincere  love  of 
husband  and  wife  and  of  children,  a  well-swept  hearth,  a 
cosy  ingle-nook,  with  loving  and  gleeful  faces  about  it ; 
an  occasional  spree  or  burst  from  the  dreary  monotony  of 
squalid  bread-winning  labour — that  these  were  all  good  in 
their  way.  I  am  afraid  this  also  gauges  its  extent.  It  is 
no  better  and  no  worse  than  the  aspirations  of  many  thou- 
sands of  his  class  the  world  over.  It  may  not  be  elevated, 
nor  sublime,  nor  highly  reasonable,  but  it  is  true.  As  far 
as  it  goes  it  is  sound  to  the  core.  This  is  the  value  and 
worth  of  his  song.  It  is  healthy  in  sentiment,  even  if  poor 
in  wisdom.  It  is  cheerful,  hopeful,  resolved ;  resolute  to 
suffer  in  silence,  hating  "  snivelling "  and  "  knuckling 
under,"  or  any  mean  thing  ;  claiming  freedom,  the  moun- 
tain breezes,  the  wildness  and  gloom  of  the  moorland,  with 
something  of  its  sadness  and  solitude,  and  finally,  when  he 
died,  rest  on  and  near  the  moor,  as  being  as  much  as  he 
could  hope  or  claim  as  an  unthrifty  peasant  in  this  hard  life. 

Oh,  lay  me  down  in  moorland  ground 

And  make  it  my  last  bed, 
With  the  heathery  wilderness  around 

And  the  bonny  lark  o'erhead  : 
Let  fern  and  ling  around  me  cling, 

And  green  moss  o'er  me  creep, 
And  the  sweet  wild  mountain  breezes  sing 

Above  my  slumbers  deep. 

Poetry  is  the  most  occult  of  all  the  arts,  else  how  came 
all  the  Laureates  and  their  present  oblivion  ?     Who  can  run 


EDWIN  WAUQH.  203 

them  over  from  memory  ?  Daniel,  Davenant,  Shadwell, 
Nahum  Tate,  Sou  they,  Gibber,  Eusden,  Pye,  Whitehead, 
and  the  rest.  How  came  Daniel  and  Jonson  to  be  preferred 
to  Shakespere,  or  Byron  to  think  poorly  of  our  national 
poet,  or  Voltaire  to  call  him  a  drunken  savage  ?  These  are 
but  instances  of  the  caprices  of  fashion,  of  the  "  wild  vicis- 
situdes of  taste."  The  preposterous  laudation  of  Walt 
Whitman,  Browning,  Montgomery,  Tupper,  Lloyd,  Close, 
or  a  dozen  other  poets  of  their  time,  is  the  like  momentary 
breath  of  the  untutored  mind.  Lord  Palmerston,  who 
ruled  this  nation,  and  was  considered  wise,  believed  the 
poet  Close  to  be  a  great  poet.  What  more  can  be  said  ? 
I  may  be  wrong  in  my  estimate  of  Waugh  as  "  one  of  the 
immortals,"  but  hold  to  my  belief.  He  penned  much  that 
the  world  "  will  willingly  let  die,'*  as  what  man  who  writes 
for  bread  does  not  ?  His  verse,  simple  and  clear  in  its 
dialect  expression,  with  an  almost  mathematical  accuracy 
of  phraseology,  harmonious,  felicitous  in  its  humour  and 
sweet  kindliness,  cannot  all  be  dignified  by  being  considered 
poetry  at  all.  But  of  which  of  the  minor  order  of  poets 
may  not  this  be  said  ?  On  the  other  hand,  how  much  in 
his  songs  is  truly  dramatic,  apprehensive,  and  based  on 
thorough  knowledge  of  humanity,  as  well  as  exquisitely 
descriptive  and  melodious — in  a  phrase,  true  poetry  ? 

Apart  from  its  epigram  of  diction,  how  much  of  Pope 
rises  above  the  intensely  common  place  ?  How  unequal 
were  even  such  fluent  masters  of  "  harmonious  numbers  " 
as  Dryden,  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  or  even  Byron.  The 
Rochdale  bard  does  not  always  rise  to  the  height  in  senti- 
ment and  expression  of  "  Come  whoam  to  thi  childer  an* 
me ;"  but  when  he  is  dealing  with  moorland  scenes,  with 
home  pictures  of  suffering  and  privation,  with  the  natural 
dignity  of  the  labouring  man,  he  is  always  at  his  best 
His  model  hero  was  a  man  who  kept  a  stout  heart  in 


204  EDWIN  WAUOH. 

calairiity,  loved  his  children  and  did  no  mean  nor  untrue 
thing.     Here  are  his  words : — 

God  bless  him  that  fends  for  his  living, 
And  houds  up  his  yed  thro  it  o'. 

He  is  a  sterling  nobleman 

Who  lives  the  truth  he  knows  ; 
Who  dreads  the  slavery  of  sin, 

And  fears  no  other  foes. 

Who  scorns  the  folly  of  pretence, 

Whose  mind  from  cant  is  free  ; 
Who  values  men  for  worth  and  sense, 

And  hates  hypocrisy. 

Who  glows  with  love  that's  free  from  taint, 

Whose  heart  is  kind  and  brave  ; 
Who  feels  that  he  was  neither  meant 

For  tyrant  nor  for  slave. 

Malice  can  never  mar  his  fame, 

A  heaven-crowned  king  is  he  ; 
His  robe  a  pure  immortal  ami, 

His  throne  eternity. 

I  am  not  sure  that  these  verses  can  be  dignified  as 
poetry  at  all ;  but  they  are  an  index  of  the  character  of  the 
whilom  compositor,  of  one  who  in  his  verse  had  written 
nothing  to  make  him  ashamed  to  stand  before  kings,  and 
who  to  me  is  best  remembered  as  deserving  that  high  praise 
accorded  by  Hamlet  to  Horatio,  as  he  appeared  always — 
genial,  light-hearted,  simple,  and  brave. 

....  For  thou  hast  been 

As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing  ; 

A  man  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 

Has  ta'en  with  equal  thanks  :  and  blessed  are  those 

Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  commingled 

That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 

To  sound  what  stop  she  pleases :  Give  me  that  man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave  and  I  will  wear  him 

In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 

As  I  do  thee. 


SOME  PHASES  OF  LANCASHIRE  LIFE. 

BY    BEN   BRIERLEY. 

THERE  are  people,  and  a  numerous  family  of  them  too, 
living  outside  the  County  Palatine,  who  have  some- 
how got  it  into  their  heads  that  the  natives  of  Lancashire 
are  only  a  degree  removed  from  the  brute  creation — that 
their  language  and  manners  are  rude  and  uncouth,  and 
their  society  entirely  unfit  for  persons  of  cultivated  tastes. 
This,  in  many  instances,  may  be  true.  The  collier  may  be 
charged  with  a  certain  degree  of  rudeness,  for  which  the 
rough  nature  of  his  employment  ought  to  be  held  respon- 
sible. The  uncouthness  of  his  speech,  so  different  from 
that  of  any  other  working  man,  may  be  caused  by  his 
having  to  lie  on  his  side  when  hewing  coal.  He  cannot 
articulate  his  words  with  the  precision  of  a  schoolmaster, 
hence  "  potato-pie,"  is  rendered  as  "  paw-pie."  How  these 
savants  have  got  their  heads  soaked  with  the  idea  that 
Lancashire  people  are  more  rude  and  unmannerly  than  the 
natives  of  any  other  county  I  cannot  say.  It  cannot  be 
from  personal  contact  with  them,  or  from  any  deep  study 
of  their  character.  Perhaps  it  may  be  derived  from  a 
manifestation  of  independence  that  will  not  permit  them 
to  take  off  their  hats  to  a  "cad"  because  they  can  distin- 
guish that  kind  of  animal  from  a  gentleman. 


206  SOME  PHASES  OF  LANCASHIRE  LIFE. 

But  there  is  this  to  be  said  of  a  Lancashire  man  that 
may  compound  for  many  things  that  are  thought  to  be 
rude.  You  may  find  a  soft  heart  under  a  seemingly  rough 
exterior ;  and  a  hard  hand  that  can  smooth  the  pillow  of 
affliction  with  the  gentleness  of  a  mother,  and  you  may 
find  samples  of  bravery  not  to  be  found  on  a  battle  field, 
and  in  men  who  wear  not  clasps,  nor  other  decorations.  If 
culture  does  not  prepare  men  for  these  duties ;  if  it  does 
not  soften  their  hearts,  and  incline  their  hands  to  do  some- 
thing more  than  the  fitting  on  of  a  glove ;  if  a  musical 
training  unfits  their  ears  for  any  thing  except  Italianised  airs ; 
if  they  cannot  find  a  delight  in  listening  to  a  right  merry 
strain  of  old  England,  I  say  a  fig  for  your  culture.  Take 
it  into  the  drawing-room,  and  breathe  its  essence  into  the 
ears  of  the  simpering  madam  whose  hardest  work  is  toying 
with  an  ugly  pet  dog.  I  can  remember  one  time  being  at 
Blackpool  early  on  a  Sunday  morning,  and  listening  to  a 
blind  man  playing  a  flutina.  He  had  a  fine  ear,  and  a 
delicate  touch ;  and  played  nothing  but  sacred  airs,  the 
effect  of  which  was  charming.  A  collier — I  knew  he  was 
a  collier  by  the  blue  marks  upon  his  face — was  one  of  the 
auditory.  For  a  full  hour  he  stirred  not ;  and  every  time 
the  hat  went  round  he  dropped  in  his  penny. 

People  passed,  and  repassed  without  stopping  to  listen ; 
some  bearing  a  clerical  appearance,  who  talked  loudly,  as 
if  the  public  ear  was  made  for  them.  I  left  for  a  stroll, 
and  on  my  return,  I  observed  the  collier  still  drinking  in 
the  music ;  the  remembrance  of  which,  if  it  would  not  be 
a  joy  for  ever,  would  be  a  source  of  pleasure  for  a  long 
time. 

There  are  evidences  of  the  representative  Lancashire 
man  growing  out  of  his  coarse  tastes  and  vulgar  habits. 
He  no  longer  delights  in  cock-fighting,  dog-fighting,  and 
prize-fighting.  He  is  content  to  leave  these  refinements 


SOME  PHASES  OP  LANCASHIRE  LIFE.  207 

to  the  cosmopolitan  nobility.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
he  would  abandon  other  objectionable  things  if  he  were  not 
led  on  by  the  example  of  those  who  are  supposed  to  dwell 
in  a  higher  sphere.  But  there  have  been  pioneers  at  work 
that  the  world  knew  not  of;  men  who  have  silently  opened 
the  track  for  others  to  follow.  We  have  no  means  of  esti- 
mating the  good  they  have  done,  or  caused  to  be  worked 
out  by  others.  But  I  can  give  you  an  instance  of  applica- 
tion and  self-denial  that  is  worthy  of  remark,  and  that 
shows  what  men  are  capable  of  doing  without  any  aid, 
beyond  the  exercise  of  their  mental  powers,  and  a  strong 
will  to  support  them. 

This  is  one  of  the  principal  phases  of  a  Lancashire  man's 
life,  his  fortitude  when  struggling  with  difficulties.  You 
would  almost  think  it  was  to  him  a  source  of  enjoyment. 
I  speak  now  of  things  as  they  existed  60  years  ago ;  before 
our  working  youth  had  begun  to  be  wrapped  in  cotton- 
wool by  a  multitude  of  philanthropists,  and  when  every 
boy  who  aspired  to  rise  above  the  surface  of  society  had 
himself  to  find  the  ladder  by  which  to  ascend.  He  cared 
not  for  a  little  starvation  nor  coarse  fare,  for  he  knew  not 
what  luxury  meant.  Porridge  three  times  a  day,  so  that 
he  got  plenty  of  it,  was  enough  for  him.  On  this  fare  he 
could  pursue  studies  that  have  since  borne  good  fruit.  A 
number  of  youths — my  brother's  companions — met  nightly 
at  my  father's  house,  and  pursued  their  studies  within  the 
sound  of  the  looms.  Two  of  this  band  rose  to  be  mill- 
owners,  one  is  a  retired  superintendent  of  police,  and  a 
fourth  is  a  Town  Councillor.  The  rest  are  dead,  but  did 
not  die  before  they  had  made  their  mark.  One  was  for 
many  years  head-master  of  St.-  John's  Schools,  Gartside 
Street,  in  this  city,  and  the  sixth  was  an  employer  of 
labour  in  Shudehill.  Tho  foundation  of  all  these  successes 
was  laid  in  my  father's  house,  for  which  he  paid  the 


208  SOME  PHASES  OF  LANCASHIRE  LIFE. 

enormous  rental  of  half-a-crown  per  week.  What  think 
you  of  that,  ye  advocates  of  extravagance  in  School  Board 
buildings  ? 

What  incentives  had  these  young  men  to  pursue  the 
paths  they  did  ?  I  leave  the  question  to  the  psychologist. 
But  it  shows  the  grit  there  is  in  the  representative  Lanca- 
shire man  when  he  sets  out  in  life,  with  nothing  but  a 
stern  determination  to  work  himself  upwards — a  defiance 
of  every  obstacle  that  may  be  thrown  in  his  way.  Had  the 
road  been  smooth  and  easy  to  his  feet,  he  might  not  have 
trod  it.  He  has  too  much  of  the  "  Mark  Tapley  "  in  his 
nature  to  pause  at  a  ditch. 

There  are  instances  of  Lancashire  men,  of  the  very 
humblest  origin,  raising  themselves  to  a  position  which 
even  the  nobility  could  hardly  dare  to  aspire  to.  John 
Wolfenden,  a  handloom  weaver,  living  in  Hollinwood,  was 
reputed  to  be  the  greatest  mathematician  of  his  time.  His 
acquaintance  was  sought  by  scholars  from  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom.  But  John,  through  his  having  opinions  of  his 
own  regarding  religious  matters,  was  looked  upon  as  an 
unbeliever;  and  this,  with  his  great  learning,  caused  his 
society  to  be  avoided  by  the  "rigidly  righteous"  of  his 
neighbours.  His  ideas  of  that  religion  which  teacheth 
charity  may  be  expressed  in  the  language  he  is  supposed 
to  have  uttered  at  the  death-bed  side  of  the  father  of  a  poor 
pupil  whom  he  is  teaching  gratuitously.  Several  of  the 
neighbours  are  expressing  their  sorrow  over  the  man's 
death,  when  old  Wolfenden  delivers  himself  as  follows : — 

"  Sorry,  do  you  say  ?  I  wish  it  may  be  my  lot  to  dee 
like  him.  Joe  never  did  wrong  to  man,  woman,  or  child. 
As  hapless  a  being  as  he  wur  he  lived  for  somebody  beside 
hissel',  an'  he  dee'd  for  'em.  As  grand  a  martyr  lies  there 
as  ever  wur  sainted.  He  may  not  ha'  pined  i'  prison,  or 
bin  burnt  at  th'  stake  for  not  unsaying  things  he'd  said 


SOME  PHASES  OP  LANCASHIRE  LIFE.  209 

before ;  but  he's  done  more.  For  t'  lift  one  poor  mite  of  a 
bein'  more  helpless  than  he  wur ;  to  do  unto  others  more 
than  he'd  have  done  for  him  he's  clemmed  hissel'  to  death. 
You  may  turn  up  your  e'en,  an'  look  shocked  ;  but  what 
I  tell  yo's  true.  Jo's  bin'  clemmed  to  death.  He's  suffered 
martyrdom,  I  say  again ;  an'  as  sure  as  yo'r  here  that  sacri- 
fice shall  be  canonised,  an'  by  a  greater  priesthood  than 
this  world  can  boast ;  a  hierarchy  that  does  not  buy  or  sell, 
nor  grip  at  carnal  things,  but  finds  'ith  nooks  an'  byways 
o'  life  the  brightest  jewels  in  His  crown." 

Samples  of  stoicism  in  the  Lancashire  man  need  not  be 
sought.  I  have  heard  one  whistle  when  his  loom-gearing 
was  in  a  blaze,  and  the  earnings  of  months  of  hard  toil  have 
been  swallowed  up  in  smoke.  But  the  strangest  instance 
I  have  known  I  met  with  in  a  weaver  who  was  noted  for  a 
little  eccentricity. 

This  weaver  lived  in  my  native  village,  and  in  his  early 
married  life  had  to  bring  up  a  family  on  a  very  small 
income.  The  possession  of  a  golden  sovereign  was  to  him 
the  "  El  Dorado "  we  read  of.  It  was  a  coin  he  rarely 
handled.  But  an  advance  in  the  price  of  weaving  a 
certain  class  of  goods  entitled  him  to  the  receipt  of  over 
twenty  shillings  for  the  piece  he  had  woven ;  but  he  had 
been  more  than  a  fortnight  in  earning  that  sum.  A  part 
of  his  wages  was  paid  to  him  in  a  sovereign,  which  he 
clutched  with  a  grip  you  would  have  thought  he  would 
never  relax.  He  had  left  his  family  starving ;  and  when 
he  reached  home,  and  saw  his  children  "  yammering  "  for 
food,  his  heart  was  touched.  Still  he  gripped  the  gold, 
\and  vowed  he  would  not  part  with  it  for  just  one  hour, 

*  1ms  heaw."  But  when  his  eyes  met  the  appealing  looks 
of  his  eldest  daughter,  the  stoic  gave  place  to  the  parent. 
He  threw  down  the  sovereign,  and  retired  to  wash  away 
the  harsher  feelings  in  tears. 


210  SOME  PHASES  OF  LANCASHIRE  LIFE. 

But  there  are  other  things  that  Lancashire  men  have 
distinguished  themselves  in,  apart  from  their  courage 
under  difficulties,  and  their  endurance  when  steeped  in 
poverty.  They  can  earn  honours  in  any  profession  they 
choose  to  adopt  without  asking  assistance  from  others. 
I  especially  recall  to  mind  the  Thorley  family,  the 
eminent  musicians.  They  were  hand-loom  weavers  when 
I  first  knew  them.  Since  then  they  have  earned  a  name, 
not  only  in  their  native  county,  but  throughout  England. 
There  was  no  noise  made  about  their  setting  out  in  life — 
no  foreign  or  professional  names  attached  to  their  identity. 
The  plain  name  of  Thorley  was  sufficient  to  establish  their 
reputation.  The  only  member  of  the  family  that  could 
not  follow  the  profession  is  now  one  of  the  best  violoncello 
makers  in  this  country.  I  remember,  not  long  ago,  seeing 
a  picture  in  the  Arts  Club,  painted  by  John  Houghton 
Hague,  that  attracted  some  attention.  The  subject  was 
"  The  Fiddle  Maker,"  at  his  work  in  an  old  loomhouse.  I 
at  once  recognised  in  the  portrait  the  features  of  old  Tom 
Thorley,  an  acquaintance  of  mine  of  sixty  years  ago. 
These  were  all  self-made  men;  and  the  secret  of  their 
success  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  each  possessed  a  share  of 
the  "  grit "  that,  more  or  less,  is  mixed  up  in  the  composi- 
tion of  a  genuine  Lancashire  man. 


GEORGE  SAND. 

BY    J.     ERNEST    PHYTHIAN. 

IN  his  essay  on  George  Sand,  Matthew  Arnold  expresses 
the  fear  that  the  number  of  her  works  may  prove  a 
hindrance  to  her  fame.  Henry  James  finds  it  impossible 
to  read  her  novels  more  than  once ;  and  her  latest  French 
biographer,  M.  Caro,  commences  his  book  by  admitting  that 
she  is  no  longer  read.  But  all  three  are  agreed  that  a 
certain  portion  at  least  of  her  work  will  live ;  and  that 
although  readers  are  hardly  likely  to  turn  again  and  again 
to  her  stories,  they  will  be  read  once  by  most  people  who 
chance  to  make  their  acquaintance.  The  reason  for  this 
general  hesitancy  as  to  her  future  popularity,  is  not  far  to 
seek.  George  Sand  belongs  to  the  number  of  writers  whose 
personality  contends  for  interest  with  their  writings,  and 
this  not  necessarily  because  the  literary  power  is  of  second- 
rate  importance,  but  because  the  writer,  carried  away  by 
eager  passions,  sympathies,  and  opinions,  neglects  the 
scrupulous  demands  of  literary  perfection.  George  Sand's 
mental  and  moral  constitution  was  of  no  ordinary  type, 
and  everything  she  has  written  bears  the  impress  of  her 
peculiar  genius.  Her  books  have  a  peculiar  flavour 
which  is  always  stimulating  and  refreshing,  and  it  is 


212  GEORGE  SAND. 

for  this  flavour  that  we  read  them,  and  not  primarily  for 
their  conclusions  and  definite  presentments  of  life  and 
character.  It  is  always  pleasant  to  say  to  oneself  "  I  have 
not  read  any  George  Sand  lately,  what  shall  I  get  that  I 
haven't  read  already?"  and  he  will  surely  feel  distinctly 
poorer  when  the  long  list  of  her  writings  gives  out,  as  the 
longest  lists  do,  who  finds,  as  so  many  seem  to  find,  that  the 
greater  number  of  her  works  will  not  bear  re-reading. 
However,  it  is  somewhat  of  comfort  to  feel  that  a  few  of 
them  will  refuse  to  come  into  this  general  category. 

Her  treatment  of  some  of  the  most  burning  of  questions 
has  not  conduced  to  her  wide  popularity  in  this  country ; 
on  the  contrary,  it  has  caused  the  danger  signal  to 
be  run  up,  and  the  line  blocked  against  her.  Mrs. 
Browning  appealed  to  her,  "  Beat  purer,  heart,  and  higher." 
Ruskin,  though  finding  her  always  beautiful,  found  her, 
alas,  often  immoral ;  while  to  Carlyle,  she  was  bluntly  a 
bad  woman,  and  "the  incoherent  George  Sandisms"  of 
Mazzini  helped  to  lessen  the  puritan  philosopher's  appre- 
ciation of  this  Italian  patriot.  With  such  unpromising 
reception  in  the  high  places  of  English  seriousness,  we  need 
not  wonder  that  in  many  lower  places  the  door  has  been 
somewhat  rudely  closed. 

It  is  not  difficult  for  us  to  turn  to  a  passage  in  her 
writings  which  will  give  us  a  clue  to  the  general  tendency 
of  her  thought  and  speculation.  Matthew  Arnold  for  this 
purpose  quotes  her  words:  "The  sentiment  of  the  ideal 
life,  which  is  none  other  than  man's  normal  life  as  we  shall 
some  day  know  it."  But  these  words  seem  to  me  inade- 
quate for  the  purpose,  because  they  say  nothing  about  the 
quality  of  that  ideal  life.  However,  in  the  introduction  to 
"  Ma  Soeur  Jeanne,"  we  find  a  passage  that  will  supply 
this  lack :  "  That  fidelity  to  spontaneous  instinct,  in 
despite  of  reason  and  positive  interests,  is  not  to  be  dis- 


GEORGE  SAND.  213 

dainecL  Wild  inspirations  have  their  greatness."  Im- 
patience of  rules  and  confidence  in  the  emotional  instincts 
is  the  guiding  motive  of  all  George  Sand's  life  and  thought. 
If  as  life  went  on  she  had  to  learn  the  truth  of  her  own 
saying,  "  that  youth  subsists  on  theories,  age  on  the  accom- 
plished fact,"  and  her  period  of  revolt  was  followed  by  a 
period  of  acquiescence,  it  was  but  acquiescence,  not  ap- 
proval, and  in  her  latest  works  she  thought  and  wrote,  one 
might  almost  say,  as  if  the  Ten  Commandments  never  had 
been,  or  at  any  rate  never  ought  to  have  been  written,  or 
at  least  had  better  be  put  away  and  forgotten  with  other 
childish  things,  and  our  futures  be  trusted  to  those  "  dan- 
gerous guides,  the  feelings."  It  needs  no  proving  that  this 
temperament  brings  us  in  danger  of  that  "  lubricity  "  which 
the  critic  already  more  than  once  referred  to  has  declared 
to  be  a  besetting  weakness  of  the  French  as  a  nation.  But 
it  is  the  weakness  of  their  strength,  and  their  strength  is 
as  real  and  more  prevailing  than  their  weakness,  and  we 
have  a  larger  measure  of  the  strength  than  of  the  weakness 
in  George  Sand. 

Surely  we  may  expect  from  a  woman  of  such  temper  of 
mind,  and  gifted  with  extraordinary  literary  power,  some 
at  least  charming,  though  it  may  be  often  unreal  stories. 
A  nature  which  always  seeks  for  beauty,  harmony,  ele- 
vation of  feeling — and  if  elevation  be  impossible,  at  all 
events  feeling,  not  dull  routine — cannot  but  write  with 
interest,  and  adding  to  this  an  intense  love  of  nature  and 
wonderful  facility  in  interpreting  and  describing  nature, 
and  we  have  all  that  is  needful  to  explain  the  long  suc- 
cession of  books  which  she  steadily  and  without  inter- 
mission produced  when  once  her  vocation  had  become  plain 
to  her. 

In  this  article  I  shall  have  at  least  as  much  to  say  about 
the  writer  as  about  her  books,  and  shall  use  the  writer  to 
15 


214  GEORGE  SAND. 

explain  the  books,  and  the  books  in  turn  to  illustrate  the 
writer.  It  is  no  part  of  my  purpose  to  give  a  catalogue 
raisonne  of  her  works,  or  to  follow  any  one  or  more  of  her 
characters  through  the  vicissitudes  of  their  career,  or  sub- 
mit them  to  psychological  analysis.  Her  strength  does  not 
lie  in  consistency  and  complexity  of  plot,  or  in  scientific 
delineation  of  character.  I  purpose  to  tell  briefly  the  story 
of  her  life  and  of  her  works,  and  let  the  thought  and 
writing  of  the  different  periods  of  her  life  throw  light  upon 
each  other. 

Not  the  least  interesting  part  of  her  life-story  is  that  of 
her  early  years,  and  to  understand  these  years  we  must 
go  further  back  still,  and  trace  her  ancestry.  Never 
surely  was  there  greater  need  to  keep  in  mind  the  ante- 
cedents of  a  remarkable  character  than  in  the  case  of 
George  Sand.  None  of  her  stories,  no  story  ever  written, 
is,  perhaps,  more  romantic  than  the  tale  of  her  ancestry 
and  early  years. 

The  most  striking  features  of  her  pedigree  are  its 
curious  minglement  of  what  would  ordinarily  be  called 
very  high  and  very  low,  and  its  want  of  conventionality. 
Her  great-grandfather  was  the  famous  Mare'chal  Maurice 
de  Saxe,  and  we  trace  the  unconventionality  so  far  back, 
he  being  an  illegitimate  son  of  Augustus  II.,  Elector  of 
Saxony  and  King  of  Poland,  by  a  beautiful  mistress,  Aurora, 
Countess  of  Konigsmark.  The  want  of  conventionality 
continues,  and  we  next  find  Maurice  father,  by  a  celebrated 
actress,  of  a  daughter,  Marie  Aurore,  who,  when  half-way 
through  her  teens,  became  the  wife  of  the  Comte  de  Horn, 
himself  an  illegitimate  son  of  King  Louis  XV.  The 
Count,  not  long  afterwards,  was  killed  in  a  duel,  and  his 
widow,  venturing  a  second  time  on  matrimony,  became  the 
wife  of  a  certain  M.  Dupin  de  Francueil,  who  was  of  so 
great  age  at  the  time  of  the  marriage  that  Marie  Aurore 


GEORGE  SAND.  215 

was  soon  again  left  a  widow,  this  time  with  an  only  son, 
eventually  the  father  of  George  Sand.  On  her  mother's 
side  George  Sand  had  to  be  too  proud  to  care  from  whence 
she  came.  But  this  was  never  difficult  to  her.  She 
rejoiced  in  being  of  low  as  well  as  of  high  descent ;  and  we 
need  not  surely  wish  for  a  much  greater  extreme  from  the 
heights  we  have  just  left  than  the  depth  of  a  bird-seller 
in  the  Parisian  market ;  for  of  such  humble  calling  in 
life  was  George  Sand's  maternal  grandfather.  And,  alas  ! 
we  have  to  face  unconventionality  again  in  her  immediate 
parentage.  The  bird-seller,  Antoine  Delaborde,  had  a 
daughter,  a  veritable  child  of  the  people,  to  whom  Napoleon 
was  a  hero,  and  of  whom  one  of  Napoleon's  officers  was 
the  lover,  followed  by  his  mistress  on  one  of  the  Italian 
campaigns.  Here  the  grandson  of  the  Mare'chal  de  Saxe, 
himself  serving  in  the  army,  fell  in  love  with  her,  and 
married  her  to  save  their  offspring  from  the  stain  of  illegi- 
timacy. Such  is  the  story  of  the  ancestry  and  the 
parentage  of  George  Sand,  and  surely  there  is  here  enough 
of  "fidelity  to  spontaneous  instinct,  in  despite  of  reason 
and  positive  interests,"  and  if  heredity  goes  for  anything 
in  the  determination  of  character,  we  have  by  this  time  full 
explanation  of  George  Sand's  possession  of  those  qualities 
which  on  their  weak  side  tend  to  lubricity. 

The  romance  does  not  end  with  birth.  The  mesalliance 
contracted  by  her  son  was  a  severe  blow  to  the  widow,  first 
of  the  Comte  de  Horn,  then  of  a  wealthy  farmer-general  of 
finance.  She  had  lost  nearly  all  her  fortune  in  the  Revolu- 
tion, but  enough  remained  to  enable  her  to  purchase  a 
small  estate  at  Nohant,  in  the  Canton  de  Berry,  since  made 
world-famous  by  her  grand-daughter.  She  was  at  heart  a 
royalist,  a  child  of  the  ancien  regime,  and  at  first  refused 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  her  daughter-in-law  and  grand- 
child. But  the  child  having  been  introduced  to  her  by  a 


216  GEORGE  SAND. 

ruse,  intercourse  with  the  mother,  of  necessity,  followed, 
and  the  young  Dupin,  with  his  wife  and  child,  found  a 
home  at  Nohant.  But  before  the  young  Aurore  was  old 
enough  to  know  the  meaning  of  death,  and  could  only 
stare  in  bewilderment  at  the  signs  of  grief  around  her,  her 
father  was  killed,  thrown  from  a  too  spirited  horse.  She 
tells  in  her  biography,  "L'Histoire  de  ma  Vie,"  how  she 
tried  to  comfort  her  weeping  mother,  but  only  succeeded 
in  raising  a  fresh  storm  of  grief  by  saying,  "But  when 
papa  has  finished  being  dead,  he  is  sure  to  come  back  to 
see  you."  Between  the  mother  and  grandmother  there 
had  never  been  any  closer  relation  than  an  armed 
neutrality,  which  broke  out  into  open  feud  when  the 
son  and  husband,  the  sole  security  for  peace,  was  no  longer 
there ;  and  during  her  early  years,  George  Sand  was  the 
witness  of,  and  her  -mind  and  heart  were  troubled  by,  this 
alienation  of  the  mother,  whom  she  passionately  loved, 
from  the  grandmother,  whom  she  revered.  The  mother, 
however,  deemed  it  to  be  to  the  interest  of  her  child  to 
leave  her  to  be  brought  up  by  her  grandmother,  and 
accordingly  withdrew  from  Nohant.  Here,  then,  under 
the  guidance  of  the  lady  of  the  ancien  regime  and  an  old 
pedagogue  Deschatres,  the  girl's  education  was  accom- 
plished. The  pupil  was  not  of  the  most  docile.  Indoor 
teaching  of  the  stereotyped  character  we  can  well  under- 
stand was  little  to  her  taste.  "  I  studied,  however,"  she 
says,  "  arithmetic,  versification,  Latin,  a  little  Greek,  and 
some  botany  into  the  bargain."  Botany,  as  her  pedagogue 
understood  the  word,  she  detested  ;  but  botany  as  a  love  of 
flowers,  and  a  delight  in  watching  their  growth  and 
gathering  them,  and  learning,  not  pedantic  Latin  names, 
but  the  simple  names  the  country  folk  called  them,  was  a 
constant  delight  to  her.  History,  geography,  music,  and 
literature  were  her  favourite  regulation  studies,  and  she 


GEORGE  SAND.  217 

believed,  that  had  her  grandmother,  who  began,  con- 
tinued her  musical  education,  she  would  have  developed 
into  a  musician,"  "  for,"  she  says,  "  I  was  well  qualified 
to  be  one ;  and  I  enjoy  the  beautiful,  which  in  this  art 
more  than  in  any  other  moves  and  arouses  me." 

Her  walks,  rambles,  and  scrambles  were  perhaps  her 
chief  joy.  The  country  about  Nohant  awakened  and 
developed  in  her  that  love  of  nature  which,  with  her 
wonderful  power  of  description,  is  one  of  her  happiest 
gifts.  How  many  readers  of  her  works  have  not  longed 
to  see  for  themselves  the  country  which  could  so  inspire 
her.  Alas!  the  inspiration  varies  with  the  mind  of 
the  observer  rather  than  with  the  differences  of  natural 
scenery.  When  one  of  George  Sand's  characters  complains 
of  the  dulness  of  her  surroundings,  the  reply  is  made  that 
probably  the  country  which  Scott  describes  would  look 
tame  to  one  who  had  not  lived  in  it.  "  Do  not  think,"  she 
says,  "  it  is  necessary  to  have  seen  many  great  things  to 
have  a  true  idea  and  sense  of  what  is  great.  There  is 
greatness  in  all  things  for  those  who  carry  it  within  them- 
selves, and  it  is  not  illusion  that  they  foster ;  it  is  a  revela- 
tion of  that  which  is  more  or  less  manifest  in  nature.  To 
dull  senses  vulgar  manifestations  of  power  and  sight  are 
necessary.  That  is  why  so  many  people  going  into  Scotland 
to  search  for  the  scenes  described  by  Scott  cannot  find  them, 
and  say  that  the  poet  has  overrated  his  country."  I  have 
still  to  content  myself  with  the  hope  of  seeing  Berry  and 
Nohant,  and  the  Indre  and  the  Creuse — a  hope  well  nigh 
formed  into  a  purpose,  but  still  only  a  hope.  I  cannot, 
therefore,  describe  it  at  first  hand.  Matthew  Arnold, 
however,  paid  a  hero-worshipper's  visit  to  Nohant,  and  has 
little  to  say  about  the  country  that  sounds  particularly 
interesting.  We  may  easily  conclude  that  anyone  to 
whom  a  yellow  primrose  was  not  much  more  than  a  yellow 


218  GEORGE  SAND. 

primrose  would  not  find  George  Sand's  country  anything 
out  of  the  ordinary.  One  has  not,  however,  to  spend  much 
time  hunting  through  her  works  to  find  what  it  was 
to  her. 

First  we  may  note  how  keen  was  her  interest  in  all  the 
old  legends  and  superstitions  in  which  no  country  is 
wanting,  and  of  which  hers  had  full  store.  "  My  little 
brain,"  she  tells  us,  "  was  always  full  of  poetry.  The  prin- 
cesses and  the  kings  of  fairy  stories  were  for  long  enough 
my  great  delight.  The  fairies  and  the  genies  !  where  were 
they,  those  beings  who,  with  a  wand- wave,  could  transport 
you  into  a  world  of  marvels  ? "  She  falls  out  with  her 
hero,  Rousseau,  about  the  effect  of  fairy  tales  on  children. 
"  I  do  not  agree  with  Rousseau,"  she  says,  "  in  wishing  to 
suppress  the  marvellous  as  a  tissue  of  lies.  Reason  and 
doubt  come  quite  soon  enough,  and  without  any  urging. 
.  .  .  Children  should  have  the  food  best  suited  to  their 
age.  As  long  as  they  enjoy  the  marvellous,  let  them  have 
it ;  when  they  begin  to  grow  out  of  it,  then  beware  of  pro- 
longing the  error,  and  of  retarding  the  natural  development 
of  their  reason." 

The  following  is  but  the  natural  sequel  to  her  early 
pleasures.  "  Berry,  covered  with  dateless  ruins  of  mythical 
days,  with  tombs  and  dolmens,  seems  to  have  preserved  in 
its  legends  hints  of  a  worship  anterior  to  the  Druids, 
perhaps  of  those  gods,  who,  according  to  our  antiquaries, 
precede  the  appearance  of  the  Kymri  on  our  soil. 
Human  sacrifices  are  shadowed,  like  a  haunting  recol- 
lection, in  some  of  the  apparitions,  wandering  corpses, 
mutilated  phantoms,  headless  men,  arms  or  legs  but 
no  body,  people  our  heaths  and  old-abandoned  roads. 
Then  come  the  more  definite  superstitions  of  the  middle 
age,  still  dreadful,  but  with  a  touch  of  the  ludicrous; 
unheard-of  animals,  whose  grinning  faces  we  see  in  the 


QBORQE  SAND.  219 

sculpture  of  the  Romanesque  and  Gothic  churches,  wander 
living  and  crying  around  graveyards  or  among  ruins.  The 
spirits  of  the  dead  still  knock  at  the  house-doors.  Troops 
of  wild  imps,  personified  vices,  fly,  screaming,  in  the  storm- 
cloud.  The  dead  all  live  again,  everything  death  had 
destroyed,  even  the  beasts  find  voice  again,  and  movement, 
and  visibility;  furniture  made  by  man  and  violently 
destroyed,  re-makes  itself,  and  clatters  on  worm-eaten  legs. 
The  very  stones  get  up  and  speak  to  the  affrighted 
traveller;  he  hears  the  night  birds  singing  with  horrid 
voice  of  the  day  of  death,  which,  never  staying,  always 
passing,  still  slays  not  finally,  thanks  to  the  belief  in  the 
strength  of  which  all  creatures  and  all  things  inanimate 
resist  extinction,  and,  hiding  in  the  region  of  the  marvel- 
lous, illumine  the  night  with  ill-boding  gleams,  and  people 
the  solitudes  with  ghostly  faces  and  mysterious  voices." 
In  an  early  acquaintance  with  such  beliefs,  we  can  trace 
the  origin  of  that  fantastic  description  of  nature  and  life 
which  we  meet  with  in  so  many  of  the  novels,  as  "  Pierre 
quiRoule,"  "  Spiridion"  and  the  "Countess  of  Rudolstadt," 
and  in  the  "  Rustic  Legends  and  Tales  of  a  Grandmother." 
But  she  could  also  see  nature  by  day,  when  all  ghosts, 
good  and  evil,  are  absent.  And  the  most  commonplace 
material  suffices  her  for  a  charming  picture.  Describing 
Nohant,  she  says,  "  Those  furrows  of  rich  brown  soil,  those 
great  round  walnut  trees,  those  narrow  shady  lanes,  those 
un trimmed  hedges,  the  grass  grown  churchyard,  the 
little  porch  of  rough  cut  wood,  the  ruined  elms,  the 
peasants'  cottages  in  their  pretty  gardens,  their  bowers  of 
vine  and  their  green  hempfields,  all  this  becomes  sweet  to 
the  sight,  and  dear  to  the  thought  after  long  years  of  life 
in  the  midst  of  its  silence,  humbleness,  and  calm." 

Nothing    gladdens    her   more    than    a    wide-reaching 
prospect.     She  thus  describes  a  view  from  the  edge  of  a 


220  QEORQE  SAND. 

plateau: — "A  wide  extent  of  goodly  country  spread  out 
from  beneath  her  feet,  till  it  met  the  sky  in  circles  of 
wooded  horizons,  pale  violet  in  colour,  and  broken  by  the 
golden  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  There  'are  few  lovelier 
scenes  in  France.  The  vegetation,  when  seen  close  to,  is 
by  no  means  remarkable.  No  broad  river  meanders 
through  the  fields  in  which  the  sunlight  gleams  on  no 
lordly  roofs,  no  picturesque  hills,  nothing  striking  or 
extraordinary  in  this  quiet  landscape  ;  but  a  vast  wealth  of 
well-tilled  country,  an  infinite  division  of  fields  and  pastures, 
of  copses,  and  wide  open  roads,  yielding  an  abundant  variety 
of  forms  and  tones,  in  an  all-embracing  harmony  of  sober 
green;  a  confusion  of  well-cultivated  closes,  of  cottages 
nestling  amid  the  fruitful  orchards,  of  screens  of  poplars,  of 
rich,  low-lying  pastures,  of  barer  fields  and  straighter  hedges 
on  the  uplands,  contrasting  with  the  neighbouring  luxuri- 
ance, and  finally,  an  unbroken  harmony  for  fifty  leagues 
around,  which,  with  one  glance,  the  eye  takes  in  from  the 
cottages  of  Labreuil  or  Corlay." 

With  the  life  of  the  country  also  she  was  in  complete 
sympathy.  The  most  charming  of  her  works  are  the  three 
stories  of  village  life,  written  in  days  of  peace  succeeding 
times  of  uttermost  distress.  They  are  also,  perhaps,  most 
perfect  as  works  of  art,  and  assuredly  we  may  hope  to  turn 
again  with  pleasure  to  renew  our  acquaintance  with 
Franqois  de  Champi,  la  petite  Fadette,  and  with  the  good 
people  who  lost  themselves  by  the  Devil's  Pool. 

One  of  her  poems,  of  which  the  following  is  a  rough 
translation,  is  a  charming  illustration  of  her  more  ideal 
treatment  of  country  folk  and  life. 

Three  woodmen  in  the  spring  time, 

In  a  quiet  forest  glade  ; 
(I  hear  the  little  nightingale) 
Three  woodmen  in  the  spring  time 

Sat  chatting  with  a  maid. 


GEORGE  SAND.  221 

The  second  of  the  three  said, 

(The  one  who  had  a  rose), 
(I  hear  the  little  nightingale) 
The  second  of  the  three  said, 

"  I  love,  but  daren't  propose." 
The  eldest  of  the  three  said, 

(The  one  with  axe  iu  hand), 
(I  hear  the  little  nightingale) 
The  eldest  of  the  three  said, 

"  Where  I  love  I  command." 
The  youngest  of  the  three  said, 

(He  had  an  almond  flower), 
(I  hear  the  little  nightingale) 
The  youngest  of  the  three  said, 

"  Be  mine,  I  seek  not  power." 

"  You  shall  not  be  my  love 

You  who  have  a  rose  ; 
(I  hear  the  little  nightingale) 
You  shall  not  be  my  love 

Too  timid  to  propose. 

"  You  shall  not  be  my  lord, 

You  with  axe  in  hand  ; 
(I  hear  the  little  nightingale) 
You  shall  not  be  my  lord, 

Love  sways  without  command. 

"  But  you  shall  be  my  love, 

You  with  the  almond  flower  ; 
(I  hear  the  little  nightingale) 
Yes,  you  shall  be  my  love, 

Brave  lover  scorning  power." 

But  to  her  grandmother's  mind,  her  education  could  not 
be  properly  finished  elsewhere  than  in  Paris,  and  to  the 
sacrifice  of  the  feelings  of  both,  now  really  attached  to  each 
other,  the  girl  had  to  change  the  fields  of  Berry  for  a  city 
seminary,  a  certain  Couvent  des  Anglaises.  But  the 
Catholic  Church  was  not  without  the  power  of  gaining  a 
strong  hold  upon  her  imagination,  and  the  girl  who  could 
charm  the  birds  into  friendliness,  and  revelled  in  all  that 
was  strange  and  uncanny  in  village  lore,  soon  became  an 
austere  devotee,  abjuring  society,  enduring  many  a  self- 
imposed  penance,  and  ama/in^  her  superiors  l.y  the  excess 


222  GEORGE  SAND. 

of  her  zeal.  Speaking  of  these  experiences,  she  says :  "  My 
devotion  had  all  the  qualities  of  a  veritable  passion.  The 
heart  once  conquered,  reason  was  shown  the  door  with  a 
sort  of  fanatical  joy."  But  an  enforced  return  to  Nohant, 
occasioned  by  the  death  of  her  grandmother,  broke  the 
spell,  and  we,  at  any  rate,  may  be  thankful  that  she  did  not 
take  the  veil,  but  became  a  novelist  instead,  and  wrote 
"  Spiridion,"  instead,  where  doubtless  are  revealed  to  us 
many  of  her  own  aspirations  and  doubts  and  disturbances 
of  faith.  But  though  she  wandered  far  away  from  the 
quiet  cloister  life  into  the  mad  whirligig  of  the  sinful 
world,  as  the  book  just  mentioned  abundantly  proves,  those 
convent  hours  never  lost  their  influence.  But  her  reli- 
giousness is  peculiarly  her  own.  It  must  be  free,  joyous, 
unconstrained  to  her  or  nothing.  There  must  be  no  Ten 
Commandments,  there  must  be  no  mere  adherence  to 
"  duty "  righteousness ;  there  must  be  perfect  freedom 
of  love  or  nothing. 

Having  returned  to  the  world,  there  followed  an  inevit- 
able reaction.  She  read  the  "  Ge'nie  du  Christianisme  " 
instead  of  the  "Imitation,"  and  turned  to  Byron,  Hamlet, 
and  Philosophy,  to  the  great  distress  of  her  heart,  bewilder- 
ment of  her  mind,  and  depression  of  her  spirits.  In  fact, 
to  such  a  pass  did  things  come  with  her  that  she  not  only 
contemplated  suicide,  but  once  actually  attempted  it,  riding 
her  horse  into  the  deep  stream  "with  a  nervous  laugh  and 
delirious  joy."  But,  'fortunately,  the  horse  had  not  been 
first  a  devotee  and  then  a  philosopher,  and  swimming 
strongly,  brought  her  safely  to  shore. 

The  years  immediately  following  her  convent  life  were 
also  rendered  miserable  by  differences  between  herself  and 
her  mother,  and  then,  as  is  so  well  known,  she  accepted  a 
marriage  of  convenience,  as,  in  her  fond  hope,  a  lesser  evil, 
and  became  the  wife  of  a  certain  M.  Dudevant,  whose  sole 


GEORGE  SAND.  223 

claim  to  the  world's  notice  is  that  he  drove  his  wife  to  leave 
him,  even  though  in  so  doing  she  deprived  herself  of  all 
her  fortune,  including  her  well-loved  Nohant,  and  had  to 
support  herself  and  her  two  children  by  her  own  labour. 
A  sad  conclusion  this.  Marriage  was  to  have  been  to  her 
an  end  of  strife  and  turmoil,  and  it  proved  but  the  begin- 
ning of  far  greater  sorrows.  And  this  creature  of  passionate 
instincts  and  radiant  genius,  capable,  none  the  less,  of  the 
most  faithful  service  to  one  worthy  of  her  love,  was  driven 
into  rebellion  against  the  accepted  social  creed,  and  fires  of 
love  being  quenched,  up  sprang  the  fires  of  hate. 

We  are  here  brought  face  to  face  with  the  great  problem 
of  her  life  and  character.  It  is  not  my  wish  to  dwell  long 
upon  it,  to  debate  it,  to  give  the  pros  and  cons  for  my  own 
conclusion  about  it.  Certainly  to  me  George  Sand  was  no 
mere  bad  woman.  If  we  had  to  base  ethical  judgments  on 
objective  results,  a  method  not  unknown  in  these  latter 
days,  and  were  to  consider  the  immediate  results  of  her 
life,  perchance  the  verdict  might  tremble  in  the  balance, 
but  basing  our  verdict  on  the  subjective  motive,  and 
remembering  how  often  the  false  rights  of  human  conven- 
tion have  made  even  the  saintly  seem  to  sin,  and  noting, 
also,  the  many  changes  of  thought  rapidly  gaining  wide- 
spread acceptance  to-day,  I  approach  such  a  life  and 
work  as  that  of  George  Sand  full  of  confidence,  and  leave 
it,  easily  crediting  her  with  more  worth  than  she  seemed  to 
possess,  and  laying  her  errors  not  wholly  to  herself,  but  in 
part  to  the  charge  of  our  as  yet  imperfectly-developed 
humanity. 

Although  her  husband  does  not  seem  to  have  been  at 
first  more  than  merely  insupportable  to  a  wife  utterly 
different  from  himself,  life  together  became  intolerable. 
They  separated  by  mutual  consent,  and  Madame  Dudo  vant, 
taking  with  her  her  little  daughter,  went  to  seek  her 


224  GEORGE  SAND. 

living  in  Paris.  Economy  was  a  first  consideration,  and 
she  established  herself  in  the  garret  of  a  house  on  the 
Quai  Saint  Michel,  and — what  a  situation  to  choose ! — 
facing  the  Morgue.  Those  were  troublous  times  in  France, 
and  fighting  in  the  streets  of  Paris  was  no  uncommon 
thing.  It  is  a  familiar  story  how,  for  the  sake  of  the 
greater  freedom  it  would  give  her,  and  the  wider  expe- 
rience she  could  thereby  gain,  she  donned  masculine 
attire,  and  passed  for  a  young  student  of  the  Quartier 
Latin. 

Her  efforts  to  support  herself  and  child  had  necessarily 
to  begin  with  experiments,  and  flower  painting  on  fans  and 
portraits  at  fifteen  francs  each  at  first  divided  her  attention 
with  literature,  but  literature  was  strongest  in  her  affec- 
tions, and  promised  also  to  be  the  most  remunerative,  and 
to  it  she  finally  entrusted  her  fate.  At  Nohant  she  had 
seen  and  found  much  in  common  with  Jules  Sandeau,  and 
they  met  again  in  Paris,  where  Sandeau  introduced  her  to 
Delatouche,  himself  a  Berrichon,  and  then  editor  of  Figaro, 
and  he  employed  her  to  write  for  his  paper.  Delatouche 
was  a  severe  and  unsparing  critic,  and  drilled  his  pupil 
thoroughly,  yet  kindly,  regularly  encouraging  her  by 
saying,  "  I  prophesy  that  you  will  finish,  or  rather  begin, 
by  writing  a  good  romance."  And  this  he  at  length 
enjoined  upon  her  to  attempt,  in  conjunction  with  Jules 
Sandeau.  The  romance  was  written  and  published  under 
the  title  of  "  Rose  et  Blanche,  ou  la  Comedienne  et  la 
Religieuse,"  and  was  signed  "  Jules  Sand." 

Shortly  after  this  incident  she  had  to  pay  one  of  the 
visits  to  Nohant,  which,  for  reasons  affecting  her  property, 
the  law  rendered  obligatory  upon  her  so  long  as  she  was 
not  completely  divorced  from  her  husband.  This  visit  was 
full  of  bitterness  to  her,  and  her  outraged  feelings  found  a 
vent  through  the  opening  which  her  experience  in  Paris 


QEORQB  SAND.  225 

had  prepared  for  them ;  and  she  wrote  then  the  first  of  her 
works  of  revolt,  "  Indiana."  Returning  to  Paris,  there 
arose  the  difficulty  of  a  nom  de  plume.  She  wished  the 
book  to  be  signed  Jules  Sand,  but  Sandeau  objected,  as  he 
had  had  no  share  in  the  writing  of  it.  She  therefore 
decided  on  the  signature  George  Sand,  the  publisher 
willing  the  latter  name  to  be  retained,  and  she  selecting 
George  as  a  link  with  the  country,  and  therefore  with 
Berry,  and  the  book,  to  become  a  stumbling  block  to  some 
and  a  corner  stone  to  others,  and  the  name  to  become  so 
famous,  were  launched  together. 

What  is  the  book  ?  Briefly,  Indiana  is  a  delicate, 
sensitive  Creole,  married  by  her  father's  command  to  a 
rich  colonel,  Baron  Delmare,  many  years  older  than  her- 
self. Her  Indian  maid,  Noun,  has  a  lover,  who  is  shot  by 
M.  Delmare,  who  takes  him  to  be  a  robber,  and  Indiana 
nurses  him.  He  falls  in  love  with  her,  and  is  loved  in 
return.  But  she  discovers  him  to  be  worthless,  and  leaves 
him,  suffering  terribly  by  the  sacrifice  this  is  to  her.  But 
her  cousin,  Sir  Ralph  Brown,  steps  into  his  place,  and 
both  he  and  Indiana  are  strengthened  and  bettered  by  a 
genuine  and  generous  affection — the  husband,  of  course, 
in  the  meantime  being  left  to  his  own  devices.  The  book 
was  a  pronounced  success,  the  writer's  position  was  assured, 
and  having  once  found  her  vocation,  she  pursued  it  with  a 
persistence  and  facility  alike  remarkable.  Her  pen,  once 
taken  up,  was  not  laid  down  again  until  the  close  of  her 
life.  Her  works  number  over  one  hundred  volumes,  and 
were  written  within  unvarying  limits  of  time.  It  is 
related  that  Alfred  de  Musset  made  it  a  grievance  that  at 
e  she  persisted  in  producing  each  day  its  proper 
quota  of  "  copy."  At  Nohant,  after  spending  much  of  the 
day  in  the  open  air,  she  regularly  began  to  write  when  the 
rest  of  the  household  had  retired  to  rest,  and  continued 


226  GEORGE  SAND. 

her  work  into  the  early  hours  of  the  morning.  How  diffi- 
cult a  task  it  is  to  estimate  this  woman's  character  in 
detail  may  be  gathered  from  various  criticisms  passed  upon 
her,  for  while  to  some  her  name  is  a  byword  of  reproach, 
others  discern  in  her  a  strong  bourgeois  element,  and  some 
find  her  insufferably  moral !  Perhaps  we  may  trace  here 
the  influence  of  the  lady  of  the  ancien  regime.  Albeit, 
George  Sand  was  a  hard  worker,  a  thorough  housewife, 
and  a  devoted  mother,  and  that  the  moral  element  was  not 
wholly  dormant  in  her,  we  may  gather  from  this  sentence 
in  Leone  Leoni,  which  we  may  well  believe  to  have  origi- 
nated in  her  own  experience,  and  to  be  in  part  a  rejoicing 
in  her  own  achievement,  and  in  part  a  lament  over  her  own 
failure: — "You  do  not  know,  Juliette,  how  easy  life 
becomes  to  those  who  make  rules  for  themselves,  and  keep 
to  them." 

Between  the  completion  and  publication  of  "  Indiana," 
this  steady  application  to  work  had  produced  another  novel, 
"  Valentine,"  while  yet  another,  "  Lelia,"  had  been  com- 
menced. "Valentine"  is  another  story  of  unhappy  marriage 
and  of  fatal  rebellion  against  it.  "  Ldlia  "  is  a  strange,  wild 
poem,  revealing  the  inward  struggle  through  which  she 
was  then  passing,  a  period  of  doubt  and  denial.  She  calls 
it  in  her  preface,  the  work  of  doubt,  the  cry  of  scepticism, 
and  names  in  the  same  breath  Ke'ne',  Werther,  Oberman, 
Konrad,  and  Manfred. 

Novel  followed  novel  with  bewildering  rapidity ;  it  would 
be  useless  merely  to  name  them,  impossible  here  to  do 
much  more.  All  bear  the  same  stamp.  "Jacques"  is  a 
story  of  ideal  love,  "  Andre' "  of  a  sweet  simple  girl  in  love 
with  one  too  weak  to  love  strongly  in  return.  In  "  Leone 
Leoni "  we  have  a  woman  relating  to  a  present  lover  the 
story  of  her  miserable  infatuation  for  the  worthless  but 
fascinating  man  her  auditor  has  succeeded.  "  La  derniere 


GEORGE  SAND.  227 

Aldini"  is  a  charmingly  written  story  of  Venice,  but  a 
noble  lady  falls  in  love  with  a  gondolier,  and  her  daughter 
is  blindly  infatuated  with  a  singer.  In  "Mauprat,"  a 
woman  takes  a  man  morally  and  in  education  far  beneath 
her,  and  by  her  patient  love  raises  him  to  her  own  level. 
All  these  are  but  variations  of  the  same  subject — love.  It 
may  be  happy  or  wretched,  high  or  low,  anything  so  long 
as  it  be  passionate  and  free.  Her  experience  of  love  in 
bonds  was  a  bitter  one,  no  less  bitter  than  to  the  unbound 
lovers  of  her  novels  were  the  sorrows  they  suffered ; 
and  what  wonder  that  a  woman  such  as  she,  devoted  to  her 
children,  and  able  to  maintain  and  educate  them,  tied  to  a 
husband  capable  only  of  thwarting  her,  in  the  bitterness  of 
her  strife  with  him,  and  the  darkness  of  distressing  doubts, 
praised  love  at  any  price  and  of  any  quality.  We  must 
admit  that  this  often  goes  too  far,  as  when  Jacques  says  :  "I 
have  never  forced  my  imagination/to  arouse  or  re-awaken  in 
me  a  feeling  not  already  there,  I  have  never  made  a  duty  of 
constancy.  When  I  have  felt  that  my  love  has  grown  cold, 
I  have  always  said  so  without  shame  or  remorse,  and  have 
obeyed  the  Providence  which  was  leading  me  elsewhere." 
While  we  may  admit,  with  King  Arthur's  recreant  knights, 
that  we  love  but  as  we  may,  that  it  seems  as  if  Providence 
does  for  mysterious  reasons  limit  many  a  one's  capacity  for 
love,  and  that  then  it  is,  perhaps,  utterly  unavailing  to  endea- 
vour to  force  the  imagination,  still  we  must  protest  that  the 
extinguishment  of  love,  here  so  readily  accepted,  ends  in  no 
true  new  birth ;  that  love  must  grow  and  change  into  higher 
forms,  or  it  ceases  to  be  love  ;  and  that  he  who,  time  after 
time,  replaces  one  passion  with  another  of  the  same  kind, 
no  more  truly  loves  the  object  of  his  passion  than  a  man 
loves  the  wine  he  drinks.  One  of  George  Sand's  shorter 
stories,  "  Metella,"  might  have  taught  her  thia  Count 
Buondelmonte  no  longer  loves  his  mistress,  once  the  most 


228  GEORGE  SAND. 

beautiful  woman  in  Florence,  but  now  showing  signs  of 
growing  years.  In  any  true  sense  of  the  word,  he  never 
has  loved  her,  but  only  himself  through  her,  and  now  he 
almost  hates  her,  except  when  some  other  man  pays  atten- 
tion to  her,  and  jealousy  then  awakens  an  echo  of  his 
earlier  passion.  But  this  kind  of  thing,  with  George  Sand, 
apparently  passes  for  love,  and  is,  therefore,  to  her,  as  praise- 
worthy in  its  degree  as  the  most  ideal  and  unselfish  affection 
she  ever  depicts.  What  shall  we  say  ?  M.  Caro  tells  us  that 
nowhere  else  have  piety  and  adultery  been  so  hopelessly 
mixed  as  in  her  works,  and  he  writes  as  an  admirer  !  We 
can  only  say  that  here  is  a  soul  on  its  way  to  deliverance, 
and  its  earliest  steps,  like  those  of  another  pilgrim,  are 
through  a  slough  ;  this  is  her  time  of  negation,  her  ever- 
lasting No.  When  we  think  of  her  ancestry,  of  her  early 
training,  of  her  passionate  faith  passing  into  despair,  of  her 
unhappy  marriage,  is  not  this  only  what  we  ought  to  look 
for  ?  Is  it  not  natural  history,  full  of  interest  and  in- 
struction, and  suggestive  as  we  also  work  at  the  problems 
which  so  perplexed  her,  and  which  are  yet  awaiting  their 
solution  ?  Not  any  kind  of  passion  of  love  we  must  say  will 
do ;  perhaps  any  kind  may  be  better  than  none  at  all,  than 
cold  and  calculating,  or  cruel  and  fraudulent,  egotism  ;  but 
here,  as  in  all  things,  our  goal  must  be  the  best. 

After  a  weary  struggle  she  obtained  a  complete  separation 
from  her  husband,  and  the  care  of  her  children  was  com- 
mitted to  her,  and  her  property,  including  the  chateau  at 
Nohant,  remained  her  own.  This  was  a  great  weight 
removed,  and  the  change  is  evidenced  in  her  writings.  At 
leisure  from  herself,  from  her  sad  broodings  and  heart 
burnings,  her  attitude  is  less  and  less  one  of  mere  revolt — 
more  and  more  one  of  enquiry  and  of  effort  to  forecast  the 
better,  happier  life  of  the  future.  But  the  thunder  rolls 
along  the  sky,  when  the  centre  of  the  storm  has  passed 


GEORGE  SAND.  229 

far  away ;  and  the  confusion  of  love  with  absence  of  restraint 
darkens  many  a  later  page  of  George  Sand's  writings. 
We  read  a  charming  story  of  country  life,  and  quaff  with 
delight  the  refreshing  draught ;  but  there  is  a  dead  mouse 
at  the  bottom  of  the  tankard.  Why,  on  almost  the  last 
page,  need  she  send  one  of  the  younger  villagers  away 
into  voluntary  exile,  because  he  finds  he  cannot  refrain 
from  loving  the  wife  of  his  friend  ? 

In  this  quieter  period  of  life  was  written  her  longest 
novel,  "  Consuelo,"  with  its  sequel,  "  La  Comtesse  de  Ru- 
dolstadt."  The  book  is  too  long,  but  the  close  of  the  period 
of  tension,  and  an  awakened  interest  in  social  questions, 
then  as  now  so  keenly  debated,  weakened  for  the  time  her 
artistic  sense  of  proportion,  and  both  this  work  and  another, 
"Le  Meunier  d'Angibault,"  written  shortly  afterwards, 
suffer  from  the  unforgivable  sin  of  prolixity.  Yet  that  which 
has  faults  the  artist  may  not  forgive,  the  reader  can  none 
the  less  enjoy,  and  "  Consuelo  "  is  deservedly  one  of  the 
best  known  of  George  Sand's  works.  The  two  names  are 
linked  together  in  our  minds.  Consuelo  herself  is  pure  and 
faithful  in  love  throughout  the  story.  On  one  of  the 
earliest  pages  we  read  that,  simply  and  naturally,  she 
raised  her  pure  voice  under  the  lofty  roof  of  the  cathedral, 
which  had  never  before  echoed  notes  so  sweet.  And  as 
her  voice  so  was  her  life,  "  calm  she  was  as  the  water  of 
the  lagoons,  and  active  as  the  gondolas  which  lightly  plough 
their  surface."  It  is  mere  delight  to  follow  the  fortunes  of 
this  simple  girl,  amid  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  her  artist 
career.  Around  her  are  jealousy,  suspicion,  meanness, 
sensuality,  and  she  maintains  her  radiant  purity  and 
gentleness  amid  it  all.  To  escape  importunate  lovers  who 
distress  her,  she  leaves  Venice,  where  the  story  opens,  and 
goes  to  take  the  place  of  companion  and  music  teacher  in 
a  nobleman's  family  in  Bohemia.  Eventually,  after  many  a 
16 


230  GEORGE  SAND. 

strange  adventure,  she  becomes  the  wife  of  the  head  of 
this  house,  Count  Rudolstadt.  We  are  taken  in  this  book 
through  a  medley  of  scenes,  of  wanderings,  of  incidents 
grotesque,  uncanny,  horrible,  of  secret  societies  and  courts 
and  prisons,  of  town  and  country  and  amid  the  desolate 
mountains ;  and  in  all  this  Consuelo  is  to  the  soul  of  the 
Count,  whose  mind  hovers  between  genius  and  madness, 
and,  indeed,  to  any  one  good  enough  to  be  influenced  by  her, 
a  voice  of  consolation,  and  health,  and  calm.  He  has  a  clear 
head  and  faithful  memory  indeed,  who,  after  having  but 
once  read  the  five  volumes,  retains  for  long  more  than  a 
faint  impression.  Faint,  that  is,  as  to  the  details,  but  as  a 
total  impression,  how  strong  and  unfading, like  the  impression 
we  retain  of  some  mighty  Gothic  cathedral,  when  the  details 
of  moulding,  sculpture,  and  colour  are  lost,  but  the  solemn 
sense  of  power  and  awfulness  and  inscrutable  mystery 
remains. 

For  the  mere  charm  of  it,  there  is  one  part  of  this  book 
which  surely  every  reader  delights  to  remember,  the 
Journey  of  Consuelo  and  Haydn,  on  foot,  from  the  Bb'hmer 
Wald  to  Vienna,  where  the  former,  to  avoid  difficulties  by 
the  way,  donned,  as  the  writer  of  the  book  had  already 
done,  a  masculine  garb.  Never  was  the  story  of  a  senti- 
mental journey  more  beautifully  told.  All  George  Sand's 
knowledge  and  love  of  the  country,  and  her  own  walks  and 
journeys,  here  come  to  her  aid.  Many  a  fear  is  caused  to 
the  young  travellers  by  rude  villagers,  ill-favoured  smug- 
glers, and  more  dangerous  fine  gentlemen,  should  her  dis- 
guise be  found  out.  Their  sleeping  accommodation  was 
of  the  simplest;  Consuelo,  one  night,  sought  refuge  in 
what  she  took  to  be  an  empty  shippon,  where  "  she  lay 
down  in  a  straw  covered  stall,  whose  warmth  and  cleanly 
odour  were  delightful  to  her.  She  had  just  fallen 
asleep  when  she  felt  a  warm,  damp  breath  on  her  fore- 


GEORGE  SAND.  231 

head,  which  withdrew  with  a  startled  snort  and 
kind  of  smothered  imprecation.  Her  first  fear  over,  she 
saw  in  the  dim  light  of  the  breaking  dawn  a  long 
face,  surmounted  with  two  formidable  horns ;  it  was  a  fine 
cow,  which  had  put  her  head  over  the  rack,  and  having 
given  one  frightened  sniff',  had  drawn  back  in  terror. 
Consuelo  crouched  in  the  corner,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the 
cow,  and  soon  slept  soundly,  heedless  of  all  the  unwonted 
noises  of  the  shippon — the  creaking  of  the  chains  in  their 
rings,  the  lowing  of  the  heifers,  and  the  rubbing  of  the 
horns  against  the  partitions  between  the  stalls;  and  she 
still  slept  on  when  the  milkmaids  came  to  let  out  the  cattle. 
The  shippon  was  empty — the  darkness  of  the  corner  where 
Consuelo  was  lying  had  screened  her  from  sight — and  the 
sun  had  risen  when  at  last  she  opened  her  eyes." 

In  this  book  and  in  others  succeeding  'it,  such  as  "  The 
Miller  of  Angibault,"  and  "  The  Sin  of  M.  Anthony,"  love 
and  socialism  fight  for  precedence ;  but  the  socialism  is  no 
more  satisfactory  than  is  often  the  love ;  it  is  too  much  of 
the  wild  instinct  order,  and  we  fear  that  these  inspirations 
need  taming  and  harnessing  before  they  will  do  the  world's 
allotted  task  of  humdrum  work.  One  of  the  most  inte- 
resting figures  in  the  "  Sin  of  M.  Anthony  "  is  the  carpenter, 
Jean,  too  much  a  man  of  genius  to  work  easily  a  given 
number  of  hours  per  day.  In  this  story  George  Sand  fully 
writes  up  to  the  "  sentiment  of  the  ideal  life,"  which  Mat- 
thew Arnold  finds  to  be  her  characteristic  note.  Only  one  of 
the  principal  characters,  M.  Cardonnet  pere,  an  enterprising 
capitalist  of  the  worst  Lancashire  type,  ready  to  sacrifice 
himself,  his  wife,  and  his  son  to  the  amassing  of  useless 
wealth,  lives  in  the  world  of  realities,  or,  at  any  rate,  of 
actualities  and  popular  middle-class  beliefs.  He  and  Jean 
develop  a  dire  animosity,  and  his  son's  affection 
quite  ideal  daughter  of  a  decayed  gentleman  of  title  is  only 


232  GEORGE  SAND. 

sanctioned  by  the  money-blinded  father  because  a  neigh- 
bouring nobleman,  not  decayed,  but  possessed  of  immense 
wealth,  though  a  convinced  Communist,  declares  his  inten- 
tion of  bestowing  his  wealth  on  theyoungCardonnet,  himself 
also  an  ardent  Communist,  and  who  is  to  found  a  Commune 
with  the  wealth,  a  condition  of  the  bequest  being  the  mar- 
riage so  much  desired  by  the  faithful  lovers.  Alas !  here 
also  there  is  the  distant  rumble  of  the  storm  of  uncon- 
ventional love  ;  only  an  echo,  yet  the  more  audible  because 
a  quite  unnecessary  one,  the  sin  of  M.  Anthony  being 
entirely  useless  to  the  development  of  the  story,  and 
inserted,  we  cannot  but  feel,  only  from  force  of  bad  habit. 
I  have  already  mentioned  the  trio  of  tales  of  the  country, 
written  when,  in  the  stormy  years  of  1848,  George  Sand 
sought  a  refuge  from  anxious  thought  in  the  simple  pathetic 
lives  of  the  peasantry  she  knew  and  loved  so  well.  Each  is 
perfect  as  a  work  of  art,  and  beautiful  in  all  its  details. 
Nor  is  there  any  false  sentiment  about  the  country,  its  life 
is  by  no  means  depicted  as  an  earthly  paradise  ;  there  is 
plenty  of  hard  work  for  poor  pay,  the  farms  are  often  heavy 
on  the  farmers'  hands  ;  the  people  are  neither  very  moral, 
nor  very  immoral,  they  have  something  about  them  which 
seems  to  bring  them  very  close  to  the  animals  which  are 
their  care  ;  .but  they  are  as  simple  and  as  gentle  as  the 
farmer's  horse  and  his  cow,  and  they  have  into  the  bargain 
plenty  of  the  stupidity  of  the  geese  which  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  the  stories  tend  while  young,  and  the  air  is 
redolent  of  superstition. 

Another  story  of  somewhat  the  same  kind,  "  The  Master 
Pipers,"  written  later,  may  be  named  now.  We  find  our- 
selves here  among  ruder  people,  but  still  with  good  hearts, 
among  the,  woodcutters  and  charcoal  burners,  and  the  still 
wilder  smugglers ;  while  the  bag-pipers  give  us  a  striking 
picture  of  the  love  of  art  which  is  not  confined  to  the  rich, 


OEORQE  SAND.  233 

nor  is  a  creature  of  civilisation,  but  of  which  there  is  a  per- 
ennial fountain  springing  up  amongst  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men.  George  Sand  could  recognise  a  true  love 
and  understanding  of  art  under  the  rudest  conditions,  and 
where  the  execution  was  furthest  from  perfect.  In  another 
story,  of  similar  title,  "  The  Master  Mosaic  Workers,"  we 
have  the  rivalries  of  the  two  families  of  artists  at  Venice, 
who  in  the  days  of  Titian  and  Tintoretto  wrought  the 
glowing  enamel  on  the  walls  and  ceilings  of  St.  Mark's. 
And  we  are  shown  that  art  is  as  much  art  among  the 
pipers  of  Central  France  as  among  the  consummate  crafts- 
men of  Venice.  She  is  very  bold  in  her  advocacy  of  the 
artistic  claims  of  the  people.  "  There  are  certain  Breton 
laments,"  she  tells  us  in  the  introduction  to  "  Francois  le 
Champi,"  "  sung  by  strolling  mendicants,  which,  in  three 
couplets,  are  worth  all  Goethe  and  Byron,  and  which  prove 
that  appreciation  of  the  true  and  beautiful  has  been  more 
spontaneous  and  complete  in  these  simple  souls  than  in 
those  of  the  most  famous  poets.''  Jean  Fra^ois  Millet 
has  taught  us,  or  reminded  us,  in  his  pictures,  how  full 
of  beauty  and  pathos  is  the  peasant's  life.  Wordsworth, 
in  his  poems,  has  done  the  same,  and  many  another  might 
be  added  to  the  list,  but  none  have  done  it  more 
beautifully,  and  yet  truly,  than  George  Sand.  The 
painters  only  give  us  hints — object  lessons ;  the  writers 
open  to  us  the  breathing,  struggling,  loving  life.  One 
might  safely  say  that  George  Sand  does  this  particular 
work  even  better  in  some  respects  than  Wordsworth. 
He  wrote  partly  as  a  theorist,  she  merely  as  a  loving 
observer,  anxious  to  tell  others  what  she  saw ;  anxious 
to  feel  and  think,  if  she  could,  somewhat  as  the  peasant 
does.  "I,"  she  says  in  the  introduction  to  "Fra^ois  le 
Champi,"  already  mentioned,  "try  to  enter  into  the  heart 
of  this  mystery  of  country  life.  I,  who  am  so  highly 


234  GEORGE  SAND. 

civilised,  who  cannot  enjoy  by  mere  instinct,  and  who  am 
always  tormented  by  the  desire  of  accounting  to  others  and 
to  myself  for  my  thought  and  meditation." 

Her  later  novels  ring  the  changes  on  what  has  gone 
before  —  Love,  Religion,  Socialism,  The  Peasant,  The 
Country — these  to  change  conveniently  the  metaphor,  are 
the  stock  colours  of  her  palette.  That  she  does  not  al- 
ways blend  and  contrast  her  colours  well,  that  she  never 
works  them  into  a  complete  harmony,  what  is  this  but  to 
say  that  though  she  lived  in  the  nineteenth  century,  there 
are,  as  yet,  no  signs  visible,  to  most  people,  that  the  nine- 
teenth century  is  to  be  the  last,  and  that  the  resources  of 
the  power  manifest  in  the  development  of  our  race  are  ex- 
hausted. "  It  is  a  grand  century,"  she  says,  at  the  close  of 
the  "  Histoire  de  Ma  Vie,"  "  though  suffering  somewhat 
from  ill-health,  and  the  men  of  to-day,  if  they  do  not  the 
mighty  deeds  of  the  close  of  the  preceding  one,  think  of 
them,  dream  of  them,  and  can  prepare  for  greater  ones. 
This  they  profoundly  feel  to  be  their  allotted  task."  Of 
what  use,  we  may  ask,  are  the  novels  of  George  Sand  to  any 
one,  striving  thus  to  live  beyond  the  mere  deeds  of  the  hour 
— one  should  rather  ask,  of  what  use  are  they  not,  in  instruc- 
tion and  inspiration  and  warning  ? 

I  have  said  nothing  as  to  the  exact  years  during  which 
she  lived,  though  I  have  hinted  enough  to  leave  the 
reader  ignorant  of  the  facts,  if  such  we  have,  in 
little  doubt — but  I  may  as  well  briefly  state  the 
bald  fact — that  she  was  born  in  1804  and  died  in  1876 ;  a 
period  fraught  with  many  changes  for  France.  The  last 
terrible  crisis,  of  1870  and  1871,  was  a  heavy  blow  to  her. 
She  lived  too  to  see  a  complete  change  in  the  manner  and 
spirit  of  her  art.  "  The  Old  Troubadour,"  as  she  loved  to 
sign  herself  in  her  letters  to  Flaubert,  looked  with  little 
satisfaction  on  the  rising  school  of  realism.  She  could  not 


GEORGE  SAND.  235 

understand  that  an  artist  should  not  reveal  himself  in  his 
work ;  this,  to  her,  was  the  purpose  of  art.  To  merely  pho- 
tograph, with  whatever  beauty  of  arrangement,  the  facts  as 
she  found  them,  unless  the  facts  themselves  were  beautiful ; 
to  be  a  mere  chronicler,  historian,  scientific  observer, 
writing  the  natural  history  of  individuals  or  of  families, 
this  was  quite  foreign  to  her  conception  of  the  functions  of 
art,  which,  she  says,  is  "  not  a  study  of  actualities,  but  a 
search  for  ideal  truth.'* 

Of  her  friends  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  they  in- 
cluded all  who  were  in  the  first  rank  in  art,  and  litera- 
ture, and  public  life  hi  her  day.  Flaubert,  Balzac, 
Chopin,  De  Musset,  Michelet,  Lamennais,  Louis  Blanc,  and 
Mazzini.  Such  are  the  names  we  look  for  and  find  in  her 
letters  and  the  "  Histoire  de  ma  Vie." 

Her  chief  convictions  and  theories  have  incidentally 
been  mentioned  in  what  has  already  been  said.  Perhaps 
a  few  quotations  may  be  ventured  on  by  way  of  clearer 
exposition  of  some  of  her  views  of  life. 

Of  history  she  says :  "  In  the  theory  of  progress,  God  is 
one  as  humanity  is  one ;  there  is  only  one  religion,  one 
truth,  older  than  man,  co-eternal  with  God,  and  whose 
varying  manifestations  in  man  and  by  man  are  the  relative 
and  progressive  truth  of  the  different  phases  of  history. 
Nothing  is  simpler,  nothing  greater,  nothing  more  logical. 
With  this  thought,  this  guiding  thread,  in  one  hand — 
humanity  eternally  progressive  ;  with  this  torch  in  the 
other — God  eternally  revealing  and  revealed,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  drift  and  lose  one's  self  in  studying  the  history  of 
mankind,  since  it  is  the  history  of  God  himself  in  His 
relations  with  us."  With  such  a  vision  of  life,  wo  are  not 
surprised  to  hear  so  true  an  artist  say :  "  Art  for  art's  sake 
is  a  foolish  phrase ;  art  is  for  the  beautiful  and  true,"  nor 
that  she  rebels  against  the  enslavement  of  the  workman 


236  GEORGE  SAND. 

by  modern  industrialism,  and  urges  industrialism  to 
seek  better  things,  sees  that  it  is  seeking  them,  that  "it 
tends  to  disengage  itself  from  every  kind  of  slavery,  to 
make  itself  all  powerful,  to  become  in  later  days  moral  and 
worthy  of  power  by  means  of  the  association  of  the  workers 
as  of  brethren."  This  accomplished,  another  dream  of  hers 
may  come  true,  and  "  a  day  dawn  when  the  workman  also 
shall  be  an  artist,  able,  if  not  to  express  (which  will  then 
matter  little),  at  least  to  enjoy,  the  beautiful."  Is  there 
not  here  the  charity  which  covers  a  multitude  of  sins  ? 

Of  her  style,  which  for  lack  of  all  trace  of  planting  and 
of  nearly  all  trace  of  growth,  we  might  think  to  have  been 
born  with  her,  what  can  we  say  but  that  had  expression 
not  been  so  easy  to  her,  and  her  wealth  of  fancy  and  ideas, 
her  overplus  of  theorising  and  idealism,  not  been  quite 
beyond  restraint,  her  style  would  have  been  perfect,  her 
observation  true,  her  characters  living ;  but  her  enthusiasm 
and  idealism  were  excessively  strong,  and  overweighted 
her  other  by  no  means  feeble  literary  powers,  so  that,  as 
her  critics  say,  she  too  often  lacks  truth.  Her  characters, 
she  herself  admits,  lack  light  and  shade ;  they  play  in  the 
midst  of  her  rich  painting,  bold  theorising  and  ardent 
sympathy,  passion  and  hate,  somewhat  the  part  of  figures 
when  wisely  inserted  in  landscape  paintings,  they  are 
essential  to  the  story  as  the  figures  to  the  full  meaning 
of  the  landscape ;  but  they  are  hardly  of  primary  impor- 
tance. 

Still  I  have  a  lurking  feeling  of  not  quite  doing  justice  to 
her  characters,  and  having  read  her  works  with  delight,  and 
owed  to  their  heroes  and  heroines  many  hours  of  pleasure, 
I  would  not  willingly  be  unjust  even  to  these  fictitious  men 
and  women.  Perhaps  the  illustration  I  have  just  used  is 
true  enough  for  the  general  impression  her  books  leave 
upon  us,  for  that  general  impression  is  certainly  of  thoughts 


GEORGE  SAND.  237 

and  passions  rather  than  of  persons,  the  dramatic  element 
is  mostly  wanting.  But  as  we  read  each  book,  of  course 
the  characters  are  there  :  they  live ;  are  tall  or  little,  dark 
or  fair,  rich  or  poor.  Should  we  say  they  are  sketches  ? 
Hardly.  Sketches  may  be  very  good  portraits,  and  she 
gives  us  but  little  portraiture.  We  might  compare  them 
to  harp  strings,  upon  which  the  artist  plays  her  music, 
always  beautiful,  chiefly  wild  and  passionate,  but  some- 
times soft  and  peaceful.  Only  it  is  the  music  of  human 
thought  and  passion  she  wishes  to  utter,  and  the 
strings  are  sufficiently  humanised  and  individualised  to 
allow  this  music  to  be  played.  But  they  remain  strings  ; 
she  is  the  player ;  the  music  is  of  her  choosing,  the  work  of 
her  passion,  thought  and  fancy — not  of  theirs.  It  is  use- 
less to  give  even  a  short  list  of  writers  whose  characters 
are — pardon  the  vulgarity — in  business  on  their  own 
account ;  but  it  is  Hamlet  not  Shakspere  who  soliloquises. 
The  Antiquary  is  a  pedant,  not  a  description  of  pedantry 
by  Scott.  I  am  afraid  I  cannot,  after  all,  claim  flesh  and 
blood  reality,  or  a  near  approximation  thereto,  for  George 
Sand's  characters. 

However,  they  are  an  agreeable  company  of  ghosts,  and 
if  Hades  has  such  another  the  land  of  shades  will  not  be 
without  its  pleasures.  Of  course  there  is  a  goodly  number 
of  Bohemians;  in  particular,  a  travelling  company  of 
actors  and  actresses,  whose  adventures  by  land  and  sea, 
in  civilised  and  semi-civilised  countries,  and  the  pleasures 
and  troubles  of  love,  to  which  even  actors  and  actresses 
are  liable,  occupy  the  two  volumes  of  "  Pierre  qui  Roule  " 
and  "  Le  beau  Laurence."  Her  Venetians  are  charmingly, 
romantic,  and  quite  as  true  to  life  as  Mr.  Luke  Fildes's. 
Nearly  all  these  people,  painters,  poets,  actors,  singers,  ladies, 
gentlemen,  men,  women,  can  say  fine  things  in  eloquent 
words,  those  who  are  not  educated  generally  making  up 


238  GEORGE  SAND. 

for  their  deficiencies  by  remarkable  natural  gifts. 
Altogether  a  most  interesting  company  of  shadows,  thrown 
by  this  mistress  of  the  literary  lantern  across  the  printer's 
page,  which  is  her  screen. 

I  can  think  of  nothing  better  with  which  to  compare  her 
language  than  the  flow  of  a  stream  which  has  left  the  moun- 
tain behind,  and  is  pursuing  a  rapid  unhindered  course 
where  the  hills  die  away  into  the  plain — a  stream  which  is 
bright  in  the  sunshine,  and  in  the  shade  is  beautiful  with 
quiet  colour  of  its  own.  We  drift  without  effort  along  the 
current  of  her  words  as  we  would  drift  down  such  a  river. 
Undoubtedly  she  is  one  of  the  easiest  writers  in  a  musical 
language.  The  very  landscape  of  France  seems  to  avoid 
hard  lines  and  contours,  the  dress  of  the  people  and  their 
figures  avoid  our  angular  stiffness  ;  their  architecture  has 
its  peculiar  grace;  in  thought  and  speculation  they  in- 
stinctively seek  for  that  which  is  ideally  perfect ;  they  cry 
"  Liberty,  equality,  fraternity,"  where  we  have  more  coldly 
made  our  appeal  to  stability,  order  and  justice;  and 
language  is  the  child  of  the  man,  and  his  manners  and  of 
the  land  he  lives  in,  and  we  can  read  George  Sand's  prose 
and  enjoy  it  as  so  much  music,  and  hardly  stop  to  care 
about  its  meaning. 

I  attempt  nothing  here  in  the  way  of  comparative 
criticism,  thankfully  pleading  the  excuse  that  this  paper  is 
already  long  enough.  I  have  also  an  excuse  taken  from 
George  Sand  herself,  who  says,  "Beauty  is  what  it  is,  and 
when  we  lose  ourselves  in  comparisons,  we  criticise,  that 
is  to  say,  we  scatter  ice  on  burning  impressions."  Perhaps, 
however,  I  may  venture  on  this  much — :George  Sand,  as 
a  woman  and  as  a  thinker,  was  a  comparative  failure, 
while  other  women,  in  many  ways  inferior  to  her,  seem 
to  have  succeeded,  because  she  tried  to  harmonise  qualities 
which  the  others  have  almost,  without  exception,  regarded 


GEORGE  SAND.  239 

as  hopelessly  antagonistic.  She  was  a  magnificent  failure 
amid  many  a  common-place  success.  She  ventured  to 
state  the  problem  of  life  more  completely  than  any  other 
woman  had  ever  tried  to  do,  and  failed  to  solve  it  either  in 
her  works  or  in  her  own  life.  But  her  failure  is  the  failure 
which  gives  birth  at  last  to  success,  their  success  is  one 
which  leads  to  nothing  more.  May  we  not  say  of  success 
as  she  says  of  happiness,  "  it  is  relative  to  the  idea  we 
have  of  it,"  and  that  true  success,  like  the  only  true  happi- 
ness, "  consists  in  the  constant  aspiration  to  the  highest 
pleasures  of  the  mind  and  heart."  And  towards  this  goal, 
though,  at  times,  she  took  what  proved  to  be  a  devious  path, 
her  face  was  always  set. 


MY    CABIN    WINDOW. 

BY   THOMAS    KAY. 

S.S.  Gwalior,  from  Venice  to  Alexandria, 

February  18,  1888 

66  "I1TILL  you  take  coffee  ?"  says  a  voice  in  iny  ear,  as  I 
start  in  my  berth  from  a  deep  sleep.  There  is  a 
dim  light  of  early  morning  in  my  cabin,  and  I  find  myself 
confronted  with  a  great  lens-like  eye,  staring  steadfastly 
down  into  my  weary  optics  and  overcoming  them  with  its 
force.  I  shrink  away  and  close  my  eyelids  tightly  to  shut 
out  the  glare.  Still  I  see  it,  as  the  field  of  a  great  micro- 
scope covered  with  waves  of  the  sea,  just  as  I  once  saw  the 
ripplets  of  the  Irwell  in  the  old  camera  obscura  of  Pomona 
many  short  years  ago — for  the  older  one  grows  the  shorter 
they  seem — and  I  remember  that  the  floating  image  of  a 
boatman  pulled  across  the  disc,  and  the  reflection  of  the 
sun  on  the  dancing  water  made  happy  laughter  for  a  child- 
man  of  long  ago.  In  a  like  manner  I  see  the  waves  of  the 
Adriatic  rolling  over  my  visionary  field,  as  our  good  ship 
rolled  in  the  squall  we  passed  through  yester  eve,  when  the 
rain  beat  upon  the  deck  tent  and  the  shuddering  folds  of 
canvas  repeated  the  roar  of  the  elements,  and  the  keen 
wind  from  the  snow-clad  Albanian  mountains  sent  us 
shivering  to  the  warmer  shelter  of  our  cabins.  And  how, 
on  stepping  outside  the  tent  when  the  squall  had  passed, 


MY  CABIN  WINDOW.  241 

the  deep  blue  of  "  the  floor  of  heaven  was  thick  inlaid  with 
patines  of  bright  gold,"  and  the  moon,  with  her  crescent 
horns,  was  emerging  from  a  bank  of  clouds  to  the  west,  and 
I  think  of  how  we  had  left  Venice  the  same  afternoon,  and 
two  figures  stood  on  a  bridge  near  the  public  gardens ;  and 
there  was  weeping,  kissing,  and  waving  of  handkerchiefs, 
and  then  the  campanile  in  the  piazza  stood  high  above  the 
ducal  palace,  and  the  minarets  of  San  Marco  slowly 
descended  towards  the  horizon.  Then  San  Giorgio  ap- 
peared with  its  graceful,  ruddy  campanile  and  its  church — 
an  outline  on  the  landscape  as  sweet  as  the  profile  of  the 
chubby-faced  child  being  kissed  by  its  mother  on  the 
distant  bridge  under  the  bare  trees,  where  the  alcoves  and 
music  pavilions  stand  in  their  rosy  tints  against  the  leafless 
yet  dusky  shrubs. 

The  Lido  appears  on  our  left,  the  eastern  fringe  of  a  circlet 
of  emerald  isles  which  surrounds  Venice — the  central  jewel. 
Here,  in  the  warm  days  of  summer,  with  "  beauty  at  the 
prow  and  pleasure  at  the  helm,"  light  laughter,  loving 
hearts,  and  homely  fare,  "  the  dinner  of  herbs,"  of  the 
Psalmist,  "  where  love  is,"  the  young  Venetians  in  the 
noontide  of  life  are  wafted  over  the  waters  by  a  gondolier, 
whose  charity  is  as  wide  as  the  lagunes  upon  which  he 
floats,  to  the  breezy  Lido,  where  happy  festas  of  love  and 
frugality  make  joyous  memories  that  "  colour  the  whole 
tut ure  life  with  gold" 

We  next  glide  past  the  asylum,  whose  bare  and  ugly 
walls  rise  out  of  a  lonely  island  where  all  is  still  and  silent, 
and  nothing  is  seen  to  move,  and  we  are  fain  to  hope  that 
it  is  void  of  life.  We  glide  on,  and  find  ourselves  followed 
by  an  orange-coloured  butterfly- winged  cross-sailed  craft, 
which  skims  the  water  like  the  petals  of  a  flower  dropped 
from  the  bouquet  of  a  goddess,  a  gigantic  papilionacia ; 
order,  Navicula  ;  variety,  Venetiensis. 


242  MY  CABIN  WINDOW. 

We  proceed  along  the  wide  lagune,  our  course  mapped 
out  by  banded  stumps  which  rise  from  the  watery  plain, 
like  those  projecting  above  the  snow  to  mark  the  pathway 
across  a  British  moor,  and  we  see  the  shallow  waters  in 
planes  of  different  colours,  some  covering  banks  of  brown 
clay  with  a  garden  of  "  ocean's  gay  flowers  "  only  a  foot 
beneath  the  surface,  and  between  them  the  turquoise  tint 
of  the  deep  canals  can  be  traced  for  miles. 

Adown  one  of  them  another  giant  papilionacia  (order 
Navicula,  variety,  Chioggiensis)  is  coming,  and  it  furls  its 
tall  wings  in  order  to  tack  by  Palestrina,  where  little  houses, 
little  churches,  and  little  campaniles  are  on  little  islands. 
An  ugly  round  fort  of  earthwork  guards  the  lagune  at 
Malamocca,  our  exit  into  the  Adriatic.  Malamocca  is  a 
grim  portal  to  this  sanctuary  of  artistic  loveliness.  So  we 
bid  farewell  to  Venice  as  we  start  on  our  travels,  with  admi- 
ration and  increased  veneration  for  a  people  who,  some 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  upon  the  mud-banks  of  a  slush-pool, 
by  the  aid  of  piles  of  timber  set  carefully  and  laboriously 
one  beside  the  other,  like  the  stones  of  an  inlaid  mosaic, 
raised  a  city  of  churches  and  palaces,  whose  every  facade 
is  a  study  of  artistic  constructional  beauty.  These  delight 
the  eye  more  than  can  be  expressed  by  one  accustomed  to 
meagre  Manchester  forms  and  the  dull  obscurity  of  its 
atmosphere. 

Addio,  Bella  Venezia !  I  leave  thee,  in  the  winter  of  thy 
discontent,  for  Afric's  sunny  clime,  like  a  migratory  bird  of 
the  season.  "  Age,  with  stealing  steps,"  beckons  us  away. 
Thou  hast  shown  me  a  panorama  of  love  and  life,  love  and 
passion,  love  and  death,  which  has  ended  at  the  portals  of 
Malamocca.  The  life  and  light  of  Venice  has  faded,  and  is 
blended  in  its  background  of  Alpine  snow,  whose  hoary 
clouds  meet  the  portals  of  heaven,  and,  as  an  aged  couple 
blend  their  white  locks  in  a  loving  embrace,  so  hast  thou 


MY  CABIN  WINDOW.  243 

become  as  one  with  the  highest  form  of  natural  beauty  and 
stateliness  the  earth  affords  to  us,  absorbed  as  thou  art  in 
the  white  mountains,  which  are  her  grandest  monuments. 
Adieu  !  may  I  see  thee  again. 

The  screw  of  the  vessel  has  stopped  its  revolution,  and 
I  feel  that  we  must  have  arrived  at  Ancona,  but  the  great 
Cyclopean  eye  again  stares  at  me,  and  withers  me  with 
its  glance,  and  I  turn  round  and  wonder  at  its  weird 
influence. 

The  basilisk's  eye  charms  its  victim,  or  rather  chills  it 
so  with  fear,  that  it  closes  its  own,  ignorant  in  its  simplicity 
that  it  is  destined  to  be  a  reptile's  food  by  the  Almighty 
Power  which  has  created  appetites,  and  passions,  and  long- 
suffering,  and  the  great  mercy  of  oblivion  in  the  jaws  of 
death. 

I  am  minded  by  my  cabin  window  of  the  feeling  I  had, 
when  a  boy,  of  looking  at  a  bright  disc  set  in  a  copper  coin 
preparatory  to  mesmerism,  and  I  remember  its  influence, 
upon  an  intense  and  prolonged  gaze,  as  if  the  power  of 
reason  was  in  danger  of  being  annihilated,  and  I  threw  it 
away  lest  I  should  have  had  to  regret  it  all  the  days  of  my 
life ;  and  so  I  now  decide  to  remain  no  longer  entranced  by 
vain  dreams  begotten  by  Aurora  in  the  morning  light.  I 
therefore  jump  out  of  my  berth,  "  shake  off  dull  sloth,  and 
with  the  sun  "  commence  to  run  another  day  of  luxurious 
ease :  to  bask  in  its  rays  when  able  to  do  so,  and  to  enjoy 
an  atmosphere  free  from  pollution. 


GLEES  AND   GLEE  WRITERS. 

BY   W.   I.    WILD. 

THE  subject  of  Glees  and  Glee  Writers  is  one  so  purely 
national  in  its  character  that  no  excuse  is  necessary 
for  its  advancement.  So  early  as  the  thirteenth  century 
part-music  was  produced,  of  little  merit,  it  is  true,  but 
in  such  measure  as  served  to  indicate  the  growth  of  a 
taste  for  a  combination  of  vocal  harmony  expressive  of  the 
ideas  of  the  time.  The  oldest  piece  of  secular  part  music 
known  in  the  world  is  "Sumer  is  icumen  in,"  ascribed  to 
John  of  Fornsek;  a  monk  of  Reading,  about  A.D.  1226,  but 
not  until  many  generations  subsequent  was  anything  of 
the  same  character  produced  in  any  other  country. 
In  the  fourteenth  and  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century 
part  music  was  produced,  gradually  progressing  in  harmony, 
merit,  and  style.  In  the  sixteenth  century  the  principal 
forms  of  such  composition  were  known  as  motets  and  madri- 
gals. Of  these  the  madrigal  alone  was  set  to  words  of  a 
secular  character,  and  this  form  of  music  writing  was,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  the  original  parent  of  the  glee,  which  is 
only  another  form  arising  out  of  the  former  method, 
although  separated  from  it  by  a  long  interval  of  years. 

Little  is  known  of  the  original  history  of  the  glee.  In 
the  most  ancient  of  our  chronicles  we  read  of  gleemen  and 
glee  maidens;  wandering  minstrels,  who  sang  pieces  of 
vocal  harmony  in  the  taverns  and  hostelries  of  the  day, 
sometimes  unaccompanied,  but  frequently  to  the  music  of 


GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS.  245 

the  gittern  or  the  lute,  and  even  our  own  writers  of  the 
present  day  differ  greatly  in  their  interpretation  of  the 
meaning  of  the  word.  "  Chambers'  Encyclopaedia  "  says : 
"  Glee,  the  English  name  for  a  vocal  composition  for  three 
or  more  voices,  and  in  one  or  more  movements.  The  style 
of  music  of  the  glee  is  peculiar  to  England,  and  quite 
different  from  the  part  songs  of  Germany." 

John  Hullah,  LL.D.,  in  Sir  George  Grove's  "Dictionary 
of  Music,"  says :  "  The  word  '  glee '  in  no  way  describes 
or  characterises  the  kind  of  composition  to  which 

ves  a  name.  It  is  simply  the  Anglo-Saxon  gligg — 
music.  A  glee  is  not,  therefore,  necessarily  of  a  cheerful 
character,  as  the  name  might  seem  to  imply."  The 
"gligg  man,"  according  to  Warton,  was  identical  with  the 
"  joculator ;"  but  the  words  of  a  glee  may  be  mournful 
or  sprightly,  and  the  music  such  as  will  express  them 
becomingly.  The  "  serious  glee  "  is  no  more  a  misnomer 
than  the  "cheerful."  Both  terms  have  been  used  by  glee 
composers  again  and  again.  The  glee  proper  is  wholly 
independent  of  instrumental  accompaniment.  "  The 
Popular  Encyclopaedia "  says:  "'Glee,'  a  vocal  composition 
in  three  or  more  parts,  the  subject  of  which  may  either 
be  gay,  tender,  or  grave.  Instrumental  accompaniment 
is  illegitimate;  but  with  unsteady  vocalists  a  piano 
lightly  touched  may  be  of  advantage  to  aid  them  in 
keeping  time  and  tune."  Other  authorities,  such  as  the 
dictionaries  of  W.  Nicholson,  Webster,  Stanier,  and 
Barrett;  and  encyclopaedias  such  as  the  "  Globe,"  Knight's 
"  English,"  and  "  Brittanica,"  all  differ  only  in  minor  points 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  word.  "  Who  shall  court  my 
faire  Ladye?"  by  Dr.  Robert  Fayrfax,  is  one  of  the  earliest 
known  glees.  One  of  the  most  eminent  madrigal  writers 
of  the  sixteenth  century  was  Wm.  Byrd,  born  about  1  -7 
His  principal  madrigals  and  pieces  number  seventy-nine, 

17 


246  OLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

but  this  represents  only  a  small  portion  of  his  work. 
As  specimens  of  his  style  may  be  enumerated  "When 
the  bright  sun"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Lullaby,  my  sweet  little  baby" 
(S.S.A.T.B.),  and  the  glorious  canon  "  Non  Nobis  Domine." 
He  died  in  1623,  and  in  a  notice  of  his  death  he  is  spoken 
as  "  A  Father  in  Musick." 

John  Dowland  (1562 — 1626)  was  another  writer  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  In  1597  he  published  the  "  First  Booke 
of  Songes  or  Ayres  of  four  parts,  with  Tablature  for  the 
Lute,  Orpherion,  or  Viol  de  Gambo."  This  work  became 
so  popular  that  four  subsequent  editions  appeared  in  1600, 
1603,  1608,  and  1613.  He  published  the  "  Second  Booke 
of  Songes  or  Ayres"  in  two,  four,  and  five  parts  in  1600, 
the  third  in  1603,  and  a  fourth  in  1612.  He  is  alluded  to 
in  one  of  Shakspere's  sonnets  in  the  "  Passionate  Pilgrim," 
beginning  "  If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree,"  printed  in 
1599  (previously  printed  in  a  work  by  Richard  Barnfield) 
and  proceeding — 

Dowland  to  thee  is  dear,  whose  heavenly  touch 
Upon  the  lute  doth  ravish  human  sense. 

Dowland's  gems  in  part  songs  are  "  Now,  0,  now,"  "  I  needs 
must  part,"  "Awake,  sweet  love,"  "  Go  !  Crystal  tears,"  all 
for  S.A.T.B.,  and  nearly  seventy  others. 

Thomas  Bateson  was  another  of  the  great  madrigalian 
composers  of  the  Elizabethan  period.  He  published  his 
first  set  of  madrigals  in  1604,  and  he  compares  his  com- 
positions to  "  young  birds  feared  out  of  their  nest  before 
they  be  well  feathered."  He  was  organist  of  Chester 
Cathedral  until  1611.  He  published  another  book  of 
madrigals  in  1618.  His  works  contain  many  gems,  among 
which  may  be  named  "Oriana's  Farewell"  (S.S.A.T.B.), 
"Sister  awake,  close  not  your  eyes"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  replete 
with  fresh  melody  and  beautiful  harmonies. 

John  Bennett  (born  about  1570,  died  1615)  was  the 


QLEES  AND  QLEE   WRITERS.  247 

composer  of  twenty-four  madrigals,  amongst  which  are 
"Thyrsis!  sleepest  thou"  (S.A.T.B.),  and  "All  creatures  now 
are  merry  minded"  (S.S.A.T.B.). 

Thomas  Ford  (about  1680—1748)  wrote  "Since  first  I 
saw  your  face,"  "There  is  a  lady"  (both  S.A.T.B.),  and 
several  others. 

Michael  Este  (born  1575),  died  1638)  composed  "How 
merrily  we  live"  (T.T.B.)  and  seventy-seven  other  madrigals. 

John  Ward  (born  about  1580)  left  us  twenty-eight  madri- 
gals. "Die  not,  fond  man"  (S.S.A.A.T.B.),  "Hope  of  my 
heart"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  "Upon  a  bank"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  and  others. 

Thomas  Weelkes  (born  about  1578),  died  1640,  organist 
of  Chichester  Cathedral,  in  1608,  published  five  sets  of 
madrigals  between  1597 — 1608,  containing  nearly  one 
hundred  pieces,  all  of  them  abounding  in  beauty,  and  as 
compositions,  greatly  in  advance  of  any  work  of  his  pre- 
decessors, entitling  him  to  be  called  one  of  the  founders  of 
the  madrigalian  style. 

To  John  Wilbye  (born  about  1564,)  died  1612,  we  are 
indebted  for  some  of  the  most  lovely  madrigals  we  possess. 
He  settled  in  London  as  a  teacher  of  music ;  his  first 
collection  was  published  in  1598,  the  second  in  1609,  and 
include  the  following : — "  Sweet  honey-sucking  bees " 
(S.S.A.T.B.),  and  its  sequel,  "  Yet  sweet,  take  heed,"  "  Flora 
gave  me  fairest  flowers"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  "Die,  hapless  man" 
(S.S.A.T.B.),  "Draw  on,  sweet  night"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  "The  Lady 
Oriana"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  " Stay,  Corydon,  thou  swain"  (S.S.A.T.B.), 
"  Happy  streams  whose  trembling  fall "  (S.S.A.T.),  "  Lady, 
when  I  behold  the  roses  sprouting"  (S.S.A.T.T.B.),  and 
nearly  sixty  others. 

John  Playford  Was  born  in  1623,  died  1693.  From  him 
we  have  twenty-five  glees  and  many  important  works.  In 
Hilton's  "Catch  that  catch  can,"  published  in  1652,  "Turn, 
Amaryllis,  to  thy  swain,"  by  Thomas  Brewer,  is  found  in 


248  QLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

the  second  book ;  it  was  afterwards  set  for  three  voices 
(S.T.B.),  and  called  a  glee,  this  being  the  first  time  the  word 
is  used  to  denote  a  musical  composition.  "The  most 
ancient  collection  of  vocal  music  in  which  glees  are 
specially  mentioned  was  published  by  John  Playford,  in 
1673,  called  the  '  Musical  Companion,'  in  two  books.  The 
First  Book  containing  Catches  and  Rounds  for  Three 
Voyces  ;  the  Second  Book  containing  Dialogues,  Glees, 
Ayres,  and  Songs  for  Two,  Three,  and  Four  Voyces." 
Whilst  his  son  Henry,  in  1698,  was  the  publisher  of 
"  Orpheus  Britannicus,"  by  Purcell. 

Dr.  Orlando  Gibbons  (born  1583,  died  1625)  is  spoken 
of  as  one  of  the  greatest  musical  geniuses  of  our  country. 
His  published  works  are  given  in  full  in  Grove's  Dictionary, 
and  comprise  forty-one  books,  etc.,  of  sacred  music, 
twenty-one  madrigals  and  motets,  and  many  instrumental 
pieces.  "The  Silver  Swan"  (S.A.T.B.B.),  and  "0!  that  the 
learned  poets  of  our  time'*  (S.S.A.T.B.),  are  madrigals 
expressive  of  his  fine  taste  and  genius. 

The  name  of  Dr.  Arne  (born  1710,  died  1778)  is  so 
familiar  to  the  ears  of  music  lovers  that  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  repeat  his  praises ;  he  produced  numerous 
glees  (thirty- three,)  catches,  and  canons,  seven  of  which 
obtained  prizes  at  the  Catch  Club.  Thirteen  glees,  ten 
catches,  and  six  catches  are  published  in  Warren's 
collection ;  the  best  known  are  "  Come,  Shepherd,  etc.,'* 
and  "  Sweet  muse,  inspire  "  (both  for  A.T.T.B.) 

Joseph  Baildon  (born  1727,  died  1774)  was  a  Gentleman 
of  the  Chapel  Royal,  and  Lay  Vicar  of  Westminster  Abbey. 
In  1763  he  obtained  one  of  the  first  prizes  given  by  the 
Catch  Club,  for  a  catch,  and  in  1766  was  awarded  a  prize 
for  his  fine  glee  "  When  gay  Bacchus  fills  my  breast " 
(A.T.B.);  besides  these,  "Adieu  to  the  village  delights" 
(A.T.B.),  and  nine  others,  were  his  contributions  to  the  part 
music  of  the  day. 


GLEES  AND  QLEE  WRITERS.  249 

The  numerous  and  beautiful  glees  of  Dr.  Benjamin 
Cooke  (born  1732,  died  1793),  entitle  him  to  one  of  the 
first  places  among  glee  writers.  He  wrote  fifty-nine  of  these 
compositions,  and  by  these  he  is  best  known  to  posterity. 
For  seven  of  these  he  obtained  prizes ;  he  published  a 
collection  of  his  glees  in  his  lifetime,  and  a  second  collec- 
tion appeared  in  1795.  The  best  known  are  "  Hark !  hark  ! 
the  lark!"  (S.A.T.B.),  "How  sleep  the  brave ?"  (S.A.T.B.), 
"As  now  the  shades  of  eve"  (S.S.A.B.),  and  "In  the  merry 
month  of  May  "  (S.S.T.B.).  He  was  organist  at  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  on  his  death,  in  1793,  he  was  buried  in  the 
cloisters  there. 

Jonathan  Battishill  (born  1738,  died  1801)  published  two 
collections  of  songs  for  three  or  four  voices.  Several  of  his 
twenty-seven  glees  are  in  Warren's  and  other  collections, 
all  of  which  bear  ample  testimony  to  the  combined  elegance 
and  vigour  of  his  fancy. 

One  of  our  finest  and  most  effective  glee  composers  was 
John  Stafford  Smith  (born  about  1746,  died  1836).  All  the 
glees  of  his  composition  which  are  known  to  have  received 
prizes  are  of  excellent  ability.  He  published  sixty-three 
glees,  a  collection  of  anthems,  and  edited  two  folio  volumes 
of  ancient  music.  His  best  known  glees  are — "  Blest  pair 
of  Sirens"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  "Let  happy  lovers  fly"  (A.T.T.B.), 
"While  fools  their  time"  (A.T.T.B.),  "Return,  blest  days" 
(A.T.T.B.),  "As  on  a  summer's  day,"  and  "  Hark,  the  hollow 
woods  resounding"  (A.T.T.B.),  all  of  which  will  gratify  the 
glee  lover. 

Harriet  Abrams  (born  1760)  was  one  of  the  few  lady 
glee  composers ;  in  1787  she  published  a  collection  of  songs 
and  glees,  principally  Scotch. 

A  considerable  number  of  glees  were  the  work  of  John 
Danby  (born  1757,  died  1798),  the  author  of  "Awake, 
^Eolian  lyre"  (S.A.T.B.),  and  "  Fair  Flora  decks  "  (A.TB.).  He 


250  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

published  three  books  of  glees  during  his  lifetime,  and  a 
fourth  was  issued  after  his  death.  Of  the  ninety-two  glees 
he  wrote,  besides  the  two  named,  "  The  fairest  flowers " 
(A.T.B.),  "  Sweet  Thrush"  (s.  A.T.B.),  and  "  The  Nightingale" 
(S.A.T.T.B.),  are  equally  tuneful  and  pleasing.  Eight  of  his 
glees  obtained  prizes. 

Richard  Wainright  (born  1758,  died  1825),  the  son  of -a 
Stockport  organist,  is  best  remembered  by  the  well-known 
glee,  "  Life's  a  bumper"  (A.T.B.). 

The  successor  of  John  Stafford  Smith  as  organist  of  the 
Chapel  Royal  was  Thomas  Attwood  (born  1765,  died  1838), 
who  distinguished  himself  in  many  of  the  departments  of 
musical  science.  Of  his  sixty  glees  the  best  remembered 
are  "The  Curfew"  (S.S.B.),  "Hark,  how  the  sacred  calm" 
(A.T.B.),  "In  peace  love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed"  (S.S.B.), 
and  "To  all  that  breathe  the  air  of  Heaven"  (S.A.T.B.B.). 
He  was  a  pupil  of  Mozart,  and  acquired  much  of  his  style. 

Reginald  Spofforth  (born  1770,  died  1827)  was  an 
excellent  and  popular  glee  composer.  He  wrote  several 
prize  glees.  His  best  known  numbers  are,  "  Hail,  Smiling 
Morn"  (A.T.T.B.),  a  glee  universally  known  throughout  the 
kingdom,  "  Marked  you  her  eye"  (A.A.T.B.),  "Come,  boun- 
teous May "  (A.A.T.B.B.),  "  Health  to  my  dear  "  (A.T.B.B.), 
and  "  The  Spring,  the  pleasant  Spring"  (S.A.T.B.).  His  glees 
and  part  songs  amount  to  ninety-three. 

The  first  glees  as  glees  date  from  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  the  finest  specimens  of  them  were 
produced  during  the  seventy-five  years  between  the  middle 
of  the  last  century  and  the  end  of  the  first  quarter  of  this. 

Vocal  compositions  by  masters  of  the  latter  part  of  the 
seventeenth  century  are  sometimes  found  in  collections 
printed  after  their  decease  to  which  the  word  glee  is 
appended.  These  are  not  glees  in  the  now  accepted  sense 
of  the  word,  but  simply  airs  of  those  masters,  harmonised 
subsequently  for  three  or  four  voices. 


GLEES  AND  OLEE  WRITERS.  251 

In  enumerating  the  names  of  composers,  attention  has 
so  far  been  given  only  to  those  who  were  eminent  for 
their  ability  in  the  earliest  stage  of  glee  writing,  but  with 
the  close  of  the  eighteenth  and  the  dawn  of  the  nine- 
teenth centuries  there  was  to  rise  up  an  army  of  musicians 
and  musical  composers  who  were  destined  to  raise  the 
popularity  of  this  class  of  music  to  its  highest  level. 
Many  of  the  old  composers  have  not  been  given  in  this 
brief  notice :  the  true  lover  of  glees  has  invariably  some 
favourite  composer  amongst  the  last  century  musicians 
but  although  some  glees  and  glee  writers  of  surpassing 
merit  have  been  omitted,  enough  has  been  said  to  denote 
those  who  at  this  period  were  above  their  compeers  in  the 
number  and  quality  of  their  works. 

The  Noblemen  and  Gentlemen's  Catch  Club  was  formed 
in  1762  for  the  encouragement  of  the  composition  and 
performance  of  canons,  catches,  and  glees,  and  the  first 
meeting  took  place  in  November  of  that  year ;  many  noble 
and  distinguished  men  were  amongst  the  original  founders, 
royalty  itself  lending  the  prestige  of  its  name  to  the 
roll  of  members,  whilst  among  the  professional  element 
were  such  men  as  Beard,  Battishill,  Arne,  Hayes,  Atterbury, 
Paxton,  S.  Webbe,  and  afterwards  Stevens,  Callcott,  Danby, 
Horsley,  Goss,  and  others. 

In  1763  the  club  offered  prizes  for  glees,  and  these  prizes 
were  annually  offered  until  1794.  They  were  discontinued 
from  1794  until  1811,  and  after  two  years'  renewal  were 
again  withheld  until  1821,  when  a  gold  cup  was  substituted 
for  the  old  form  of  prize.  In  1861  this  club  celebrated  its 
centenary,  and  it  still  flourishes,  the  meetings  being  held 
fortnightly  at  Willis's  Rooms,  from  Easter  to  July. 

In  1787  "The  Glee  Club"  was  instituted  at  the  New- 
castle Coffee  House.  The  meetings  of  the  society  were 
largely  frequented  by  the  best  musicians  of  the  day, 


252  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WJtITERS. 

amongst  others  by  Samuel  Wesley,  Moscheles,  and  Men- 
delssohn. It  met  for  many  years  at  the  Freemasons' 
Tavern,  and  was  finally  dissolved  in  1857,  and  its  extensive 
library  sold.  Another  glee  club,  formed  in  1793,  had 
amongst  its  members  Shield,  Johnstone,  Charles  Banister, 
Incledon,  Dignum,  C.  Ashley,  and  W.  T.  Parke. 

From  the  year  1760  the  glee  rapidly  found  favour  with 
all  classes  of  the  English  people ;  its  style  of  music  being 
such  that  it  commended  itself  to  the  affections  of  the 
music  lover,  and  both  in  country  and  town  societies  were 
formed  for  the  singing  and  practising  of  glees. 

Although  Callcott  wrote  glees  introducing  the  treble 
voice  as  a  component  part  of  the  composition,  it  was  not 
until  the  works  of  Bishop  became  popular  that  we  find 
ladies  joining  in  glee  singing,  such  parts  having  up  to  then 
been  invariably  sung  by  boys.  Dr.  J.  W.  Callcott  (born 
1766,  died  1821)  was  such  a  prolific  glee  writer,  that  (as 
he  himself  remarked  of  his  great  fertility)  "  to  show  if 
deficient  in  genius  he  was  not  wanting  in  industry,"  he 
sent  in  over  one  hundred  compositions  to  compete  for  one 
year's  Catch  Club  prizes.  One  hundred  and  sixty-six  of 
his  glees  are  published,  and  it  is  said  he  wrote  three  times 
that  quantity.  None  of  the  many  eminent  glee  composers 
of  England  can  be  said  to  be  so  popular  as  Callcott.  He 
agreeably  improved  the  quality  of  the  glee  as  an  indepen- 
dent musical  form.  "In  the  lonely  vale  of  streams" 
(S.S.T.B.),  "Forgive,  blest  shade"  (S.S.B.),  "Peace  to  the 
souls  of  the  heroes"  (A.T.B.),  "Queen  of  the  valley" 
(A.T.T.B.B.),  are  a  few  amongst  his  many  gems. 

The  latter  years  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  the  early 
years  of  the  nineteenth,  were  remarkable  for  the  produc- 
tion of  glees  of  surpassing  excellence,  raising  the  standard 
of  such  works  far  above  the  ideas  and  conceptions  of  the 
earlier  composers. 


GLEES  AND  QLEE  WRITERS.  253 

Joseph  Corfe  (born  1740,  died  1820)  was  a  gentleman  of 
the  Chapel  Royal.  In  1793  he  published  three  sets  of 
glees  and  nine  vocal  trios  (in  all  forty-six),  all  of  them 
harmonised  and  adapted. 

William  Horsley  (born  1776,  died  1858)  published  five 
different  collections  of  glees,  respectively  in  1801,  1806, 
1808, 1811,  and  1827  (in  all  one  hundred  and  twenty-four). 
His  works  have  rarely  been  equalled  and  never  excelled, 
and  he  is  said  to  be  in  the  same  rank  as  Webbe,  Callcott, 
and  Bishop.  "  By  Celia's  arbour  "  (A.T.T.B.),  "  See  the  chariot 
at  hand"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Mine  be  a  cot"  (A.T.T.B.),  "Cold  is 
Cadwallo's  tongue"  (A.T.T.B.B.),  and  "0  Nightingale" 
(A.T.T.B.),  will  long  continue  to  hold  a  foremost  place  in 
the  hearts  of  glee  singers. 

Richard  Clark  (born  1780,  died  1856)  in  1814  published 
a  volume  of  the  poetry  of  the  most  favourite  glees.  This 
publication  was  remarkable  because  it  was  the  first  issue 
of  any  collection  of  the  words  only  without  the  music  of 
the  many  glees  then  in  use.  A  second  edition  of  this 
work  appeared  in  1824. 

Dr.  John  Clarke-Whitfield's  sixty-six  glees  are,  many  of 
them,  set  to  the  words  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Some  of 
them  are  familiar  enough,  such  as  "Red  Cross  Knight," 
"  Know  ye  the  land,"  "  Wide  o'er  the  brim  "  (A.T.T.B.),  and 
"  Is  it  the  roar  of  Teviot's  tide  ?"  (A.T.T.B.). 

"Awake,  sweet  muse"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  "  In  the  pleasant  sum- 
mer day,"  "  Come  let  us  join  the  roundelay,"  are  specimens 
of  the  style  of  William  Beale  (born  1784,  died  1854).  His 
three  hundred  and  nineteen  glees  show  that  he  was  a 
composer  of  great  vigour  and  originality,  whose  pieces 
are  graced  with  all  the  refinement  and  artistic  skill  which 
such  works  demand. 

Dr.  William  Crotch  (born  1775,  died  1847),  although 
the  author  of  only  some  fourteen  glees,  has  left  sufficient 


254  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

to  immortalise  his  name,  among  them  being  his  fine  ode 
"Mona  on  Snowdon  calls"  (S.A.T.B.B.). 

Dr.  Edward  Dearie  has  been  a  voluminous  composer,  his 
fourteen  glees  forming  but  a  small  part  of  his  productions. 

John  Davy,  known  to  fame  as  the  composer  of  "  The 
Bay  of  Biscay,"  has  written  twenty-six  glees  of  more  or  less 
merit. 

"Night,  lovely  night"  (S.A.T.B.),  and  seventeen  others, 
are  the  work  of  Francesco  Berger;  exceedingly  graceful 
and  popular  numbers.  Of  Mazzinghi's  sixty-three  glees, 
nearly  all  are  now  forgotten,  yet  he  wrote  a  vast  quantity 
of  glees,  songs,  and  pianoforte  pieces.  His  duet,  "  When 
a  little  farm  we  keep,"  once  popular  enough,  is  sometimes 
sung ;  as  are  also  his  glees  "Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn"  (S.S.B.), 
"When  order  in  this  land  commenced,"  and  "The 
Wreath  "(S.S.B.). 

The  name  of  Samuel  Webbe  (born  1740,  died  1816)  is 
one  that  never  fails  to  excite  enthusiasm  in  the  breasts  of 
all  glee  students.  Of  glees  alone  he  published  two  hundred 
and  eleven,  and  so  many  of  these  have  been  widely  known 
and  popular  that  to  attempt  anything  like  a  list  of  them 
would  be  tedious,  yet  a  few  well  known  numbers  may  be 
cited:  "When  winds  breathe  soft"  (S.A.T.T.B.),  "Swiftly 
from  the  mountain's  brow"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Breathe  soft,  ye 
winds"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Come  live  with  me,"  are  all  glorious 
pieces  of  music.  The  second  conveys  as  graphic  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  break  of  day  as  can  be  conveyed  through  the 
medium  of  vocal  music.  Webbe  was  the  secretary  of  the 
Catch  Club  from  1794  until  his  death  in  1816,  and  on  the 
establishment  of  the  Glee  Club  in  1787  he  became  the 
librarian,  and  wrote  and  composed  for  it  his  glee  "  Glorious 
Apollo"  (A.T.B.),  which  during  the  whole  existence  of  the 
club  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being  performed  at  every 
meeting.  His  works  will  maintain  their  position  as  long  as 
the  taste  for  glees  shall  endure. 


GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS.  255 

The  genius  of  Mendelssohn  is  of  too  wo  rid- wide  a 
character  to  need  any  embellishment  in  word.  His  part 
songs  are  any  of  them  illustrative  enough  of  the  talents 
which  he  possessed.  From  "  Oh !  forest  deep  and  gloomy" 
(S.A.T.B.),  and  "  Vintage  Song"  (T.T.B.B.),  through  the  whole 
list  of  eighty-two  there  is  abundant  evidence  of  the  sweet 
melodiousness  which  was  his  most  distinguished  charac- 
teristic, and  his  close  acquaintance  with  so  many  of  the 
glee  writers  of  his  day,  enabled  him  to  excel  even  the 
finished  masters  of  glee  writing,  although  in  a  style  pecu- 
liarly his  own. 

Thomas  Oliphant  (born  1799,  died  1873)  was  distin- 
guished alike  as  a  composer  of  twenty-one  glees,  editor, 
and  musicographer.  For  about  forty  years  honorary 
secretary  to  the  Madrigal  Society,  he  became  afterwards 
president.  Besides  works  on  glees,  he  wrote  "  An  Account 
of  Madrigals  from  their  Commencement  to  the  Present 
Time,"  1836,  and  in  1837  "La  Musa  Madrigalesca,"  being 
the  words  of  about  400  madrigals  of  the  Elizabethan 
period. 

Stephen  Paxton  (born  1735,  died  1787)  was  a  glee  com- 
poser of  elegant  taste  and  refinement.  He  gained  prizes 
from  the  Catch  Club  in  1779,  1781,  1783,  1784,  and  1785. 
Of  his  twenty-three  glees,  "  How  sweet,  how  fresh"  (A.T.T.B.), 
and  "Upon  the  poplar  bough"  (A.T.T.B.),  are  among  his 
best. 

John  Sale  (born  1758,  died  1827)  succeeded  Samuel 
Webbe  as  Secretary  to  the  Catch  Club,  in  1812,  and  was 
also  conductor  to  the  Glee  Club.  He  issued  "  A  Collection 
of  New  Glees,  composed  by  John  Sale";  London,  1812. 

George  Hargreaves  (born  1799,  died  1869),  twenty-eight 
glees,  "Lo!  across  the  blasted  heath"  (A. T.T.B.),  "Joy !  we 
search  for  thee"  (A.T.B.),  "The  poet  loves  the  generous 
wine  (A.T.T.B.). 


256  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

Sir  John  Lomas  Rogers  (born  1780,  died  1847),  seven- 
teen glees — "Archly  smiling,  dimpled  boy  (S.A.T.T.B.), 
"Oh,  how  sweet  'tis  in  the  spring"  (S.A.T.B.). 

William  Shore  (born  1791,  died  1877),  nine  glees, 
"  Come,  sweet  mirth "  (A.T.B.),  "  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o' 
maut"  (A.T.B.). 

Sir  John  Andrew  Stevenson  (born  1761,  died  1833),  one 
hundred  and  seventy-three  glees,  "See  our  oars"  (S.S.T.B.), 
"Buds  of  roses"  (A.T.T.B.),  "Tis  love  that  murmurs"  (S.S.B.), 
and  "Alone  on  the  sea-  beaten  rock"  (A.T.T.B.B.). 

Thomas  Forbes  Walmisley  (born  1783,  died  1866),  fifty- 
nine  glees,  "Island  of  bliss"  (A.T.T.B.B.),  "When  should 
lovers  breathe  their  vows?"  (S.S.A.T.B.),  "The  leaf  that  falls" 
(A.T.T.B.),  "Do  you,  said  Fanny"  (A.T.T.B.),  and  "At 
summer  eve"  (A.T.T.B.B.). 

Of  Sir  John  Goss  (born  1800,  died  1880,)  it  has  been 
said,  "  His  music  is  always  melodious  and  beautifully 
written  for  the  voices,  and  is  remarkable  for  a  union  of 
solidity  and  grace,  with  a  certain  unaffected  charm,  which 
ought  to  ensure  it  a  long  life."  Of  his  twelve  glees,  "  There 
is  beauty  on  the  mountain"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Kitty  Fell" 
(A.T.T.B.),  and"0ssian's  Address  to  the  Sun"  (A.T.T.B.B.), 
are  the  best  specimens. 

"From  Oberon  in  fairy  land"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Blow,  blow, 
thou  wintry  wind  "  (S.S.T.B.),  "  Sigh  no  more,  ladies  "  (S.S.B., 
also  S.S.A.T.B.),  and  "  It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass"  (S.S.A.T.B.), 
are  some  of  the  sixty-three  glees  of  Richard  John  Samuel 
Stevens,  who  died  in  1837  ;  many  others  by  this  author  are 
worth  perusing. 

Sir  G.  A.  Macfarren's  glees  and  part  songs  are  constantly 
being  performed ;  equally  at  home  in  every  description  of 
music,  his  works  are  acceptable  everywhere.  His  contri- 
butions to  glees  and  part  songs  number  one  hundred  and 
ninety-six,  whilst  his  literary  works  on  music  are  most 
numerous  and  valuable. 


a  LEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS.  257 

To  enumerate  the  glees  and  part  songs  of  Sir  H.  Bishop 
(born  1785,  died  1855),  one  must  be  prepared  to  cope  with 
a  series  of  three  hundred  and  twenty-six  in  number,  and 
yet  his  glees  form  only  a  very  small  portion  of  the  works 
he  left  behind  him.  He  published  six  original  English 
glees,  words  by  Mrs.  Hemans,  Baillie,  etc. ;  afterwards 
twelve  glees,  and  in  1839  eight  volumes  of  a  complete  col- 
lection of  glees,  trios,  quartettes,  etc. 

One  writer  says  of  him :  "  In  his  vocal  music  Bishop 
shows  his  full  powers ;  his  glees  are,  in  the  highest  sense  of 
the  word,  art  songs."  "Blow,  gentle  gales"  (S.S.T.B.B.), 
"Where  art  thou,  beam  of  light?"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Up,  quit 
thy  bower"  (S.S.T.B.),  "Sleep,  gentle  lady"  (A.T.T.B.)  are 
musical  gems  viewed  from  any  standpoint. 

Michael  William  Balfe  (born  1808,  died  1870)  wrote  so 
much,  and  his  name  is  so  connected  with  music  of  a 
different  character,  that  it  seems  difficult  to  realise  that 
his  part  songs  and  glees  exceed  one  hundred  and  twenty. 
"Hark!  'tis  the  huntsman's  jovial  horn"  (A.T.B.B.), 
"Trust  her  not,"  "Excelsior,"  are  examples  of  his  work. 
He  had  an  almost  unlimited  and  ceaseless  fluency  of 
invention,  with  a  felicitous  power  of  producing  striking 
melodies. 

Robert  Lucas  de  Pearsall  (born  1795,  died  1856)  was  an 
amateur  musician  and  composer  of  very  great  ability. 
Ninety-seven  of  his  madrigals  and  part  songs  are  published, 
most  of  them  since  his  death.  "The  hardy  Norseman's 
house  of  yore  "  (A.T.T.B.,  also  S.A.T.B.),  "  O !  who  will  o'er 
the  downs"  (A.T.T.B.,  also  S.A.T.B.),  and  many  others  equally 
fine  in  composition  and  melody. 

Most  of  the  works  mentioned  were  written  and  published 
prior  to  1850,  up  to  which  period  the  palmy  days  of  glee 
singing  may  be  said  to  have  existed.  The  glee  was  then  a 
necessary  part  of  almost  every  concert,  and  the  societies 


258  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

who  met  for  glee  singing  were  at  all  times  in  request  for 
public  entertainments.  Whilst  the  cultivation  of  singing 
amongst  the  masses  had  reached  a  high  standard  of  excel- 
lence, the  nature  of  the  glee  had  changed  from  grave  to 
gay,  for  the  melodies  were  more  frequently  of  a  lighter 
and  inspiriting  character  than  the  quaint  conceits  and 
studied  harmonies  of  the  older  writers.  Part  singing  was 
practised  to  a  great  degree,  and  many  households  were 
able  to  boast  as  good  a  glee  party  as  could  be  desired. 
Glee  literature,  and  the  newest  productions  in  glee  music, 
were  anxiously  sought  after,  and  hence  the  practising  of 
glees  became  a  bond  of  social  union,  productive  alike  of 
musical  culture  and  of  genial  and  friendly  intercourse. 

The  musical  geniuses  of  the  day,  many  of  them  men  of 
the  highest  attainments,  and  whose  names  lent  a  glory  to 
their  country,  excelled  themselves  in  productions  which 
have  never  been  eclipsed.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  these 
advantages,  the  sun  of  glee  singing  had  reached  its 
meridian,  and  from  being  the  one  enthralling  musical 
passion  of  the  day,  it  began  to  decline  in  popular  favour, 
until  it  became  a  rare  thing  to  find  in  many  country  towns 
those  glee  societies,  whose  end  and  aim  it  had  been  to 
practise  the  glorious  melodies  which  had,  for  over  a 
hundred  years,  been  the  work  of  our  finest  musical 
composers. 

The  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  has  been  rich 
in  the  possession  of  talented  glee  writers.  Their  works 
have  become  well  known  and  popular,  simply  because  they 
have  in  so  many  instances  been  alike  clever  musical 
compositions  as  well  as  tuneful  harmonies.  It  is  a  deba- 
table point  whether  they  will,  as  a  whole,  bear  comparison 
with  the  bulk  of  the  musical  gems  of  past  generations,  but 
they  are  none  the  less  acceptable  creations,  suited  to  the 
taste  of  the  day.  The  number  of  modern  composers  from 


GLEES  AND  QLEE  WRITERS.  259 

1850  to  1890  is  so  great,  and  their  work  so  varied  in  its 
character,  that  it  is  impossible  to  enumerate  more  than  a 
few  of  them. 

Sir  Julius  Benedict  (born  1804,  died  1885)  has  had  a 
remarkable  career  as  a  composer,  conductor,  and  pianist. 
Of  his  ninety-five  part  songs,  many  are  well  known  and 
popular,  as  "  Blest  be  the  home  "  (A.T.T.B.B.) 

Franz  Wilhelm  Abt  (born  1819,  died  1885)  is  famous 
by  his  numerous  songs  for  one  or  more  voices.  Without 
pretence  to  any  great  standard  of  excellence,  they  are 
prime  favourites  for  their  elegance  and  easy  intelligibility ; 
his  productive  powers  have  been  so  great,  that  over  three 
thousand  of  his  pieces  have  been  published. 

Considerable  popularity  has  been  gained  by  the  thirty- 
three  part  songs  of  George  Benjamin  Allen ;  he  is  styled 
by  some  musical  critics  one  of  the  best  and  most  thoroughly 
English  composers  living.  "Far  from  din  of  cities" 
(S.S.A.T.B.B.,  also  S.A.T.B.),  "  I  love  my  love  "  (S.A.T.B.,  also 
S.S.A.),  and  thirty-one  other  glees  are  some  of  his 
productions. 

J.  P.  Hullah,  LL.D.  (born  1812,  died  1884)  was  one  of 
the  foremost  men  in  promoting  musical  education.  His 
seventy-five  part  songs  and  glees  are  as  successful  as  his 
songs.  He  edited  "The  Singers'  Library"  of  concerted 
music,  secular  and  sacred  pieces,  in  six  volumes,  and  two 
ample  collections  of  glees,  madrigals,  and  part  songs, 
beside  numerous  works  on  music  and  methods  of  teaching 
singing,  and  had  the  gratification  of  having  conferred  upon 
him  a  pension  from  the  Civil  list. 

Mrs.  Ann  Shepherd  Mounsey  Bartholomew  is  one  of  the 
few  female  composers  of  real  merit.  The  glees  "Shun 
delay,"  "Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred"  (both  S.A.T.B.),  and 
thirty-eight  others,  are  all  fully  qualified  to  pleaso  the  lover 
of  harmony. 


260  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

"It  is  the  hour"  (A.T.B.),  "Come  to  the  sunset  tree" 
(S.A.T.B.),  "Call  the  lovers  around"  (S.A.T.B.),  "Come  from 
the  cloud  of  night  "  (A.T.T.B.B.),  "  The  Bells  of  Aberdovey  " 
(S.A.T.B.),  and  sixty-four  other  glees  are  written  by  David 
Baptie,  and  are  original  and  melodious  in  style,  attesting 
the  taste  and  skill  of  the  composer.  He  has  also  a  large 
number  in  manuscript. 

As  a  vocal  writer  who  adapted  his  style  to  the  popular 
ear,  John  Liptrot  Hatton  (born  1809,  died  1886)  was  one 
of  the  foremost  in  England.  If  it  be  true  that  the  glee 
as  a  thoroughly  English  species  of  composition,  is  daily 
receiving  less  attention,  the  213  part  songs  and  glees  of 
J.  L.  Hatton  ought  to  have  at  least  done  much  to  win 
back  the  popular  favour.  "  Come  live  with  me  "  (S.A.T.B.), 
"  When  evening's  twilight "  (A.T.T.B.,  also  S.A.T.B.  and  S.S.A.), 
"Good  night,  beloved"  (A.T.T.B.,  also  S.A.T.B.),  "  Over  hill, 
over  dale"  (S.A.T.B.),  "The  belfry  tower"  (S.A.T.B.),  "The 
tar's  song"  (A.T.T.B.),  "The  sailor's  song"  (A.T.T.B.,  also 
S.A.T.B.  and  S.S.A.),  and  many  others  have  been  given  thou- 
sands of  times. 

The  twenty-nine  part  songs  and  glees  of  Dr.  Henry 
Hiles  are  excellent  and  tuneful  compositions.  In  1878  he 
obtained  a  prize  from  the  Manchester  Gentlemen's  Glee 
Club  for  his  fine  glee,  "  Hush'd  in  death  the  minstrel  lies  " 
(A.T.B.B.,  also  S.A.A.  and  T.T.B.B.). 

No  less  than  twenty-three  works  on  glees  and  madrigals 
were  published  by  Dr.  E.  F.  Rimbault  (born  1816,  died 
1876).  He  wrote  124  glees,  etc.,  rescued  from  obscurity 
much  of  the  best  work  of  the  old  English  masters,  and 
gathered  together  one  of  the  finest  musical  libraries,  which 
was  sold  soon  after  his  death. 

Many  other  names  of  glee  composers  might  be  given. 
Dr.  H.  C.  Allison,  31 ;  Dr.  G.  B.  Arnold,  10 ;  Thomas 
Anderton  (one  of  the  most  successful  amateur  composers), 
5.  Joseph  Barnby,  author  of  forty-three  of  such  quality  as 


GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS.  261 

"It  was  a  lover"  (S.A.T.T.B.B.),  "Sweet  and  low"  (A.T.T.B., 
also  S.A.T.B.),  "  Lullaby  "  (S.S.A.A.T.B.).  John  Francis  Bar- 
nett,  "  It  is  not  always  May,"  "  'Midst  grove  and  dell "  (both 
S.A.T.B.),  and  fifteen  others.  Jacob  Blumenthal,  12 ;  Dr.  J. 
F.  Bridge,  12;  A.  J.  Caldicott,  43  (winner  of  a  prize  at  the 
Manchester  Gentlemen's  Glee  Club  in  1878),  who  has 
written  several  comical  glees — gems  in  their  way.  J.  B. 
Calkin  (born  1827)  eight  glees,  renowned  for  the  vigour 
and  worthiness  of  his  style. 

Henry  David  Leslie  (born  1822)  composed  eighty-three 
part  songs,  with  all  the  workmanship  of  a  skilled  musician, 
of  which  "  Oh  memory  "  (S.S.T.),  "  Oh  gentle  sleep  "  (S.A.T.B.), 
"Thine  eyes  so  bright"  (S.S.A.T.B.B.),  are  a  few  examples. 

Clara  Angela  Macirone  (born  1821),  said  to  be  one  of 
the  best  British  lady  composers,  has  34  pieces ;  Dr.  E.  J. 
Monk,  15  glees  and  part  songs;  Sir  H.  S.  Oakeley,  35; 
W.  W.  Pearson,  35 ;  Giro  Pinsuti  has  "  Good  night,  be- 
loved" (S.A.T.B.),  "In  this  hour  of  softened  splendour" 
(S.A.A.T.B.),  "Spring  song"  (S.A.T.B.),  and  seventy  others. 

Samuel  Reay  34,  and  that  widely-popular  writer  of  part 
songs  and  music,  Henry  Smart  (born  1813,  died  1879), 
composed  143  glees  and  part  songs,  amongst  them  being 
"Queen  of  the  night"  (S.S.B.,  also  S.A.T.B.),  "Rest  thee  on 
this  mossy  pillow"  (S.S.A.),  ''Stars  of  the  summer  night" 
(S.A.A.T.K.H.) 

G.  W.  Martin  (born  1825,  died  1881)  secured  nine  prizes 
for  his  glees,  and  his  total  contribution  to  this  class  of  music 
was  seventy-four. 

Elizabeth  Stirling,  now  Mrs.  F.  A.  Bridge  (born  1819), 
forty-seven  part  songs  and  glees,  such  as  "All  among  the 
barley"  (S.S.T.B.,  also  T.T.B.B.),  "The  dream  (S.A.T.B.), 
"  Red  leaves"  (S.A.T.U.),  "  Oh  the  merry  day,"  etc.  (S.A 

Dr.    Alexander    Campbell    Mackenzie   (born    1847),   a 
writer  of  numerous  glees  (24)  within  tin-  la^t  five  years. 
18 


262  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

H.  Watson,  of  Manchester,  who  is  the  composer  of 
several  well-known  favourites. 

Sir  Arthur  Seymour  Sullivan  (born  1842)  with  thirty- 
eight  glees,  the  two  Wesleys,  Coward,  and  Westbrook,  with 
many  others,  too  numerous  to  bring  within  the  compass  of 
what  is  at  best  a  passing  glance  at  the  names  and  work  of 
the  various  authors  and  composers  who  during  the  last  half- 
century  have  written  the  words  and  music  to  hundreds  of 
concerted  pieces. 

In  April,  1874,  there  was  issued  in  Glasgow  "  An  Ana- 
lytical Index  and  Descriptive  Catalogue  of  17,000  Part 
Songs,"  compiled  by  D.  Baptie,  containing  the  names  of 
1,545  composers.  This  has  been  followed  up  by  a  more 
complete  work  from  the  same  writer,  which  now  has  up- 
wards of  26,200  pieces,  the  work  of  3,100  composers.  In- 
valuable as  this  book  would  be  for  all  musical  references, 
it  has  not  as  yet  been  published. 

The  past  history  of  the  glee  has  been  one  of  a  varied 
nature.  Above  all  else,  it  is  a  national  school  of  musical 
taste.  So  many  geniuses  have  contributed  to  its  advance- 
ment that  the  student  can  find  amusement  and  delight  to 
suit  his  mood  or  fancy,  whether  it  be  grave  or  gay.  Until 
the  introduction  of  choral  singing,  glees  were  the  only 
method  whereby  men  could  join  in  a  delightful  pastime, 
which  was  at  once  a  source  of  pleasure  and  a  cultivation 
of  musical  taste. 

The  decline  of  the  popularity  of  glee  singing  is  by  no 
means  due  to  the  lack  of  intrinsic  worth  in  these  composi- 
tions, but  rather  to  the  fickle  and  changing  tastes  of  the 
people  themselves.  Few  popular  amusements  lasted  so 
long  or  left  behind  them  such  a  goodly  heritage,  and 
already  the  tide  is  setting  again  in  their  favour.  The 
grasp  obtained  by  choral  singing  was  slight  indeed  and 
evanescent  in  its  character,  compared  with  the  vitality 


OLEBS  AND  GLEE  WRITERS.  263 

which  pervaded  glee  singing,  the  use  of  treble  voices  being 
in  a  great  degree  the  secret  of  the  temporary  success  of 
choral  music,  from  the  standpoint  of  a  pastime  or  amuse- 
ment merely,  and  not  from  a  musically  intellectual  view. 

But  a  few  years  ago  and  even  the  wandering  minstrels 
of  our  day  were  glee  singers.  Although  their  varied  dis- 
cords by  no  means  created  glee  in  the  hearts  of  the  lis- 
tener, yet  who  has  not  heard  the  tones  of  "  Hail,  smiling 
morn"  warbled  at  eve  when  the  thermometer  was  at  zero, 
or  the  thrilling  manner  in  which  the  "  ^Eolian  Lyre  "  was 
invited  to  awake  by  four  hungry  voices.  But  even  their 
most  inharmonious  strains  have  never  been  so  keenly 
satirized  as  the  somethingean  singers  described  by  Dickens 
who  were  engaged  to  warble  at  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter's  garden 
party.  "The  Somethingean  Singers  commenced  singing 
their  national  songs,  which  appeared  by  no  means  difficult 
of  execution,  inasmuch  as  the  grand  secret  seemed  to  be 
that  three  of  the  '  Somethingean  Singers'  grunted  while 
the  fourth  howled." 

The  lyric  poetry  of  the  glee  has  been  gathered  from 
many  sources.  Milton,  Shakspere,  Spenser,  Herrick,  Chat- 
terton,  Ossian,  Moore,  Scott,  Byron,  Baillie,  Hemans,  Burns 
and  nearly  all  the  poets  of  the  last  decade,  have  had  their 
verses  and  rhymes  made  use  of  by  various  composers ;  but 
as  in  song  publication,  so  in  glees,  the  writer  of  the  words 
has  little  notice,  and  his  name  is  only  discovered  on 
perusing  each  glee  separately;  for  except  three  volumes, 
one  by  Richard  Clarke  on  the  "  Lyric  Poetry  of  Glees,"  a 
similar  volume  by  Robert  Leete  about  1835,  and  "  Glee 
Lyric  Poetry"  by  Bellamy,  1840,  no  collection  of  words 
only  is  to  be  found. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  Manchester  glees  have  ever 
held  a  high  place.  The  Manchester  Gentlemens'  Glee  Club 
has  been  the  liberal  encourager  of  glee  composers  and  glee 


264  GLEES  AND  GLEE  WRITERS. 

singers  for  over  fifty  years.  Amongst  others  may  be 
enumerated  "  The  Union  Glee  Club,"  "  The  Hope  Choir 
Glee  Club,"  "The  Oxford  Glee  Club,"  and  "The  Blackley 
Glee  Club." 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  in  nearly  all  cases  where 
our  greatest  musicians  have  excelled  all  others  in  their 
compositions,  in  almost  every  case  they  have  seemed  to 
find  in  the  glee  a  source  of  pleasure  and  delight,  and  in 
constructing  its  pleasing  and  harmonious  passages,  have 
relieved  themselves  from  the  arduous  toil  of  more  ambitious 
and  intricate  work. 

The  present  age  has  been  often  enough  described  as  an 
intensely  musical  one,  an  age  in  which  the  taste  of  the  people 
has  become  so  elevated  that  it  can  appreciate  good  music 
better  than  at  any  other  period  of  the  world's  existence. 
This  may  be  true  in  some  degree,  but  it  is  not  altogether  so. 

The  modern  lover  of  music  is,  as  a  rule,  content  to 
listen  to  the  performances  of  others :  it  requires  too  much 
effort  for  him  to  try  and  excel  in  these  regions  of  the 
divine  art;  the  singing  of  a  showy  song  or  two,  the 
performance  of  a  brilliant  piece  of  music,  constitute  the 
stock-in-trade  of  the  modern  musical  amateur,  and  the 
knowledge  and  ability  required  for  part  singing,  whether 
choral  or  glee  singing,  is  left  in  the  hands  of  those  to 
whom  music  is  a  profession,  or  others  in  whom  the  true 
spirit  and  love  of  harmony  has  not  been  killed  by  the  rush 
and  excitement  of  modern  life. 

The  last  twenty  years  has  seen  in  this  respect  a  remark- 
able decadence  in  the  musical  taste  of  the  people ;  in  some 
towns  where  there  formerly  existed  numerous  glee  and 
choral  societies,  they  have  now  altogether  ceased  to  exist, 
or,  if  one  or  two  have  survived,  their  attractions  have  to 
be  augmented  by  the  introduction  of  comic  operas  among 
the  works  performed,  and,  except  in  large  centres  of 


GLEES  AND  OLEE  WRITERS.  265 

population,  they  gradually  die  out  for  lack  of  members. 
Besides  the  pleasure  of  singing,  which  the  old  glee  lovers 
enjoyed,  there  was  a  thorough  knowledge  of  music  re- 
quired, and  this  in  itself  was  an  educational  development 
of  a  very  high  order,  the  familiarity  with  the  works  of 
some  of  our  ablest  musicians,  and  the  knowledge  of 
harmony  and  musical  construction  insensibly  gained  as  the 
novice  graduated  in  ability,  gave  a  confidence  to  the 
singer,  and  a  practical  experience  of  the  utmost  value. 

Instead  of  occupying  one  of  the  foremost  places  in  the 
modern  concert  programme,  the  glee  is  often  used  as  mere 
padding  to  fill  up  the  time.  Whilst  the  late-comers  of  the 
audience  are  filing  in,  what  is  so  convenient  to  drown  the 
noise  of  their  entrance,  what  so  handy  as  a  glee  ?  When 
the  same  people,  with  true  British  courtesy,  are  anxious 
to  leave  before  the  concert  closes,  surely  nothing  could 
be  more  appropriate  than  one  of  Webbe's  or  Bishop's 
choicest  productions,  shouted  forth  by  ill-trained  voices, 
whose  only  idea  of  music  is  in  strength  of  lung  power  ? 
Comparatively  few  of  the  present  generation  have  acquired, 
or  are  acquiring,  a  thorough  grasp  of  part  singing,  much  less 
making  this  science  a  source  of  gratification  and  delight. 
Into  the  reasons  for  this  it  is  not  our  province  to  inquire  ; 
it  may  be  that,  as  in  all  other  things,  time  alone  will  work 
the  change  ;  when  it  does,  and  the  mad  passion  for  excru- 
ciating discords,  or  miracles  of  rapid  demi-semi  quavering, 
shall  have  passed  away,  the  true  lover  of  harmony  shall 
find  rest  for  his  wearied  ears,  and  joy  to  his  longing  heart, 
in  the  inspiriting  and  tuneful  strains  of  the  fine  old  English 
glees. 


THE    STOEY    OF    THE    PIED    PIPEK    OF 
HAMELIN, 

BY    WILLIAM     E.    A.    AXON. 

ONE  of  the  most  popular  of  Browning's  poems  is  that  of 
"  The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin ; "  a  weird  and  quaint 
story,  especially  dear  to  the  heart  of  childhood.  It  was 
first  published  in  1842,  and  formed  the  last  article  in  the 
second  number  of  "  Bells  and  Pomegranates,"  as  originally 
issued.*  It  was  written  for,  and  is  inscribed  to  W.  M.  the 
younger,  that  is,  William  Charles  Macready,  the  eldest  son 
of  the  great  tragedian.  This  boy,  who  was  born  7th 
August,  1832,  had  a  natural  talent  for  drawing,  and  asked 
Browning,  as  his  father's  friend,  to  give  him  something  on 
which  to  employ  his  pictorial  powers.  The  acquaintance 
between  the  actor  and  the  poet  began  with  their  meeting 
in  1835,  at  one  of  the  dinner  parties  of  William  J.  Fox, 
Unitarian  minister,  and  many  years  M.P.  for  Oldham.  The 
poet  wrote  for  the  boy  first  an  account  of  the  death  of  the 
Pope's  legate  at  the  Council  of  Trent,  and  secondly,  "  The 
Pied  Piper."  It  has  been  suggested  that  the  last  four  lines 

*  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  Robert  Browning,  senior,  the  father  of  the  poet,  was  at 
work  upon  a  versification  of  the  Pied  Piper  legend  at  the  same  time  as  his  son,  each  at 
first  unconscious  of  the  other's  labour.  The  original  MS.  of  the  elder  Browning's 
"Hamelin,"  a  poem  of  about  300  lines,  was  sold  at  Sotheby's,  14th  June,  1890. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OP  HAM ELI 'N.  267 

contain  a  sly  hit  at  the  elder  Macready,  but  for  this,  Dr. 
Furnivall  says  "there  is  no  ground  whatever"  (B.S.P.  45.) 
The  bright  child  for  whom  " The  Pied  Piper"  was  written 
before  he  was  eight  years  old,  grew  up  to  be  a  useful,  if  not 
a  distinguished  man.  He  entered  the  Ceylon  service,  and 
died  at  Puttalam,  26th  November,  1871,  and  is  buried  at 
Kandy.  Browning  found  the  subject  in  an  old  English 
folio,  full  of  exceedingly  good  matter,  "The  Wonders  of 
the  Little  World,"  by  Nath.  Wanley,  M.A.,  and  Vicar  of 
Trinity  Parish,  in  the  City  of  Coventry,  and  which  was 
printed  at  London,  in  1678  (B.S.P.  159.)  The  nineteenth 
chapter  of  the  fifth  book  treats  of  extraordinary  things  in 
the  bodies,  fortunes,  death,  etc.,  of  divers  persons.  At  the 
twenty-eighth  section  we  have  this  remarkable  narrative : — 
"  At  Hammel,  a  Town  in  the  Duchy  of  Brunswick,  in  the 
year  of  Christ  1284,  upon  the  26.  day  of  June,  the  town 
being  grievously  troubled  with  Rats  and  Mice,  there  came 
to  them  a  Piper,  who  promised  upon  a  certain  rate  to  free 
them  from  them  all ;  it  was  agreed,  he  went  from  street  to 
street,  and  playing  upon  his  Pipe,  drew  after  him  out  of  the 
Town  all  that  kind  of  Vermine,  and  then  demanding  his 
wages,  was  denied  it.  Whereupon  he  began  another  tune, 
and  there  followed  him  one  hundred  and  thirty  Boys  to  a 
Hill  called  Koppen,  situate  on  the  North  by  the  Road,  where 
they  perished,  and  were  never  seen  after.  This  Piper  was 
called  the  pyed  Piper,  because  his  cloaths  were  of  several 
colours.  This  story  is  writ  and  religiously  kept  by  them 
at  Hammel,  read  in  their  Books,  and  painted  in  their 
Windows,  and  in  their  Churches,  of  which  I  am  a  witness 
by  my  own  sight.  Their  elder  Magistrates,  for  the 
confirmation  of  this  are  wont  to  write  in  conjunction  in 
their  publick  Books,  such  a  year  of  Christ,  and  such  a  year 
of  the  Transmigration  of  the  Children,  etc.  Its  also  ob- 
served in  memory  of  it,  that  in  the  street  he  passed  out 


268  THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 

of,  no  Piper  be  admitted  to  this  day.  The  street  is  called 
Burgdosestraase  [a  misprint  for  Bungelossestrasse] ;  if  a 
Bride  be  in  that  street,  till  she  is  gone  out  of  it,  there  is 
no  dancing  to  be  suffered." 

The  authorities  cited  by  Wanley  are  Wier.,  de  Prsestig. 
Daemon.,  1.  1,  c.  16,  p.  47;  Schot.,  Phys.  Curios.,  1.  3,  c.  24, 
p.  519;  Howel's  Ep.,  Vol.  1,  §6,  epist.  59,  p.  241. 

Of  these  three  the  English  writer  is  the  latest.  The 
"  Familiar  Letters  "  of  James  Howell  are  a  curious  melange 
of  odds  and  ends.  That  containing  the  story  of  the  "  Pied 
Piper  "  professes  to  have  been  written  in  the  Fleet  Prison, 
1st  October,  1643.  The  book  was  printed  in  1645,  and  has 
frequently  been  republished.  Howell  cites  no  authority, 
but  not  improbably  he  took  it  from  Verstegan,  who,  so  far 
as  is  known,  was  the  first  to  give  the  story  in  English.  It 
is  remarkable  that  although  Browning  had  not  seen  this 
version,  the  poem  is  closer  to  it  than  to  Howell.  Caspar 
Schott  was  born  in  1608  at  Konigshafen,  and  died  at  Wurz- 
burg  in  1666.  He  was  a  man  of  ingenuity  and  learning, 
but  had  imbibed  a  very  full  portion  of  the  credulous  spirit 
of  his  age.  His  "  Physica  Curiosa  "  appeared  first  in  1662, 
and  was  at  least  twice  reprinted.  Jean  Wier,  or  Weyer, 
was  a  Belgian  physician,  who  was  born  in  1515  in  Brabant, 
and  died  in  Westphalia  in  1588.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest 
to  recognise  the  folly  of  many  of  the  beliefs  associated  with 
witchcraft  and  demonology,  and  his  treatise,  "  De  Praestigiis 
Daemonum,"  published  in  1564,  is  still  valued  for  the 
evidence  it  affords  of  the  beliefs  of  his  contemporaries.  He 
holds  a  position  of  honour  in  the  history  of  medicine.  This 
is  the  oldest  of  the  authorities  on  whom  Browning  relies. 
Of  course  none  of  the  three  have  any  historical  value  for 
an  incident  said  to  have  happened  in  1284. 

So  far  as  is  known,  the  story  of  the  "Pied  Piper"  was 
first  given  to  the  English  public  by  Richard  Verstegan, 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OP  HAMELIN.  269 

whose  "  Restitution  of  Decayed  Intelligence  "  was  printed 
at  Antwerp  in  1605.*  Verstegan  was  an  English  Roman 
Catholic,  and  the  author  of  a  number  of  curious  but  now 
forgotten  books.  This  is  Verstegan's  narrative,  from  his 
"  Restitution  of  Decayed  Intelligence,"  pp.  85-6  : — 

"  The  Emperour  Charles  the  great,  comming  afterwards 
to  have  great  and  troublesome  warres  with  the  Saxons, 
who  first  by  all  meanes  he  sought  to  bring  unto  the 
Christian  Faith,  and  after  to  reduce  againe  when  having 
received  it,  they  fell  backe  to  Idolatry ;  did  in  fine 
transport  great  troopes  of  them  into  other  Regions;  as 
many  thousands  with  their  Wives  and  Children  into 
Flanders,  and  a  great  number  also  into  Transiluania ; 
where  their  posteritie  yet  remaineth.  And  albeit  by  reason 
of  their  habitation  there  for  so  many  ages,  they  are 
accounted  Transiluanians  ;  yet  do  they  keepe  their  Saxon 
language  still,  and  are  of  the  other  Transiluanians  that 
speake  the  Hungarian  tongue,  even  unto  this  day  called 
by  the  name  of  Saxon.  And  now  hath  one  digression 
ue  on  another,  for  being  by  reason  of  speaking  of 
these  Saxons  of  Transiluania,  put  in  mind  of  a  most  true, 
and  marvuelous  strange  accident  that  hapned  in  Saxony 
not  many  ages  past.  I  cannot  omit  for  the  strangenesse 
thereof  briefly  here  by  the  way  to  set  it  downe.  There 
came  unto  the  towne  of  Hamel  in  the  country  of  Brunswicke 
an  odd  kind  of  companion,  who  for  the  fantastical  coate 
which  he  wore  being  wrought  with  sundry  colours,  was 

•  There  is  an  allusion  to  the  Hameln  legend  in  a  paper  by  AddUon  in  the  Sptctator 
(No.  6).  Ventegan  is  quoted  in  Chamber*'*  "  Book  of  Days,"  Vol.  L,  p.  103.  Thorpe'* 
•  Northern  Mythology-  (lit,  119)  quote*  from  Grimm.  The  story  ii  gUon  aUo  in 
Dr.  Henry  More'*  "Antidote  against  Atheism,"  1672.  See  "  Browning  Society  Papers," 
pp.  45, 113,  158  :  and  "  Note* ami  Queries"  (III  8.,  ii.,  412).  Since  this  article  was  written 
an  interesting  account  of  a  risit  to  Hameln,  by  Mrs.  K.  M.  Macquold.  has  appeared  in 
the  Uaffazint  of  Art,  April,  1890.  It  is  illustrated  by  Mr.  T.  R.  Macquotd's  capital  sketches 
of  the  quaint  architecture  of  the  old  town.  Mrs.  Macquold  mentions  also  Dr.  Julius 
Wolffs  poem  "  Der  lUttenfanger  Ton  Hameln,"  which,  although  popular  in  Germany ,  to 
practically  unknown  in  this  country. 


270  THE  PIED  PIPER  OP  HAMELIN. 

called  the  pide  piper,  for  a  piper  he  was,  besides  his  other 
qualities.     This  fellow,  forsooth,  offered  the  towns-men  for 
a  certaine  somme  of  money  to  rid  the  Towne  of  all  the 
Rats  that  were  in  it  (for  at  that  time  the  Burgers  were  with 
that  vermine  greatly  annoyed).     The  accord  in  fine  being 
made,  the  pide  Piper  with  a  shrill  pipe  went  piping  thorow 
the  streets,  and  forthwith  the  Rats  came  all  running  out  of 
the  houses  in  great  numbers  after  him ;  all  which  hee  led 
into  the   river  of  Weaser,  and   therein   drowned   them. 
This  done,  and  no  one  Rat  more  perceived  to  be  left  in  the 
Towne,  hee  afterward  came  to  demand  his  reward  accord- 
ing to  his  bargaine,  but  being  told  that  the  bargain©  was 
not   made   with   him  in    good    earnest,  to  wit   with   an 
opinion  that  ever  hee  could  be  able  to  doe  such  a  feat: 
they  cared   not   what   they    accorded   unto,   when   they 
imagined  it  could  never  be  deserved,  and  so  never  to  be 
demanded ;  but  neverthelesse  seeing  hee  had  done  such  an 
unlikely  thing  indeed,  they  were  content  to  give  him 
good  reward,  and  so  offered  him  farre  lesse  than  he  lookt 
for:  but  hee  therewith  discontented,  said  he  would  have 
his  full  recompence   according  to  his  bargain,  but  they 
utterly  denied  to  give  it  him,  he  threatened  them  with 
revenge;    they   bad   him    doe   his  worst,   whereupon  he 
betakes  him  againe  to  his  Pipe,  and  going  thorow  the 
streets  as  before,  was  followed  of  a  number  of  boyes  out  at 
one  of  the  Gates  of  the  City,  and  comming  to  a  little  hill, 
there   opened   in   the   side  thereof  a  wid  hole,  into  the 
which  himselfe  and  all  the  children  being  in  number  one 
hundreth  and  thirty  did  enter,  and  being  entered  the  hill 
closed  up  againe  and  become  as  before.     A  boy  that  being 
lame  and  came  somewhat  lagging  behind  the  rest,  seeing 
this  that  hapned  returned  presently  backe,  and  told  what 
he  had  seene,  forthwith  began  great  lamentation  among 
the  parents  for  their  children,  and  men  were  sent  out  with 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OP  HAMELIN.  271 

all  diligence,  both  by  land  and  by  water  to  enquire  if 
ought  could  be  heard  of  them,  but  with  all  the  enquiry 
they  could  possibly  use,  nothing  more  than  is  aforesaid 
could  of  them  be  understood.  In  memory  whereof  it  was 
then  ordained,  that  from  thenceforth  no  Drumme,  Pipe,  or 
other  instrument,  should  be  founded  in  the  street  leading 
to  the  gate  thorow  which  they  passed,  nor  no  Ostery  to  be 
there  holden.  And  it  was  also  established,  that  from  that 
time  forward  in  all  publike  writings  that  should  be  made  in 
that  towne,  after  the  date  therein  set  downe  of  the  yeere 
of  our  Lord,  the  date  of  the  yeere  of  the  going  forth  of 
their  children  should  be  added,  the  which  they  have 
accordingly  ever  since  continued,  and  this  great  wonder 
hapned  on  the  22  day  of  July  in  the  yeere  of  our  Lord, 
1376." 

Not  long  after  Verstegan  came  Robert  Burton,  whose 
"Anatomy  of  Melancholy"  first  appeared  in  1621,  and  has 
frequently  been  reprinted.  He  gives  the  story  in  a  very 
condensed  fashion.  "  At  Hammelin,  Saxony,  An.  1484, 
20  Junii,  the  devil,  in  likeness  of  a  pied  piper,  carrie.d  away 
one  hundred  and  thirty  children  that  were  never  after  seen" 
(Part  1,  sec.  2,  memb.  1,  sub-s.  2). 

Dr.  Henry  More  thought  the  story  of  "  The  Pied  Piper" 
"  hath  so  evident  a  proof  of  it  in  the  town  of  Hammel  that 
it  ought  not  to  be  discredited;"  but  he  lived  in  an  uncriti- 
cal age,  and  was  destitute  of  the  historical  spirit.  The 
Brothers  Grimm,  in  "Deutsche  Sagen"  (Berlin,  1865-6, 
p.  290),  No.  245,  give  the  tradition  substantially  as 
follows: — In  1284  a  strange  man  showed  himself  at 
Hameln.  He  wore  a  coat  of  variegated  cloth,  which 
drew  upon  him  the  name  of  "Bunting."  This  man 
called  himself  a  rat-catcher,  and  offered  for  a  fixed 
sum  to  free  the  town  of  rats  and  mice,  and  his  offer  was 
accepted  by  the  townsfolk.  Whereupon,  he  drew  from  his 


272  THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 

pocket  a  pipe  and  began  to  play;  at  the  sound  of  the 
music  rats  and  mice  issued  from  all  the  houses  and 
gathered  round  him.  Followed  by  the  whole  horde  he  now 
advanced  toward  the  river,  and  when  he  stepped  into  the 
water  the  whole  horde  plunged  in  after  him  and  were 
drowned.  Seeing  themselves  thus  relieved  from  their 
plague,  the  townsfolk  were  unwilling  to  pay  the  promised 
reward,  and  the  rat-catcher  went  away  incensed  at  their 
subterfuges.  On  the  26th  June,  St.  John  and  St.  Paul's 
Day,  at  seven  in  the  morning,  he  re-appeared,  still  in  the 
garb  of  a  hunter,  wearing  a  wonderful  red  hat ;  and  soon 
his  pipe  was  heard  in  the  streets.  This  time,  however,  he 
was  followed,  not  by  rats  and  mice,  but  by  children ;  boys 
and  girls  from  four  years  of  age  upward,  including  the 
daughter  of  the  Burgomaster,  a  girl  in  her  early  woman- 
hood. The  man  led  them  out  of  the  town  toward  a  hill, 
into  which  piper  and  children  all  disappeared.  This 
occurrence  was  witnessed  by  a  little  girl,  who,  with  a  child 
on  her  arm,  had  been  attracted  from  a  distance,  but  who 
afterwards  returned  and  brought  the  news  to  the  town. 
The  parents  sought  the  children  in  vain,  and  messengers 
were  sent  in  all  directions  by  land  and  by  water,  but  no 
news  could  be  obtained.  The  children  who  were  lost 
numbered  130.  Some  people  relate  that  two  of  the  little 
ones  were  delayed  and  returned  home,  and  that  of  these 
one  was  blind  and  the  other  dumb.  The  blind  child  could 
tell  how  they  had  followed  the  musician,  and  the  dumb 
child  was  able  to  point  out  the  place,  but  it  was  of  no 
avail.  One  little  boy,  who  had  joined  in  the  run  in  his 
smock,  turned  back  for  his  coat,  and  so  avoided  the  danger. 
In  the  course  of  observations  on  the  legend,  the  Brothers 
Grimm  say  that  to  the  street  through  which  the  children 
passed  the  epithet  "  bunge-lose  "  (drum-silent)  is  applied, 
because  no  dancing  is  allowed  there,  nor  may  any  music  be 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN.  273 

played  in  it;  and  when  a  bride  is  being  conducted  to 
church  with  music,  the  players  have  to  preserve  silence 
while  passing  through  this  street.  The  hill  in  which  the 
children  were  lost  is  named  "  Koppenberg,"  and  to  the 
right  and  left  two  stones  in  the  form  of  crosses  have  been 
erected.  Some  say  the  children  were  led  into  a  cavern, 
from  which  they  came  out  in  Transylvania. 

The  townsfolk  of  Hameln  have  inscribed  the  occurrence 
in  the  records  of  the  town,  and  were  at  one  time  accus- 
tomed to  date  day  and  year  from  the  disappearance  of 
their  children.  According  to  Seyfried,  the  22nd,  instead 
of  the  26th,  of  June  is  given  in  the  town  records. 

The  following  lines  appear  on  the  Town  Hall  :— 

Im  Yahr  1284  na  Christ!  gebort 
tho  Hamel  worden  uthgevort 
hundert  und  dreiseig  Kinder 

dasiilvest  geborn 
dorch  einen  Piper  unter  den 

Koppen  verlorn. 

And  on  the  new  gate  there  are  the  words  :^- 

Centum  ter  denoe  magus 

ab  urbe  puellos 
duxerat  ante  annos  CCLXXII. 

condita  porta  fuit. 

In  1572  the  Burgomaster  had  the  event  depicted  on 
one  of  the  church  windows,  but  the  inscription  is  for  the 
most  part  unreadable.  There  was  also  a  medal  struck  in 
memory  of  the  occasion. 

Grimm  says  that  there  is  a  similar  legend  in  the  "Aven- 
tures  du  Mandarin  Fum  Hoam."  214  soire'e  (Ger.  trans., 
Lpzg.,  1727,  II.,  pp.  167-172).  He  adds— "  Chardin  hat 
bios  den  namen  des  Thurms  der  40  Jungfrauen,"  apparently 
an  allusion  to  the  mention  by  that  traveller  of  the  street 
of  Ispahan,  known  as  the  "Street  of  Forty  Maidens." 

As  to  tho  historical  foundation  of  the  legend,  there  was 


274  THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 

a  controversy  in  the  seventeenth  century.  The  statement 
by  Wier  and  Kirchmayer  that  the  town  dated  its  docu- 
ments from  the  exodus  of  the  children  is  explicitly  denied 
by  Martin  Schoock,  whose  "Fabula  Hamelensis"  appeared 
in  1659,  and  was  a  reply  to  the  "  Exodus  Hamelensis"  of 
Samuel  Erichius.  No  document  so  dated  has  been  made 
public.  The  modern  theory  is  put  in  its  concisest  form  in 
Baedeker's  "  Northern  Germany  Handbook,"  where  we  are 
told  that  the  legend  is  probably  founded  on  the  fact  that 
most  of  the  young  men  of  the  town  were  taken  prisoners  or 
slain  at  the  battle  of  Sedemiinder  in  1259,  while  fighting 
against  the  Bishop  of  Minden.  Harenberg  puts  it  that  the 
fact  that  these  captives  did  not  return  gave  rise  to  the  tra- 
dition that  they  had  been  swallowed  up  alive.  (N.  and  Q., 
3  s.  ii.,  412).  The  late  Mr.  W.  J.  Thorns  adds  that  the  Ger- 
man pfeiffen  (to  pipe),  signified  also  to  decoy,  to  entice,  to 
inveigle.  "Thus,  perhaps,  we  get  to  the  bottom  of  the 
Hamelin  myth,  so  far  as  relates  to  the  children's  being 
spirited  away  by  a  piper."*  The  susceptibility  of  rats  to 
music  may  at  least  be  paralleled  by  the  popular  belief  as 
to  their  love  of  poetry,  notwithstanding  its  fatal  effect 
upon  their  peculiar  constitution.  It  is  to  this  superstition 
that  Shakespeare  makes  Rosalind  allude,  when  she  says, 
"  I  never  was  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras'  time,  that  I 
was  an  Irish  rat,  which  I  can  hardly  remember." 

It  is  much  to  be  desired  that  some  of  the  younger 
generation  of  German  scholars  with  access  to  the  literature 
and  documentary  evidences  would  investigate  afresh  the 
very  curious  legend  of  "  The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,"  one 
of  the  strangest  in  the  whole  range  of  folk  lore.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  see  the  lines  on  which  such  an  inquiry  would 
travel,  nor  is  it  impossible  to  forecast  the  probable  result, 

*  It  is  said  that  the  story  of  the  Pied  Piper  has  become  localised  in  England,  and  is 
given  as  a  tradition  of  Newtown  in  "  Legends  of  the  Isle  of  Wight."  (B.  S.,  p.  159.) 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OP  HAMELIN. 


275 


but  a  detailed  proof  of  the  exact  method  by  which  the 
legend  grew  and  impressed  itself  upon  the  popular  mind 
would  be  instructive. 

Turning  from  folk  lore  to  literature,  two  modern  authors 
have  each  made  good  use  of  the  legend.  In  "The 
Chronique  du  regne  de  Charles  IX.,"  of  Prosper  Me'rime'e,  it 
is  introduced  with  excellent  effect  as  a  story  narrated  by  one 
of  the  characters — the  gipsy  Mila.  The  other  and  greater 
writer  is  the  author  of  "  The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,"  and  it 
is  remarkable  to  see  how  the  somewhat  beggarly  elements  of 
the  tradition  have  been  transformed  by  Browning.  The  poor 
bits  of  broken  glass  are  put  into  the  kaleidoscope  and  given 
a  masterly  shake  by  the  hand  of  the  poet,  and  we  are  all 
delighted  by  the  beauty  of  the  design,  and  the  glow  and 
harmony  of  the  colours  thus  presented  to  our  view. 


SHAKSPERE'S    ALLEGED   FORGERY    OF 
A    COAT   OF  ARMS. 

BY  JAMES  T.  FOARD. 

IT  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  modern  judicial  decision 
has  overturned  what  was  once  considered  established 
law,*  and  decided  that  libellers  of  the  dead  cannot  be 
punished.  History  may  require  a  chartered  liberty  of 
speech  for  criticism  or  censure  in  dealing  with  the  acts 
and  motives  of  deceased  persons  of  note,  but  hardly  a 
licensed  mendacity.  False  and  unfounded  calumny  form 
no  part  of  history.  A  man  may  now  invent  the  foulest 
calumnies  to  blacken  the  reputation  of  the  noblest  of 
mankind,  with  no  motive  but  his  own  despicable  and 
hateful  baseness  to  urge  him,  yet  is  there  no  remedy. 

I  propose  to  point  the  moral  of  this  new  law.  In  the  New 
York  World,  of  August  28th,  1887,  I  read  this  passage, 
enshrined  in  a  long  "  puff  prefatory "  of  Mr.  Donnelly, 
and,  in  his  interest,  written  for  him — that  is,  at  his 
instance — and  possibly  by  him :— "  Mr.  Donnelly  brings 
good  evidence  to  show  that  Shakspere  was  a  fornicator,  an 
adulterer,  a  usurer,  an  oppressor  of  the  poor,  a  liar, 

*  "Although  the  man  be  dead  at  the  time  of  the  making  of  the  libel,  yet  it  is  punish- 
able."—Coke.  5  Rep.,  125a  (1603).  "  The  dead  have  no  rights  and  can  suffer  no  wrongs."— 
per  Stephen,  J.,  in  Reg.  T.  Ensor,  at  Cardiff  Assizes  (1887);  Reg.  v.  Topham  (1791),  how- 
ever limited  the  first  proposition. 


SUAKSPERPS  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OP  A  COAT  OP  ARMS.  277 

a  forger  of  pedigrees  in  order  to  obtain  a  coat  of  arms,  to 
which  he  had  no  right,  a  poacher,  a  drunkard,  an  undutiful 
son,  and  a  negligent  father.  About  many  of  these  charges 
there  has  hardly  ever  been  any  doubt,  and  they  are 
admitted  even  by  some  of  his  most  ardent  admirers." 
These  are  "  pruve  'ords,  indeed/'  and  sad,  indeed,  seems  the 
state  of  journalism  which  can  sanction  such  rubbish,  so 
absolutely  and  entirely  false,  yet  so  venomous  and  spiteful 
withal,  against  a  dead,  und  in  that  sense,  defenceless,  man. 
There  may  have  been,  perhaps,  some  derangement  of 
epithets,  the  writer  by  mistake  or  in  zeal  attributing  his 
own  features,  characteristics,  and  virtues  to  the  deceased 
poet.  But  we  will  allow  this  to  pass.  In  an  American 
book,  not  by  Mr.  Donnelly,  on  Shakspere  (I  may  mention 
that  it  is  an  absurdly  and  even  childishly  ignorant  book), 
I  also  find  this  passage  : — "  Shakspere  commenced  life  as  a 
deer-stealer  and  a  drunkard."  No  doubt  this  is  a  specimen 
of  wit  employed  to  arrest  attention  and  invite  the  notice  of 
wares  not  otherwise  vendible,  but  it  is  not  the  less  pitiable 
on  that  account.  Now,  of  all  these  ten  charges  there  is 
hardly  one  which  is  supported  by  a  single  trustworthy  fact, 
or  with  a  tittle  of  legal  or  rational  evidence  to  sustain  it, 
or  that  is  not,  in  truth,  the  baseless  invention  of  unprincipled 
and  reckless  malevolence. 

The  charge  of  "  forging  a  pedigree,"  or,  as  1  have  seen  it 
more  often  described,  of  "  forging  a  coat  of  arms  "  is  not  an 
American  invention,  and  as  it  presents  some  slight  shadow 
or  semblance  of  foundation,  I  wish  to  trace  it  to  its  origin, 
and  discover  what  pretence  of  fact  or  veracity  there  is  in  it. 

In  Lardner's  Cyclopaedia,  in  1837,  this  lie,  for  it  is  a  lie, 
was  first  launched.  Robert  Bell,  having  before  him  Reed's, 
Malone's,  and  Steevens'  editions  of  Shakspere,  containing 
the  draft  coat  of  arms  of  John  Shakspere,  the  poet's  father, 
made  tli  lous  and  unfounded  suggestion  that  this 

19 


278   SHAKSPERE'S  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OP  A  COAT  OF  ARMS. 

inchoate  copy  had  been  obtained  by  "  false  representations," 
and  further,  that  it  was  alike  "discreditable  to  the  father 
and  the  poet."  How  obtained  ?  What  had  been  obtained, 
and  by  whom  ?  In  fact,  nothing  !  There  are  four  entries 
in  the  books  of  the  Heralds'  College,  three  being  rough 
drafts  of  a  hypothetic  or  suggested  coat  of  arms  for  Shaks- 
pere's  father.  There  is  nothing  to  explain  their  presence 
there — why  they  were  drawn  up,  at  whose  whim,  upon 
what  hint  or  suggestion,  or  for  what  purpose — but  there 
they  are.  Two  of  these  rough  drafts  are  of  an  assignment 
of  arms  to  John  Shakespere,  of  the  date  of  1596.  The 
third  is  a  rough  draft  of  an  allowance  of  arms  for  John 
Shakespere  and  Mary  Arden,  of  1599.  The  fourth  entry 
is,  except  for  heraldic  purposes,  unimportant. 

There  is  not — there  never  has  been — the  slightest  spark 
of  evidence,  that  William  Shakspere  ever  knew  of  the  exist- 
ence of  these  drafts,  ever  saw  them,  or  suggested  that 
they  should  be  made,  ever  applied  for  a  grant,  or  that  such 
a  grant  was  ever  concluded,  or  conceded,  to  him.  John 
Shakespere  appears  on  the  face  of  the  drafts,  the  sole  and 
only  applicant,  if  applicant  there  was,  and  the  only  person 
immediately  interested. 

Inferentially — or  rather  by  innuendo  and  surmise — 
this  malevolent  gentleman  would  have  us  believe,  that 
William  Shakspere,  the  poet,  applied  for  the  coat  of  arms, 
made  false  and  fraudulent  assertions  to  obtain  it,  and 
obtained  it.  This  is  his  charge  or  it  is  nothing.  This  is 
the  imputation  which  since  that  date  has  been  repeated 
again  and  again  as  if  it  were  true,  and  which  Mr.  Donnelly, 
apparently  improving  on  the  original  libeller,  repeats,  with 
this  further  addition,  viz.,  that  the  poet  not  only  made 
false  representations,  but  also  forged  a  coat  of  arms  and 
pedigree  to  deceive  the  Heralds  in  1596  or  1599.  The 
significance  of  this  enlarged  charge,  which  so  pertinently 


SHAKSPERE'S  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OP  A  COAT  OP  ARMS.    279 

suggests  that  the  law  should  protect  the  memory  of  the 
illustrious  dead  where  honour  and  truth  fail,  must  be 
presently  considered. 

To  give  some  colour  of  probability  to  the  statement 
which  he  then  for  the  first  time  made,  Bell  published  at 
great  length  a  wholly  fabulous  statement  of  John 
Shakspere's  abject  and  "deplorable"  poverty,  and  as 
being  unable  "  to  pay  his  taxes  or  his  baker,"  and  there- 
fore raised  the  inference  that  William  Shakspere  must 
have  applied,  because  John  in  1596  or  1599  had  no  motive 
for  doing  so.* 

To  dispose  of  this  allegation  of  John  Shakspere's  com- 
plete poverty  between  1555  and  1596,  the  value  of  money 
is  misstated  ;  suits  at  law  which  he  gained  are  declared  to 
have  been  lost,  and  various  other  fabrications  are  made. 
Simply,  John  Shakspere,  who  had  been  a  thriving  and 
fairly  prosperous  tradesman,  and  had  filled  the  offices  of 
chamberlain,  alderman,  and  high  bailiff",  equivalent  to  the 
mayoralty,  fell  into  comparative  poverty  about  1577.  In 
1556  he  purchased  two  houses  in  Henley  and  Greenhill 
streets,  one  being  that  now  known  as  Shakspere's  House. 
He  was  elected  chamberlain  of  the  borough  in  1562, 
alderman  the  year  after  the  poet  was  born,  viz.,  in  Septem- 
ber, 1565,  and  high  bailiff  in  1568.  So  much  for  his  abject 
penury  ;  but  it  suited  the  libeller  to  suggest,  quite  contrary 
to  the  truth,  that  he  was  a  pauper  when  the  grants  of 
1568-99  were  made,  and  the  statement  was  made  accord- 


Howinrcalitystandstheca.se.    T.  !i  draft,  of  K>99of 

the  assignment  of  arms  for  An  1  en  impaled  with  Shakes]  >.  n- 

contains    this  statement  :--"  The  said   John   Shukcspere, 

ng  married  the  daughter  and  one  of  the   heirs  of 


•  John  Shakipen  died  in  September,  1001. 


280  SffAKSPEJIES  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OF  A  COAT  OF  ARMS. 

Robert  Arden  of  Wellingcote,  in  the  said  county.  And 
also  produced  this  his  ancient  coat  of  arms  heretofore 
Assigned  to  him  whilst  he  was  Her  Majesty's  officer  and 
bailiff  of  that  town."  In  consideration  whereof,  etc., 
which  allegation,  if  true,  declares  that  John  Shakspere  in 
1568,  when  he  was  high  bailiff  of  Stratford,  and  at  the 
pinnacle  of  his  good  fortune,  applied  for  and  had  assigned 
to  him  a  grant  of  arms  which  he,  John  Shakspere,  now 
again  produced.  If  this  is  true,  then  the  poet's  complicity 
in  the  imputed  conspiracy  to  procure  the  first  assignment 
by  false  and  fraudulent  means  must  have  taken  place  when 
he  was  aged  four  years,  and  so  one  at  least  of  these 
malicious  suggestions  is  disposed  of.  The  reference  to  this 
coat  of  arms  of  1568-9  was  made  by  Cook  Clarencieux, 
Malone  says,  but  that  such  emblazonment  was  not  in  his 
time  preserved  or  extant  in  the  records  or  books  of  the 
Heralds'  Office. 

The  alleged  "  false  representation,"  if  ever  made,  and 
there  is  no  further  or  corroborative  proof  that  it  ever  was 
made,  rests  upon  the  following  passage  in  the  draft  of 
1599:- 

"  Wherefore  being  solicited  and  by  credible  report 
informed.  That  John  Shakespere  now  of  Stratford  upon 
-Avon  in  the  county  of  Warwick  gentleman.  Whose 
parent  [great  grandfather]*  and  [late]  antecessor,  for  his 
faithful  and  approved  service  [to  the  late  most  prudent 
prince]  King  Henry  VII.  of  famous  memory.  Was  advanced 
and  rewarded  with  lands  and  tenements  given  to  him  in 
those  parts  of  Warwickshire.  Where  they  have  continued  by 
[some]  descents  in  good  reputation  and  credit." 

Now  this  recital,  the  production  of  the  ancient  coat,  the 
general  consideration  of  worthiness  inducing  grants  in 

*XoTE.--The  words  between  brackets  are  interlineations  above  the  line  in  the  original  draft. 


SHAKSPERFS  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OP  A  COAT  OF  ARMS.  281 

relation  to  the  world  collectively,  and  John  Shakspere's 
marriage  to  Mary  Arden,  are  the  sole  statements  in  the 
grant,  beside  the  operative  portion  of  the  concession. 
Therefore,  this  is  the  sole  evidence,  for  nothing  is  to  be 
deduced  from  Malone's  notice  of  the  differences  in  the 
grants  of  1596,  that  any  statements  were  made  at  all 
either  by  John  Shakspere  or  any  other,  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  such  grant. 

But  inferentially  the  libeller  of  1837  would  have  us 
believe  that  an  application  in  1599  was  made  by  William 
Shakspere  the  poet.  The  grant  expressly  declares  it  was 
by  his  father  John  Shakspere,  and  that  the  possible  fiction 
that  his  great-grandfather  was  rewarded  (which  stands  in 
the  plural,  in  the  draft  of  1596,  in  the  more  perfect  draft  of 
the  two,  thus,  "  whose  [parents  and  late]  antecessors  were 
for  their  valiant  and  faithful  service  advanced  and  re- 
warded by  the  most  prudent  prince  King  Henry  VII.,") 
was,  if  anyone's  fiction  except  the  Heralds',  his.  Of  course, 
in  the  entire  absence  of  any  knowledge  of  any  more  remote 
ancestor  of  the  poet's  than  his  grandfather,  who  was  a 
yeoman,  the  truth  or  falsity  of  the  allegation  about  his 
father's  great-grandfather  (by  whomsoever  made)  cannot 
be  determined.  Such  presumption,  if  any,  as  arises  from 
the  absence  of  any  evidence  on  the  rolls  to  sustain  it,  is  of 
the  most  illusory  kind.  If  the  suggestions  of  antique 
service,  of  an  assigned  coat  and  a  confirmation,  were  not 
those  of  the  Heralds,  Camden  Clarencieux  and  Dethick, 
Garter  principal  King-at-Arms,  to  shield  themselves  in 
straining  a  point  of  heraldry,  they  were  presumably  true. 
The  assumptions  that  they  were  absolutely  t.i!  •  und  were 
also  made  by  the  poet,  because  he  was  prosperous,  rather 
than  by  his  father,  a  poor  and  aged  man,  are  simply  further 
evidence  of  malignity. 

Now  the  allegation  in  the  draft  of  1599,  is  that  the 


282  SHAKSPERE'S  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OF  A  COAT  OF  ARMS. 

ancient  coat  assigned  in  1 568  was  produced  to  the  Heralds. 
To  get  over  the  obvious  difficulty  that  if  such  coat  was 
assigned,  and  was  in  1599  actually  exhibited  to  the 
Heralds  as  alleged,  which  allegation,  of  course,  wholly 
exonerates  the  poet,  considering  his  age,  from  any  possible 
imputation ;  these  modern  literary  assassins  are  driven 
to  the  necessity  of  suggesting,  as  Mr.  Donnelly  does,  that 
in  1599  a  false  coat-of-arms  was  produced  to  the  Heralds 
by.  the  poet,  which  satisfied  them,  and  which  was  wholly 
fabricated.  But  the  Heralds  themselves  vouch  that  the 
elder  coat  was  granted,  as  well  as  produced.  If  their 
statement  is  accepted,  it  must  be  adopted  wholly.  It 
would  be  childish  to  suppose  that  any  one  could  have 
produced  a  coat,  not  sanctioned  by  them,  which  would 
have  escaped  their  scrutiny,  or  for  an  instant  have  deceived 
them.  If  we  assume  gratuitously  the  whole  story  to  be 
false,  is  not  the  presumption  that  the  fiction  is  the  Heralds' 
fiction  the  only  natural  one. 

We  see,  therefore,  that  these  malevolent  personages,  the 
libellers,  are  driven  to  this  position,  that  there  was  an 
ancient  coat  of  1568,  which  William  Shakspere  could  not 
have  obtained,  or  there  was  not,  in  which  case  the  Heralds 
were  fools  or  knaves,  or  both. 

If  we  remove  the  subject  from  the  influence  of  those 
detestable  literary  ghouls,  whose  only  life  is  maintained  by 
feasting  on  the  corpses  of  noble  men,  it  must  be  tolerably 
evident  to  the  meanest  capacity  that  the  whole  story  is  a 
base  and  silly  invention.  The  rough  draft  of  a  coat  of 
arm's  is  neither  an  assignment  nor  a  grant.  It  is  a  mere 
school  exercise.  There  is  not  the  slightest  proof,  or 
suggestion  of  a  proof  in  the  world,  that  it  ever  during  the 
poet's  life,  so  far  as  he  is  involved,  advanced  beyond  that 
stage.  The  allegation  that  a  grant  was  made  to  him,  on 
his  false  representation  or  "  forgery  of  a  pedigree  "  after  his 


SHAKSPERE'S  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OP  A  COAT  OP  ARMS.    283 

death,  is,  of  course,  absurd.  Presumably,  if  the  grant  had 
been  ever -made  to  and  accepted  by  the  poet,  some  evidence 
of  its  use  and  adoption  by  him,  either  quartered  or 
impaled,  would  have  existed.  Proof  that  the  necessary 
fees  were  paid  to  and  received  by  the  College,  or  of  the 
use  of  the  arms  by  the  poet,  or  some  seal,  hatchment 
(other  than  that  on  the  Stratford  monument),  or  recogni- 
sance would  be  forthcoming.  No  such  affirmative  proof 
now  or  ever,  that  we  know,  existed.  /  There  is  not  a 
particle  of  evidence  that  the  poet  desired  or  applied  for 
the  grant  or  received  it,  was  ever  cognisant  of  it,  or  sought 
it.  It  may  have  been  applied  for  or  obtained,  after  the 
poet's  death,  by  his  son-in-law  or  executors,  to  embellish 
his  tomb ;  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  draft  im- 
pliedly  sustains  some  inference  of  a  grant,  but  the  words 
"and  by  these  presents  confirmed,"  if  it  was  granted,  do 
absolutely  determine  that  the  first  concession,  if  made, 
was  made  in  1568,  to  John  Shakspere.  A  theory,  indeed, 
which  the  objection  raised  A.D.  1592  (MS.  Ashmole,  846), 
would  point  to  and  support,  the  grant  being  in  March  of 
that  year  impugned.  Thus  is  concluded  the  entire  story 
that  the  poet  made  false  and  fraudulent  statements  to 
procure  the  grant,  and  obtained  it. 

If  any  further  inferences  might  be  drawn  from  the  facts, 
they  are  that  John  Shakspere,  a  vain  and  sanguine 
man,  when  prosperous  applied  for  coat  armour.  That 
Dethick  or  Camden,  friends  of  the  poet,  subsequently 
proposed,  and  probably  in  1596,  to  vary  and  renew  this 
coat  of  arms  to  him,  that  he  then,  either  because  such 
gewgaws  were  not  worth  the  purchase,  or  indifference, 
or  from  motives  of  economy  or  otherwise,  declined  t<> 
accept  the  gift.  The  vague  want  of  particularity  in 
the  two  drafts  of  1596 — alleging  the  doughty  claims 
of  John's  "  parents  and  late  antecessors' "  parents  being 


284  SHAKSPERE'S  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OP  A  GOAT  OP  ARMS. 

used  for  progenitors,  afterwards  altered  to  "  great  grand- 
father and  late  antecessor"  in  the  singular,  seems  to 
suggest,  if  anything,  that  the  Heralds,  not  unmindful  of 
fees  then,  as  they  often  have  been  since,  were  willing  to 
supply  sufficient  reasons  for  the  grant,  as  well  as  the  grant 
itself,  and  alike  suggested  the  old  pedigree  and  the  ancient 
coat.  This,  however,  is  pure  surmise,  and  may  be  as  absurd 
as  most  fancies  are,  but  it  is  not  propounded  as  fact. 

The  assignment,  or  the  proposed  assignment  of  this  coat 
of  arms  to  Shakspere  by  Dethick  and  Camden,  although 
it  has  been  alleged  that  the  old  Heralds  were  less  rigid  in 
respect  of  proofs  of  descent  and  their  assignments  of  arms 
than  at  present,  seems  to  have  given  offence  to  Ralph 
Brooke,  York  Herald,  their  subordinate,  who  accused  them 
not  so  far  as  appears,  of  improperly  granting  such  arms, 
but  as  sanctioning  a  bearing  too  closely  resembling  that  of 
Lord  Mauley,  for  in  the  Ashmolean  MSS.,  the  answer  of 
Garter  and  Clarencieux  to  York  is  preserved  as  follows : — 
"  It  may  as  well  be  said  that  Harely,  who  beareth  gold  a 
bend,  between  two  cotizes  sables,  and  all  other  that  or.  and 
argent,  a  bend  sables  usurp  the  coat  of  the  Lord  Mauley. 
As  for  the  spear  in  bend  is  a  patible  difference.  And 
the  person  to  whom  it  was  granted  hath  borne  magistracy, 
and  was  justice  of  peace  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  he 
married  the  daughter  and  heir  of  Arderne,  and  was  able 
to  maintain  that  estate."  With  this  answer  of  Dethick' s, 
and  it  may  be  noted  that  the  entire  draft  is  in  Dethick's 
handwriting,  many  modern  archaeologists  of  note,  and  the 
late  Somerset  Herald,  I  believe,  concurred  that  the  allow- 
ance as  made  was  unimpeachable. 

Briefly,  these  are  all  the  facts  I  am  aware  of  connected 
with  this  imputed  forgery.  And  it  is  a  painful  and  melan- 
choly reflection  indeed,  that  so  much  causeless  malevolence 
could  exist,  or  be  exerted  against  a  dead  man  merely  on  the 


SHAKSPERKS  ALLEGED  FORGERY  OP  A  COAT  OP  ARMS.  285 

ground  of  his  intellectual  supremacy  and  approved  virtue. 
Not  one  word  (in  spite  of  envy,  rivalry,  and  all  unchari- 
tableness)  against  the  poet's  character,  honour,  generosity, 
or  moral  worth  was  raised  against  him  during  his  lifetime. 
He  was  called  a  "  Shakescene,"  but  the  publisher  of  the 
feeble  joke  was  so  ashamed  of  it,  that  he  withdrew  it  and 
apologised.  He  was  beloved  by  his  business  partners  and 
associates.  His  rivals,  though  envious  and  malignant, 
honoured  him.  It  has  been  reserved  for  the  very  scum 
of  literary  rascaldom  in  this  modern  age  to  create  this 
monstrous  charge  against  him,  and  I  can  only  reiterate 
the  wish  of  Emilia  to  Othello,  when  she  declared  he  had 
been  abused  by  "  some  base  notorious  knave,"  "  some  most 
villanous  scurvy  knave,"  that  heaven  should — 

Put  in  every  honest  hand  a  whip, 

To  lash  the  rascal  naked  through  the  world. 


THE  COUNSEL   OF   PERFECTION. 

BY  WILLIAM   E.    A.   AXON. 

[Suggested  by  a  passage  in^Dr.  King.^ford's  cl  Dreams  and  Dream  Stories,"  p.  21.] 

AID  one,  who  pausing,  read  the  Gospel  scroll, 


s 


'  "  Be  perfect  as  your  Heavenly  Father  is.' 
Such  were  the  words  that  Jesus  spake  on  earth ; 
But  how  shall  man  obey  this  strange  command, 
And  reach  perfection  as  the  Highest  One  ? 
What  is  perfection  for  the  sons  of  men  ? " 
"  'Tis  wisdom,"  cried  another  in  response, 
"  For  holy  wisdom  is  perfection's  sum." 
"  Not  so,"  then  said  another,  "  how  shall  man, 
In  his  short  life  attain  to  such  a  height, 
And  know  the  wisdom  of  the  hand  that  shaped, 
Not  this  great  world  alone,  but  all  the  worlds 
That  belt  the  universe  in  ceaseless  round ; 
Wisdom  that  mass'd  the  earth  and  pour'd  the  sea, 
That  marks  the  sparrow's  fall,  the  comet's  flight, 
And  life  and  nature  binds  in  changeless  law  ? " 
Another  said,  "  Perfection  is  but  truth." 
"  Truth  is  perfection,  but  can  finite  man 
See  every  facet  of  its  diamond  shape  ? 
Earth's  truth  is  partial,  heaven's  alone  is  whole." 
"  The  just  alone  are  perfect ;  justice  is 
The  sum  of  wisdom  and  of  truth  and  right ; 
He  who  is  just  has  learnt  perfection's  law." 


THE  COUNSEL  OP  PERFECTION.  287 

"  Not  so,"  then  said  another,  "  shall  man  take 

Into  his  hand  the  vengeance  of  the  Lord  ? " 

Then  one  arose  with  humble  reverent  look, 

And  bright  soul  shining  through  his  ardent  eyes, 

"  Perfection  is  in  love  alone,"  he  cried, 

"  Who  said,  '  be  perfect '  said,  '  be  merciful ' ; 

Be  merciful  even  as  our  Father  is, 

By  love  alone  can  man  perfection  reach ; 

Not  wisdom,  and  yet  love  is  more  than  wise ; 

Not  truth,  and  yet  its  words  are  wholly  true ; 

Not  justice,  though  its  deeds  are  more  than  just. 

It  gives  to  justice  wisdom,  and  to  wisdom  truth ; 

It  palpitates  alike  through  star  and  flower ; 

Through  bird  and  beast  and  human  heart  alike. 

It  pities  all  that  sorrow,  and  it  helps 

With  word  and  deed  all  things  that  need  its  aid ; 

It  honours  all,  and  holds  none  in  despite  ; 

It  heals  the  pains  of  old  and  festering  wounds ; 

Puts  the  lost  lambkin  by  its  mother's  side ; 

Abstains  from  all  that  injures  or  destroys 

The  brightness  and  the  peace  and  joy  of  life, 

And  finds  its  own  in  every  creature's  joy. 

By  love  alone  can  man  perfection  reach." 

Then  cried  they  all  with  one  consenting  voice — 

"  Who  said, '  be  perfect '  said,  '  be  merciful,' 

Be  merciful  evn  as  our  Father  is ; 

By  love  alone  can  man  perfection  reach" 


THE  LIBRARY  TABLE. 

When  a  Mans  Single ;  a  Tale  of  Literary  Life.     By  J.  M. 
BARRIE.     London:  Hodder  and  S  tough  ton,  1888. 

"  WHEN  a  Man's  Single  "  is  not  Mr.  Barrie's  latest  contri- 
bution to  literature.  A  few  years  ago  he  first  revealed 
himself  as  a  young  writer  of  great  original  power  by  the 
publication  of  "  Auld  Licht  Idylls/'  a  series  of  sketches 
dealing  with  the  humours  of  life  in  a  Scotch  provincial 
town.  He  has  followed  this  up  by  "  A  Window  in  Thrums/' 
which  appeared  in  1889,  and  which  the  critics  have 
generally  voted  his  masterpiece,  so  far.  The  book  of 
which  I  speak,  though  its  opening  and  closing  scenes  are 
laid  in  Thrums,  is  chiefly  devoted  in  its  narrative  portions 
to  a  young  Scotchman's  experiences  in  journalism  and  in 
love,  in  that  southern  portion  of  Great  Britain  which  the 
canny  Scot  has,  in  one  way  and  another,  largely  annexed 
and  appropriated.  Rob  Angus,  the  literary  saw-miller  of 
Thrums,  becoming  a  free  man  by  the  accidental  death  of 
his  little  niece,  the  only  creature  who  bound  him  to  his 
native  town  and  soil,  accepts  an  invitation  to  join  the  staff 
of  a  paper  in  an  English  midland  town,  to  which  the  writer 
gives  the  name  of  Silchester.  Whilst  there,  being  sent  as 
a  reporter  to  a  Christmas  dinner  given  by  a  neighbouring 
landlord  to  his  tenants,  he  takes  the  opportunity  of  falling 


THE  LIBRARY  TABLE.  289 

in  love  with  the  landlord's  daughter,  Mary  Abinger,  whose 
one-volume  novel,  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,"  he  discovers  to 
his  horror  he  had  slated  a  short  time  previously  in  the  pages 
of  the  Silchester  Mirror.     The  rest  of  the  book — so  far  as  it 
can  be  regarded  as  a  story — is  taken  up  mainly  with  the 
complications  which  arise  out  of  this  incident,  and  with  the 
hero's  struggles  to  earn  a  position  for  himself  in  the  world, 
and  to  win  the  lady — who  returns  his  affection — in  the  face 
of  the  wealthy  and  aristocratic  rival  favoured  by  her  father. 
He  goes  up  to  London,  where  he  has  a  hard  battle  with 
poverty ;  but,  after  occasionally   contributing   to  various 
journals,  he  is  finally  offered  a  post  on  the  editorial  staff 
of  the  Morning  Wire,  with  a  handsome  salary.     So  the 
saw-miller  of  Thrums  marries  the  heiress  of  Dome  Castle. 
So  much  for  the  story.     But  it  is  plainly  not  as  a  story 
that  "When  a -Man's  Single"  chiefly  interests  its  readers, 
or  has  interested  its  author.     Indeed,  considered  merely 
as  a  tale,  the   book,   perhaps,  can  hardly  be   regarded 
as  a  success.     In  the  sentimental  parts  the  writer  seems 
never  quite  serious ;  he  has  a  keen  insight  into  the  weak- 
nesses of  human  nature,  and  is  apt  to  see  a  humorous  side 
to  every  situation.     The  story,  indeed,  is  chiefly  a  frame 
for  the  introduction  of  a  series  of  humorous  sketches  of 
society,  journalism,  and  the  literary  world,  and  of  a  multi- 
tude of  smart  sayings,  anecdotes,  and  epigrams. 

I  have  marked  a  few  passages  for  quotation,  but  it  is  no 
easy  matter  to  come  to  a  decision,  one  being  very  much 
tempted  to  quote  the  whole  of  the  book — the  whole,  at  any 
rate,  of  many  of  its  chapters.  As  that,  however,  is  impos- 
sible, the  only  thing  is  to  attempt  to  make  one's  selection 
as  characteristic  as  possible.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
passage  from  an  account  of  a  Saturday  evening's  entertain- 
ment at  the  Wigwam,  to  which  the  hero  is  taken  in  tho 
early  days  of  his  London  life,  by  his  friend,  Richard  Abin- 


290  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE. 

ger,  alias  Noble  Simms,  the  novelist.  It  is,  perhaps,  safe  to 
assume  that  the  Wigwam  is  a  caricature  (more  or  less 
highly  coloured)  of  the  Savage  Club  : — 

At  this  point  the  applause  became  so  deafening  that  Sirnma  and  Rob,  who 
had  been  on  their  way  to  another  room,  turned  back.  An  aged  man,  with  a 
magnificent  head,  was  on  his  feet  to  describe  his  first  meeting  with  Carlyle. 

"  Who  is  it  ? "  asked  Rob,  and  Simms  mentioned  the  name  of  a  celebrity 
only  a  little  less  renowned  than  Carlyle  himself.  To  Rob  it  had  been  one  of 
the  glories  of  London  that  in  the  streets  he  sometimes  came  suddenly  upon 
world-renowned  men,  but  he  now  looked  upon  this  eminent  scientist  for  the 
first  time.  The  celebrity  was  there  as  a  visitor,  for  the  Wigwam  cannot  boast 
quite  such  famous  members  as  he. 

The  septuagenarian  began  his  story  well.  He  described  the  approach  to 
Craigenputtock  on  a  warm  summer  afternoon,  and  the  emotions  that  laid  hold 
of  him  as,  from  a  distance,  he  observed  the  sage  seated  astride  a  low  dyke, 
flinging  stones  into  the  duckpoud.  The  pedestrian  announced  his  name  and 
the  pleasure  with  which  he  at  last  stood  face  to  face  with  the  greatest  writer 
of  the  day  ;  and  then  the  genial  author  of  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  annoyed  at 
being  disturbed,  jumped  off  the  dyke  and  chased  his  visitor  round  and  round 
the  duckpond.  The  celebrity  had  got  thus  far  in  his  reminiscence  when  he 
suddenly  stammered,  bit  his  lip  as  if  enraged  at  something,  and  then  trembled 
so  much  that  he  had  to  be  led  back  to  his  seat. 

"  He  must  be  ill,"  whispered  Rob  to  Simms. 

"  It  isn't  that,"  answered  Simms  ;  "  I  fancy  he  must  have  caught  sight  of 
Wingfield." 

Rob's  companion  pointed  to  a  melancholy-looking  man  in  a  seedy  coat,  who 
was  sitting  alone,  glaring  at  the  celebrity. 

"  Who  is  he  ? "  asked  Rob. 

"He  is  the  great  man's  literary  executor,"  Simms  replied;  "come  along 
with  me  and  hearken  to  his  sad  tale  ;  he  is  never  loth  to  tell  it." 

They  crossed  over  to  Wingfield,  who  received  them  dejectedly. 

"  This  is  not  a  matter  I  care  to  speak  of,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  the  sorrowful 
man,  who  spoke  of  it,  however,  as  frequently  as  he  could  find  a  listener.  "  It 
is  now  seven  years  since  that  gentleman" — pointing  angrily  at  tfie  celebrity, 
who  glared  in  reply — "appointed  me  his  literary  executor.  At  the  time  I 
thought  it  a  splendid  appointment,  and  by  the  end  of  two  years  I  had  all  his 
remains  carefully  edited  and  his  biography  ready  for  the  press.  He  was  an 
invalid  at  that  time,  supposed  to  be  breaking  up  fast ;  yet  look  at  him  now." 

"  He  is  quite  vigorous  in  appearance  now,"  said  Rob. 

"  Oh,  I've  given  up  hope,"  continued  the  sad  man,  dolefully. 

"  Still,"  remarked  Simms,  "  I  don't  know  that  you  could  expect  him  to 
die  just  for  your  sake.  I  only  venture  that  as  an  opinion,  of  course." 

"  I  don't  ask  that  of  him,"  responded  Wingfield.  "  I'm  not  blaming  him 
in  any  way  ;  all  I  say  is  that  he  has  spoilt  my  life.  Here  have  I  been  waiting, 
waiting  for  five  years,  and  I  seem  further  from  publication  than  ever." 


Till:  LIBRARY  TABLE.  291 

Here  is  a  brief  disquisition  on  smoking : — 

"  Cigars  are  making  you  stupid,  Dick,"  said  Mary  ;  "  I  do  wonder  why  men 
smoke." 

"  I  have  often  asked  myself  that  question,"  thoughtfully  answered  Simms, 
whom  it  is  time  to  call  by  his  real  name  of  Dick  Abinger.  "  I  know  some  men 
who  smoke  because  they  might  get  sick  otherwise  when  in  the  company  of 
smokers.  Others  smoke  because  they  began  to  do  so  at  school,  and  are  now 
afraid  to  leave  off.  A  great  many  men  smoke  for  philanthropic  motives, 
smoking  enabling  them  to  work  harder,  and  so  being  for  their  family's  good. 
At  picnics  men  smoke  because  it  is  the  only  way  to  keep  the  midges  off  the 
ladies.  Smoking  keeps  you  cool  in  summer  and  warm  in  whiter,  and  is  an 
excellent  disinfectant  There  are  even  said  to  be  men  who  admit  that  they 
smoke  because  they  like  it ;  but  for  my  own  part  I  fancy  I  smoke  because  I 
forget  not  to  do  so." 

Many  are  the  drolleries  connected  with  journalism.  Per- 
haps the  examination  in  journalism  which  Rob  is  put 
through  by  the  great  Simms  (pp.  153-4)  is  as  good  a  speci- 
men as  any,  although  my  own  opinion  is  that  it  is  a  little 
spoiled  by  Question  Five,  which  could  hardly  puzzle  even 
the  rawest  of  Scotchmen. 

There  is  a  delicious  chapter  (XVI.),  called  "  The  Barber 
of  Rotten  Row,"  which  relates  how  a  hairdresser  with  aris- 
tocratic instincts  and  an  occasional  surfeit  of  cash  managed 
to  pass  himself  off'  for  a  few  days  as  a  nobleman  who  had 
returned  to  England  after  a  prolonged  absence.  He  has  a 
magnificent  time,  though  his  happiness  is  dashed  by  one 
little  privation  :— 

"  It  was  grand,"  he  said.     "  I  shall  never  know  such  days  again." 

"  I  hope  not,  Josephs.  Was  there  no  streak  of  cloud  in  those  halcyon 
days?" 

The  barber  sighed  heavily. 

"  Ay,  there  was,"  he  said,  "hair  oil." 

i  lain  yourself,  my  gentle  hairdresser.* 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Josephs,  "don't  use  hair  oil.  I  can't  live  without  it. 
Thmt  is  my  only  stumbling-block  to  being  a  gentleman." 

In  the  final  chapter  the  story  returns  to  Thrums ;  and 
the  incident  of  the  receipt  of  a  telegram  announcing  the 
marriage  by  the  village  stonebreaker,  Tammas  Haggart, 
and  its  solemn  opening  in  presence  of  a  village  conclave  in 


292  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE. 

the  kirkyard,  is  a  fine  specimen  of  the  humours  of  Scotch 
provincial  life.  Many  will  vote  it  one  of  the  best  things 
in  the  volume,  and  say  that,  after  all,  Mr.  Barrie  is  at  his 
very  best  and  truest  when  on  his  native  heath. 

It  is  a  possible  criticism  (it  was  made,  I  think,  by  a 
writer  in  the  Spectator),  that  Mr.  Barrie's  book  is  just  a 
little  too  clever — but,  after  all,  that  is  a  drawback  which  it 
is  possible  to  overlook.  A  more  serious  defect,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  is  the  want  of  definiteness  and  actuality  in  some  of 
the  principal  characters.  I  protest  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
can  distinguish  Mary  Abinger  and  Nell  Meredith  ;  I  only 
know  that  they  are  both  charming,  high-spirited  girls, 
noble  and  pure-minded  to  a  degree,  and  remarkably  atten- 
tive to  their  personal  appearance.  As  for  Rob  Angus — 
well,  a  friend  of  mine  maintains  that  he  should  know  him 
if  he  met  him  in  Fleet  Street.  Perhaps  he  might,  there 
is  never  any  saying.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  a  good  many 
brilliant,  broad-shouldered  young  Scotchmen  might  sit  for 
his  portrait.  A  much  better  figure  is  that  of  the  barrister, 
journalist  and  novelist,  whose  nom  de  plume  is  J.  Noble 
Simms,  but  whose  real  name  is  Richard  Abinger.  It  is 
probably  safe  to  hazard  the  suggestion  that  this  is  to  some 
extent  a  portrait  of  the  writer  himself,  and  this  may 
account  for  its  more  life-like  character.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
ideal  Barrie,  which  the  actual  Barrie  is  always  aiming  at, 
but  cannot  quite  achieve. 

This,  at  any  rate,  we  may  say,  that,  whatever  faults  an 
eagle  eye  may  discover  in  this  remarkable  volume,  its 
readers  can  hardly  complain  that  they  have  lacked  enter- 
tainment. It  is  a  delicious  book.  C.  E.  TYRER. 


<r 


MR.    MEREDITH'S    NOVELS. 

BY  A.    N.    MONKHOUSE. 

MR.  M  K I ;  K  DITH'S  position  among  contemporary  nove- 
lla is  a  peculiar  one,  and  is  at  the  present  time 
undergoing  some  modification.  His  following  has  hitherto 
made  un  in  enthusiasm  what  it  has  lacked  in  numbers, 
but  he  h;»s  lately  become  known  to  a  wider  circle  of 
readers  ;.nd  has  necessarily,  therefore,  increased  his 
admire  r>.  u  ho  have  been  encouraged  to  proclaim  their 
belief  in  liis  powers  and  accomplishments,  and  their 
confident-  in  his  ultimate  recognition  as  one  of  the  first 
literary  artists  of  his  time  and  country. 

His  •  dfame  seems  to  date  from  the  publication  of 

"  Diana  «»f  the  Crossways,"  which  seems  less  fitted  to  tho 
requirements  of  popular  taste  than  others  of  his  books, 
but  which  had  the  advantage  of  timely  and  unsparing 
praise  from  several  of  tho  critical  papers.  Whether  this  in 
any  measure  accounts  for  its  relatively  remarkable  success 
or  not,  it  appears  to  have  been  the  first  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
novels  to  penetrate  beyond  a  very  limited  circle.  The 
result  has  been  an  increased  and  increasing  interest  in  his 
productions,  several  of  which  had  been  for  some  time  out 
of  print,  and,  as  Mr.  Stevenson  said,  "sought  for  on  book- 
stalls lik-  . .  ii  A  M  i  ne."  They  have  now  been  republished  in  a 

Tin  MAV  ncsT»  QCARTIRLT.    No.  XXXVI.,  OCTOBER,  1890. 


294  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

cheap  and  a  cheaper  edition,  and  other  signs  of  popular 
attention  are  not  wanting.  The  "New  Journalism"  begins 
to  take  an  interest  in  him ;  he  is  discussed  in  the  magazines, 
and  though  he  has  not  yet  obtained  the  honour  of  the 
proverbial  "  slating  "  in  the  Quarterly,  he  has  been  shown 
his  place — which,  it  appears,  is  not  with  the  novelists — by 
a  writer,  whose  style  and  temper  leave  little  to  be  desired, 
in  a  recent  number  of  the  National  Review. 

As  most  of  his  books  were  either  out  of  print  or  little 
known,  some  half-dozen  masterpieces  have  been  tumbled 
upon  the  market  at  once,  and  they  prove  to  be  a  little 
difficult  to  digest.  They  are  not  quite  like  anything  to 
which  we  are  accustomed,  for  Mr.  Meredith  has  steadily 
pursued  his  own  ideal,  disregarding  all  temptations  to  aim 
at  a  superficial  success.  His  style  shows  little  sign  of 
conformity  to  any  accepted  standard,  and  though  his 
human  sympathy  is  wide  and  deep,  he  has  not  scrupled  to 
express  his  friendly  contempt  for  the  judgment  of  that 
"  British  Public "  which  has  learnt  to  show  tolerance  and 
simulate  respect  towards  the  kindred  genius  of  Robert 
Browning.  For  there  are  many  striking  points  of  resem- 
blance between  his  genius  and  circumstances  and  those  of 
the  great  man  we  have  lost.  They  are  alike  in  believing 
the  development  of  a  soul  to  be  the  highest  of  artistic 
themes,  and  in  such  development  both  habitually  employ 
the  method  of  indirect  presentation,  of  side-lights, 
inferences,  and  hints.  Both  are  exposers  of  sentimen- 
talisms,  and  scourgers  of  cants  and  shams.  Fortified  by  far 
different  creeds,  they  front  inevitable  evil  and  misfortune 
with  stout  hearts,  declaring  that  this  is  yet  a  world  in 
which  wisdom  is  on  the  side  of  joy  and  not  of  grief. 
There  is,  too,  the  obvious  analogy  that  their  strong  and 
wilful  personalities  sometimes  find  perverse  and  obscure 
expression,  and  if  Mr.  Meredith  has  not  yet  the  advantage 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  295 

of  a  society  to  elucidate  his  meaning,  it  is  not  the  fault  of 
his  poems,  which  offer  extraordinary  opportunities  for 
floundering.  We  are  not  now  immediately  concerned 
with  the  poems,  however,  between  which  and  the  novels 
there  is  an  interesting  race  for  fame.  Readers  of  poetry 
have  at  least  the  intention  to  seek  for  intellectual  beauty, 
and  are  usually  more  critical  and  discerning  than  the 
average  of  novel  readers,  whose  demand  is  for  something 
amusing  and  moral,  like  Artemus  Ward's  show.  For  this 
reason  the  poems  might  be  expected  to  have  a  relatively 
wider  acceptance,  though  the  fact  that  some  of  them  are 
out  of  print  does  not  bear  out  such  a  conclusion.  But 
neither  are  likely  to  become  widely  popular.  It  might 
not  be  a  wholly  untenable  position  to  maintain  that  a 
popular  artist  who  is  also  a  great  artist  is  not  popular  by 
virtue  of  his  art — that,  for  instance,  Lord  Tennyson's 
sentiment  has  penetrated  beyond  his  poetry,  that  the  farce 
and  melodrama  of  Dickens  have  attracted  more  than  his 
humour  and  pathos,  that  Sir  John  Millais's  pretty  pictures 
have  made  more  friends  than  his  beautiful  ones,  and  that 
Shakespeare  himself,  if  he  is  popular,  which  is,  perhaps,  an 
unverified  assumption,  owes  it  to  such  accidental  circum- 
stances as  the  force  of  tradition,  the  insistance  of  critics, 
our  national  vanity,  or  the  fact  that,  apart  from  their 
greater  qualities,  several  of  his  plays  may  be  distorted  into 
effective  entertainments. 

Mr.  Meredith  has  none  of  those  secondary  qualifications 
which  help  to  make  a  supporting  public  outside  the  circle 
of  genuine  appreciation.  Whether  he  could  have  achieved  a 
great  popular  success  or  not,  he  has  never  tried  for  it.  He 
must  be  taken  on  his  own  terms.  He  will  not  vulgarise  his  art 
to  obtain  an  audience,  and  as  the  mountain  steadily  refuses 
to  come  to  Mahomet,  Mahomet  may  yet  think  it  worth 
while  to  approach  the  mountain.  To  those  who  read  novels 


296  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

as  the  easiest  form  of  brain  rest,  he  is  impracticable  and 
preposterous.  His  persistent  habit  of  putting  things  in  an 
unusual  way,  for  the  purpose  of  provoking  ideas,  when  we 
have  been  accustomed  to  cheat  our  brains  with  phrases, 
results,  occasionally,  in  something  of  a  hit  or  miss  style, 
and  though  the  successes  enormously  outnumber  the 
failures,  these  give  plausible  opportunities  to  the  zealous 
fault-finder,  who,  by-the-way,  is  an  altogether  different 
person  from  the  conscientious  critic.  Nor  is  he  possessed 
with  that  touching  devotion  to  our  good  Anglo-Saxon, 
which  prefers  that  a  man  should  fail  to  express  his  mean- 
ing, with  a  little  word,  rather  than  resort  to  the  hated 
polysyllable.  Then  he  is  a  professed  psychologist,  with 
something  of  a  professional's  taste  for  curious  cases.  He 
has  a  turn  for  the  fantastical,  and  his  creatures — truly 
children  of  his  brain — are  possessed,  one  and  all,  with 
"  thick  coming  fancies."  Metaphors,  analogies,  similes, 
epigrams,  chase  one  another  through  his  pages.  It  may 
savour  of  a  reproach,  to  say  that  he  constantly  aims  at  wit, 
.but  I  remember  that  Charles  Lamb  has  said  (I  don't  know 
whether  Lamb  really  said  it,  but  I  conform  gladly  to  the 
custom  that  gives  him  all  wandering  good  things  that  are 
good  enough)  that  this  is,  at  least,  better  than  aiming  at 
dulness.  Wit,  indeed,  is  assumed  to  be  the  common 
attribute  of  the  human  race,  and  it  may  be  admitted  that 
his  manifestation  of  it  is,  sometimes,  brilliantly  inappro- 
priate. He  has  such  an  abundance  of  good  things  to  say, 
that  when  he  has  worked  off  all  that  can  be  held  by  intro- 
duction and  digression,  a  few  remain  for  forcible  distribu- 
tion among  his  characters.  And  so  difficult  and  elusive 
are  many  of  these  good  things  that  it  seems  as  if  Mr. 
Meredith,  who  has  faith  in  the  progress  of  the  race,  is 
preparing  for  a  sharper- witted  posterity.  If  these  sugges- 
tions appear  flippant  I  can  only  say  that  a  hasty  perusal 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  297 

of  one  of  these  novels  has  sometimes  a  bewildering  effect 
on  a  casual  reader  of  this  generation.  "  They  are  magnifi- 
cent, but  they  are  not  novels,"  such  an  one  may  exclaim, 
or  he  will  grant  that  there  is  a  world  of  matter,  but  without 
form  and  void.  If  it  is  acknowledged  that  the  novel  is  the 
most  potent  and  highly -organised  of  modern  literary  forms, 
careful  study  is  not  an  unreasonable  demand,  and  careful 
study  will  do  much  to  remove  these  prejudices.  It  will 
be  found  that  order  is  gradually  evolved  from  seeming 
chaos ;  that  every  incident,  every  character,  and  every 
comment  has  its  value  in  forwarding  the  action  or  com- 
pleting the  picture.  We  live  in  a  critical  age,  and  one  reason 
for  the  decline  of  the  drama,  before  the  novel,  is  probably 
that  the  latter  is  not  only  a  representation  of  life,  but  gives 
opportunity  for  direct  criticism  of  it.  Like  all  his  fellows, 
Mr.  Meredith  is  not  constantly  dramatic — his  own  per- 
sonality is  intruded,  from  time  to  time,  to  deliver  a  kind  of 
explanatory  lecture  that  is  neither  unwelcome  nor  unneces- 
sary. For  these  expressions  are  full  of  ripe  wisdom  and 
genial  humour  and  flowering  fancy.  Without  them  we 
could  never  see  every  side  of  the  complex  and  changing 
figures  that  they  illumine.  The  recent  romantic  revival 
has  tended  to  discourage  analytic  processes,  and,  perhaps, 
in  the  absence  of  any  dearth  of  sawdust  to  make  such  a 
proceeding  desirable,  it  is  judicious  to  abstain  from  analysis 
of  some  of  the  popular  figures  of  contemporary  romance, 
but  he  has  never  been  able  to  perceive,  in  life,  the  material 
for  a  flowing  narrative.  He  writes,  as  history  is  written 
now,  with  copious  notes,  recognising  the  endless  complica- 
tions, qualifications,  reflections  that  prevent  smooth  or 
rapid  progress,  but  which  give  us  the  truth  or  bring  us 
nearer  to  it  at  last 

A  friendly  critic  has  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  epigram 
so  far  as  to  declare  that  Mr.  Meredith  might  have  been 


293  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

Moliere  if  he  had  not  tried  to  be  Congreve,  and  his  bouts 
of  wit  do  occasionally  remind  us  of  a  kind  of  glorified 
drawing-room  game  such  as  Congreve  might  have  delighted 
in.    But  between  their  wit  in  its  most  characteristic  expres- 
sion there  is  a  difference  in  kind.     "  The  great  art  of  Con- 
greve is  especially  shown  in  this,"  says  Lamb,  "  that  he  has 
entirely  excluded  from  his  scenes — some  little  generosities 
on  the  part  of  Angelica  perhaps  excepted — not  only  any- 
thing like  a  faultless  character,  but  any  pretensions  to 
goodness  or  good  feelings  whatsoever."     The   wit    that 
flourishes  in  such  a  soil  can  have  little  in  common  with 
that  which  thus  expresses  its  ideal — "  The  well  of  true  wit 
is  truth  itself,  the  gathering  of  the  precious  drops  of  right 
reason,  wisdom's  lightning,"  and  whose  function  is    "  to 
strike  roots  in  the  mind,  the  Hesperides  of  good  things." 
No  better  instance  of  this  kind  of  wit  occurs  to  me  than 
Jenny  Denham's  reply  to  Beauchamp,  when  he  says  of  the 
election  he  has  lost — "  It's  only  a  skirmish  lost,  and  that 
counts  for  nothing  in  a  battle  without  end;  it  must  be 
incessant."    "  But  does  incessant  battling  keep  the  intellect 
clear?"  was  her  memorable  answer.     This  is  not  in  the 
style  of  the  dexterous  Congreve.    I  might  lighten  my  task 
and  reward  your  forbearance  with  instances  of  wit  of  many 
kinds.     A  few  from  "  Diana  of  the  Crossways  "  will  suffice. 
They  lose  a  good  deal  in  their  separation  from  the  context, 
and  they  are  not  chosen  to  avoid  the  accusation  of  charac- 
teristic faults.    "  'And  pray,'  said  Mrs.  Cramborne  Wathin, 
across  the  table,  merely  to  slip  in  a  word,  '  What  is  the 
name  of  this  wonderful  dog  ? '     '  His  name  is  Leander,' 
said  Diana.     '  Oh  !  Leander.     I  don't  think  I  hear  myself 
calling  to  a  dog  in  a  name  of  three  syllables — two  at  the 
most.'     'No,  so  I  call  Hero,  if  I  want  him  to  come  im- 
mediately/ said  Diana."    Mrs.  Cramborne  Wathin,  who  is  a 
Pharisee  aping  the  good  Samaritan,  does  not  receive  much 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  299 

favour  at  her  author's  or  his  heroine's  hands.  " '  Our  life 
below  is  short,'  she  said,  to  which  Diana  tacitly  assented, 
'  We  have  our  little  term,  Mrs.  Warwick,  it  is  soon  over. 
On  the  other  hand, the  platitudes  concerning  it  are  eternal.'" 
Lord  and  Lady  Esquart,  who  are  of  a  party  kept  awake  by 
the  strange  performances  of  a  bell  in  a  Swiss  village,  are 
asked  by  Diana  "what  they  had  talked  of  during  the  night  ?" 
"  '  You,  my  dear,  partly,'  said  Lady  Esquart.  '  For  an 
opiate?'  ' An  invocation  of  the  morning,' said  Dacier."  I 
venture  on  an  example  of  a  rather  different  kind.  " '  Women 
are  a  blank  to  them  [men],  I  believe,'  said  Whitmonby,  and 
Westlake  said — '  Traces  of  a  singular  scrawl  have  been 
observed  when  they  were  held  in  close  proximity  to  the 
fire.'"  For  an  instance  of  Mr.  Meredith's  peculiarly  felicitous 
employment  of  irony,  we  must  hear  what  Mrs.  Wathin  says 
of  her  ideal  young  woman — "  She  does  not  pretend  to  wit. 
To  my  thinking,  depth  of  sentiment  is  a  far  more  feminine 
accomplishment."  Yet  another  example,  and  this  is  his 
own — "  When  we  have  satisfied  English  sentiment  our  task 
is  done  in  every  branch  of  art,  I  hear,  and  it  will  account 
to  posterity  for  the  condition  of  the  branches." 

It  is,  I  suppose,  almost  a  commonplace  of  comparative 
criticism  that  the  novels  of  England  and  of  France  otter 
this  remarkable  distinction,  that  while  we  have  usually 
and  characteristically  been  ready  to  sacrifice  truth  to  what 
we  call  decency,  they  have  on  the  other  hand  in  great 
measure  devoted  themselves  to  the  study  and  magnification 
of  one  class  of  physical  phenomena  and  its  social  condi- 
tions, to  which  they  have  assigned  the  position  and  dedi- 
cated the  powers  due  to  universal  truth.  Mr.  Meredith 
has  named  these  opposite  schools  or  tendencies,  of  which 
the  one  is  the  necessary  complement  to  the  other,  the 
"  rose-pink"  and  the  "  dirty-drab."  But  besides  the  systems 
that  treat  of  man  as  a  bourgeois  convention  and  as  a  senti- 


300  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

mental  animal  (though  to  do  them  justice  th«-\  have  lately 
omitted  the  sentiment),  there  is  that  whoso  «iil>ject  for 
good  or  evil  is  the  mind  and  spirit  of  man,  and  which, 
recognising  and  rejoicing  in  the  ties  that  bind  liim  to  the 
earth,  can  yet  permit  the  declaration  that,  ideas  "are 
actually  the  motives  of  men  in  a  greater  degree  than  their 
appetites."  In  his  essay  on  Balzac,  Mr.  Henry  .lames  has 
said — "When  we  approach  Thackeray  and  George  Eliot, 
George  Sand  and  Turge'nieff,  it  is  into  the  conscience  and 
the  mind  that  we  enter,  and  we  think  of  these  writers 
primarily  as  great  consciences  and  great  minds.  When  we 
approach  Balzac  we  seem  to  enter  into  a  great  tempera- 
ment— a  prodigious  nature."  He  says  again—''  A  magni- 
ficent action  with  him  is  not  an  action  which  is  remarkable 
for  its  high  motive,  but  an  action  with  a  great  force  of  will 
or  of  desire  behind  it,  which  throws  it  into  striking  and 
monumental  relief.  It  may  be  a  magnificent  sacrifice,  a 
magnificent  devotion,  a  magnificent  act  of  faith  :  but  the 
presumption  is  that  it  will  be  a  rnagnificenr  IjV,  a  magni- 
ficent murder,  or  a  magnificent  adultery."  I  do  not  pre- 
sume to  say  how  far  these  passages  are  true  of  the  great 
writer  to  whom  they  refer,  or,  to  bring  it  nearer  home,  in 
what  limited  and  qualified  sense  they  are  true  of  our  own 
Dickens,  between  whom  and  Balzac  the  differ* -n* •»•>  are,  as 
Mr.  James  says,  chiefly  of  race.  They  are  quoted  because 
they  express  and  distinguish  so  much  better  iha.ii  I  can  do 
the  primary  characteristic  of  Mr.  Meredith's  genius.  He, 
too,  is  a  great  conscience  and  a  great  niiud,  and  the 
momentous  questions  of  conduct  and  of  life  that  he  raises 
are  referred  to  this  arbitrament.  They  whom  he  thinks 
worthy  of  the  post  of  honour  and  danger — his  heroes  and 
heroines — can  count  upon  no  pleasantly  variegated  course 
of  successful  adventure.  What  they  do  is  not  of  such 
account  as  what  they  are  and  what  they  may  Income.  To 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  301 

him  as  to  us  they  are  very  real.  He  knows  them  well,  and 
he  seeks  to  know  them  better.  He  plays  upon  them  from 
the  lowest  note  to  the  top  of  their  compass.  He  plucks 
out  the  heart  of  their  mystery.  They  must  pass  through 
a  fiery  ordeal  in  which  no  fair  seeming  dross  avails.  He 
has  love  for  them,  but  no  mercy.  Have  they  a  weakness  ? 
he  exposes  it ;  a  shallowness  ?  he  sounds  it.  He  does  not 
shrink  from  the  supreme  test — to  lay  upon  them  a  burden 
greater  than  they  can  bear.  "Our  souls,"  he  says,  "if 
flame  of  a  soul  shall  have  come  in  the  agony  of  flesh,  are 
beyond  the  baser  mischances."  "  The  philosopher,"  who  as 
he  humorously  says,  "fathers  his  dulness  on  me,"  "bids 
us  to  see  that  we  are  not  so  pretty  as  rose-pink,  not  so 
repulsive  as  dirty-drab ;  and  that,  instead  of  everlastingly 
shifting  those  barren  aspects,  the  sight  of  ourselves  is 
wholesome,  bearable,  fructifying,  finally  a  delight."  "  And 
how  do  you  know  that  you  have  reached  to  philosophy  ? 
You  touch  her  skirts  when  you  share  her  hatred  of  the 
sham  decent,  her  derision  of  sentimentalism." 

It  is  said  that  when  Turgdnieff  was  dying  he  sent  to  his 
greatest  rival  a  message  begging  him  to  return  to  the  exer- 
cise of  the  art  that  he  had  deserted.  To  those  who  believe 
in  Mr.  Meredith's  unselfish  devotion  to  that  art,  his  re- 
proach to  Thackeray  has  something  of  a  kindred  pathos. 
"A  great  modern  writer,"  he  says,  "of  clearest  eye 
and  head,  now  departed,  capable  in  activity  of  presenting 
thoughtful  women,  thinking  men,  groaned  over  his  pup- 
petry— that  he  dared  not  animate  them,  flesh  though 
they  were,  with  the  fires  of  positive  brainstuff.  Ho  could 
have  done  it,  and  he  is  of  the  departed !  Had  he  dared 
he  would  (for  he  was  Titan  enough)  have  raised  the  art 
in  dignity  on  a  level  with  history." 

But  if  it  is  the  mental  and  moral  side  of  life  that  seems 
to  Mr.  Meredith  to  be  of  per  importance,  ho  has 


302  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

approached  it  in  no  narrow  or  sectarian  spirit.  The  large 
charity  of  humour  gives  breadth  and  unity  to  his  view. 
He  has  the  insight  and  catholicity  of  a  poet,  disdaining 
neither  science  nor  romance.  Comedy,  he  pronounces  to 
be  our  means  of  reading  swiftly  and  comprehensively. 
"  She  it  is  who  proposes  the  correction  of  pretentiousness, 
of  inflation,  of  dulness,  and  the  vestiges  of  rawness  and 
grossness  to  be  found  among  us.  She  is  the  ultimate 
civilizer,  the  polisher,  a  sweet  cook.  If  (he  says)  she 
watches  over  sentimentalism  with  a  birch  rod,  she  is  not 
opposed  to  romance.  You  may  love,  and  warmly  love,  so 
long  as  you  are  honest.  Do  not  offend  reason."  Again,  he 
says  of  romance :  "  The  young  who  avoid  that  region 
escape  the  title  of  fool  at  the  cost  of  a  celestial  crown." 
Of  poetry :  "  Those  who  have  souls  meet  their  brothers 
there."  For  a  complete  understanding  of  his  philosophy 
of  life,  a  careful  study  of  the  poems  would  be  necessary. 
The  relations  of  man  to  nature  is  the  subject  of  the  recent 
remarkable  volume :  "  A  Reading  of  Earth,"  in  which  we 
are  led  to  this  conclusion — that  as  a  child  in  joy  or  sorrow 
seeks  its  mother,  so  the  wise  man  looks  for  sympathy  and 
consolation  to  his  mother  earth. 

The  subject  of  literary  style  is  not  one  for  an  amateur  to 
approach  with  a  light  heart,  and  Mr.  Meredith's  style  is 
variously  estimated  as  his  chief  virtue  and  as  his  damning 
defect.  Though  a  style  may  be  acquired  that  shall  have 
great  effect  in  the  regulation  and  control  of  ideas,  these 
come  first  in  the  natural  order,  and  that  style  is  the  best 
which  gives  them  full  and  proper  expression.  Swift  is  a 
great  master  of  style,  because,  as  Landor  says,  "  No  one  ever 
had  such  a  power  of  saying  forcibly  and  completely  what  he 
meant  to  say."  And  as  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
the  author  of  "Sartor  Resartus  "  to  unburden  himself  in  the 
style  of  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  so  it  is  idle  to  expect 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  303 

that  '"The  Egoist "  could  be  expressed  in  terms  of  "  Tom 
Jones."  Mr.  Meredith  is  himself  an  acute  critic,  and  through 
the  medium  of  Mr.  Barrett,  in  "  Sandra  Belloni,"  has  given 
us  a  view,  that  we  may  perhaps  venture  to  accept  as  in  some 
measure  his  view  of  individualism  in  literature.  I  have 
condensed  the  following  passage :  "  The  point  to  be  con- 
sidered is  whether  fiction  demands  a  perfectly  smooth 
surface.  Undoubtedly  a  scientific  work  does,  and  a 
philosophic  treatise  should.  When  we  ask  for  facts  simply, 
we  feel  the  intrusion  of  a  style.  Of  fiction  it  is  part.  In 
the  one  case,  the  classical  robe,  in  the  other,  any  mediaeval 
phantasy  of  clothing.  We  are  still  fighting  against  the 
Puritan  element  in  literature  as  elsewhere.  And  more 
than  this,  our  language  is  not  rich  in  subtleties  for  prose. 
A  writer  who  is  not  servile,  and  has  insight,  must  coin 
from  his  own  mint  In  poetry,  we  are  rich  enough ;  but 
in  prose  also  we  owe  everything  to  licence  our  poets  have 
taken  in  the  teeth  of  critics.  Our  simplest  prose  style  is 
nearer  to  poetry  with  us,  for  this  reason,  that  the  poets 
have  made  it.  Read  French  poetry.  With  the  first 
couplet  the  sails  are  full,  and  you  have  left  the  shores  of 
prose  far  behind.  An  imaginative  Englishman,  pen  in 
hand,  is  the  cadet  and  vagabond  of  the  family,  an  exploring 
adventurer;  whereas,  to  a  Frenchman,  it  all  comes 
inherited,  like  a  well-filled  purse.  The  audacity  of  the 
French  mind,  and  the  French  habit  of  quick  social 
intercourse,  have  made  them  nationally  far  richer  in 
language.  Let  me  add,  individually,  as  much  poorer. 
Read  their  stereotyped  descriptions.  They  all  say  the 
same  things.  They  have  one  big  Gallic  trumpet.  Wonder- 
fully eloquent:  we  feel  that:  but  the  person  does  not 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Meredith's  style— and  it 
has  sometimes  been  thought  an  ill-favoured  thing— it  is 


304  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

assuredly  his  own.  He  is  not  content  to  be  the  heir  of  the 
ages,  but  insists  on  bringing  his  own  contribution.  His 
rapacious  mind  makes  every  thought  his  own  and  dresses 
it  in  his  livery.  He  will  have  none  of  the  facile  phrases 
that  have  done  duty  so  often  as  its  expression.  It  is 
perhaps  his  misfortune  that  he  is  not  merely  a  man  of 
genius,  but  a  very  clever  man  of  genius.  He  is  in  the 
main  stream  of  humanity  and  he  trims  his  sail  to  every 
breeze.  The  eternal  is  good  with  him  and  so  is  the  par- 
ticular. Condensation,  too,  is  especially  a  characteristic  of 
his  style.  A  prodigal  in  ideas  he  is  a  niggard  in  words, 
and  gives  us  "infinite  riches  in  a  little  room."  "The  art 
of  the  pen  is  to  arouse  the  inward  vision,"  he  says,  and 
"  our  flying  minds  cannot  contain  a  protracted  description." 
If  at  his  occasional  worst  he  is  crabbed,  mannered,  obscure, 
polysyllabic,  it  may  be  a  warning  to  those  critics  who  find 
him  an  easy  prey,  whose  faculty  of  selection  is  so  unerring 
that  it  would  be  to  them  but  a  holiday  task  to  prove  Landor 
incoherent  or  Swift  waterish,  to  remember  of  Diana  that  "  a 
fit  of  angry  cynicism  now  and  then  set  her  composing 
phrases  as  baits  for  the  critics  to  quote,  condemnatory  of 
the  attractiveness  of  the  work."  Perhaps  Mr.  Meredith  has 
a  definitive  edition  of  his  works  in  reserve  without  the  few 
little  excrescences  and  eccentricities  that  give  colour  to  the 
adverse  estimate  of  finicking  pedantry.  But  cynicism — the 
refuge  of  the  disillusioned  sentimentalist — is  not  for  him. 
If  he  has  from  time  to  time  protested  against  the  judgments 
and  satirised  the  aims  of  the  world  that  overlooked  him, 
he  has  kept  his  serene  and  healthy  nature  undefiled  by 
any  taint  of  envy  of  the  deserved  successes  of  his  peers. 
Genius  unrecognised  tends  towards  pessimism  or  self- 
assertion.  He  does  not  abandon  his  hope  in  humanity 
because  his  novels  have  not  been  read  as  they  ought  to 
have  been,  and  if  he  is  not  content  to  acquiesce  in  the 


MR.  MEREDITHS  NOVELS.  305 

verdict  that  would  relegate  him  to  that  dusty  nook  where 
obscure  eccentrics  pine  for  the  light  of  popular  favour, 
some  allowance  may  perhaps  be  made  for  the  respect  which 
it  is  natural  for  him  to  feel  toward  what  he  calls  "  that 
acute  and  honourable  minority  which  consents  to  be 
thwacked  with  aphorisms  and  sentences  and  a  fantastic 
delivery  of  the  verities,"  and  which  has  maintained  through 
evil  and  good  report  that  his  first  novel  gained  for  him  a 
position,  since  strengthened  and  secured,  second  to  none  of 
his  predecessors  or  contemporaries  in  English  fiction. 

The  list  of  novels  is  a  short  one — so  short  that  I  may  say 
at  least  a  passing  word  of  each  of  them.  We  learn  from  "Men 
of  the  Time  "  that  Mr.  Meredith  was  born  "about  1828." 
This  is  a  little  vague,  but  uncertainty  about  such  an  event 
is,  I  believe,  not  unusual  in  the  case  of  an  immortal.  His 
first  publication  was  a  volume  of  poems  in  1851.  This,  and 
a  subsequent  volume,  containing  among  other  things 
"  Modern  Love,"  a  very  remarkable  poem  of  fifty  sixteen 
line  stanzas,  are  now  out  of  print.  The  first  volume  was 
followed  by  "  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  an  Arabian  enter- 
tainment, which  is  a  tremendous  medley  of  extravagant 
genius,  and  "  Farina,"  the  fanciful  setting  of  an  old  German 
legend.  In  these  an  exuberant  imagination  was  allowed 
free  play,  and  it  might  be  a  nice  consideration  how  far  a 
mind  naturally  impatient  of  restraint  has  gained  or  lost  by 
such  initial  exercises. 

In  1859,  being  then  about  30  years  of  age,  Mr.  Meredith 
published  "The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feveral,"  the  best 
known  and  the  most  generally  admired  of  his  works. 
Novelists  are  later  than  poets  in  attaining  to  maturity,  and 
"  Richard  Feveral "  is  so  elaborate  and  solid  a  work  that  it 
is  difficult  to  believe  it  to  bo  a  first  essay  in  this  form. 
Whether  it  is  the  best  of  his  books  or  not  it  contains  much 
<>f  his  finest  quality.  He  has  studied  the  genus  boy  with 


306  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

kindly  attention,  and  it  has  never  failed  to  yield  the  joke 
that  each  one  carries  at  the  centre  of  his  being.  Richard 
and  Ripton,  the  first  of  that  gallant  and  entertaining 
company,  of  which  Crossjay,  and  Temple,  and  Harry  Rich- 
mond, and  Nevil  Beauchamp  are  worthy  members,  make 
us  wish,  while  we  are  with  them,  that  their  author  could 
spare  time  from  graver  labours  to  give  us  once  for  all  that 
epic  of  boyhood  of  which  he,  and  he  only,  is  capable.  But 
if  it  is  hard  to  part  with  the  Bantam  and  Dame  Bakewell, 
and  the  other  accessories  to  Richard's  early  exploits,  we 
are  presently  consoled  by  some  of  the  very  prettiest  love- 
making  in  literature.  Richard  and  Lucy  are  our  modern 
Ferdinand  and  Miranda,  whose  fortunes  are  wrecked  by  a 
blind  and  infatuated  Prospero.  A  Prospero  whom  the 
winds  and  waves  do  not  obey,  whose  belief  in  his  spells  is 
unshaken,  and  whose  attitude  of  command  is  unrelaxed  till 
the  peremptory  awakening  of  calamity,  is  at  once  a  comic 
and  a  tragic  spectacle.  When  Sir  Austin  speaks  to  Mr. 
Thompson  of  Ripton,  and  says  "  Do  you  establish  yourself 
in  a  radiatory  centre  of  intuition  ?  do  you  base  your  watch- 
fulness on  so  thorough  an  acquaintance  with  his  character, 
so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  the  instrument,  that  all  its  move- 
ments— even  the  eccentric  ones — are  anticipated  by  you, 
and  provided  for  ? "  and  Mr.  Thompson  replies  that  "  he 
was  afraid  he  could  not  affirm  that  much,  though  he  was 
happily  enabled  to  say  that  Ripton  had  borne  an  extremely 
good  character  at  school,"  we  feel  that  we  are  in  the 
region  of  pure  comedy.  But  Sir  Austin  is  essentially  a 
tragic  character,  and  if  there  is  some  justice  in  the  objection 
that  the  story's  strange  and  pitiful  ending  is  not  inevitable 
as  a  tragic  issue  should  be,  it  is,  I  think,  because  his  posi- 
tion is  not  sufficiently  enforced.  He  is  a  man  of  high 
intelligence  and  noble  aims,  whose  fatal  pedantry  brings  ruin 
and  misery  upon  the  son  he  loves.  Of  Richard's  own  con- 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  307 

tribution  to  the  calamitous  tangle  in  his  neglectful  absence 
from  his  wife,  it  is  not  easy  to  speak.  It  is  inexplicable  to 
the  gross  and  literal  sense  of  the  Dogged  School  of  Criticism, 
but  we  may  take  comfort  in  remembering  that  other 
inconsequent  writer  who  taught  us  that  "  cause  and  will 
and  strength  and  means  "  may  be  a  prelude  with  no  suc- 
ceeding act,  and  who  has  left  unanswered  and  unanswerable 
the  portentous  question  : — 

"  Will  you,  I  pray,  demand  that  demi-devil 
Why  he  hath  thus  ensnared  my  soul  and  body  ? " 

The  humour  of  "  Richard  Feveral "  is  constant  in  opera- 
tion and  eminent  in  quality.  It  is  sometimes  snatched 
from  the  very  jaws  of  tragedy,  as  in  those  most  daring 
and  delightful  episodes,  the  historical  readings  of  the 
infatuated  and  bewildered  Lord  Mountfalcon.  It  gives  us 
a  wretched  dyspeptic  engaged  on  a  history  of  Fairy 
Mythology  and  a  "  wise  youth,"  himself  a  humorist, 
whose  philosophy  is  cunningly  undermined  by  his  con- 
temptuous author.  Of  its  pathos  I  will  only  say  that  the 
last  chapter  is  one  of  the  most  moving  things  in  our 
literature. 

"Evan  Harrington"  is  perhaps  the  least  admirable 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  books.  The  Countess  de  Saldar  is 
not  of  the  race  of  those  great  comic  characters  that 
justify  themselves  under  any  conditions.  She  is  an 
ordinary  person  in  an  extraordinary  position,  and  "  Evan 
Harrington "  is  a  comedy  of  circumstance  rather  than  of 
character.  The  tenacity  of  an  adventuress  is  not  the  most 
fruitful  of  themes,  and  though  she  is  excellently  pourtrayed, 
one  cannot  escape  the  reflection — in  the  light  of  the  later 
achievements  of  Richmond  Roy  and  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne — that  she  was  hardly  worth  the  effort.  But  Rose 
and  Evan  are  a  delightful  pair  of  lovers,  Lady  Jocelyn 
is  excellent,  and  Mrs.  Harrington  a  really  memorable 


308  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

character.  Mr.  Raikcs  is  perhaps  dangerously  near  the 
line  that  separates  the  fantastical  from  the  preposterous, 
but  with  old  Tom  Cogglesby,  who  seems  to  have  strayed 
from  Dickens's  collection,  he  contributes  some  capital  fun, 
and  fun  of  a  distinctive  quality. 

No  better  example  of  Mr.  Meredith's  powers  in  simple 
passionate  narrative  can  be  chosen  than  Emilia's  story  of 
her  early  life  in  the  book  that  has  been  re-named  "  Sandra 
Belloni."  "  Such  a  touch  on  the  violin  as  my  father  has, 
you  never  heard.  You  feel  yourself  from  top  to  toe,  when 
my  father  plays.  I  feel  as  if  I  breathed  music  like  air. 
One  day  came  news  from  Italy,  all  in  the  newspaper,  of 
my  father's  friends  and  old  companions  shot  and  murdered 
by  the  Austrians.  He  read  it  in  the  evening,  after  we  had 
had  a  quiet  day.  I  thought  he  did  not  mind  it  much,  for 
he  read  it  out  to  us  quite  quietly ;  and  then  he  made  me 
sit  on  his  knee  and  read  it  out.  I  cried  with  rage,  and  he 
called  to  me, '  Sandra !  Peace ! '  and  began  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  while  my  mother  got  the  bread  and  cheese 
and  spread  it  on  the  table,  for  we  were  beginning  to  be 
richer.  I  saw  my  father  take  out  his  violin.  He  put  it  on 
the  cloth  and  looked  at  it.  Then  he  took  it  up,  and  laid 
his  chin  on  it  like  a  man  full  of  love,  and  drew  the  bow 
across  just  once.  He  whirled  away  the  bow  and  knocked 
down  our  candle,  and  in  the  darkness  I  heard  something 
snap  and  break  with  a  hollow  sound.  When  I  could  see, 
he  had  broken  it,  the  neck  from  the  body — the  dear  old 
violin!  I  could  cry  still.  I — I  was  too  late  to  save  it. 
I  saw  it  broken,  and  the  empty  belly,  and  the  loose  strings ! 
It  was  murdering  a  spirit — that  was !  My  father  sat  in  a 
corner  one  whole  week,  moping  like  such  an  old  man !  I 
was  nearly  dead  with  my  mother's  voice.  By-and-by  we 
were  all  silent,  for  there  was  nothing  to  eat."  Here,  to 
use  a  famous  phrase,  "  Nature  takes  the  pen  from  him  and 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  309 

writes."  I  presume  that  no  fault  will  be  found  with  this 
even  by  the  literary  puritan.  Emilia  subsequently  kept  her 
parents  upon  a  potato  diet,  in  order  that  she  might  save 
money  for  her  singing  lessons — an  altogether  delightful 
circumstance,  though  perhaps  startling  to  those  who 
would  require  a  heroine  to  follow  the  usual  sympathetic 
course.  She  is  a  natural  young  woman,  a  living  refutation 
of  the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  and  an  assurance  of  her 
author's  belief  and  hope  in  human  nature.  She  does  not 
comprehend  evil,  but  instinctively  abhors  it.  Without 
superficial  cleverness,  she  penetrates  to  essentials.  She 
has  something  of  the  primal  gratitude  and  devotion  of  an 
animal.  Among  the  highly-organised  ladies  of  Brookfield, 
she  moves  like  a  young  panther  among  domestic  cats. 
These  civilised  young  persons  who  are,  if  less  amusing,  on 
a  higher  plane  of  comedy  than  the  Countess  de  Saldar,  have 
some  reason  to  complain  of  the  fate  that  confronts  them 
with  nature  in  the  phenomenal  forms  of  Emilia  and  Mrs. 
Chump,  by  whom  their  distinctions,  their  reserves,  their 
ideals,  are  roughly  broken  down  and  inexorably  scattered. 
In  Wilfred,  too,  we  have  a  careful  and  relentless  study  of 
one  who  tries  to  make  sentiment  do  the  work  of  passion, 
"  passion  which,"  we  are  told  with  profound  insight,  "  may 
tug  against  common  sense,  but  is  never  in  a  great  nature 
divorced  from  it."  There  is  not  much  common  sense  in 
Wilfred's  vagaries,  which,  commented  upon  in  most 
fanciful  fashion,  are  exceedingly  good  reading  for  the 
confirmed  Meix-dithian.  The  uninitiated  may  be  more 
confidently  recommended  to  the  life-like  and  grotesque 
Mr.  Pericles,  to  that  irresistible  Irishwoman,  Mrs.  Chump, 
or  to  Mr.  Pole,  a  really  notable  instance  of  a  commonplace 
person  raised  to  first  rate  interest  by  the  humour,  force, 
and  truth  of  his  presentation. 

If  diversity  of  opinion  as  to  Mr.  Meredith's  masterpiece 
21 


310  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

is  limited  only  by  the  number  of  his  books,  there  can  be 
little  doubt  in  assigning  to  "Rhoda  Fleming"  a  place 
among  the  highest.  Less  rich  and  various  than  some  of 
its  rivals,  it  is  of  singular  intensity  and  unmatched  power. 
In  those  marvellous  passages  where  Dahlia  defies  all  laws  of 
God  or  bonds  of  man  that  keep  her  from  her  lover,  the 
sharp  note  of  tragedy  is  struck  with  a  strong  and  sure 
hand.  Some  of  her  phrases  ring  in  the  memory  like  great 
Shakesperean  lines.  Opposed  to  this  creature  of  frenzied 
passion  is  her  patient  depressed  father,  a  man  of  narrow 
mind  and  inflexible  principles.  "  This  world  has  been  too 
many  for  me,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  and  Farmer  Fleming,  too, 
has  been  worsted  in  the  conflict  with  that  redoubtable 
adversary.  It  is  in  these  contrasted  figures  of  father  and 
daughter  that  the  peculiar  quality  of  the  drama  is 
displayed,  but  Rhoda  is  a  noble  example  of  those  reliable 
women  whose  lives  are  a  refutation  of  the  stupid  calumny 
that  attaches  the  vices  of  fickleness  and  faintness  to  their 
sex,  and  to  name  one  more  where  many  are  worthy  of 
full  and  adequate  discussion,  Mrs.  Sumfit  is  in  her  degree 
a  perfect  and  beautiful  creation. 

I  understand  that  there  is  a  class  of  orderly  and  sedate 
minds  to  which  "  Vittoria  "  is  a  dull  and  confused  narrative 
of  improbable  events.  Such  was  the  impression  recorded 
some  time  ago  by  an  American  critic  who,  strange  to  say, 
admired  Mr.  Meredith  heartily  in  the  main.  It  is,  indeed, 
of  almost  bewildering  motion  and  variety,  and  without  it  a 
great  region  of  its  author's  genius  would  remain  imper- 
fectly explored.  It  has  in  the  highest  degree  the  quality 
of  dramatic  picturesqueness,  which  may  be  illustrated  by 
two  short  connected  passages  from  the  scene  at  the  opera 
when  the  Austrians  occupied  the  Countess  Ammiani's  box. 
''Her  face  had  the  unalterable  composure  of  a  painted 
head  upon  an  old  canvas.  The  General  persisted  in 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  311 

tendering  excuses.  She  replied,  '  It  is  best,  when  one  is 
too  weak  to  resist,  to  submit  to  an  outrage  quietly."' 
"  Ammiani  saw  the  apparition  of  Captain  Wiesspriess  in 
his  mother's  box.  He  forgot  her  injunction,  and  hurried 
to  her  side,  leaving  the  doors  open.  His  passion  of  anger 
spurned  her  admonishing  grasp  of  his  arm,  and  with  his 
glove  he  smote  the  Austrian  officer  on  the  face.  Weisspriess 
plucked  his  sword  out ;  the  house  rose ;  there  was  a 
moment  like  that  of  a  wild  beast's  show  of  teeth.  It 
passed."  The  most  romantic  of  his  books,  it  is  vitalized 
and  exalted  by  that  passion  for  Italy  and  Italian  indepen- 
dence which  has  inspired  so  many  of  England's  best.  The 
manifestation  of  this  passion  is  its  distinguishing  feature. 
It  is  serene  and  beneficent  in  Vittoria,  generous  in  Powys, 
austere  in  the  Countess  Ammiani,  cunning  in  Barto  Rizzor 
fanatical  in  the  Guidascarpi.  Even  the  noble  character  of 
Vittoria,  stronger  and  deeper  than  when  we  knew  her  as 
Emilia,  which  gives  coherence  to  the  story  and  which 
dominates  the  strange  figures  that  surround  her,  scarcely 
holds  our  imagination  as  do  Angelo  and  Rinaldo,  Barto- 
Rizzo's  wife,  and  the  Countess  Ammiani — tragic  actors  in 
the  drama  of  a  nation. 

"  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond  "  is  Mr.  Meredith's 
only  essay  in  the  autobiographical  form,  and  it  is  well 
that  he  has  given  us  this  if  only  for  the  sake  of  those 
most  charming  of  childish  reminiscences  which  change 
with  delicate  gradations  through  the  distincter  recollections 
of  boyhood  to  the  recorded  experience  of  the  man.  The 
early  part  of  the  book — before  the  moral  complications  set 
in — is  what  I  would  respectfully  advance  as  a  proof  of  its 
author's  strength  in  picturesque  narrative.  The  school 
days,  the  flight  with  the  gipsy-girl,  those  gallant  topers 
Captain  Bulsted  and  Squire  Greg,  the  fog  and  the  fire 
in  London,  the  barque  Priscilla  and  her  skipper,  the 


312  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

inimitable  Captain  Jasper  Welch,  the  entrance  into  the 
beautiful  German  land,  and  the  sensational  discovery  of 
Harry's  father,  form  a  magnificent  series  of  scenes  and 
pictures.  They  are  preliminary  to  the  chief  business  of 
the  story,  the  development  of  one  of  the  most  individual 
products  of  English  fiction.  Readers  of  "Evan  Harring- 
ton "  who  are  able  to  feel  but  a  qualified  admiration  for  its 
principal  character  can  hardly  fail  to  be  struck  with  the 
possibilities  in  such  a  personage  as  the  grandiose  tailor 
whose  death  is  the  first  incident  in  the  story,  and  who 
looms  portentous  throughout  its  course.  But  the  Great 
Mel  is  but  a  shadow  of  the  brilliant  figure  in  which  the 
fantastic  side  of  Mr.  Meredith's  genhis  has  found  its  full 
and  perfect  expression.  If  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  is  his 
greatest  contribution  to  classical,  or  rather  to  typical 
comedy,  Richmond  Roy  is  the  most  notable  instance  of  an 
absolute  creation,  not  plausible  only,  but  real  and  con- 
vincing. Perhaps  his  nearest  affinities  are  such  psycho- 
logical curiosities  as  Turge'nieff's  Dmitri  Roudine  or  Mr. 
Henry  James's  Roderick  Hudson.  I  can  only  refer  to 
Squire  Beltham,  the  undegenerate  descendant  of  Squire 
Western,  with  a  pathos  all  his  own,  and  to  the  two  heroines 
Janet  and  Ottilia,  the  first  staunch  and  tender-hearted,  to 
whom  a  promise  is  a  sacred  thing,  and  the  other,  one  of 
that  rare  order  of  women  in  which  feelings  are  subordi- 
nated to  principles. 

Mr.  Meredith  warns  us  not  to  expect  a  plot  in  "  Beau- 
champ's  Career,"  for  if  he  had  one  it  would  be  useless  to 
attempt  to  persuade  his  characters  to  conform  to  it.  Like 
Frankenstein's  monster,  they  would  escape  from  the  control 
of  their  creator  and  make  for  awkward  places  outside  the 
prescribed  bounds.  But  if  there  is  no  plot  there  is,  at  any 
rate,  that  best  kind  of  construction,  which  is  evolution 
tempered  by  a  not  too  obtrusive  Special  Providence.  The 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  313 

hero  is  actually  the  centre  and  mainspring  of  the  drama, 
his  actions  are  the  inevitable  outcome  of  his  character  and 
position,  and  the  men  and  women  by  whom  he  is  sur- 
rounded are  developed  and  combined  in  their  relations  to 
him.  He  is  the  touchstone  by  which  they  are  tried  and 
judged,  for  here,  as  elsewhere,  there  is  no  escaping  the 
moral  estimate.  It  is  a  proof  of  constructive  ability  that 
the  crucial  scene  between  Rene'e  and  Beauchamp  is  rein- 
forced in  interest  and  importance  by  every  preceding  epi- 
sode, and  cannot  be  fully  appreciated  without  a  present 
remembrance,  not  only  of  the  morning  on  the  Adriatic 
and  the  adventure  of  the  boat,  but  of  all  his  relations  to 
Cecilia,  to  Everard  Romfrey,  to  Dr.  Shrapnel  and,  indeed, 
to  all  his  world. 

The  aristocratic  radical  is  not  a  new  type,  and  may  be 
made  a  very  dreary  personage.  Nevil  Beauchamp  has 
something  of  the  spirit  of  the  political  Shelley.  He  is  one 
of  those  militant  heroes  who  cannot  be  persuaded  to  en- 
dure what  is  wrong,  or  to  see  in  expediency  a  tolerable 
substitute  for  right.  We  learn  that,  as  a  boy,  he  "  talked 
of  his  indignation  nightly,  to  his  pretty  partners,  at  balls  " 
— the  cause  being  no  less  than  international — and  that 
"he  loved  his  country,  and  for  another  and  a  broader 
love,  growing  out  of  his  first  passion,  fought  it."  This 
political  fight  is  conducted  under  social  conditions  that 
might  daunt  any  man.  He  alienates  his  friends,  he 
quarrels  with  the  uncle  on  whom  he  is  dependent,  he  is 
surrounded  by  misunderstandings  and  misjudgments. 
But  he  clings  fast  to  his  faith  in  working  and  fighting — a 
faith  that  one  only  has  power  to  shake.  Rene'e,  "a 
brunette  of  tho  fine  lineaments  of  the  good  blood  of 
France,"  is  the  most  finely  wrought  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
women.  We  are  sometimes  told  that  it  is  not  sufficient  in 
literary  matters  to  have  a  faith — we  must  have  a  reason, 


314  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NO  VELS. 

and  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore  has  lately  declared  that  "  there 
already  exists  in  the  writings  and  sayings  of  Aristotle, 
Hegel,  Lessing,  Goethe  and  others,  the  greater  part  of  the 
materials  necessary  for  the  formation  of  a  body  of  insti- 
tutes of  art  which  would  supersede  and  extinguish  nearly 
all  the  desultory  chatter  which  now  passes  for  criticism." 
When  these  institutes  are  selected  and  approved,  and  critics 
are  agreed  upon  a  code  that  will  determine  authoritatively 
and  arithmetically  the  value  of  artistic  products,  we  shall 
no  longer  have  an  excuse  for  a  preference  unexplained. 
Our  heroines  of  romance  will  be  duly  measured  and 
docketed ;  and  as  their  sisters  in  real  life  are  estimated  by 
their  conformity  to  or  divergence  from  a  standard  of  morals 
and  manners  strangly  compounded  of  nature  and  conven- 
tion, so  will  they  be  referred  for  judgment  and  correction 
to  the  accepted  code  of  literary  positivism.  Meanwhile,  I 
fear  that  I  cannot  render  sound  reasons  for  my  admiration 
of  Rene'e.  Her  attraction  is  too  subtle  to  be  expressed  by 
any  feeble  epitome  of  mine.  Her  perfect  distinction  and 
incomparable  charm  elude  criticism  and  defy  analysis. 
The  position  of  a  runaway  wife  rejected  by  her  lover  is  a 
hard  one  to  support  with  dignity,  nor  when  it  is  the  lover 
who  has  changed  his  mind  does  his  seem  a  part  in  which 
much  credit  may  be  gained.  Yet  this  situation  is  chosen 
for  the  crowning  trial  of  each,  and  never,  it  seems  to  me, 
have  the  relations  of  social  man  and  woman  been  treated 
with  a  wiser  charity,  never  have  they  been  touched  by  a 
stronger  or  a  tenderer  hand. 

Beauchamp  obtains  a  victory  over  himself,  but  it  is  a 
victory  without  a  triumph,  for  it  strikes  to  the  dust  the 
woman  he  loves.  But  in  her  abasement  we  learn  to  respect 
her  more.  Her  composure  is  a  sign  of  true  humility,  and 
we  may  think  of  her  at  last  as  not  unhappy  in  the  haven 
of  that  Church  that  has  given  comfort  to  so  many  noble 
and  modest  souls. 


MR,  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  315 

"  Beauchamp's  Career "  is  singularly  rich  in  character. 
Even  Rene'e  does  not  obliterate  her  rivals,  and  Everard 
Romfrey,  "in  mind  a  mediaeval  baron,"  and  concerning 
whom  we  are  told  that  "  the  conversation  he  delighted  in 
most  might  have  been  going  in  any  century  since  the 
Conquest"  is  a  portrait  as  faithful  and  superb  as 
Thackeray's  Lord  Steyne  himself.  Rosamond  Culling, 
Dr.  Shrapnel,  Lord  Palmet,  Colonel  Halkett,  with  many 
others  that  are  not  less  artistically  complete,  because  they 
are  carefully  subordinated,  are  wholly  and  admirably 
successful.  It  is  a  political  novel,  and  its  comments  on 
the  temporary  and  the  essential  conditions  of  our  life  are 
worth  many  tons  of  blue  books  and  reports  of  partisan 
speeches.  With  the  impartiality  of  great  art  it  gives  us 
hope  for  democracy,  while  it  shows  that  no  finer  race  exists 
than  the  English  aristocracy.  In  humour  and  pathos, 
in  dialogue  and  incident,  in  description  and  romance,  it 
touches  its  author's  highest  mark.  If  I  have  failed,  as  I 
suppose  I  have  failed,  to  render  intelligible  any  of  my  own 
enthusiasm  to  those  who  do  not  know  or  do  not  care  lor 
a  book,  which,  to  me  the  noblest  and  best  of  English 
novels,  has  not  hitherto,  I  suppose,  been  ranked  among 
our  country's  masterpieces,  I  must  call  to  mind  what 
Mr.  Browning,  who  is  not  a  lyrical  poet,  we  are  sometimes 
told,  has  provided  once  for  all  against  such  an  occasion : — 

All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 

Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 

Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue  ; 

Till  my  friends  hare  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 

My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue. 

Then  it  stops  like  a  bird  ;  like  a  flower  hangs  furled  ; 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 

What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me,  therefore  I  love  it 


316  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

It  has  been  said  by  a  distinguished  critic  that  "  The 
Egoist "  is  "  on  a  pinnacle  apart  among  novels,  and  marks 
the  writer  for  one  of  the  breed  of  Shakespeare  and  Moliere." 
The  counterblast  comes  from  Mr.  William  Watson,  a  skilful 
and  forcible  writer  in  a  recent  number  of  the  National 
Review,  who  strangely  classes  Mr.  Meredith's  novels — 
so  crammed  with  movement,  thought,  and  life — as 
"ansemic,"  and  says  that,  "speaking  in  sober  literalness, 
with  due  attention  to  the  force  and  value  of  words, 
my  impression  of  '  The  Egoist '  is  that  it  is  the  most 
entirely  wearisome  book  purporting  to  be  a  novel  that 
I  ever  toiled  through  in  my  life."  These  contrasted  opinions 
or  impressions  admit  of  no  compromise ;  one  or  the  other 
is  absurd.  Mr.  Watson  declares  that  he  finds  Sir  Wil- 
loughby  soporific  and  Clara  Middleton  unrealisable,  and 
quotes  a  number  of  phrases,  some  of  which,  even  with  their 
context,  may  be  frankly  admitted  to  be  ultra-fanciful.  But 
he  acknowledges — I  am  afraid  with  a  sneer — that  "  delight 
is  a  thing  that  cannot  be  argued  with."  Such  also  is  insen- 
sibility— seems  the  only  retort  possible  to  one  who  is  not  at 
all  in  love  with  Clara,  and  who  is  so  far  from  thinking 
Willoughby  a  great  comic  type  as  to  have  apparently  no 
feeling  but  repulsion  for  that  situation  in  which,  yielding 
to  comedy  his  last  and  finest  fruit,  he  will  make  any  sacri- 
fice of  honour  or  of  substance  to  keep  up  appearances 
before  two  or  three  old  women  whom  he  despises.  The 
fact  is  that  "  The  Egoist"  is  a  book  to  be  enjoyed  by  those 
who  have  an  appreciable  infusion  of  its  hero's  nature. 
This  consideration  may  be  offered  as  a  consolation  to  those 
who  do  not  enjoy  it.  Sir  Willoughby  should  be  realised 
sympathetically.  "I  am  what  I  am,"  he  says,  and  he 
might  have  added — 

And  they  who  level 
At  my  abuses  reckon  up  their  own. 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  817 

Few  men  can  read  of  him  without  at  least  a  slight  feeling 
of  uneasiness,  so  many  are  the  touches  of  nature  that  reveal 
our  kinship  to  him.  But  he  must  not  be  taken  too 
earnestly.  He  must  not  be  hated,  or  all  the  fine  aroma 
of  the  comedy  is  lost.  We  know  that  Clara  is  safe — 
it  would  be  no  comedy  if  she  were  not;  and  knowing 
this,  we  may  watch  his  evolutions  peacefully.  Such 
a  character  might  be  treated  tragically,  as  in  that 
indication  of  a  mediaeval  Willoughby  in  Mr.  Browning's 
"  My  Last  Duchess,"  where  too  is  the  ill-fated  prototype  of 
the  more  fortunate  Clara,  whose  happy  union  with  Vernon 
Whitford,  that  fine  example  of  the  man  who  can  "  plod  on 
and  still  keep  the  passion  fresh,"  is  the  most  satisfactory  of 
all  possible  endings.  In  the  person  of  the  kind  and  witty 
great  lady,  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson,  Mr.  Meredith  has 
given  us  some  of  the  best  of  his  epigrams,  and  a  close 
acquaintance  with  the  characters  they  qualify  is  necessary 
to  appreciate  such  triumphs  in  this  difficult  and  worthy 
art  as  "Here  she  comes  with  a  romantic  tale  on  her 
eyelashes,"  applied  to  Laetitia  Dale, "  Phoebus  Apollo  turned 
fasting  friar,"  to  Whitford,  and  above  all,  the  "  dainty 
rogue  in  porcelain,"  to  Clara.  The  dialogue  of  "The 
Egoist,"  is  pitched  in  a  high  key,  so  high  that  to  some 
untrained  ears  the  result  is  no  more  than  silence.  "  The 
exceedingly  lively  conversation  at  his  table  was  lauded  by 
Lady  Culmer,  '  though,'  said  she,  '  what  it  all  meant,  and 
what  was  the  drift  of  it,  I  couldn't  tell  to  save  my  life.  Is 
it  every  day  the  same  with  you  here?'  'Very  much/ 
'  How  you  must  enjoy  a  spell  of  dulness.' "  Mr.  Meredith 
gives  us  no  spells  of  dulness,  and  those  who,  like  Mr.  Dale, 
are  "  unable  to  cope  with  analogies,"  and  "  have  but 
strength  for  the  slow  digestion  of  facts,"  are  likely 
to  have  a  hard  time  of  it.  But  they  have  Crossjay, 
and  ho  is  such  a  capital  fellow  that  I  must  quote 


318  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

his  description.      He   is   "a  rosy-cheeked,  round  bodied 

rogue  of   a  boy,  who  fell  upon    meats    and    puddings, 

and  defeated  them,  with  a  captivating  simplicity  in  his 

confession  that  he  had  never  had  enough  to  eat  in  his  life. 

He  had  gone  through  a  training  for  a  plentiful  table.     At 

first,  after  a  number  of  helps,  young  Crossjay  would  sit 

and    sigh  heavily,   in  contemplation   of    the   unfinished 

dish.     Subsequently,  he  told  his  host  and  hostess  that  he 

had  two  sisters  above  his  own  age,  and  three  brothers  and 

two  sisters  younger  than  he ;   '  all  hungry ! '  said  the  boy. 

His  pathos  was  most  comical.     It  was  a  good  month  before 

he  could  see  pudding  taken  away  from  table  without  a  sigh 

of  regret  that  he  could  not  finish  it,  as  deputy  for  the 

Devonport  household.    The  pranks  of  the  little  fellow,  and 

his  revel  in  a  country  life,  and  muddy  wildness  in  it, 

amused  Lsetitia  from  morning  to  night.     She,  when  she 

had  caught  him,  taught  him  in  the  morning;    Vernon, 

favoured  by  the  chase,  in  the  afternoon.     Young  Crossjay 

would  have  enlivened  any  household.     He  was  not  only 

indolent,  he  was  opposed  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge 

through  the  medium  of  books,  and  would  say :    '  But  I 

don't  want  to ! '  in  a  tone  to  make  a  logician  thoughtful. 

Nature  was  very  strong  in  him.     He  had,  on  each  return 

of  the  hour  of  instruction,  to  be  plucked  out  of  the  earth, 

rank  of  the  soil,  like  a  root,  for  the  exercise  of  his  big 

round  head-piece  on  these  tyrannous  puzzles.     But  the 

habits  of   birds,  and  the  place  for  their  eggs,  and  the 

management  of   rabbits,  and   the   tickling  of   fish,   and 

poaching  joys  with  combative  boys  of  the  district,  and  how 

to  wheedle  a  cook  for  a  luncheon  for  a  whole  day  in  the 

rain,  he  soon  knew  of  his  great  nature." 

If  it  is  the  ultimate  fate  of  Mr.  Meredith's  admirers  to 
become  a  fighting  minority,  it  is  probable  that  they  will 
rarely  choose  "The  Tragic  Comedians"  for  a  battle 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  319 

ground.  It  is  not  so  much  a  novel  as  a  problem  of  hard 
incredible  facts,  only  to  be  solved  by  the  application  of  the 
spirit  of  comedy,  and  audacious  is  the  imagination  that 
can  conceive  Alvan  as  a  comic  character.  It  gives  the 
impression  of  a  case  presented  by  an  advocate  of  extreme 
insight,  eloquence,  and  conviction. 

Mr.  Swinburne,  who,  as  a  critic,  is  perhaps  rather  one 
who  lights  the  way  than  an  infallible  guide,  in  his 
splendid  eulogy  of  Charlotte  Bronte,  has  attempted  the 
hard  task  of  distinguishing  between  what  he  regards  as  the 
two  great  classes  of  imaginative  writing,  and  assigning  to 
George  Eliot  and  George  Meredith  foremost  places  in  the 
honourable,  but  inferior  class,  whose  methods  are  intellectual 
rather  than  instinctive,  he  says  that  "George  Eliot,  a 
woman  of  the  first  order  of  intellect,  has  once  and  again 
shown  how  much  further,  and  more  steadily,  and  more 
hopelessly,  and  more  irretrievably,  and  more  intolerably 
wrong  it  is  possible  for  mere  intellect  to  go,  than  it  ever 
can  be  possible  for  mere  genius."  Now,  while  it  may 
be  permissible  wholly  to  dissent  from  Mr.  Swinburne's 
judgment  upon  the  memorable  incident,  which  he  cites  as 
the  justification  of  this  passage,  and  to  doubt  the  soundness 
of  a  principle  that  seems  to  require  or  condone  the  absence 
of  that  greatest  gift  of  God-like  reason  from  the  highest 
imaginative  expression,  it  is  certain  that  great  intellectual 
gifts  may  be  employed  in  the  production  of  elaborate 
error.  Mr.  Meredith  has  himself  given  an  admirable 
example  of  this  in  Sir  Austin  Feveral,  whose  antithesis — 
the  invaluable  Mrs.  Berry — triumphantly  vindicates  the 
cause  of  the  simple  natural  instincts.  In  "  Diana  of  the 
Crossways,"  he  seems  to  invite  criticism  on  these  lines.  I 
have  said  that  he  has  a  taste  for  curious  cases.  Hero  wo 
have  to  accept  no  less  than  this :  that  a  woman,  incapable 
of  base  imaginings,  who  is,  as  he  says,  "  mentally  active  up 


320  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

to  the  point  of  spiritual  clarity,"  may  yet  act  basely.  It  is 
an  appeal  from  the  judgments  of  the  world.  A  moral  lapse 
in  the  direction  of  treachery  is  impossible  to  conceive  of 
Diana.  Her  act  must  be  the  result  of  abnormal  mental 
conditions.  We  may  most  satisfactorily  elude  the  question 
by  calling  it  an  act  of  temporary  madness.  It  is  as  if  the 
custodian  of  a  magazine  should  apply  torch  to  powder  with 
no  prospective  or  immediate  thought  of  an  explosion.  For 
Diana  was  brought  up  to  politics.  She  had  a  political 
environment.  Her  act  involved  not  merely  paralysis  of 
reason,  but  distortion  of  instinct,  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
Mr.  Meredith  has  here  fallen  into  the  temptation  to 
attempt  to  defeat  his  old  enemy,  the  confident,  clamorous 
world,  upon  its  own  terms,  and  has  committed  the  capital 
fault,  foreign  to  his  best  method,  of  fitting  his  character  to 
the  situation  he  has  chosen.  Incredible  too  seems  Dacier's 
merely  temporary  incredulity  and  prompt  acceptance  of 
the  literal  fact.  Of  course,  no  reader  can  take  him  for  a 
great-hearted  man — those  who  remember  his  author's  care 
in  the  selection  of  names  will  find  his  to  be  ominously 
composed  of  sibilants — but  he  is  represented  as  not  only 
without  compassion,  but  almost  without  curiosity.  His 
passages  with  Constance  Asper  are  strong  and  biting  satire, 
rather  than  impartial  art. 

But  if  there  is  any  justice  in  these  criticisms — I  do  not 
need  to  be  reminded  of  their  presumption  and  insufficiency — 
they  leave  untouched  the  essential  parts  of  a  noble 
character,  of  a  various  and  generally  consistent  picture  of 
life,  and  of  a  piece  of  writing  throughout  forcible  and 
brilliant,  which,  to  adopt  the  familiar  simile  that  makes 
language  the  garment  of  thought,  is  of  fine  and  strong 
texture,  stiff  with  gems. 

I  fear  that  what  I  have  written  is  rather  a  record  of 
impressions  than  a  justification  by  first  principles,  and  it 


MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS.  321 

is  time  to  attempt  to  sum  up  briefly  the  qualities  upon 
which  Mr.  Meredith's  claim  for  acceptance  as  a  great 
novelist  are  founded.  Leaving  out  of  account  occasional 
aberrations  from  which  no  one  is  free,  he  has  a  style  at 
once  vivid  and  thoughtful,  his  dialogue  is  brilliant  and 
generally  characteristic,  he  is  a  master  of  narrative,  a  great 
wit,  and  a  genial  and  profound  humorist ;  in  description 
he  is  a  poet,  in  incident  an  inspired  witness;  he  has 
insight,  charity,  and  patriotism;  he  has  tragic  and 
pathetic  power ;  and  he  is  capable  of  combining  these  great 
qualities  into  a  consistent  and  effectual  whole.  With  him 
the  novel  is  a  moral  agent,  not  because  he  is  immediately 
and  professedly  didactic,  but  because  his  head  and  heart 
are  right,  and  he  deals  fully  and  sincerely  with  the  aspects 
of  life  that  he  has  chosen  to  describe.  It  may  be  said 
that  though  "  where  virtue  is  there  are  more  virtuous," 
there  is  one  first  and  sufficient  test  beside  which  all  others 
are  irrelevant — that  a  novelist  must  stand  or  fall  by  his 
characters — by  the  number  and  quality  of  realised  and 
realisable  human  beings  that  he  has  devised  and  presented. 
Of  all  others,  this  is  the  test  that  the  lover  of  Meredith 
will  welcome.  And  especially  will  such  an  one  claim  for 
him,  not  a  high  place  merely,  but  the  supreme  place  as  a 
delineator  of  good  women — of  good  women,  because,  of  their 
kind,  Becky  Sharp,  and  Beatrix  Esmond,  Rosamond  Vincy, 
and  Hetty  Sorrel  can  hardly  be  excelled.  He  is  a  lover  of 
England,  and  if  there  be  any  that  think  patriotism  a 
narrow  or  exclusive  passion,  he  may  pass  from  Janet,  and 
Lucy,  and  Dahlia,  and  Rose,  and  Clara,  the  very  flower  of 
English  womanhood,  to  the  Irish  Diana,  the  French  Rene'e, 
the  German  Ottilia,  the  Italian  Emilia.  To  say  that  his 
heroes  are  not  unworthy  of  these,  is  the  highest  praise  that 
can  be  given  to  them.  They  have  this  much  in  common 
with  the  conventional  heroes  of  romance,  that  they  are 


322  MR.  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

handsome,  dashing,  virtuous.  The  addition  of  brains  and 
purpose  has  actually  made  them  interesting,  a  feat  in 
which  no  other  first  rate  English  novelist  has  succeeded. 
To  enlist  our  sympathies,  Thackeray  must  deprive  his  men 
of  personal  graces,  as  Esmond,  or  of  brains,  as  Harry 
Warrington ;  Scott  and  Dickens  produced  walking  gentle- 
men, and  George  Eliot  never  attempted  the  type.  I  must 
content  myself  with  naming  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne, 
Everard  Romfrey,  Squire  Beltham,  and  Richmond  Roy  as 
a  quartet  of  characters  worthily  representative  of  their 
author. 

There  is  a  class  of  critics  which  constantly  bewails  our 
modern  craving  for  the  new  and  strange.  "Who  now 
reads  Fielding,  and  Dickens,  and  Thackeray?"  ask  Mr. 
Lang  and  his  fellows.  Who  does  not  ?  To  read  good  new 
novels  gives  us  an  enlarged  capacity  for  the  old.  It 
enlarges  our  charity  too,  and  helps  us  to  a  more  lenient 
view  of  the  shallow  cynicism  in  Thackeray,  shallow  because 
he  was  at  heart  no  cynic,  of  those  characters  of  Fielding's 
that  have  so  much  more  of  convention  than  of  nature  in 
their  composition,  of  the  schoolgirl  crudities  of  Charlotte 
Bronte,  the  dulness  of  Scott,  the  sham  passion  of  Dickens, 
the  occasional  flat  passion  of  George  Eliot.  Who,  indeed, 
is  perfect,  except  Jane  Austen  ?  Her  reach  and  grasp  are 
coincident,  and  if  the  world  could  be  reduced  to  her  scale, 
she  would  be  supreme  and  all-sufficient.  And  yet,  in  spite 
of  their  faults,  I  suppose  that  most  of  us  would  place  above 
her  all  the  great  writers  I  have  named.  I  confess  that  to 
me  Mr.  Meredith's  faults  are  at  least  not  greater  than 
theirs.  His  virtues  entitle  him  to  an  honourable  place 
among  them,  and  if  it  is  denied  by  his  own  generation,  our 
children,  and  our  children's  children  may  repair  the  error, 
but  they  can  never  atone  for  the  injustice. 


T 


A  STORY  OF  A  PICTURE. 

BY   JOHN    MORTIMER. 
"It  will  be  as  it  will  be."—  Augusta  Webster. 

HE  room  of  my  friend  Bibliophilus  is  crowded  with 
books,  old  carved  furniture,  and  antique  odds  and  ends 
of  various  kinds,  but  for  me  the  most  noteworthy  among 
his  art  treasures  is  a  picture  which  hangs  in  a  massive  gilt 
frame  above  the  mantelshelf  ;  "  Ecce  Homo,"  some  call  it, 
but  the  possessor  has  more  appropriately  named  it 
"  Salvator  Mundi."  There  is  a  story  connected  with  this 
picture,  but  if  you  ask  Bibliophilus  how  he  became 
possessed  of  it,  and  who  painted  it,  he  will  probably  reply 
in  his  precise  matter-of-fact  way,  that  he  believes  it  is  by 
Giovanni  Bellini,  and  may  have  once  adorned  the  altar  of 
an  Italian  church  ;  that  it  was  discovered  many  years  ago 
by  a  needy  artist,  who  purchased  it  for  him  from  a  broker, 
who  said  he  bought  it  at  a  sale  of  furniture  belonging  to  a 
local  Catholic  family.  Possibly,  if  you  push  your  enquiries 
further,  he  may  tell  you  that  when  purchased,  the  picture 
appeared  of  doubtful  value,  and  that  its  merit  was  only 
revealed  in  full  after  a  process  of  restoration.  In  such 
general  outlines  you  may  not  find  anything  very  novel  or 
out  of  the  way,  but  there  is  more  colour  and  incident  in 


324  A  STORY  OF  A  PICTURE. 

the  story  of  its  acquisition,  as  told  by  our  mutual  friend 
Historians,  who  was  in  at  the  discovery,  and  helped,  in  his 
way,  to  disclose  the  beauty  of  the  work. 

Historicus — who  is  wont  to  assert  with  something  of 
self-satisfaction,  that  he  hasn't  a  line  of  poetry  in  his 
composition — is,  like  the  owner  of  the  picture,  a  plain 
spoken  man,  and  though  fond  in  a  bookish  way  of — 

Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age 
And  chronicles  of  eld, 

he  attaches  very  great  importance  to  the  virtue  of 
unadorned  facts  in  a  narrative.  He  has,  moreover,  an 
eye  for  a  picture,  and  indeed  is  able,  in  an  amateurish 
fashion,  to  paint  one  for  himself  if  he  so  desires.  He 
regards  the  discovery  of  the  picture  in  question  as  one  of 
the  great  revelations  of  his  life,  and  since  its  beauty  first 
dawned  upon  his  sight,  he  has  never,  so  to  speak,  taken 
his  mental  eye  off  it.  Though  it  adorns  the  room  of 
Bibliophilus,  it  hangs  also  in  the  chamber  of  the  imagination 
of  Historicus.  It  is  to  him  a  gem  which  shines  with 
undimmed  lustre,  and  one  in  which  he  has  a  vested 
interest,  second  only  to  that  of  the  possessor  himself. 

The  story,  as  Historicus  told  it  to  me,  not  for  the  first  time, 
as  we  smoked  our  pipes  together  the  other  day,  runs  some- 
what to  this  effect.  A  good  many  years  ago,  no  matter 
particularly  how  many,  but  when  Historicus  was  a  youth, 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  impecunious  artist  whom 
we  will  call  Lionel.  This  Lionel,  who  was  a  brother  of  a 
member  of  the  Royal  Academy,  had  studied  in  Italy,  and 
though  possessing  considerable  power  as  a  painter,  exer- 
cised it  in  such  a  ne'er-do-weel  fashion  that  he  was  in  a 
chronic  state  of  need.  When  other  sources  failed,  to 
Bibliophilus  and  to  the  youth  Historicus,  Lionel  came, 
from  time  to  time,  for  pecuniary  help.  In  spite,  however, 
of  his  improvidence,  there  seems  to  have  been  much  good- 


A  STORY  OP  A  PICTURE.  325 

ness  and  honesty  in  his  nature,  in  evidence  of  which, 
Historicus  tells,  how  one  day,  the  artist  came  to  him  con- 
fessing, with  sadness,  that  he  could  not  repay  his  loan,  but, 
in  lieu  thereof,  would  make  his  young  friend  a  present 
which  he  must  promise  not  to  part  with  until  he  had 
attained  the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  then,  no  doubt,  he 
would  be  sure  enough  never  to  part  with  it.  This  gift  was  a 
manuscript  volume,  consisting  of  eighteen  leaves  of  parch- 
ment, with  illuminated  and  other  drawings  and  quaint 
black-letter  rhymes,  all  done  in  elaborate  imitation  of  the 
illuminated  manuscripts  of  an  older  time,  and  the  work  of 
that  quaint  local  antiquary,  Thomas  Barritt.  The  manu- 
script has  been  accounted  one  of  the  most  interesting  relics 
of  its  author,  and  was  made  the  subject  of  a  profound  and 
scholarly  paper,  read  by  our  friend  the  Pythagorean  at 
the  Literary  Club.  I  daresay  this  morsel  of  antiquity, 
given  to  him  in  his  youth,  had  something  to  do  with  the 
birth  of  that  antiquarian  taste  which  Historicus  displays. 
He  kept  his  promise  not  to  part  with  the  manuscript 
during  his  minority,  and  has  resisted  every  temptation  to 
part  with  it  since. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  story  of  the  picture.  One 
day,  Lionel  came  to  Bibliophilus  and  told  him  that  he  had 
seen,  in  a  broker's  shop,  a  picture,  which,  though  much 
defaced,  he  felt  sure  would  turn  out  to  have  been  originally 
painted  by  Giovanni  Bellini.  It  was  a  representation  of 
the  Redeemer  crowned  with  thorns.  As  a  work  of  art,  it 
was  not  very  attractive  in  form  or  colour,  but  Lionel  ven- 
tured to  say,  that  beneath  the  surface  picture  another  more 
beautiful  one  was  hidden,  and  which  might  be  revealed. 
He  was  anxious  that  Bibliophilus  should  commission  him 
to  purchase  the  picture  on  a  venture. 

After  due  thought,  a  modest  price  was  agreed  upon 
and  the  venture  was  made.  But  the  first  consideration 
22 


326  A  STORY  OF  A  PICTURE. 

was  as  to  the  exact  whereabouts  of  this  broker's  shop. 
Now  it  must  be  confessed  that,  like  the  Persian  poet,  Lionel 
loved  to — 

Fill  the  cup  that  clears 

To-day  of  past  regrets  and  future  fears, 

and,  like  the  said  poet,  loved  to  $it  in  taverns  where  such 
cups  are  filled.  It  was  while  threading  his  way  through  a 
labyrinth  of  streets  that  lay  between  a  tavern  and  his  own 
home  that  the  picture  had  arrested  his  attention,  but 
though  he  remembered  the  tavern,  he  could  not  remember 
the  streets  he  had  traversed,  nor  fix  the  locality  of  the 
broker's  shop.  The  doubtful  spot,  however,  lay  between 
two  certain  and  well-ascertained  points,  the  tavern  and  his 
own  home.  The  best  plan,  therefore,  was  to  thread  in  all 
directions,  and  in  a  methodical  manner,  the  maze  of  streets 
that  lay  between.  With  the  tavern  as  his  starting  point, 
he  made  many  journeys  along  various  routes,  but,  for  a 
long  time  in  vain,  until  at  last  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  not  have  started  out  straight  from  the  inn,  but  have 
taken  a  backward  turn  as  it  were,  which  proved  to  be  cor- 
rect, and,  at  last,  along  this  line  of  exploration,  the  shop 
was  found.  When  Lionel,  for  the  sum  of  five  pounds,  had 
purchased  his  picture  and  brought  it,  in  triumph,  to  his 
friend  Bibliophilus,  there  was,  Historicus  tells  us,  con- 
siderable doubt  as  to  the  value  received.  Lionel,  however, 
was  proof  against  the  smiling  incredulity  of  his  friends. 
"  It  will  be  as  it  will  be,"  he  said  in  effect,  and  maintained 
that  beneath  the  brown  surface  colour  there  would  be  dis- 
closed the  original  picture,  painted  on  a  gilt  background. 
To  remove  this  surface  colour  was  the  first  process  in 
development,  and  Historicus,  as  possessing  a  dry  thumb, 
was  set  to  work  to  rub  the  surface  gently.  With  much 
detail,  he  tells  how  long  and  how  painfully  this  was  prose- 
cuted until  a  bit  of  gilt  was  revealed,  to  the  great  joy  of 


A  STORT  OP  A  PICTURE.  327 

Lionel,  who  thought  it  would  not  be  unbecoming,  at  this 
point,  to  break  out  into  high  festival,  a  suggestion,  how- 
ever, to  which  no  attention  was  paid.  How,  after  applica- 
tions of  a  restorative  nature,  into  which,  as  Historicus 
describes  them,  brown  paper,  mastic,  and  brandy  were  in- 
troduced, the  picture  was  freed  from  its  superfluous  coat  of 
colour,  and  at  last  revealed  in  its  beauty,  it  is  not  necessary 
further  to  tell.  Lionel's  theory  of  the  obscuring  colour  was 
that  the  picture  had  been  surreptitiously  removed  from 
Italy  at  a  time  when  the  removal  of  valuable  works  of 
art  was  prohibited,  and  that  coarse  colour  had  been  put  on 
to  make  the  picture  appear  worthless.  But  how  Lionel  had 
recognised  the  merit  of  the  picture,  under  the  obscuring  con- 
ditions of  his  first  view  of  it,  is  a  mystery,  and  only  explain- 
able on  the  ground  of  the  artist's  instinctive  and  marvel- 
lous insight.  He  was  confident  that  it  had  been  painted 
by  Bellini,  but,  beyond  that,  and  the  painter's  initials, 
there  is  no  other  verification.  Pictures  survive  and  lives 
fail.  "  Salvator  Mundi "  hangs  still  in  the  room  of  Biblio- 
philus,  but  Lionel,  good  soul,  now  lies  at  rest  beyond  the 
Atlantic  waves. 

And  now  a  word  about  the  picture,  which,  whether  by 
Bellini  or  not,  is  a  remarkable  one,  and  cannot  be  looked 
upon  without  something  of  sacred  regard.  It  is  painted 
on  a  panel,  and  as  I  have  said,  it  shows  the  head  of  the 
Redeemer,  crowned  with  thorns,  and  shows  also  the 
wounded  hands,  with  palms  turned  outwards  over  the 
breast,  with  a  mingled  expression  of  appeal  and  benedic- 
tion. No  face  of  the  Redeemer  that  I  have  seen  is  at  once 
so  sad  and  so  loving,  and  I  never  look  at  it  without  think- 
ing that  there  should  be  inscribed  beneath  it  the  lines: — 

Did  e'er  such  love  and  sorrow  meet, 
Or  thorns  compose  so  rich  *  crown  ? 


JOHN    LEECH. 

BY   HARRY  THORNBER. 

JOHN  LEECH,  the  most  delightful  pictorial  humorist 
that  England  has  yet  produced,  was  born  in  London 
on  the  29th  August,  1817.  His  father  was  well  known  as 
the  proprietor  of  the  London  Coffee  House  on  Ludgate  Hill. 
The  family  was  originally  of  Irish  descent,  but  had  gradually 
become  naturalised  among  the  Londoners,  insomuch  that 
the  future  Punch  illustrator  was  in  his  look,  voice,  and 
sympathies  a  thoroughly'  typical  Englishman.  At  the 
early  age  of  seven,  he  was  sent  as  a  scholar  to  the  Charter- 
house, where  he  remained  eight  years  altogether,  Thackeray, 
who  was  six  years  his  senior,  being  for  awhile  a  brother 
"Cistercian,"  and  between  these  two,  both  geniuses  in  their 
own  particular  line,  was  formed  a  friendship  that  was 
strengthened  day  by  day,  and  never  ceased  until  death 
intervened.  Leech  was  liked  by  every  one  at  school  for 
his  uniform  good  temper  and  kind  ways.  He  did  not  excel 
in  sports  such  as  cricket  and  football ;  in  fact,  he  took  no 
active  part  in  games,  the  reason  being  that  he  had  broken 
his  arm  by  a  fall  from  his  pony.  Though  so  clever  with 
his  pencil,  it  is  said  he  preferred  the  lessons  of  Angelo  the 
fencing  master,  to  those  of  Burgess,  the  drawing  master. 


JOHN  LEECH.  329 

He  was  no  scholar  at  Latin,  and  always  got  a  school-fellow 
to  do  his  verses  for  him. 

His  genius  for  drawing  showed  itself  at  a  very  early  age. 
One  of  his  drawings  made  when  three  years  old  was  shown 
to  Flaxman,  the  celebrated  sculptor,  who  pronounced 
it  to  be  wonderful,  saying  :  "  Do  not  let  him  be  cramped 
with  lessons  in  drawing ;  let  his  genius  follow  its  own  bent, 
and  he  will  astonish  the  world."  The  advice  was  followed, 
and  with  the  exception  of  the  few  drawing  lessons  received 
from  Burgess,  whilst  at  Charterhouse,  he  had  no  artistic 
education  whatever. 

When  sixteen  years  of  age,  Leech  was  taken  from  the 
Charterhouse,  and  after  spending  a  short  time  at  St. 
Bartholomew's,  was  placed  with  a  medical  practitioner  at 
Hoxton,  named  Whittles,  who  was  afterwards,  under  the 
name  of  Hawkins,  depicted  by  Albert  Smith  in  his  "  Adven- 
tures of  Mr.  Ledbury  and  his  friend  Jack  Johnson."  This 
Mr.  Whittles  was  a  very  eccentric  personage,  and  is  very 
humorously  shown  as  "  Hercules  returning  from  a  fancy 
bull,"  and  "Last  Appearance  of  Mr.  Rawkins,"  by  John 
Leech.  In  the  "  Last  Appearance"  Rawkins  is  in  running 
costume,  trying  to  win  a  race,  and  some  of  his  lady  patients, 
who  see  him  in  this  questionable  attire,  take  away  their 
patronage.  In  these  two  plates  the  description  by  Albert 
Smith  of  Rawkins,  which  is  as  follows,  is  realised  to  the 
life :  "  He  was  about  eight-and-thirty  years  old,  and  of 
Herculean  form,  except  his  legs,  which  were  small  by  com- 
parison with  the  rest  of  his  body.  But  he  thought  he  was 
modelled  after  the  statues  of  antiquity,  and  indeed,  as 
respected  his  nose,  which  was  broken,  he  was  not  far 
wrong  in  his  idea,  that  feature  having  been  rather 
damaged  in  some  hospital  skirmish  when  he  was  a 
student.  Every  available  apartment  in  his  house  not 
actually  occupied  by  human  beings,  was  appropriated  to 


330  JOHN  LEECH. 

the  conserving  of  innumerable  rabbits,  guinea-pigs,  and 
ferrets.  His  areas  were  filled  with  poultry,  bird-cages 
hung  at  every  window,  and  the  whole  of  the  roof  had  been 
converted  into  one  enormous  pigeon-trap,  in  which  it  was 
his  most  favourite  occupation  to  sit  on  fine  afternoons  with 
a  pipe  and  brandy-and-water,  and  catch  his  neighbour's 
birds.  He  derived  his  principal  income  from  the  retail 
of  his  shop,  which  an  apprentice  attended  to ;  his  appoint- 
ments of  medical  man  to  the  police  force  and  parish  poor ; 
and  breeding  fancy  rabbits,  and  these  various  avocations 
pretty  well  filled  up  his  time,  the  remainder  of  which  was 
dedicated  to  paying  his  addresses  to  the  widow  landlady  of 
the  large  public-house  at  the  end  of  the  street." 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Leech  did  not  pursue 
the  science  of  medicine  shown  to  him  under  such  dis- 
advantageous circumstances  by  Mr.  Whittles,  and  he 
gradually  withdrew  from  his  medical  studies  to  try  to  live 
by  the  exercise  of  his  pencil. 

His  first  work,  which  was  published  in  1835,  when 
eighteen  years  of  age,  was  called  "  Etchings  and  Sketchings, 
by  A.  Pen,  Esq.,"  and  comprised  four  quarto  sheets,  con- 
taining slight  sketches  of  London  oddities.  This  work 
must  be  exceedingly  rare,  and  I  have  never  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  a  copy,  nor  even  coming  across  any  one 
that  possesses  it.  He  turned  his  attention  to  lithography, 
and  produced  some  political  and  social  caricatures,  very 
crude  productions,  but  showing  signs  of  latent  ability. 
These  for  the  most  part  were  published  by  W.  Spooner, 
377,  Strand,  under  the  style  of  "Droll  Doings,"  and 
"Funny  Characters."  It  is  stated  by  Mr.  Kitton  that 
"  Leech,  having  drawn  his  pictures  on  a  stone,  has  been 
known  to  spend  a  weary  day  in  carrying  the  heavy  stone 
from  publisher  to  publisher  in  search  of  a  buyer."  Amongst 
his  earliest  efforts  are  the  illustrations  which  he  supplied 


JOHN  LEECH.  331 

to  the  "  Gallery  of  Comicalities,"  issued  as  supplements  to 
Bell's  Life.  All  these  early  specimens  are  now  very 
difficult  to  procure,  and  when  found  are  generally  soiled 
and  torn. 

In  1837,  he  illustrated  "Jack  Brag,"  with  six  etchings 
and  in  1838,  "  American  Broad  Grins,"  with  four  etchings. 
Both  these  productions  are  not  in  Leech's  later  style ;  in 
fact,  it  was  not  until  after  1840  when  he  got  thoroughly 
into  harness,  and  had  made  for  himself  a  position  as  a 
book-illustrator,  that  his  manner  was  confirmed  and  he 
made  a  style  of  his  own. 

The  design  which  first  brought  him  into  prominent 
notice  was  a  caricature  of  the  Mulready  envelope,  or,  I 
might  say,  caricatures,  as  my  friend,  Dr.  Newton,  possesses 
one,  which  he  kindly  lent  Mr.  Kitton  to  have  reproduced 
in  his  short  biography,  and  I  possess  another.  These  are 
in  the  main  alike,  but  vary  considerably  in  parts,  and  I 
presume  must  both  of  them  be  exceedingly  rare,  although 
at  the  tune  they  were  sold  in  very  large  quantities,  and 
brought  the  name  of  John  Leech  into  all  mouths.  Besides 
attacking  the  Mulready  envelope,  he  had  another  skit  about 
the  post  office,  in  a  lithographic  cartoon,  published  by  R. 
Tyas,  June  13,  1840.  In  this  he  depicts  an  elderly  female, 
attended  by  a  small  boy,  with  an  envelope  around  him, 
with  the  letters  P.P.  in  one  corner.  In  an  enquiry  box  is 
an  old  gentleman,  who  is  addressed  by  the  lady  as  follows : 
"Is  this  the  General  Post,  sir?"  "Yes,  mum."  "Then 
will  you  just  have  the  goodness  to  stamp  upon  my  little 
boy  here,  and  send  him  off  to  Gravesend  ? "  In  the  corner 
of  the  design  is  a  notice  board  bearing  the  following : — 
"  All  small  boys  must  be  prepaid ;  not  accountable  for 
damage."  A  week  later,  viz.,  Juno  20,  1840,  he  issued  a 
cartoon  representing  "The  Man  Oxford,"  bearing  this 
inscription — "  The  Regicide  Pot  Boy ;  or,  Young  England 


332  JOHN  LEECH. 

alias  Oxford  (alas!  for  Old  England).  The  Patriotic 
Imitator  of  Young  France ! ! !  N.B. — The  above  is  the 

/Interesting,         Elegant,     ^ 
,.,  f      ,,        )  Prepossessing'     Slim, 

only   authentic    likeness  of    the  -j  Respectable>      Ambiti> 

v  Handsome,          Eccentric,  / 

Young  Traitor,  who  fired  at  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  on 
June  10th,  1840,  and  is  (not  at  all  respectfully)  dedicated 
to  all  those  who  think  there  is  anything  Fine  and  Romantic 
about  an  assassin.  By  John  Leech.  Vivat  Regina." 

To  go  back  a  few  years,  it  is  as  well  to  state  that  when 
Robert  Seymour,  the  original  illustrator  of  Pickwick, 
committed  suicide,  John  Leech,  along  with  Thackeray  and 
others,  was  among  the  unsuccessful  competitors  for  the 
honour  of  succeeding  him. 

I  shall  now  describe  in  as  concise  a  manner  as  possible 
the  work  of  John  Leech  outside  Punch,  and,  after  having 
done  so,  proceed  to  his  connection  with  Punch.  By  the 
generality  of  people,  Leech  is  only  known  by  his  work  for 
Punch,  and  is  thought  to  have  done  little  else ;  but  I  hope 
to  show  that  even  if  he  had  never  made  a  design  for 
Punch,  and  had  only  left  behind  his  illustrations  for  books, 
he  would  have  still  left  a  very  fair  life's  work — in  fact,  more 
than  some  of  his  contemporaries. 

In  1840,  in  conjunction  with  his  friend,  Percival  Leigh, 
one  of  his  fellow-students  at  Bartholomew's,  he  brought 
out  the  "  Comic  Latin  Grammar,"  supplying  eight  etchings 
and  numerous  woodcuts,  and  this  being  a  success,  the  same 
collaborateurs  ventured  on  a  "  Comic  English  Grammar," 
in  this  case  Leech  contributing  one  etching  only,  but 
about  an  equal  number  of  woodcuts  as  to  the  companion 
volume. 

He  also  illustrated  "Sam  Slick,"  with  five  etchings; 
and  a  very  scarce  work  entitled  "  The  Fiddle  Faddle 
Fashion  Book,"  enriched  with  highly-coloured  figures 


JOHN  LEECH.  333 

of  lady-like  gentlemen,  edited  by  the  author  of  the 
"  Comic  Latin  Grammar,"  the  costumes  and  other  illustra- 
tions by  John  Leech.  This  contains  five  etchings  and  four 
woodcuts,  these  being  illustrations  of  the  advertisements. 
Whilst  Leech  was  compounding  drugs  for  Mr.  Whittles 
at  Hoxton,  and  attending  the  clinical  lectures  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew's, he  was  always  making  pencil  sketches,  or  pen- 
and-ink  drawings,  on  the  sly,  of  the  Professors  and  of  his 
fellow-students.  Accidentally,  some  of  these  droll  designs 
came  under  the  notice  of  the  Rev.  Richard  Harris  Barham, 
the  author  of  the  "  Ingoldsby  Legends."  He  was  so  struck 
with  their  originality  that  he  took  an  early  opportunity  of 
introducing  Leech  to  Mr.  Richard  Bentley,  the  eminent 
publisher,  the  result  of  the  interview  being  that  Leech  was 
immediately  employed  as  an  illustrator  of  Bentley'a  Mis- 
cellany, and  during  the  next  seven  years,  1840-6,  he 
supplied  over  one  hundred  etchings,  besides  numerous 
woodcuts.  The  principal  works  he  illustrated  are — 
"  Ingoldsby  Legends,"  "  Richard  Savage,"  by  Charles 
Whitehead ;  "  Stanley  Thorn,"fby  Henry  Cockton ;  "  The 
Adventures  of  Mr.  Ledbury,"  "The  Fortunes  of  the  Scat- 
tergood  Family,"  and  "The  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers," 
by  Leech's  intimate  friend,  Albert  Smith,  and  "Colin 
Clink,"  by  Chas.  Hooton.  For  some  years  after  this  date 
his  other  duties  prevented  him  from  furnishing  many  illus- 
trations to  the  "  Miscellany,"  but  he  found  time  to  send  one 
occasionally,  and  altogether  he  supplied  to  it  one  hundred 
and  seventy  etchings.  These  were  republished  in  two 
volumes  by  Richard  Bentley  and  Son,  in  1865,  and  they 
form  a  very  handsome  memento  of  that  style  of  Leech's 
work.  All  the  principal  stories  he  illustrated  in  the  "  Mis- 
cellany "  were  published  in  book  form,  and  some  of  them 
have  gone  through  many  editions,  a  good  deal  of  their 
popularity  being  due  to  the  splendid  illustrations  of  our 


334  JOHN  LEECH. 

gifted  artist.  In  1840  he  also  partly  illustrated  the  London 
Magazine,  Charivari,  and  Courrier  des  Dames,  containing, 
amongst  other  portraits,  one  of  Benjamin  Disraeli. 

In  1841,  he  illustrated  "The  Porcelain  Tower;  or,  Nine 
Stories  of  China,"  with  three  etchings  and  fifteen  woodcuts; 
"  Written  Caricatures,"  by  C.  C.  Pepper,  with  thirty-five 
woodcuts,  and  "  Portraits  of  Children  of  the  Mobility  "—a 
parody  of  a  well-known  work,  entitled,  "  Children  of  the 
Nobility."  This  work  consisted  of  eight  lithographs, 
depicting  street  arabs  of  all  descriptions,  and  serves  as 
a  medium  to  display  the  pathos  of  Leech,  as  well  as  his 
humour. 

In  1842,  he  contributed  some  etchings  to  George  Daniel's 
Merrie  England,  and  furnished  some  of  the  woodcuts  to 
Hood's  Comic  Annual,  for  1842 ;  notably  those  to  Hood's 
poem  of  "  Miss  Kilmansegg  and  Her  Precious  Leg."  He 
supplied  the  etchings  to  "  Pencillings  by  the  Way,"  by 
N.  P.  Willis. 

In  1843,  "  The  Wassail  Bowl,"  a  collection  of  humorous 
tales  and  sketches  by  Albert  Smith,  was  illustrated  by  him, 
as  was  "The  Barnabys  in  America,"  by  Mrs.  Trollope. 
This  work  had  already  appeared  some  years  previously 
with  Leech's  illustrations  in  the  flew  Monthly  Magazine. 
"  Jack  the  Giant  Killer  "  was  very  copiously  illustrated  by 
him  this  year.  It  was  in  1843  that  Leech's  connection 
with  Charles  Dickens  commenced,  and  although,  owing  to 
press  of  other  engagements,  he  never  was  able  to  illustrate 
many  of  that  author's  works,  still,  the  work  he  has  done 
for  him  is  of  the  very  best,  and  in  "  A  Christmas  Carol," 
the  first  and  best  of  Dickens's  Christmas  books,  wholly 
illustrated  by  Leech,  the  remaining  four  being  only  partially 
illustrated  by  him,  there  are  four  etchings,  beautifully 
coloured,  the  first  of  which,  "  Mr.  Fezziwig's  Ball,"  is  a 
little  masterpiece. 


JOHN  LEECH.  335 

The  woodcut  illustration  at  the  end  of  the  book,  where 
Scrooge  is  assisting  Bob  Cratchit  to  a  bowl  of  smoking 
bishop,  is  another  beautiful  and  charming  picture.  In  his 
drawings  for  "The  Battle  of  Life,"  he  misrepresented  the 
text  in  the  elopement  scene ;  but  although  Dickens  was 
perfectly  horrified  when  he  saw  the  plate,  and  immediately 
thought  of  stopping  the  printing  of  it,  on  second  thoughts 
he  knew  it  would  give  very  great  pain  to  Leech,  and  so  let 
it  stand. 

During  1843-4,  he  made  some  of  his  best  designs  on 
wood,  and  the  largest  etchings  he  ever  produced,  for  The 
Illuminated  Magazine,  edited  by  Douglas  Jerrold. 
Amongst  the  contributors  to  this  periodical  were  Laman 
Blanchard,  G.  A.  A'Beckett,  Albert  Smith,  Mark  Lemon, 
R.  H.  Home,  Wilkie  Collins,  Angus  B.  Reach,  and  H.  G. 
Hine.  Kenny  Meadows,  John  Gilbert,  and  "  Phiz  "  were 
amongst  the  illustrators.  In  1844,  he  illustrated  "  Jessie 
Phillips  :  A  Tale,"  by  Mrs.  Trollope,  with  eleven  etchings  ; 
and  Douglas  Jerrold's  "  Story  of  a  Feather,"  with  a  frontis- 
piece and  vignette  title.  "  Sketches  of  Life  and  Character 
taken  at  the  Police  Court,  Bow  Street,"  by  George  Hodder, 
was  partly  illustrated  by  him. 

In  1845,  "  Punch's  Snapdragons  for  Christmas,"  with  four 
etchings ;  "  Hints  on  Life,  or  How  to  Rise  in  Society,"  with 
an  etched  frontispiece ; "  and  "  Hector  0'  Halloran,"  with 
twenty-two  etchings,  one  of  which,  "  The  Slave  Ship  on 
Fire,"  show  that  Leech  could  be  something  else  than 
humorous  when  occasion  demanded.  In  1845-6,  he 
supplied  twenty  etchings  to  "  St.  Giles  and  St.  James  "  in 
Douglas  Jerrold's  Shilling  Magazine ;  an  etched  frontis- 
piece to  "The  Quizziology  of  the  Britsh  Drama,"  by 
G.  A.  A'Beckett ;  and  the  design  for  an  engraved  frontis- 
piece to  "Cousin  Nicholas,"  by  Thomas  Ingoldsby,  in  1846  ; 
also  in  this  year  an  etched  frontispiece  to  "  Mrs.  Caudle's 


336  JOHN  LEECH. 

Curtain  Lectures,"  entitled  "  Mr.  Caudle's  Return  from  the 
Skylarks."  This  plate  is  divided  into  two  compartments, 
the  upper  of  which  depicts  Mrs.  Caudle  sitting  in  bed,  in  a 
listening  attitude,  holding  her  forefinger  up,  whilst  in  the 
lower  Mr.  Caudle  is  shown  with  a  candle  in  his  left  hand, 
after  having  just  taken  off  his  boots,  and  is  proceeding  up- 
stairs with  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  knows  that  he 
will  catch  it,  and  richly  deserves  to  do  so. 

In  1847-8,  appeared  the  "  Comic  History  of  England," 
by  Gilbert  Abbott  A'Beckett,  in  two  volumes,  containing 
twenty  coloured  etchings,  and  two  hundred  and  two  wood- 
cuts ;  and  in  1852,  appeared  a  companion  volume,  "  The 
Comic  History  of  Rome,"  by  the  same  author,  containing 
ten  coloured  etchings,  and  ninety-nine  woodcuts.  These 
books  rank  among  the  more  important  things  Leech  has 
done  in  book  illustrating,  and  are  deservedly  and  extremely 
popular ;  in  fact,  the  general  impression  seems  to  be  that 
these,  along  with  the  series  of  sporting  works  of  Mr.  Surtees, 
contain  the  whole  of  the  work  that  Leech  did  not  execute 
for  Punch.  Leech  has  introduced  a  large  amount  of 
comicality  into  his  "  Comic  History  "  designs,  and  the  task 
was  evidently  congenial. 

In  1847  he  also  illustrated  Maxwell's  "  Hill  Side  and 
Border  Sketches,"  with  two  etchings.  In  1848  he  partly 
illustrated  John  Forster's  "  Life  of  Oliver  Goldsmith," 
supplying  two  woodcuts  only.  About  this  time  he  published 
"Young  Troublesome,  or  Master  Jacky's  Holiday,"  from 
the  blessed  moment  of  his  leaving  school  to  the  identical 
moment  of  his  going  back  again,  showing  how  there  never 
was  such  a  boy  as  that  boy.  This  book  is  all  illustration 
(twelve  pages),  with  no  text  except  the  footlines  to  explain 
the  designs.  The  first  plate  shows  Master  Jacky  arriving 
at  home  for  the  holidays ;  in  the  second  he  celebrates  his 
arrival  with  various  athletic  exercises,  such  as  sliding  down 


JOHN  LEECH.  337 

the  banisters ;  the  third,  on  a  wet  day  he  is  bored  to  death, 
and  of  course  is  in  his  own  way  and  everyone  else's :  the 
fourth,  in  pursuance  of  a  bright  thought,  he  plays  at  cricket 
in  the  drawing-room,  with  fearful  results,  and  so  on  until 
plate  ten,  where  you  have  him  endeavouring  to  entertain 
himself  while  his  honoured  parents  give  a  dinner  party 
and  he  is  waiting  for  dessert.  He  stands  on  the  stairs,  and 
lifts  the  meat  cover  off  the  dish  and  puts  it  on  Ruggles's 
head;  then  he  gets  a  burnt  stick  and  embellishes  Ruggles's 
silk  stockings;  then  Mr.  Ruggles  relates  in  the  kitchen 
what  that  'air  boy  has  bin  and  done ;  and  lastly,  in  plate 
twelve,  he  is  presiding  over  a  juvenile  party,  making  a 
speech,  and  hoping  to  meet  the  same  company  again  in 
good  health  and  spirits,  this  time  twelve  months.  This  book 
is  a  splendid  piece  of  fun  from  beginning  to  end;  the 
boyish  spirit  is  fairly  entered  into  by  Leech,  and  a  most 
happy  result  is  attained.  There  are  numbers  of  pretty 
faces,  not  only  of  chubby  children,  but  of  real  downright 
bonnie  English  girls,  such  as  only  John  Leech  could  draw. 

In  this  year,  viz.,  1848,  he  issued  another  set  of  litho- 
graphs, "The  Rising  Generation."  Although  these  are, 
perhaps,  inferior  to  the  "Children  of  the  Mobility,"  pub- 
lished seven  years  previously,  yet  as  the  medium  of  litho- 
graphy was  more  suitable  for  the  reproduction  of  Leech's 
pencil  sketches  than  the  woodcuts  generally  resorted  to,  it 
seems  a  pity  he  did  not  publish  more  in  that  manner.  It 
was  a  matter  of  complaint  that  his  drawings  were  spoiled 
by  the  wood  engravers,  not  that  the  engravers  were 
unskilful,  far  from  it,  but  that  the  more  subtle  flavour  of 
the  swiftly-drawn  designs  was  hard  to  preserve  in  hastily- 
cut  blocks.  Leech  is  quoted  as  saying  to  a  friend,  who  was 
admiring  a  study  in  pencil,  "Wait  till  Saturday,  and  see 
how  the  engraver  will  have  spoiled  it." 

There  are  twelve  designs  in  the  "Rising  Generation," 


338  JOHN  LEECH. 

and  no  text,  except  explanatory  notes.  Some  of  these  are 
delightfully  funny.  They  appeared,  sooner  or  later, 
in  Punch,  in  a  reduced  size. 

In  the  same  year  "Christopher  Tadpole,"  by  Albert 
Smith,  which  had  been  appearing  in  monthly  parts  since 
1846,  was  completed.  This  book  contains  thirty-two 
etchings,  by  Leech.  Some  of  his  best  designs  were  made 
for  his  old  hospital  chum,  and  his  works,  were  it  not  for 
being  so  well  and  copiously  illustrated  by  Leech,  would  not 
be  as  well  known  amongst  this  generation  as  they  are. 

In  1849  he  partly  illustrated  the  "  Book  of  Ballads,"  by 
Bon  Gaultier  (Theodore  Martin  and  W.  E.  Aytoun)  and 
wholly  illustrated  Douglas  Jerrold's  fantastic  work  entitled 
"  A  Man  Made  of  Money,"  supplying  twelve  etchings  for  it. 
He  also  contributed  three  woodcuts  to  a  collection  of 
Tupper's  works  issued  in  this  year. 

In  1851,  he  executed  four  large  coloured  etchings 
for  the  "Ladies'  Companion,"  and  later  on  in  the 
year,  he,  along  with  Albert  Smith,  brought  out  a  serial, 
entitled  The  Month,  which  extended  from  July  to 
December.  It  contains  six  etchings,  "Mr.  Siinmons's 
Attempt  at  Reform  "  being  the  best,  and  numerous  wood- 
cuts, the  most  notable  of  which  is  a  portrait  of  "Mr. 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  as  he  appeared  at  Willis's 
Rooms,  in  his  celebrated  character  of  Mr.  Thackeray." 

In  1852,  he  furnished  an  etched  frontispiece  to  "A  Story 
with  a  Vengeance,"  by  Angus  B.  Reach  and  Shirley  Brooks. 
This  is  called  "  An  Eligible  Situation  in  Regent  Street," 
and  depicts  a  swell,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion, 
carrying  a  baby  in  long  clothes,  the  usual  collection  of 
street  urchins,  well-dressed  ladies,  people  on  omnibuses 
and  in  cabs,  &c.,  smiling  and  laughing  at  him,  he  looking 
perplexed,  and  evidently  wishing  that  anybody  but  himself 
had  the  precious  burden.  He  also  illustrated  "  Dashes  of 


JOHN  LEECH.  339 

American  Humour,"  by  Henry  Howard  Paul,  with  eight 
etchings,  all  very  humorous,  especially  the  first,  entitled, 
"  Lost,  a  Black  Cat."  An  old  lady  having  advertised  for  a 
black  cat,  is  beset  by  heaps  of  boys,  each  bringing  one  or 
more,  and,  as  a  consequence,  there  is  general  confusion. 
In  this  year  he  also  furnished  four  woodcuts  to  Mrs.  Stowe's 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 

In  1853,  he  illustrated  "Mr.  Sponge's  Sporting  Tour," 
by  R.  V.  Surtees.  For  works  of  this  class  Leech  was 
peculiarly  well  fitted.  For  many  years  past  he  had  a  very 
marked  liking  for  horses,  and  was  a  frequent  attendant  at 
the  "  Pytchley."  When  he  went  a  day's  hunting,  it  was 
his  custom  to  single  out  some  fellow  disciple  of  Nimrod, 
who  happened  to  take  his  fancy,  keeping  behind  him  all 
day,  noting  his  attitude  in  the  saddle,  and  marking  every 
item  of  his  turn-out,  to  the  last  button  and  button-hole  of 
his  hunting  coat.  It  was  in  this  way  that  he  obtained  the 
correctness  of  detail  which  renders  his  famous  sporting 
etchings  so  wonderfully  true  to  nature.  Strange  to  say, 
notwithstanding  his  knowledge  of  every  detail  of  the 
huntsman's  dress,  even  to  the  number  of  buttons  on  his 
coat,  he  himself,  with  reference  to  his  own  outfit,  invariably 
presented  in  the  hunting  field  a  somewhat  incongruous 
appearance.  Either  he  would  wear  the  wrong  kind  of 
boots,  or  would  dispense  with  some  detail  which,  on  the 
part  of  an  enthusiast,  would  be  considered  an  unpardon- 
able omission.  Leech,  however,  was  not  what  is  called  a 
"rough  rider;"  his  constitutional  nervousness  prevented 
him  indeed  from  making  a  prominent  figure  in  the  hunting 
field,  and  his  friends  attributed  this  want  of  attention  to 
detail  in  dress  to  his  sensitiveness  to  criticism,  and  his 
unwillingness  to  place  himself  in  any  position  which  would 
bo  likely  to  incur  it. 

Leech  was  a  first-rate  hand  at  drawing  hunters,  and 


340  JOHN  LEECH. 

consequently  his  illustrations  to  "Mr.  Sponge's  Sporting 
Tour,"  and  the  remaining  works  of  Mr.  Surtees,  wherein 
nearly  all  the  illustrations  are  either  sporting  ones,  or  have 
a  tendency  in  that  direction,  were  very  successful,  and 
rank  among  the  best  of  his  book  illustrations.  Altogether, 
to  Mr.  Surtees'  works  he  contributed  seventy  etchings  and 
three  hundred  and  thirteen  woodcuts.  All  the  etchings 
in  these  volumes  are  coloured. 

In  1854  he  illustrated  "  Reminiscences  of  a  Huntsman," 
by  Grantley  F.  Berkeley,  with  four  etchings ;  "  The  Great 
Highway,"  by  S.  W.  Fullom,  with  three  etchings.  In 
1856,  "  The  Man  of  the  World,"  by  Fullom,  with  seven 
etchings ;  "  The  Paragreens,"  with  five  woodcuts.  In  1857, 
"  A  Month  in  the  Forests  of  France,"  by  G.  F.  Berkeley, 
with  two  etchings  ;  "  The  Militiaman  at  Home  and  Abroad," 
with  two  etchings ;  "  Merry  Pictures,"  by  the  comic  hands 
of  Phiz,  Leech,  and  others.  In  1858,  "  An  Encyclopaedia 
of  Rural  Sports."  In  1859,  along  with  with  his  friend,  the 
Rev.  S.  Reynolds  Hole,  he  published  "A  Little  Tour  in 
Ireland."  This  was  the  result  of  an  outing  they  had  taken 
together  in  the  previous  year,  and  contains  a  coloured 
etching  entitled  "The  Claddagh,  Gal  way,"  and  thirty-seven 
woodcuts.  In  these  Leech  has  certainly  caught  the  right 
expression  of  the  Irish  face.  In  the  same  year  he  illus- 
trated "Newton  Dogvane,"  with  three  etchings;  and  in 
1861  "  The  Life  of  a  Foxhound,"  by  John  Mills,  with  four 
woodcuts,  and  "  Puck  on  Pegasus,"  by  H.  Cholmondeley 
Pennell,  with  three  woodcuts. 

During  the  years  1853-60  he  contributed  more  than 
twenty  illustrations  to  the  Illustrated  London  News,  the 
greater  portion  of  them  being  full-page  woodcuts ;  and  in 
1859-61  he  was  on  the  staff  of  Once  a  Week,  and  in  the 
first  five  volumes  of  that  periodical  there  are  eighty-five 
woodcuts  by  him. 


JOHN  LEECH.  341 

It  was  on  the  17th  July,  1841,  that  the  first  number  of 
Punch  made  its  appearance,  and  in  the  fourth  number, 
under  date  of  14th  August,  1841,  Leech's  earliest  contri- 
bution appeared.  The  drawings  filled  up  the  whole  quarto 
page  with  cleverly-pencilled  heads  and  full  length  figures 
of  "  Mossoo,"  not  grouped  together,  but  each  of  them  intro- 
duced separately.  In  the  centre  of  the  picture  was  a 
placard  labelled  "Foreign  Affairs"  by — here  came  the 
symbolic  leech  in  the  bottle  and  glass,  so  well  known  to 
collectors  of  Leech's  work,  the  authorship  of  the  cartoon 
being  still  more  explicitly  indicated  at  the  bottom  in  the 
left  hand  corner  by  the  artist's  autographic  signature.  Six 
months  elapsed  before  he  gave  to  Punch  his  second  and 
third  contributions.  These  appeared  simultaneously  on 
14th  February,  1842,  as  two  of  the  full-page  series  of 
"  Punch's  Valentines."  After  these,  with  increasing  fre- 
quency, he  took  his  place  on  the  staff  of  Punch,  and  soon 
became  not  only  its  most  facile  but  most  effective  illustrator. 
For  three-and-twenty  years  he  held  his  own  against  all 
comers,  and  when  at  last  he  departed  this  life,  it  can 
safely  be  said,  that  in  his  loss  Punch  lost  its  right-hand 
man,  and  one  who,  although  twenty-five  years  have  rolled  by 
since  he  went,  has  never  been  replaced.  He  was  always  so 
happy  in  what  he  did,  not  only  were  his  drawings  perfect, 
but  the  words  that  accompanied  them  were  perfect  also. 
The  connection  with  Punch  brought  out  his  particular 
vein,  the  delineation  of  life  and  character,  and  although  it 
may  be  said  that  he  was  fortunate  in  finding  a  periodical 
so  fitted  to  his  own  endowments,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
before  he  had  been  long  connected  with  the  Punch  staff 
he  proved  that  the  paper  was  fortunate  in  having 
secured  an  artist  suited  to  its  demands  at  all  points. 
Mr.  Kitton  says,  "It  is  an  odd  thing  to  say,  that 
he  who  afterwards  became  the  most  conspicuous  and 

n 


342  JOHN  LEECH. 

most  attractive  contributor  to  this  print  should  have 
damaged  its  sale  on  his  first  connection  with  it.  The 
injury  was  effected  in  this  wise : — The  process  had  not 
then  been  discovered  of  dividing  a  wood  block  into  parts, 
and  giving  them  to  several  hands  to  engrave  simultaneously. 
The  artist  drew  upon  an  entire  block,  which  could  not  be 
taken  to  pieces,  and  only  one  engraver  could  work  upon  it 
at  a  time.  Such  blocks  therefore,  if  they  were  of  consider- 
able size,  took  a  long  time  to  cut,  and  Leech's  first  drawing 
for  Punch,  as  it  filled  a  whole  page,  was  not  ready  for 
publication  on  the  appointed  day.  But  the  fact  itself  has 
its  interest  as  suggesting  one  of  the  causes  that  conduced 
to  Leech's  great  success.  The  perfecting  of  the  art  of  the 
wood-engraver  came  in  the  very  nick  of  time  to  help  him 
on,  by  insuring  that  rapidity  of  publication  which  was  to- 
him  a  great  encouragement,  and  to  the  public  an  inestim- 
able boon.  It  insured  freshness  and  novelty.  The  whim 
or  fashion  of  the  day  might  be  seen  pictured  by  him  even 
before  the  public  began  to  notice  it  much  in  real  life,  and 
the  droll  story,  that  belonged  to  the  froth  and  spray  of  the 
passing  wave,  had  not  time  to  become  stale  before  it  made 
matter  for  a  sketch,  and  might  be  seen  in  Punch's- 
Gallery." 

For  fifteen  years — 1844-58  inclusive — he  was  not  only 
the  chief  illustrator,  but  he  was  the  chief  political 
cartoonist  as  well.  In  the  latter  portion  of  his  career, 
he  gradually  withdrew  from  drawing  the  cartoons,  and 
yielded  the  position  to  his  friend  and  companion, 
John  Tenniel,  then  recognised  to  be,  and  who  still  is,  the 
first  of  political  cartoonists.  Although  Leech's  forte  lay 
more  in  the  direction  of  delineating  character,  nevertheless, 
his  political  cartoons,  some  of  which  were  very  witty, 
always  told  their  tale  well,  and  struck  home.  From  first 
to  last  he  executed  over  six  hundred  cartoons.  The 


JOHN  LEECH.  343 

method  which  he  affected  most  was  to  treat  the  statesmen, 
&c.,  as  little  boys — sometimes  good,  sometimes  naughty — 
and  the  cartoons  which  are  treated  in  this  manner  are 
amongst  his  best.  His  likenesses  are  very  faithful,  and 
it  is  stated,  when  it  was  proposed  to  erect  a  statue  to  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  that  the  portrait  selected  was  taken  from  one 
of  Leech's  Punch  cartoons.  Occasionally,  the  subject  of  a 
drawing  was  suggested  to  him  by  one  or  another  of  the 
Punch  staff,  or  through  letter  by  some  correspondent.  These, 
however,  were  the  rarest  of  rare  exceptions.  As  a  rule,  the 
conception  of  a  picture  was  Leech's  own  as  absolutely  as 
was  its  execution  always — the  drollery  of  the  letterpress 
dialogue,  or  commentary  underneath,  being  his  almost  as 
completely  as  the  pencilled  sketch  upon  the  wood  block. 
He  sometimes  took  his  inspiration  from  pictures  by  George 
Cruikshank,  such  as  "  Henry  asking  for  More,"  being  a 
portrait  of  Brougham,  as  Oliver  Twist  (March,  1848); 
"  Electing  a  Chancellor,  at  Cambridge"  (a  little  altered  from 
George  Cruikshank's  "Electing  a  Beadle") — this  refers  to 
Prince  Albert,  who  was  elected  Chancellor  in  1847 — or 
sometimes  from  H.  K.  Browne  (Phiz),  viz.,  "  Sairey  Gamp 
and  Betsey  Prig,"  being  portraits  of  Sir  James  Graham 
and  Sir  Robert  Peel ;  and  "  Dombey  and  Son,"  Sir  Robert 
being  Dombey,  and  Lord  John  Russell  represented  as  Paul 
sitting  in  his  little  chair. 

There  are  some  exceedingly  good  ones  that  do  not  como 
under  the  last-named  headings.  "Portrait  of  a  Noble 
Lord  in  Order,"  saying,  "  Order !  Who  calls  me  to  order  ? 
Pooh  !  pooh !  Fiddle-de-dee  !  I  never  was  in  better  order 
in  my  life.  Noble  Lords  don't  know  what  they  are  talking 
about."  The  portrait  is  one  of  Lord  Brougham.  "  The 
Prevailing  Epidemic."  This  is  very  funny,  and  shows 
Punch  sitting  in  an  easy  chair,  wrapped  up  as  much  as 
any  one  can  possibly  be,  a  basin  of  gruel  in  his  hand,  of 


344  JOHN  LEECH. 

which  he  is  partaking,  at  the  same  time  saying :  "Ah,  you 
may  laugh,  my  boy ;  but  it's  no  joke  being  funny  with  the 
influenza." 

Leech's  pencil  was  always  ready  to  redress  any  great 
social  evil.  Witness  the  two  cartoons  issued  in  1849, 
entitled  "Pin  Money"  and  "Needle  Money."  In  "Pin 
Money  "  a  beautiful  young  lady  is  having  her  hair  dressed 
by  her  maid,  whilst  all  manner  of  jewels  are  strewn  in 
profusion  on  the  dressing-table  ;  and  in  "  Needle  Money," 
a  poor  woman  in  a  miserable  garret  is  working  by  the  dim 
light  of  a  candle,  trying  to  earn  a  few  pence  to  support 
her  existence.  The  contrast  between  "Pin  Money"  and 
"Needle  Money,"  as  shown  in  these  illustrations,  was 
occasioned  by  very  painful  disclosures  made  in  the  Metro- 
politan Police  Courts,  when  it  appeared  that  numbers  of 
poor  sempstresses  were  paid  by  the  slop-sellers  only  three 
halfpence  for  making  a  shirt,  and  in  proportion  for  other 
articles  of  ready-made  clothing  sold  by  the  advertising 
tailors,  who  were  known  to  have  realised  large  fortunes  by 
such  disreputable  under-payment. 

Leech,  although  one  of  the  most  genial  and  kindest  of 
men,  had  his  dislikes,  one  of  which  was  to  Benjamin 
Disraeli,  whom  he  frequently  drew  in  his  cartoons,  and 
was  more  severe  against  than  he  was  against  any  other 
statesman.  One  of  these  cartoons,  which  appeared  in  1849, 
is  absolutely  cruel,  a  very  unusual  occurrence  with  our 
artist.  The  original  sketch,  entitled  "  Have  you  got  such 
a  thing  as  a  turned  coat  for  sale  ? "  is  splendidly  executed, 
and  the  shrinking  expression  in  Disraeli's  face  shown  by  a 
few  pencilled  lines  is  masterly. 

I  will  now  turn  my  attention  to  what  John  Leech  is  best 
remembered  by,  his  "  Pictures  of  Life  and  Character"  from 
the  collection  of  Mr.  Punch.  These  five  volumes  contain 
all  or  nearly  all  his  contributions  to  the  pages  of  Punch, 


JOHN  LEECH.  345 

with  the  exception  of  his  cartoons  and  his  frontispieces  to 
the  Pocket  Books.  For  real  genuine  humour  and  artistic 
qualities  combined  these  will  more  than  hold  their  own 
with  anything  either  England  or  any  other  country  has 
produced.  Open  them  at  whatever  page  you  will,  you  will  find 
they  are  filled  with  old  favourites.  Nothing  under  the  sun 
came  amiss  to  Leech — old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  refine- 
ment and  squalor.  Snobs  and  aristocrats  were  drawn  by 
his  facile  pencil  with  equal  faithfulness.  He  was  at  home 
in  drawing  scenes  of  London  street  life;  scenes  at  the 
different  watering  places  he  was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting ; 
scenes  on  the  moors,  sporting  scenes,  and  in  fact,  everything 
or  anywhere. 

These  five  volumes  show  not  only  his  artistic  genius,  the 
remarkable  keenness  of  his  vision,  and  his  skill  of  hand, 
but  affford  us  a  perfect  memorial  of  English  every-day  life 
and  the  occurrences  thereof  for  nearly  five-and-twenty  years. 
Those  of  us  who  are  thoroughly  well  acquainted  with  the 
contents  can  return  to  these  books  again  and  again,  and 
still  be  as  much  interested  as  those  who  gaze  upon  them 
for  the  first  time. 

Take  a  look  at  some  of  the  series  of  "  Domestic  Bliss" — for 
instance,  the  one  where  mamma  is  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
nursing  her  babe ;  papa,  watch  in  hand,  saying,  "  I  cannot 
conceive,  my  love,  what  is  the  matter  with  my  watch ;  I 
think  it  must  want  cleaning."  PET  CHILD:  '  Oh,  no. 
Papa,  dear !  I  don't  think  it  wants  cleaning,  because  baby 
and  I  had  it  washing  in  the  basin  for  ever  so  long  this 
morning;"  or  the  one  in  which  the  mistress  has  just 
entered  the  kitchen,  and  finds  a  soldier  with  his  back  to 
the  fire.  MISTRESS:  "Well,  I'm  sure,  and  pray  who  is 
that."  COOK:  "Oh,  if  you  please  'm,  it's  only  my  cousin 
who  has  called  just  to  show  me  how  to  boil  a  potato." 

Now  turn  to  a  few  sketches  relating  to  Angling.   "  Anglers 


346  JOHN  LEECH. 

hear  strange  things."  Angling  in  the  Serpentine,  Satur- 
day p.m.  PISCATOR  No.  1:  "Had  ever  a  bite,  Jim?" 
PISCATOB  No.  2 :  "  Not  yet,  I  only  come  here  last  Wed- 
nesday." 

"  Bottom  Fishing."  PISCATOR  No.  1  (miserably) :  "  Now, 
Tom,  do  leave  off.  It  isn't  of  any  use,  and  it's  getting 
quite  dark."  PISCATOR  No.  2:  "  Leave  off!  What  a  pre- 
cious disagreeable  chap  you  are.  You  come  out  for  a  day's 
pleasure,  and  you're  always  a  wanting  to  go  home." 

Now  look  at  "  Symptoms  of  Masquerading,"  wherein  the 
Better-Half  (holding  up  a  mask)  is  saying,  "  Is  this  what 
you  call  sitting  up  with  a  sick  friend,  Mr.  Wilkins  ? " 

Leech  drew  a  great  many  designs  of  and  about  the 
Great  Exhibition  of  1851,  and  he  has  many  sly  hits  against 
the  Frenchmen,  numbers  of  whom  flocked  over  to  England 
at  that  period. 

Fancy  portraits  are  scattered  through  these  volumes,  as 
instances,  take  the  portrait  of  the  gentleman  who  sends 
a  fifty-pound  note  for  unpaid  income  tax  to  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  or  the  one  who  is  honourably  mentioned 
by  Prince  Albert. 

The  five  volumes  are  computed  to  consist  of  about  two 
thousand  five  hundred  designs,  and  dip  wherever  you 
will,  you  find  on  every  page  some  mirth-provoking  scenes. 

The  reprints  from  Punch  are  as  follows : — 

"  Pictures  of  Life  and  Character."    First  Series    1854 

„  „  Second  Series    ...  1857 

Third  Series 1860 

Fourth  Series    ...  1863 

Fifth  Series  1869 

"Early  Pencillings  from  Punch"  and  "Later  Pen- 

cillings"  containing  over  500  Cartoons  1864-5 

"  Follies  of  the  Year,"  containing  twenty-one  coloured 
etchings  that  had  appeared  in  "  Punch's  Pocket 
Book,"  1844-64..  .  1864 


JOHN  LEECH.  347 

*'Mr.  Briggs  and  his  Doings"  (fishing  scenes),  twelve 
coloured  plates,  in  1860.  Mr.  Briggs  is  a  very  favourite 
personage  of  John  Leech's,  and  in  the  pages  of  Punch 
there  are  scores  of  plates  relating  to  his  affairs,  such  as 
the  alteration  and  enlargement  of  his  house,  his  sporting 
exploits,  his  shooting  escapades,  and  the  eccentricities  of 
his  angling  pursuits.  Taking  as  a  calculation  that  Leech 
executed  about  three  thousand  two  hundred  designs  for 
Punch,  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  has  left  altogether 
about  five  thousand.  Of  course,  he  may  have  left  more,  as 
there  may  be  books  or  publications  illustrated  by  him 
which  have  not  come  under  my  notice,  but  I  think  the 
number  (if  any)  is  very  slight.  Those  I  have  enumerated 
I  have  gone  carefully  through,  and  in  them  there  are 
about  eighteen  hundred  designs  of  one  sort  or  another. 
One  writer  on  Leech,  in  his  calculation  of  his  work,  guesses 
— I  cannot  call  it  by  any  other  term — nearly  1,000  illus- 
trations for  Mr.  Surtees's  "Sporting  Novels."  I  have 
shown  that  this  nearly  1,000  is  not  quite  400. 

In  1862  he  exhibited  his  Gallery  of  Sketches  in  Oil  at 
the  Egyptian  Hall,  and  he  undoubtedly  inflicted  serious 
injury  upon  his  health  by  the  excessive  overwork  he  was 
subjected  to  in  getting  it  up.  The  exhibition  was  a  great 
success,  and  took  London  by  storm.  It  is  said  to  have 
realised  for  him  close  upon  £5,000.  An  illustrated  catalogue 
was  issued,  in  the  preface  to  which  Leech  says :  "  I  beg  to 
offer  a  few  words  of  explanation  to  the  Public,  in  reference 
to  those  Sketches  in  Oil  from  my  hand,  which  are  now 
submitted  to  their  indulgent  consideration.  For  some 
years  past  I  have  been  frequently  asked  by  collectors  of 
works  of  art  what  drawings  I  had  by  me,  what  subjects 
there  were  in  my  portfolio  suitable  to  the  walls  of  country 
houses,  and  like  questions.  My  unavoidable  answer  has 
been  that  I  had  nothing  by  me  but  my  own  rough  memo- 


348  JOHN  LEECH. 

randa  and  jottings,  inasmuch  as  the  greater  part  of  my  life 
was  passed  in  drawing  upon  wood,  and  the  engravers  cut 
my  work  away  as  fast  as  I  produced  it.  But  the  invention 
of  a  new  process — patented  by  the  Electro-Block  Printing 
Company,  Burleigh  Street,  Strand — for  producing  enlarged 
transcripts  of  drawings  and  engravings,  suggested  to  me 
that,  by  combining  that  process  with  the  use  of  oil  colours, 
I  might  produce  on  canvas  repetitions  of  my  engraved  and 
published  drawings,  capable  of  preservation  for  as  long  a 
time  as  any  pictures,  and  susceptible  of  such  modifications 
and  painstaking  as  I  might  deem  to  be  improvements. 
These  Sketches  in  Oil  are  the  result.  As  I  have  used  the 
word  '  repetition,'  I  desire  to  add  here  that  it  is  not  my 
intention  to  copy  or  reproduce  any  subject  that  I  once 
sketch  in  oil.  Whosoever  may  do  me  the  honour  to  place 
one  of  these  little  works  in  a  collection,  will  possess  what 
is  so  far  a  speciality  that  it  will  never  exist  in  duplicate." 

After  working  for  Punch  a  short  time,  his  means  in- 
creasing, he  removed  from  Tottenham  Court  Road,  where 
he  then  lodged,  to  a  house  of  his  own  at  Notting  Hill. 
Directly  after,  he  married  Miss  Ann  Eaton,  one  of  those 
English  beauties  his  pencil  has  so  often  pourtrayed,  who 
proved  a  devoted  wife  and  mother.  They  had  two  chil- 
dren, a  boy  and  girl,  both  of  whom  survived  him,  but  have 
died  since — the  boy  being  drowned  at  South  Adelaide  in 
1876,  and  the  girl,  who  was  married,  died  about  five  years 
ago.  From  Notting  Hill  he  went  to  Brunswick  Square, 
and  from  there  to  Kensington. 

Besides  being  remarkable  for  his  tall  stature  (over  six 
feet),  he  was  throughout  life,  until  towards  the  very 
end,  strong  and,  seemingly,  healthful.  His  relaxation 
was  hard  work.  His  favourite  pastime  was  hunting, 
though  he  was  fond  also,  even  to  drudgery,  of  angling. 
His  features  had  about  them  an  expression  of  gravity 


JOHN  LEECH.  34$ 

save  when  in  conversation,  and  they  frequently  became 
radiant  with  flashes  of  laughter.  He  was  very  popular 
with  his  intimate  friends,  but  to  strangers  he  was 
very  reserved  in  his  manner.  The  disease  by  which 
he  was  at  last  struck  down  is  one  of  the  most  painful  that 
man  is  subject  to.  Whether  this  complaint — angina  pec- 
toris — was  inherited  by  him  or  not,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  it  was  aggravated  by  his  over- work.  In  obedience  to 
his  medical  adviser,  he,  though  with  great  reluctance,  gave 
up  hunting.  The  tune  came  when  he  had  no  strength  to 
mount  into  the  saddle.  Towards  the  close  he  could  hardly 
walk,  except  at  a  slow  pace  and  to  a  brief  distance.  Pre- 
vious to  this,  however,  his  complaint  resulted  in  an  extreme 
nervous  irritability,  that  almost  amounted  to  monomania. 
Anything  like  noise  was  peculiarly  abhorrent,  and  organ 
grinders  were  to  him  a  special  dread.  To  get  rid  of  their 
persecutions,  he  left  Brunswick  Square,  and  settled  at 
Kensington  ;  but  no  sooner  was  he  there  than  he  was  dis- 
tracted by  the  clanking  noise  of  a  wheelwright  setting  his 
saws  and  hammers  to  work  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning^ 
Beneath  his  windows  cocks  were  crowing  and  dogs  barking 
incessantly.  His  health  was  so  completely  shattered  that 
in  the  summer  of  1864  he  went  to  Baden-Baden  and  Hom- 
burg,  partly  on  a  holiday,  partly  with  the  idea  of  sketching 
the  gamblers  for  Punch  in  a  series  of  Continental  life  and 
character.  After  a  stay  of  six  weeks,  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land, but,  instead  of  proceeding  home,  went  on  imme- 
diately for  a  month's  stay  at  Whitby.  At  the  end  of  his 
sojourn  he  was  apparently  benefited,  but  slowly  fell  back 
t<>  his  original  condition.  He  suffered  at  the  last  from 
insomnia,  sometimes  getting  no  sleep  for  three  nights 
together. 

On  the  26th  October  he  dined  at  the  usual  meeting  of 
the  Punch  staff,  and  there  stated  that  he  was  very  ill.    On 


350  JOHN  LEECH. 

the  Friday  following  he  was  out  walking  with  a  friend, 
upon  which  occasion  he  consulted  his  physician,  Dr.  Quaiii, 
who  told  him  his  only  chance  was  absolute  rest.  On 
returning  home,  he  wrote  a  note  in  pencil  to  his  friend, 
Mr.  Frederick  Evans,  mentioning  his  interview  with  the 
doctor,  and  stating  he  hoped  to  complete  a  cut  for  which  a 
messenger  was  to  be  sent.  The  messenger  was  sent,  but 
returned  empty-handed.  On  the  following  day,  Saturday, 
the  29th  October,  1864,  there  was  a  children's  party  in  his 
house,  one  of  those  charming  home  scenes  his  hand  had 
4so  often  and  so  exquisitely  depicted.  He  had  been  com- 
pelled to  go  to  bed,  and  sent  down  kind  messages  to  visitors 
who  had  called  upon  him,  expressing  his  regret  that  he 
could  not  see  them.  A  few  hours  before  he  fainted  away, 
he  asked  permission  from  his  doctor  to  work  at  a  drawing, 
which  was  accorded  to  him,  on  the  express  understanding 
that  it  would  be  an  amusement  to  him.  This  drawing, 
made  on  his  death-bed,  is  a  sketch  of  a  lady  and  dog, 
beautifully  drawn  as  usual,  and  makes  us  regret  that 
.such  a  master-hand  should  have  been  so  early  stilled. 
A  few  hours  later  his  pain  returned  to  him,  and  in  its 
duration  he  passed  away. 

On  the  following  Friday,  the  4th  of  November,  his 
remains  were  laid  in  the  grave  at  Kensal  Green  Cemetery. 
One  grave  only  divides  his  grave  from  that  of  his  friend 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  who  had  been  interred  less 
than  a  year  previously.  The  pall-bearers  were  Mark  Lemon, 
Shirley  Brooks,  Tom  Taylor,  John  Everett  Millais,  Horace 
Mayhew,  F.  M.  Evans,  John  Tenniel,  F.  C.  Burnand, 
Samuel  Lucas,  and  Henry  Silver.  These  were  followed  by 
John  Leech  (the  artist's  father),  Dr.  Quain,  Charles  Keene, 
George  Du  Maurier,  Charles  Dickens,  Percival  Leigh, 
Edmund  Yates,  H.  K.  Browne,  W.  P.  Frith,  George 
Cruikshank,  and  Kichard  Doyle. 


JOHN  LEECH.  351 

Leech,  like  most  artists,  has  occasionally  introduced  his 
own  portrait  into  his  sketches.  In  January,  1847,  in  "  Mr. 
Punch's  Fancy  Ball,"  he  is  playing  the  first  fiddle.  In  this 
picture  are  also  portraits  of  other  members  of  the  Punch  staff. 
Mayhew  is  playing  the  cornet,  Percival  Leigh  the  double 
bass,  Gilbert  A'Beckett  the  violin,  Thackeray  the  piccolo, 
Tom  Taylor  the  piano,  Richard  Doyle  a  clarionet,  Douglas 
Jerrold  the  drum,  while  Mark  Lemon  is  the  conductor; 
and  in  another  he  is  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  when  in  comes  the  maid,  who  says,  "  If 
you  please,  sir,  here's  the  printer's  boy  called  again,"  to 
which  he  rejoins,  "  Oh,  bother !  say  I'm  busy."  In  1864, 
the  year  of  his  death,  he  had  contributed  over  eighty 
pictures  to  Punch,  and  on  the  5th  November,  seven  days 
after  he  had  passed  away,  appeared  his  latest  woodcut. 
An  Irishman,  dreadfully  maltreated  in  a  street  fight,  is 
taken  charge  of  by  his  wife,  while  a  capitally  indicated 
group  of  the  victor  and  his  friends  is  seen  in  the  distance, 
and  two  little  Irish  boys  nearer.  "  Terence,  ye  great  um- 
madawn,"  says  the  wife  of  his  "  bussum  "  to  the  vanquished 
hero,  "  What  do  yer  git  into  this  thrubble  fur  ? "  Says  the 
hero  in  response,  "  D'ye  call  it  thrubble  now  ?  Why,  it's 
engyement."  This  is  as  good  a  cut  as  ever  appeared  in  the 
pages  of  Punch. 

He  drew  over  £40,000  from  the  proprietors  of  Punch. 
His  means  enabled  him  to  move  in  good  society.  He  had 
hosts  of  friends,  some  of  whom  are  as  famous  as  himself- 

Although  the  woodcuts  in  Punch  are  well  engraved, 
and  are  very  delightful,  it  is  only  necessary  to  compare  any 
of  them  with  Leech's  original  drawings  to  see  that  very 
much  of  their  intrinsic  merit  was  obliterated  by  the 
process  of  wood  engraving. 

Sir  Edwin  Landseer  used  to  say  there  was  scarcely  u 
sketch  of  Leech's  which  was  not  worthy  to  be  framed  by 


352  JOHN  LEECH. 

itself  and  hung  on  a  wall.  It  seems  strange  that  he  was 
never  admitted  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy,  yet  this 
will  not  prevent  his  name  being  perpetuated  as  long  as  the 
English  language  exists. 

Ruskin,  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Caroline  Leech,  says  : — "  It 
cannot  be  necessary  for  me,  or  for  any  one  now,  to  praise 
the  work  of  John  Leech.  Admittedly,  it  contains  the 
finest  definition  and  natural  history  of  the  classes  of  our 
society,  the  kindest  and  subtle  analysis  of  its  foibles,  the 
tenderest  flattery  of  its  pretty  and  well-bred  ways,  with 
which  the  modesty  of  subservient  genius  ever  amused,  or 
immortalised  careless  masters.  But  it  is  not  generally 
known  how  much  more  valuable,  as  art,  the  first  sketches 
for  the  woodcuts  were  than  the  finished  drawings,  even 
before  those  drawings  sustained  any  loss  in  engraving. 
John  Leech  was  an  absolute  master  of  the  elements  of 
character — but  not  by  any  means  of  those  of  chiaroscuro — 
and  the  admirableness  of  his  work  diminished  as  it  became 
more  elaborate.  The  first  few  lines  in  which  he  sets  down 
his  purpose,  are,  invariably,  of  all  drawing  that  I  know,  the 
most  wonderful  in  their  accurate  felicity  and  prosperous 
haste.  .  .  .  But  of  all  rapid  and  condensed  realisation 
ever  accomplished  by  the  pencil,  John  Leech's  is  the 
most  dainty  and  the  least  fallible,  in  the  subjects  of  which 
he  was  cognizant ;  not  merely  right  in  the  traits  which 
he  seizes,  but  refined  in  the  sacrifice  of  what  he  refuses. 
.  .  .  .  In  flexibility  and  lightness  of  pencilling,  nothing 
but  the  best  outlines  of  Italian  masters,  with  the  silver 
point,  can  be  compared  to  them.  That  Leech  sketched 
English  squires  instead  of  saints,  and  their  daughters 
instead  of  martyrs,  does  not  in  the  least  affect  the  question 
respecting  skill  of  pencilling,  and  I  repeat,  deliberately, 
that  nothing  but  the  best  work  of  sixteenth  century  Italy, 
with  the  silver  point,  exists  in  art,  which  in  rapid  refine- 
ment these  playful  English  drawings  do  not  excel." 


JOHN  LEECH.  353 

Canon  Hole  says,  when  Leech  was  his  guest,  "I  have 
known  him  send  off  from  my  house  three  finished  draw- 
ings on  the  wood,  designed,  traced,  and  rectified,  without 
much  effort,  as  it  seemed,  between  breakfast  and  dinner." 

In  his  own  particular  line  he  was  unapproachable.  His  pic- 
tures will  give  pleasure  to  tens  of  thousands  for  long  years 
to  come.  We  cannot  call  him  a  caricaturist  who  so  faithfully 
depicted  all  shades  of  life  and  character — he  was  a  genuine 
humourist.  His  friend,  Shirley  Brooks,  thus  touchingly 
speaks  of  him  in  the  pages  of  Punch,  on  the  12th  November, 
1864 :- 

JOHN  LEECH, 
OBIIT  OCTOBER  xxix.,  MDCCCLXIY  . 

^ETAT  46. 

"  The  simplest  words  are  best  where  all  words  are  vain.  Ten 
days  ago  a  great  artist,  in  the  noon  of  life,  and  with  his 
glorious  mental  faculties  in  full  power,  but  with  the  shade 
of  physical  infirmity  darkening  upon  him,  took  his  accus- 
tomed place  among  friends  who  have  this  day  held  his 
pall.  Some  of  them  had  been  fellow-workers  with  him  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  others  for  fewer  years ;  but  to  know 
him  well  was  to  love  him  dearly,  and  all  in  whose  name 
these  lines  are  written  mourn  as  for  a  brother.  His  monu- 
ment is  in  the  volumes  of  which  this  is  one  sad  leaf,  and  in 
a  hundred  works  which,  at  this  hour,  few  will  not  remember 
more  easily  than  those  who  have  just  left  his  grave.  While 
society,  whose  every  phase  he  has  illustrated  with  a  truth, 
a  grace,  and  a  tenderness  heretofore  unknown  to  satiric 
art,  gladly  and  proudly  takes  charge  of  his  fame,  they, 
whose  pride  in  the  genius  of  a  great  associate  was  equalled 
by  their  affection  for  an  attached  friend,  would  leave  on 
record  that  they  have  known  no  kindlier,  more  refined,  or 
more  generous  nature  than  that  of  him  who  has  been  thus 
early  called  to  his  rest 


A  NOTE  ON  WILLIAM  KOWL1NSON. 

BY  WILLIAM   E.    A.   AXON. 

A  SCRAPBOOK  made  by  William  Rowlinson  and 
J\.  recently  exhibited  at  a  meeting  of  the  Manchester 
Literary  Club,  and  then  liberally  presented  by  Mr.  Charles 
Roeder  to  the  Manchester  Free  Library,  is  an  interesting 
relic,  and  may  justify  a  note  on  this  now  forgotten  but 
promising  young  poet.  It  contains  many  newspaper 
cuttings,  the  earliest  pages  being  devoted  to  his  own  com- 
positions, and  the  remainder  consisting  of  miscellaneous 
matter,  chiefly  poetical,  that  had  attracted  his  attention. 
William  Rowlinson  was  born  in  1805,  it  is  believed, 
somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  Manchester.  The  family 
removed,  for  a  time,  to  Whitby,  but  returned  again  to 
Manchester.  He  must  early  have  developed  a  passion 
for  writing,  as  contributions  of  his  appear  in  the  British 
Minstrel  in  1824.  The  British  Minstrel  was  a  weekly 
periodical  consisting  of  songs  and  recitations,  old  and 
new.  The  number  for  Nov.  20th,  1824,  contains  two 
lyrics  by  Rowlinson  (p.  171).  The  editor  remarks,  "We 
have  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Rowlinson,  of  Manchester, 
and  are  obliged  to  him  for  the  Originals  enclosed.  Mr. 
Wroe,  of  Ancoats'  Street,  is  our  bookseller  at  Manchester ; 


A  NOTE  ON  WILLIAM  ROWLINSON.  355 

he,  no  doubt,  will  afford  him  every  facility  in  communi- 
cating with  us  at  any  time  he  may  have  a  packet  for 
London."  A  packet  was  sent,  and  is  acknowledged  in  the 
number  for  December  25th,  1824.  One  of  his  lyrics 
appears  in  the  last  number  of  the  British  Minstrel, 
which  came  to  an  end  Jan.  22nd,  1825.  His  contributions 
are— "I'll  come  to  Thee"  (p.  171).  "It  is  not  for  Thine 
Eye  of  Blue"  (p.  171).  "Yes,  Thyrsa,  Yes"  (p.  194). 
"  Farewell,  Land  of  My  Birth  "  (p.  197).  "  How  Calm  and 
Serene  "  (p.  303).  "  Think  not  when  My  Spirits  "  (p.  304). 
"  Serenade  "  (p.  306).  "  Knowest  Thou  My  Dearest "  (p.  367). 
"  How  Sweet  to  Me  "  (p.  369).  A  copy  of  this  volume  has 
been  placed  in  the  Manchester  Free  Library  by  the  present 
writer. 

On  the  cessation  of  the  British  Minstrel,  he  began,  in 
Jan.,  1825,  to  write  for  Nepenthes,  a  Liverpool  periodical. 
Still  earlier,  he  is  believed  to  have  contributed  to  the 
Whitby  Magazine. 

From  the  age  of  18,  to  his  death,  at  the  age  of  24,  he 
was  a  frequent  and  a  welcome  writer  of  prose  and  verse  for 
the  local  periodicals.  His  range  was  by  no  means  limited ; 
he  wrote  art  criticisms,  essays  in  ethics,  studies  of  modern 
poets,  and  verse  in  various  styles  and  of  varying  quality. 
There  is  a  musical  flow  about  his  lyrics  that  shows  a  genuine 
poetic  impulse,  but  his  talents  had  not  time  to  ripen.  His 
contributions  to  Nepenthes,  British  Minstrel,  Phoenix, 
and  Manchester  Gazette  have  never  been  collected,  and  it 
is  too  late  for  the  task  to  be  either  attempted  or  justi- 
fied. An  essay  of  his  on  Drunkenness  is  reprinted  in  the 
Temperance  Star,  of  May,  1890.  The  best  of  his  poems 
is  probably  "Sir  Gualter,"  which  is  quoted  in  Procter's 
"Literary  Reminiscences "  (p.  103).  The  same  charming 
writer  has  devoted  some  pages  to  his  memory  in  his 
"Memorials  of  Bygone  Manchcst-  161).  One 


356  A  NOTE  ON  WILLIAM  ROWUNSON. 

example,.  "Babylon,"  is  given  in  Procter's  "Gems  of 
Thought  and  Flowers  of  Fancy "  (p.  47),  and  four  lyrics 
appear  in  Harland's  "Lancashire  Lyrics"  (pp.  71—75). 
One  of  these,"  The  Invitation,"  was  printed — with  another 
signature ! — in  the  Crichton  Annual,  1866.  One  of  Row- 
linson's  compositions — the  "Autobiography  of  William 
Charles  Lovell" — is  said  to  be  an  account  of  his  own 
experiences ;  this  I  have  not  seen.  The  story  of  his  life  is 
brief.  He  studied  literature  whilst  earning  his  daily 
bread  in  a  Manchester  warehouse.  He  was  a  clerk 
in  the  employ  of  Messrs.  Cardwell  and  Co.,  Newmarket 
Buildings,  and  to  gratify  his  love  of  mountain  scenery, 
he  has  been  known  to  leave  the  town  on  Saturday 
night  and  walk  to  Castleton,  in  Derbyshire,  and,  after 
spending  the  Sunday  there,  walk  home  again  through 
the  night,  to  be  ready  for  his  Monday  morning  task. 
Literature  did  not  wholly  absorb  him,  for  at  24  years 
of  age  he  was  a  husband,  with  a  son  and  an  infant  daughter. 
Early  in  1829  he  obtained  a  more  congenial  position  as  a 
traveller  for  the  firm  of  Piggott,  the  famous  compilers  and 
publishers  of  directories.  This  gave  him  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  Cambridge,  where  Kirke  White  is  buried,  and 
other  places,  whose  historic  and  literary  associations  would 
appeal  to  his  vivid  imagination.  But  whilst  enjoying 
thoroughly  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  south,  he  pined  for 
his  northern  home.  Whilst  bathing  in  the  Thames  he  was 
drowned,  June  22nd,  1829,  and  was  buried  in  Bisham 
Church-yard,  Marlow,  on  the  25th.* 

The  Manchester  Free  Library  has  copies  of  the  exceed- 
ingly rare  Phoenix  and  Falcon,  with  the  contributions 
of  Rowlinson  and  others,  identified  in  MS.  In  the  Phoenix 
11  Bag-o-nails,"  an  imitation  of  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosianse," 

*  I  have  to  thank  the  Vicar  (Rev.  T.  E.  Powell)  for  searching  the  registers.    There  is  no 
gravestone. 


A  NOTE  ON  WILLIAM  ROWLINSON.  357 

he  appears  as  Jeremiah  Jingler.  These  periodicals,  and 
the  scrapbook  make  as  complete  a  collection  of  his 
scattered  writings  as  is  now  possible. 

John  Bolton  Rogerson  and  R.  W.  Procter  have  each 
borne  affectionate  testimony  to  the  moral  worth  and  lite- 
rary promise  of  William  Rowlinson.  Soon  after  his  death 
there  appeared  in  the  Falcon  some  stanzas  which  declared, 

The  great  in  soul  from  his  earthly  home, 

In  his  youthful  pride  hath  gone, 
Where  the  bards  of  old  will  proudly  greet 

The  Muses'  honoured  son. 

Oh,  there  is  joy  in  the  blessed  thought 

Thou  art  shrin'd  on  fame's  bright  ray, 
Though  the  stranger's  step  is  on  thy  grave 

And  thy  friends  be  far  away. 

We  need  not  cherish  illusions.  The  stranger's  step  is  on 
Rowlinson's  grave,  but  he  is  not  "shrined  on  fame's 
bright  ray,"  whatever  and  wherever  that  may  be.  No 
stone  marks  his  grave,  his  very  resting  place  is  un- 
known; we  cannot  even  brush  aside  the  grass  from  the 
forgotten  and  moss-grown  tomb  of  William  Rowlinson,  one 
who  perished  in  his  early  prime ;  whose  music,  faint,  yet 
melodious,  passed  into  silence  before  it  could  be  shaped 
into  a  song  the  world  would  care  to  hear  or  to  remember. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.* 

BY   C.    E.    TYRER. 

NO  attentive  reader,  who  after  studying  Mr.  Arnold's, 
writings  in  prose  should  turn  without  any  prepara- 
tion or  previous  knowledge  to  his  poems,  could  fail  to  be 
struck  by  the  great  dissimilarity  of  the  two — could  help 
feeling  that  he  had  somehow  got  into  a  very  different 
region.  Indeed  so  different  are  they,  that  the  view  has 
been  expressed  that  they  might  have  been  written  by  two 
entirely  distinct  persons.  This  is  perhaps  stating  the  thing 
a  little  too  absolutely.  It  is  certainly  possible  to  find  parallels 
between  passages  of  the  prose  and  poetry ;  e.g.,  much  of 
what  he  says  about  the  interpretative  power  of  poetry  in 
the  essay  on  "Maurice  de  Gue'rin"  may  be  compared  with 
the  well-known  passage  in  the  "Epilogue  to  Lessing's 
Laocoon"  and  with  some  parts  of  "Resignation,"  and 
"  Heine's  Grave  "  with  the  essay  on  Heine.  But  there  is  a 
closer  affinity.  In  his  prose  writings,  whatever  be  the 
subject,  Arnold  is  throughout  the  critic,  and  this  character 
is  still  maintained  in  his  verse ;  it  is  (though  this  is  but  a 

*  The  reader  is  referred  to  a  previous  paper  on  Matthew  Arnold  which  appeared  in 
the  MANCHESTER  QUARTERLY  for  January,  1890,  treating  mainly  of  his  character  as  a 
prose  writer,  and  of  which  the  following  pages  may  be  regarded  as  a  supplement  or 
corollary.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  mention  here  that  Messrs.  Macmillan  will  shortly 
publish  a  popular  edition  of  Arnold's  poems  in  one  volume  (uniform  with  those  of  Words- 
worth andTennyson) ;  a  testimony,  in  the  judgment  of  the  writer,  that  the  high  estimate 
he  has  placed  upon  this  poet's  work  is  not  hasty  or  ill-judged. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  359 

partial  view  of  it)  the  poetry  of  criticism.  In  the  essay  in 
"  The  Function  of  Criticism  at  the  Present  Time  "  we  read 
that  "  life  and  the  world  being,  in  modern  times,  very  com- 
plex things,  the  creation  of  a  modern  poet,  to  be  worth 
much,  implies  a  great  critical  effort  behind  it ;  else  it  must 
be  a  comparatively  poor,  barren,  and  short-lived  affair."  It 
was  from  the  absence  of  this,  he  goes  on  to  explain,  that 
Byron's  poetry  had  so  little  vitality,  and,  owing  to  its 
presence,  Goethe's  so  much.  To  the  same  effect,  he  was  fond 
of  speaking,  as  is  well  known,  of  literature,  and  especially  of 
poetry,  as  "  a  criticism  of  life,"  and  deriving  its  value  and 
enduring  power  mainly  from  the  truth  and  sincerity  of  that 
criticism.  Whether  this  view  be  a  true  one  or  not, — it  is  cer- 
tainly a  hard  saying  to  most  people,  who  associate  criticism 
mainly  or  exclusively  with  off-hand  judgments  on  all  the 
newest  books — it  was  one  which  he  himself  never  neglected 
in  his  poetic  work.  This  side  of  his  poetry  has  been  so 
admirably  dwelt  upon  in  an  article  in  the  Times,  April  19th, 
1888,  an  article  which,  as  so  few  newspaper  articles  do, 
really  illuminates  the  subject  of  which  it  treats,  that  I 
make  no  apology  for  quoting  part  of  it  here:  "He  was. 
a  poet  before  he  appeared  to  the  world  as  a  critic.  He  was 
a  critic  while  he  was  a  poet,  and  the  characteristics  of  a 
critic  attended  his  poetry.  The  critical  element  worked 
with,  and  did  not  absorb,  the  poetical  .  .  .  None  can 
study  a  poem  like  '  Rugby  Chapel '  or  '  Heine's  Grave ' 
without  perceiving  the  flow,  above  and  below,  of  two  sepa- 
rate spiritual  currents,  the  critical  and  the  creative.  In 
the  earlier,  as  in  the  later,  poems  the  critic  is  discernible, 
measuring,  and,  it  may  be,  wondering  at  the  inspiration 
drawn  apparently  from  the  same  source  as  his  own  ques- 
tionings. For  thoughtful  readers  the  spectacle  is  strange 
and  delightful.  They  love  to  read  between  the  lines,  and 
decipher  the  writer's  comments  and  reflections  on  his  own 


360  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

emotions.  They  who  wish  a  poet  to  let  himself  go,  that 
they  may  partake  the  fire  and  fever,  and  be  stirred  in 
unison,  resent  the  mixture  of  text  and  annotation."  To 
some  this  may  seem  to  savour  of  over-subtlety,  but  there 
can  hardly  be  a  doubt  of  its  substantial  truth.  Those  "  who 
wish  a  poet  to  let  himself  go "  will  feel  no  attraction  for 
Arnold,  who  never,  perhaps,  "  lets  himself  go  "  in  a  way  to 
satisfy  purely  emotional  natures,  but  retains  always  towards 
himself,  as  towards  all  he  has  to  deal  with,  the  same  serene 
critical  attitude.  This  has  been  one  main  cause  both  of 
the  comparative  indifference  with  which  he  is  regarded  by 
the  majority  of  readers  of  poetry,  and  of  the  perfection,  in 
its  kind,  of  his  best  verse ;  he  has  always,  or  nearly  so, 
done  justice  to  himself. 

What,  then,  is  there  in  the  poems  which  causes  the  total 
impression  they  make  to  be  so  different  in  character  from 
that  produced  by  the  prose  writings  ?  We  notice,  in  the 
first  place,  an  entire  absence  of  his  peculiar  humour,  of  his 
occasional  flippancy,  or  apparent  flippancy,  of  manner,  and 
of  his  singular  tricks  of  language.  In  his  poetry  he  repeats 
himself,  it  is  true,  but  not  in  the  curious  verbal  way  which 
in  his  prose  becomes  sometimes  an  unpleasant  mannerism. 
Again,  in  his  prose,  it  is  possible  to  conceive  him  (not  that 
it  is  just  to  do  so)  posing  as  the  apostle  of  culture,  of 
"  sweetness  and  light,"  his  academic  robes  about  him,  an 
eye-glass  in  his  eye,  while  he  contemplates  his  audience 
with  a  sublime  air  of  nonchalance.  In  his  poetry  he 
speaks  not  as  from  the  calm  heights  of  intellectual  superi- 
ority, but  as  from  man  to  man.  He  no  longer  expresses 
his  views  on  things  in  general,  and  dogmatises  while 
repudiating  all  dogma ;  he  expresses  himself,  so  far  as  it 
was  in  his  nature  to  do  so.  But  for  his  verse,  we  should 
have  an  erroneous  or,  at  least,  one-sided  view  of  a  very 
remarkable  and  fascinating  personality. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  361 

It  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  charms  of 
literature  in  general,  that  we  are  brought  by  its  means 
into  close  personal  contact  with  a  number  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished, powerful,  and  attractive  people  of  other  ages 
and  of  our  own.  Literature  (and  of  art  in  general  the 
remark  is  true)  is,  of  course,  much  besides  and  beyond 
this ;  but  it  is  in  an  eminent  degree  the  expression  of  per- 
sonality, the  means  by  which,  the  material  through  which, 
many  of  the  most  interesting  individualities  the  world  has 
known  have  expressed  themselves,  and  allowed  us,  their 
readers  in  all  ages,  to  enter  into  spiritual  relations  with 
them.  We  all  realise,  more  or  less,  the  charm,  the  attrac- 
tion of  special  personalities ;  we  feel,  more  or  less  acutely 
(as  our  perceptions  are  blunt  or  the  reverse),  the  immense 
gulf  between  such  chosen  spirits  and  the  general  crowd  of 
mankind ;  but  we  do  not  so  readily,  perhaps,  appreciate 
the  truth  that  in  the  highest  poetry,  art,  literature  (if  AVO 
truly  feel  their  power),  we  are  brought  into  relations  with 
the  finest  spirits  of  all  time,  and  this  at  their  happiest  and 
most  inspired  moments.  This,  however,  by  the  way.  I  do 
not,  of  course,  place  Arnold  among  the  loftiest  spirits,  the 
men  of  consummate  genius,  whose  work  is  for  all  ages: 
delicacy,  distinction,  sweetness,  charm,  he  has,  however, 
in  full  measure,  and  exhibits  nowhere  so  truly  as  in  his 
poetry.  Perhaps  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  add  that  a 
diligent  student  could  discover  in  his  poems  much  of  auto- 
biographical interest.  In  "  Thyrsis"  and  "  The  Scholar- 
Gipsy  "  we  see  at  once  the  open-air  enjoyment,  the  delight 
in  nature,  and  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  perplexities 
which  marked  his  Oxford  life  ;  while  the  former  of  the  two 
poems  specially  commemorates  one  of  his  closest  college 
friendships,  that  with  Arthur  Hugh  Clough.  What 
elements  of  fact  may  lie  at  the  basis  of  the  beautiful 
-  series  of  verses  called  "  Switzerland  "  can  only  be  matter 


362  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

of  conjecture ;  but  it  is  difficult  not  to  suspect  in  them  the 
record  of  some  youthful  passion.  "  Calais  Sands,"  again, 
relates  to  his  courtship  of  the  lady  whom  he  ultimately 
married.  In  the  companion  piece,  "Dover  Beach"  (which 
we  may  imagine  to  have  been  written  on  his  return  from 
the  happy  quest),  the  poet,  after  lamenting  the  decay  of 
religious  faith,  goes  for  refuge  from  his  perplexities — from 
the  contemplation  of  Nature's  lovelessness,  blindness,  care- 
lessness of  man — to  the  thought  of  human  affection : — 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 
To  one  another  ! 

To  those  who  remember  the  account  he  once  gave  (in  an 
article  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  on  some  subject  con- 
nected with  dramatic  art),  of  the  fascination  exerted  over 
him  at  one  time  by  the  great  French  tragedienne,  Rachel, 
the  three  sonnets  which  bear  her  name  will  be  of  especial 
interest.  Indeed,  for  our  knowledge  of  his  mind  and 
character,  and  of  all  his  intellectual  and  aesthetic  interests, 
the  poems — as  the  completest  expression  of  his  nature — 
supply  the  best  and  most  reliable  material.  His  love  of 
animals,  for  example,  is  well  known,  and  is  the  subject  of 
some  pretty  anecdotes ;  but  its  best  evidence  is  to  be  found 
in  those  pathetic  verses,  "  Geist's  Grave,"  and  "  Poor 
Matthias."  There  can  be  no  question,  I  think,  of  this 
poet's  absolute  sincerity ;  and  though  he  does  not  wear  his 
heart  upon  his  sleeve,  he  cannot  help  showing  us  what  a 
gentle  and  generous  one  it  was. 

Now  let  us  turn  to  the  poems  themselves.  And  first  a 
word  as  to  their  classification.  The  Greeks,  it  is  well 
known,  distinguished  the  main  kinds  of  poetry  as  epic, 
dramatic,  and  lyric — and  this  classification  has  been  in  the 
main  adopted  ever  since.  Mr.  Arnold  divides  his  poems 
(in  the  first  collected  edition,  1869)  into  dramatic,  lyric, 
narrative,  and  elegiac  poems — narrative,  of  course,  being  a 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  363 

lower  kind  of  epic  poetry,  while  elegiac  is  a  species  of 
lyric — so  that  he  has  attempted,  in  some  form  or  other,  all 
the  chief  kinds  of  poetry.*  And  yet,  if  the  truth  must  be 
said,  he  cannot  be  considered,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the 
word,  either  an  epic  or  dramatic  or  lyric  poet — he  had 
neither  the  sustained  power  of  conception  and  execution 
(what  he  himself,  quoting  Goethe,  calls  architectonic^) 
needed  for  the  production  of  a  great  epic,  nor  that  profound 
interest  in,  and  knowledge  of,  mankind  in  general,  with 
their  thousand  diversities  of  mind  and  character,  which 
goes  to  make  the  dramatic  poet ;  nor  had  he  even,  perhaps, 
the  genuine  spontaneity,  the  gift  and  the  desire  of  pouring 
out  his  emotions  in  verse,  "  of  letting  himself  go  "  (to  use  a 
phrase  already  quoted),  which  is  necessary  for  the  creation 
of  the  highest  lyrical  strains.  His  greatest  triumphs  in 
poetry  are  rather  in  the  narrative  form  (which  I  have 
called  a  subordinate  kind  of  the  epic),  and  the  elegiac, 
which  differs  from  the  genuine  lyric,  among  other  things, 
by  being  set  in  a  minor  key. 

There  are  those,  who  looking  to  his  negative  qualities, 
and  not  regarding  or  not  being  attracted  by  his  positive, 
would  not  only  refuse  to  him  the  title  of  a  great  poet,  but 
even,  in  the  strictest  sense,  that  of  a  poet  at  all.  Such 
critics  allow  to  him  true  poetic  feeling,  culture,  refinement, 
and  an  exquisite  taste  in  the  use  of  language — what  he 
lacks  (they  seem  to  say)  is  "  the  one  thing  needful,"  the 
sacred  fire  of  the  born  Vates.  It  is  obvious  to  remark  that 
the  same  thing  might  plausibly  be  said  of  several  whom  the 
world  has  agreed  to  call  poets,  notably  of  Virgil  and  of 
Gray.  It  is  a  high  testimony  both  to  Swinburne's 

•  It  should  be  mentioned,  M  illustrating  either  the  erroneous  nature  of  thle  classifi- 
cation or  the  deficient  way  in  which  it  baa  been  carried  out,  that-ln  thia  firet  collected 
edition-"  The  Strayed  Reveller "  (to  all  Intent*  and  purpoeee  a  lyrical  strainX  ia  placed 
among  the  narrative  poema  ;  while  two  pieces  so  closely  allied  both  in  form  and  spirit  as 
"Heine's  Grave"  and  "Rugby  Chapel"  are  placed  in  separate  divisions,  the  former 
among  the  lyrioal,  the  latter  among  the  elegiac 


364  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

catholicity  of  taste  and  to  his  fine  critical  insight  that  he 
has  recognised,  in  his  own  magnificent  manner,  the  splendid 
qualities  of  a  poet  so  alien  in  many  respects  to  himself.*" 

In  dramatic  poetry  Arnold  has  made  what  we  may  call 
two  serious  attempts,  "  Merope "  and  "  Empedocles  on 
Etna,"  neither  of  which  can  be  considered  a  success  from  a 
dramatic  standpoint  ;  but  both  of  which,  especially  the 
latter,  are  redeemed  as  poetry  by  exquisite  lyrical  passages. 
Whether  in  modelling  his  play  of  "Merope"  on  the  plan 
of  the  Greek  tragedians  of  the  great  age,  Arnold  was  not 
foredooming  himself  to  failure,  may  plausibly  be  questioned. 
Nor  can  the  desire  of  familiarising  English  readers,  ignorant 
of  Greek,  with  the  forms  of  Greek  tragic  art — if  the  desire 
existed — be  considered  adequate  ground  for  the  production 
of  the  play  ;  for  nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  that 
those,  and  those  only,  who  are  conversant  more  or  less 
with  the  great  monuments  of  Greek  literary  art  in 
their  own  language,  will  derive  any  considerable  grati- 
fication from  "  Merope :" — and  for  a  sufficient  reason. 
The  whole  apparatus  of  Greek  tragedy,  the  conceptions 
on  which  it  rests,  the  forms  by  which  it  expresses  them, 
the  figures  who  appear  on  the  stage,  are  too  utterly 
alien  to  the  merely  English  reader  to  awaken  in  him 
any  sympathetic  interest.  It  is  to  the  scholar  alone 
that  such  attempts  at  the  imitation  or  reproduction  of 
antique  art  appeal,  or  appeal  in  any  considerable  degree. 
Yet  there  is  much  beauty  of  a  severe  and  simple  kind  in 
"  Merope."  In  particular,  the  chorus  which  deals  with  the 
myth  of  Areas  and  Callisto  is  exceedingly  beautiful, 
especially  in  its  touches  from  nature  ;  indeed,  on  the 
whole,  perhaps  the  most  effective  passages  in  the  play,  even 
in  the  blank  verse  portions,  are  those  which  deal  with 
landscape  and  the  open  air.  "  Empedocles  in  Etna"  is  more 
attractive  than  "  Merope,"  because  the  main  figure,  the 

*  Swinburne's  "  Essays  and  Studies" :  Review  of  Arnold's  '  New  Poems.' 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  365 

protagonist,  is  nearer  to  us  in  spirit,  if  not  also  in  time, 
than  the  descendants  of  the  Heracleidse  who  conquered 
the  Peloponnesus.  A  philosopher,  weary  of  the  world,  vext 
in  soul  at  the  predominance  of  the  sophists  in  the  schools, 
and  finding  no  stay,  no  refuge  but  Nature,  the  mother  of  us 
all,  is  not  so  remote  from  modern  conceptions,  nor  yet  from 
modern  experience,  but  that  he  is  capable  of  interesting  us 
and  arousing  some  manner  of  sympathy.  But  is  the  reve- 
lation of  his  spiritual  agonies,  the  exposure  of  his  self- 
torturings  (until  life  becomes  no  more  bearable,  and  he 
leaps  into  the  crater  of  the  volcano),  a  fit  subject  for  a 
drama  ?  All  cavilling,  however,  is  silenced  as,  breaking  the 
long  and  essentially  undramatic  monologues  of  the  soul- 
striken  philosopher,  we  hear  the  strains  which  the  boy 
Callicles  chants  to  his  harp  rising  up  in  the  thin  mountain 
air.  Perhaps  as  pure  lyrics,  Arnold  has  never  produced 
anything  more  perfect  than  those  which  tell  of  Cadmus  and 
Harmonia,  of  Marsyas  and  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses  on  Par- 
nassus. In  fact,  the  poem  (a  drama,  properly  speaking,  it 
is  not,  though  cast  in  dramatic  form)  may  be  considered  as 
expressing  the  soothing  power  and  enduring  vitality  of  art 
(symbolised  in  Callicles),  as  against  the  vanity  and  weariness 
of  philosophy.  Arnold  evidently  had  in  his  mind  the 
composition  of  other  dramas,  founded  on  the  antique, 
besides  the  "  Merope  "  which  he  has  given  us ;  and  from 
the  fine  "  Fragment  of  Chorus  of  a  Dejaneira,"  I  may  quote 
these  lines  as  a  specimen  of  his  power  in  reproducing  the 
form  and  spirit  of  the  Greek  chorus. 

0  frivolous  mind  of  man, 

Light  ignorance,  and  hurrying  unsure  thoughts, 

Though  man  bewails  you  not, 

Huw  /  bewail  you  ! 

Little  in  your  prosperity 

Do  you  seek  counsel  of  the  Gods. 

Proud,  ignorant,  self-adored,  you  live  alone. 


366  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

In  profound  silence  stern 

Among  their  savage  gorges  and  cold  springs 

Unvisited  remain 

The  great  oracular  shrines. 

Bald,  chilling,  such  lines  may  seem  to  ears  accustomed 
to  the  ornate  and  the  effusive  in  poetry.  Irregular,  rhyme- 
less,  almost  rhythmless,  they  cannot  be  said  to  invite  in 
an  obvious  way  either  the  eye  or  the  ear.  Yet  to  such  as 
feel  their  power  they  have  a  grandeur  which  makes  them 
kindred  with  what  is  highest  and  most  enduring — the 
stars,  the  mountain  peaks,  the  deepest  thoughts  of  the 
soul. 

Passing  from  the  dramatic  to  the  lyrical  poems,  I  may 
recall  what  has  already  been  implied,  that  in  Arnold's 
attempts  in  the  dramatic  form,  it  is  the  lyrical  passages 
which  are  by  far  the  best  from  a  poetical  standpoint,  and 
which  in  fact  give  them  most  of  the  interest  and  value 
they  possess.  The  lyrical  passage  just  quoted  from  a 
dramatic  fragment  likewise  leads  naturally  to  the  con- 
sideration of  Arnold's  partiality  for  irregular  unrhymed 
forms  in  lyrical  writing.  He  is  particularly  addicted  to  the 
use  of  what  may  be  called  the  half-pentameter,  e.g.,  in — 

Trim  Mont  |  martre  !  the  |  faint 
Murmur  of  |  Paris  out  |  side, 

where  these  two  lines,  taken  together,  would  form 
accurately  (so  far  as  the  differences  in  accent  and  quantity 
between  Latin  and  English  admit)  a  complete  pentameter 
line.  Even,  however,  in  "  Heine's  Grave "  (from  which 
these  lines  are  taken), — a  poem,  by  the  way,  containing 
some  of  his  most  famous  and  most  magnificent  passages 
of  verse — he  is  not  content  to  employ  this  metre  through- 
out, but  interpolates  occasionally  lines  constructed  on  quite 
different  principles,  including  several  very  fine  ones  of 
blank  verse.  It  has  been  supposed  by  some  that  Arnold's 
irregular  lyric  forms  were  his  own  invention — and  so 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  367 

indeed  it  may  be  with  the  one  just  alluded  to  (if,  indeed, 
it  can  properly  be  called  irregular),  in  which  "Heine's 
Grave,"  "  Rugby  Chapel,"  and  "  Haworth  Churchyard,"  are 
for  the  greater  part  written.  It  appears  to  me,  however,  be- 
yond doubt  that  he  took  the  general  idea  of  writing  lyrical 
poems  with  lines  rhymeless,  of  varied  accent,  and  unequal 
length  (such  as  we  see,  for  instance,  in  "The  Strayed 
Reveller,"  in  "Philomela,"  and  in  "The  Future"),  from 
its  previous  adoption  by  Goethe  with  a  similar  class 
of  subjects.  Of  course,  Arnold's  intimacy  with,  and 
enthusiasm  for,  the  choruses  of  Greek  tragedy  (the  effect 
of  which  he  tried  to  reproduce  in  "Merope"),  would,  of 
itself,  naturally  draw  him  to  a  similar  form  hi  his  own 
compositions.  But  if,  remembering  Arnold's  admiration 
for  Goethe,  one  turns  to  such  pieces  as  the  German  poet's 
"  Prometheus,"  or  "  Harzreise  im  Winter,"  one  will  easily 
see  that  if  the  parallel  between  the  usage  of  the  two  poets 
is  not  complete,  it  is  still  highly  probable  that  the  younger 
poet  found  himself  powerfully  attracted  to  a  kind  of  lyrical 
measure,  which  had,  he  found,  yielded  to  the  elder  one 
such  admirable  results.  Not  all,  to  be  sure,  of  Arnold's 
irregular  lyrics  are  rhymeless.  It  is  only  necessary  to  refer, 
for  examples  of  what  I  mean,  to  those  exquisite  pieces 
"  The  Forsaken  Merman  "  (which,  as  well  as  "  The  Strayed 
Reveller,"  is  more  properly  placed  among  the  lyrics,  than 
among  the  narrative  pieces),  "  Dover  Beach,"  "  The  Buried 
Life,"  and  "  A  Summer  Night."  In  some  of  these  poems 
the  rhymes  are,  however,  so  curiously  interlaced  as  hardly 
to  produce  on  any  but  a  practised  and  attentive  ear  the 
effect  of  rhyme  at  all. 

As  to  Arnold's  lyrics  in  general,  it  is  natural  to  say  that 
they  lack  spontaneity,  that  they  are  the  offspring  rather  of 
culture,  poetic  feeling,  a  refined  and  practised  taste,  than 
of  genuine  inspiration.  This  is  a  natural  thing  to  say,  it 


368  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

has  often  been  said ;  but  though  it  certainly  expresses  a 
part  of  the  truth,  it  cannot  be  held  an  adequate  criti- 
cism. It  seems  to  me  that  they  take  their  origin  (as 
Wordsworth,  in  one  of  his  admirable  prefaces,  says  that 
poetry  does  in  general)  from  "  emotion  recollected  in  tran- 
quillity." They  do  not  come,  like  those  lyrics  which  are 
twin-born  with  the  emotions  they  sing  of,  red-hot  from  the 
anvil  of  the  poet's  heart  and  soul ;  but  none  the  less  do 
they  speak  the  language  of  true  emotion.  Few  of  them, 
indeed,  are  devoted  to  the  passion  of  love,  and  such  a  figure 
as  the  Marguerite  of  the  "  Switzerland  "  poems  is  as  much, 
perhaps,  the  child  of  nature  as  the  object  of  human  passion, 
and  forms  thus  a  companion  beside  the  Lucy  of  Wordsworth. 
Generally,  it  is  intellect,  touched  or  transformed  by  emotion, 
which  is  the  characteristic  feature  of  these  poems.  How 
much  poorer  would  the  poetry  of  our  century  be  without 
"Dover  Beach,"  "The  Buried  Life,"  "Bacchanalia,"  the 
"  Epilogue  to  Lessing's  Laocoon,"  "  In  Utrumque  Paratus," 
"  Heine's  Grave,"  "  Stanzas  from  the  Grand  Chartreuse," 
"  The  Future,"  and  the  two  sets  of  verses  on  "  Obermann  "  ! 
Arnold's  poetry  is  often  described  as  unmusical,  and  it  is 
said  that  he  himself  had  no  ear  for  the  musician's  art 
(though  what  he  himself  says  on  the  subject  of  music  in 
the  "Epilogue  to  the  Laocoon,"  hardly  bears  out  the 
imputation) ;  but  to  those  who  feel  its  charm  it  has,  despite 
its  occasional  baldness,  prosiness,  and  inharmoniousness,  a 
sweet,  a  subtle,  undertone  of  sound,  whose  echoes  haunt 
for  long  the  chambers  of  the  spirit.  "Never,"  said  an 
accomplished  critic  and  thinker,*  "  was  there  a  muse  with 
so  even  and  soundless  a  footfall  as  this ;  but  she  keeps  you 
listening,  charmed  and  attentive,  even  when  she  has  with- 
drawn into  absolute  silence  away." 

*  "  Henry  Holbeach,  Student  in  Life  and  Philosophy,"  Vol.  II.,  p.  297. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  369 

Of  the  narrative  poems,  "Sohrab  and  Rustum"  deals 
with  an  episode  of  Persian  history,  and  "  Balder  Dead  "  of 
Norse  mythology,  in  stately  and  sonorous  blank  verse,  and 
in  a  style  which  may  justly  be  called  Homeric.    The  former 
is  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  powerful  poems  of  our  age 
(more  so,  perhaps,  than  any  of  Tennyson's  Arthurian  idylls), 
and  the  poet  has  realised  and  helped  us  to  realise  in  a 
marvellously  vivid  way  both    the    pathos    and    tragical 
grandeur  of  the  story,  and  its  remote  circumstances  of 
place  and  time.     And  nowhere,  perhaps,  has  a  tale  of  con- 
flict and  bloodshed  a  more  majestic  close  than  in  that 
picture  of  the  mighty  Oxus  keeping  its  calm  and  stately 
course  undisturbed  by  man's  petty  trouble  and  turmoil, 
with  which   "  Sohrab  and  Rustum "  is   rounded  off,  as 
(to  use  Mr.  Andrew  Lang's  happy  reference)  "our  little 
life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep."    "  The  Sick  King  in  Bokhara," 
written  in  octosyllabic  lines,  with  rather  irregular  and 
inconstant  rhymes,  narrates  most  impressively  a  tragedy 
of  common  life,  borrowed  from  that  Eastern  world  which 
has  had  such  a  fascination  for  Mr.  Arnold ;  while  "  Myce- 
rinus"   takes  us  back  to  the  kings  of   ancient    Egypt 
chronicled  by  Herodotus.     "  Tristram  and  Iseult,"  on  the 
other  hand,  deals  with  a  well-known  legend  of  the  Arthu- 
rian cycle  (which  has  also,  among  modern  English  poets, 
engaged  Tennyson  and  Swinburne),  and  is  written  in  a 
variety  of  romance  and  ballad  measures.     This  poem,  with 
all  its  beauty,  shows  conclusively  that  the  treatment  of  the 
passion  of  love  was  not  congenial  to  Arnold's  genius ;  for 
the  passages  which  bring  before  us  the  sleeping  children, 
the  moonlit  room  where  the  lovers  lie  dead,  and  the  quiet 
self-contained  life  of  the  widowed  Iseult  (Iseult  of  the 
White  Hands),  amid  the  sweet  landscape  of  her  Breton 
home,  are  far  more  beautiful  and  impressive  than  those 
h  attempt  to  deal  with  the  wild  passion  of  the  lovers. 
Finally,  mention  should  be  made  of  "  The  Church  of  Brou," 


370  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

the  last  strain  or  canto  of  which  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
things  Mr.  Arnold  has  done. 

But  it  is  in  the  elegiac  poems  that  Arnold's  poetic 
genius  found,  it  seems  to  me,  its  best,  its  most  natural 
and  perfect  expression.  Regret  and  longing — a  wistful 
longing  for  what  he  cannot  grasp,  and  a  tender  regret 
for  what,  once  grasped,  has  passed  out  of  his  reach — 
these  are  two  of  the  dominant  notes  of  all  his  poetry, 
and  give  it  almost  everywhere  something  of  the 
elegiac  character.  In  the  elegy  he  is,  it  seems  to  me, 
among  modern  English  poets,  supreme.  "Thyrsis"  has, 
indeed,  in  its  kind,  no  peer  in  English  poetry  since 
"Lycidas"  ;  the  fiery  and  impassioned  eloquence  of 
"  Adonais "  and  the  spiritual  philosophy  of  "In 
Memoriam"  belong  to  quite  different  categories  of  song. 
Gray's  "Elegy"  comes  much  nearer  in  point  of  affinity. 
While  in  "  Thyrsis  "  the  leading  note  is  one  of  regret,  not, 
however,  unmixed  with  a  desire  to  be  at  rest  with  his 
departed  friend : — 

Strange  and  vain  the  earthly  turmoil  grows, 
And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy  repose, 
And  night  as  welcome  as  a  friend  would  fall, 

in  that  remarkable  companion-poem  "  The  Scholar- 
Gipsy,"  the  poet  envies  the  fate  of  the  scholar,  who  left 
the  busy  world  long  ago  and  joined  the  gipsies,  and  whom 
he  imagines  still  to  roam  the  country-side : — 

The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 

And  we  ourselves  shall  go  ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 

And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age, 

And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 
Because  thou  had'st — what  we,  alas,  have  not ! 

For  early  did'st  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 

Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 
Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things  ; 

Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 
Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baffled,  brings. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  371 

It  may  be  worth  mention  that  the  idea  of  the  intricate 
metrical  scheme  of  these  two  poems  is  evidently  taken  from 
the  odes  of  Keats,  though  it  is  not  identical  with  any  one  of 
the  slightly  varying  schemes  Keats  there  employed — while 
there  are  also  a  few,  a  very  few,  verbal  reminiscences  of  that 
great  poet. 

In  "  Thyrsis "  Arnold  laments  the  death  of  his  friend 
Clough ;  in  "  Rugby  Chapel "  he  mourns  that  of  his  father ; 
and  in  "  A  Southern  Night "  that  of  his  brother  William, 
who  died  on  the  voyage  home  from  India.  There  are  also 
the  exquisite  "Memorial  Verses"  on  Wordsworth,  and 
the  beautiful  little  piece,  half  song,  half  dirge,  called 
"  Requiescat."  Some  of  the  other  poems,  classed  as 
elegiac,  are  not  elegies  in  the  sense  of  lamentations  or 
monodies,  but  only  as  being,  like  so  much  of  Mr.  Arnold's 
verse,  cast  in  the  elegiac  key.  Such  are  "  A  Summer 
Night,"  "  Faded  Leaves,"  and  the  lines  "  To  a  Gipsy  Child 
by  the  Sea  Shore  " — the  latter  a  very  fine  and  characteristic 
poem,  sad  and  sombre,  yet  with  glancing  lights  of  exquisite 
grace  and  tenderness. 

One  word  as  to  the  "  Sonnets."  Of  these  Arnold  wrote 
some  twenty  altogether,  all,  or  nearly  all  of  them,  cast  after 
the  Petrarcan  model,  with  only  two  rhymes  in  the  octave 
and  three  in  the  sestett ;  and  these  are  printed  so  as  to 
show  not  only  the  two  main  divisions  of  the  poem,  but 
likewise  the  two  answering  parts  of  each  division.  In  none 
other  of  his  poems  does  the  strenuous,  serious  character  of 
the  man  more  manifestly  appear — and  both  in  point  of 
thought  and  style  they  are  such  as  no  other  poet  has  or 
could  have  written.  Truly  in  the  one  called  "  Austerity  of 
Poetry"  does  he,  considering  his  own  poetic  nature,  compare 
the  muse  to  a  bride  who,  according  to  the  Italian  story, 
was  killed  by  a  fall  at  a  public  show,  and  found  dead  with 
sackcloth  next  her  skin  : — 


372  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

Such,  poets,  is  your  bride,  the  Muse  !  young,  gay, 
Radiant,  adorn'd  outside  ;  a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 

In  the  essay  on  Maurice  de  Gue'rin  Arnold  expresses 
very  clearly  his  view  of  the  two-fold  function  of  poetry. 
"  Poetry,"  he  there  says,  "  interprets  in  two  ways ;  it  inter- 
prets by  expressing,  with  magical  felicity,  the  physiognomy 
and  movement  of  the  outward  world,  and  it  interprets  by 
expressing  with  inspired  conviction,  the  ideas  and  laws  of 
the  inward  world  of  man's  moral  and  spiritual  nature.  In 
other  words,  poetry  is  interpretative  both  by  having  natu- 
ral magic  in  it,  and  by  having  moral  profundity.  In  both 
ways  it  illuminates  man ;  it  gives  him  a  satisfying  sense  of 
reality ;  it  reconciles  him  with  himself  and  the  universe." 
Nature  and  man — Nature,  as  in  its  broadest  sense  it  impres- 
ses and  influences  man,  who  is  himself  physically  a  part  of 
it;  and  man,  as  in  his  intellectual,  his  moral,  and  his 
spiritual  life — his  mind,  conscience,  heart  and  soul — he 
exists  apart  from  nature,  these  are  the  two  eternal  (ever 
distinct,  yet  never  altogether  unrelated)  subjects  of  the 
poet's  song.  In  the  "Epilogue  to  Lessing's  Laocoon," 
Arnold  speaks  of  the  poet  as  ever  pursuing  the  stream  of 
life,  fascinated,  controlled,  ever  drawn  on  by  its  irresistible 
attraction.  The  painter  painting  the  aspect  of  things, 
gives  in  outward  semblance  "  a  moment's  life  of  things 
that  live  " — the  musician  chooses  "  some  source  of  feeling," 
and  by  the  enchantment  of  his  art  reveals  its  hidden 
world  of  beauty — but  the  poet  must  do  more  than  this. 
Not  only  must  he  be  both  painter  and  musician,  painting 
the  transient  aspects  of  things  and  giving  a  musical  setting 
to  the  emotions  they  excite,  only,  as  he  is  tied  to  the 
medium  of  language,  achieving,  in  both  respects,  an  in- 
ferior measure  of  success — but  he  must,  from  the  contem- 
plation of  the  spectacle  of  life  which  is  now  passing  before 
his  eyes,  discover  its  inner  meaning,  "  the  thread  which 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  373 

binds  it  all  in  one,"  must  (as  Arnold  says  elsewhere)  learn 
to  interpret  life  for  us.  And  this  contemplation,  this  atti- 
tude of  an  outsider,  ever  standing  aside  to  let  the  pageant 
of  life  roll  by,  content  to  watch,  with  patient  unaverted 
gaze,  both  the  turbid  current  of  human  life  and  the  quiet 
goings  on  of  Nature — though  it  may  bring  with  it  calm- 
ness, an  exalted  resignation,  will  not  bring  happiness. 
The  spectacle  of  life,  viewed  from  the  poet's  standpoint, 
suggests  thoughts  too  solemn  for  that : — 

He  sees  the  gentle  stir  of  birth, 

When  morning  purifies  the  earth  : 

He  leans  upon  a  gate,  and  sees 

The  pastures,  and  the  quiet  trees. 

Low  woody  hill,  with  gracious  bound, 

Folds  the  still  valley  almost  round  ; 

The  cuckoo  loud  on  some  high  lawn, 

Is  answer"  d  from  the  depth  of  dawn  ; 

In  the  hedge  straggling  to  the  stream, 

Pale,  dew-drench'd,  half-shut  roses  gleam  ; 

But  where  the  further  side  slopes  down 

He  sees  the  drowsy,  new-waked  clown, 

In  his  white,  quaint-embroider'd  frock, 

Make,  whistling,  toward  his  mist-wreath'd  flock. 

Slowly,  behind  his  heavy  tread, 

The  wet  flower'd  grass  heaves  up  its  head. 

Lean'd  on  his  gate,  he  gazes  !  tears 

Are  in  his  eyes,  and  in  his  ears 

The  murmur  of  a  thousand  years. 

Before  him  he  sees  life  unroll, 

A  placid  and  continuous  whole  ; 

That  general  life,  which  does  not  cease, 

Whose  secret  is  not  joy,  but  peace  ; 

That  life,  whose  dumb  wish  is  not  misa'd, 

If  i -irt.il  proceeds,  if  things  subsist ; 

The  life  of  plants,  and  stones,  and  rain — 

The  life  he  craves  !  if  not  in  vain, 

Fate  gave,  what  chance  shall  not  control, 

His  sad  lucidity  of  soul. 

Of  the  two  kinds  of  interpretation  in  which  Arnold  finds 
the  poet's  true  function  (that  of  Nature  and  that  of  man), 
and  of  his  own  success  as  a  poet  in  dealing  with  each,  a  little 


374  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

more  must  be  said.  In  the  beautiful  lines  which  I  have  just 
quoted  from  "  Kesignation,"  we  get  something  of  both ; 
though  there,  and  also,  perhaps,  generally  with  Arnold,  it  is 
in  the  interpretation  of  Nature — in  his  power,  as  he  says  of 
Gue'rin,  "to  make  magically  near  and  real  the  life  of  Nature, 
and  man's  life  only  so  far  as  it  is  a  part  of  that  Nature," 
that,  as  it  seems  to  me,  his  real  gift,  the  inborn  quality 
of  his  genius,  finds  its  natural  expression.  Natural 
magic  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  name  he  gives  to  its  manifes- 
tation in  others  ;  and  those  interested  in  the  subject  will 
find  in  his  "  Lectures  on  Celtic  Literature  "  (Lecture  IV.), 
not  only  the  fullest  expression  of  his  views  on  the  subject, 
but  likewise  a  string  of  delightful  quotations.  Now  it  is 
not  too  much  to  claim  for  Arnold  that  he  shows  an  exquisite 
felicity  of  language  in  conveying  the  charm  of  Nature,  both 
in  its  detail,  and  still  more,  perhaps,  in  its  mass.  It  is  not 
so  much  a  picture  of  Nature  which  he  gives  us  (still  less  a 
description,  a  dry  catalogue),  as  a  vision  of  the  reality, 
where,  as  hi  an  actual  scene,  the  profusion  of  lovely  detail 
does  not  absorb  our  admiration  to  the  injury  of  the  total 
impression.  I  do  not,  of  course,  claim  for  Arnold  that  he 
shows  what  I  would  call  the  supreme  felicity  of  the  great 
masters — of  Shakspere,  Keats,  Wordsworth.  His  is  an 
exquisite,  a  lovely  felicity.  One  would  not,  of  course, 
compare  it  with  what  Shakspere  shows  in  such  lines  as 
these : — 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadow  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy. 

Or  with  Keats : — 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head, 
Like  cloud  on  cloud. 

Or  with  Wordsworth : — 

There  is  an  eminence,  of  these  our  hills 
The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun. 


M A TTHEW  ARNOL D  AS  POST.  375 

It  is  very  difficult  to  find  in  Arnold  passages  of  a  line 
or  two  to  serve  as  examples  of  his  power  of  rendering 
Nature ;  so  much  of  the  charm  of  his  poetry  is  lost  when 
severed  from  its  connection.  But  take  these  from 
"  Thyrsis,"  on  an  English  garden  at  midsummer : — 

Soon  will  the  high  midsummer  pomps  come  on, 
Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell, 

Soon  we  shall  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 
Sweet- William  with  his  homely  cottage  smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow  ; 

Roeee  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar, 
And  open  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 
And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden  trees, 

And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening  star. 

Almost  every  one  who  realises  what  poetry  is,  will  see 
that  this  could  only  have  been  written  with  the  poet's  eye 
(his  inner  eye,  at  least,)  on  the  scene  he  brings  before  us. 
Or  take  these  again,  from  "  Resignation,"  of  a  scene  in  the 
Westmorland  hills : — 

Mild  hollows,  and  clear  heathy  swells, 
The  cheerful  silence  of  the  fells. 

Once  again  from  "  A  Summer  Night " : — 

Houses  with  long  white  sweep 

Girdled  the  glistening  bay  ; 

Behind,  through  the  soft  air, 

The  blue  haze-cradled  mountains  spread  away. 

One  final  instance  of  this  rare  faculty  of  rendering 
Nature  I  must  give.  It  is  from  that  exquisite  piece  "The 
Strayed  Reveller  "  :— 

Ah,  cool  night-wind,  tremulous  stars  ! 
Ah,  glimmering  water — 
ful  earth-murmur — 
Dreaming  woods ! 

Is  not  the  spirit  of  twilight,  of  that  hushed  and  solemn 
hour  when  night  begins  to  draw  her  veil  over  the  face  of 
Nature,  and  the  first  stars  tremble  in  the  blue,  expressed  as 
perfectly  in  these  simple  lines  as  in  some  landscape  of 
Corot? 


376  MA  TTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

Matthew  Arnold  seems  to  me  peculiarly  successful  in  the 
use  of  compound  words,  such  as  "jasmine-muffled,"  "haze- 
cradled,"  in  the  lines  I  have  quoted.  How  exquisite  are 
the  "  deserted  moon-blanch'd  street,"  in  "  A  Summer 
Night,"  the  "  moon-blanch'd  sand  "  in  "  Dover  Beach,"  the 
"wet  bird-haunted  English  lawn"  in  "Switzerland,"  the 
" wave-kiss'd  marble  stair"  in  "A  Southern  Night,"  the 
"sun-warm'd  firs"  in  "Obermann  Once  More"?  As  affording' 
an  instance  of  the  magic  which  sometimes  lies  in  a  single 
word,  when  used  by  a  great  poet,  I  would  refer  to  the  pas- 
sage from  "  Tristram  and  Iseult,"  which  brings  before  us- 
the  clearing  in  the  forest  to  which  Merlin  was  brought  by 
the  treacherous  Vivian : — 

The  blackbird  whistled  from  the  dingles  near, 
And  the  light  chipping  of  the  woodpecker 
Rang  lonelily  and  sharp  ;  the  sky  was  fair, 
And  a  fresh  breath  of  spring  stirr'd  everywhere. 
Merlin  and  Vivian  stopp'd  on  the  slope's  brow 
To  gaze  on  the  green  sea  of  leaf  and  bough 
Which  glistering  lay  all  round  them,  lone  and  mild, 
As  if  to  itself  the  quiet  forest  smiled. 

How  that  word  glistering  helps  one  to  realize  the  life  of 
the  scene,  the  thousand  alternations  of  light  and  shade 
which  played  upon  the  green  sea  of  the  enchanted  forest ! 
Whilst  on  this  point,  one  should  not  omit  to  notice  to 
how  many  different  regions  our  poet  conducts  his  readers, 
and  how  he  seems  able  to  render  the   charm   and  the 
character  of  each.     From  the  quiet  Oxford  country  to  the 
Westmorland  hills,   from  the  coast   of  Brittany  to  the 
slopes  of  Etna  and  the  snows  and  sunny  pastures  and 
"scented  pines  of  Switzerland,"  and  thence  to  the  great 
plains  of  Central  Asia,  Bokhara,  and  the  Oxus,  and  the 
wide  steppes,  where  here  and  there- 
Clusters  of  lonely  mounds 
Topp'd  with  rough-hewn, 
Grey,  rain-blear'd  statues,  overpeer 
The  sunny  waste  : — 


MATTHEW  ARKOLD  AS  POET.  377 

to  all  these  scenes  he  brings  us,  and  all  of  them  he 
makes  us  see,  if  we  have  it  in  us  to  see,  with  his  own  keen 
poetic  vision. 

Above  all,  however,  is  he  the  poet  of  Oxford  and  the 
Oxford  country — the  poet  on  whom,  more  than  on  any 
other  of  this  generation,  Oxford  has  impressed  her  dis- 
tinctive mark.  Indeed,  perhaps,  it  is  only  those  who, 
worthily  or  unworthily,  look  up  to  Oxford  as  their  alma 
fmatert  who  will  feel  the  fulness  of  his  charm.  None  other 
can  enjoy  to  the  full  those  exquisite  landscape  touches 
which  abound  in  "  Thyrsis  "  and  "  The  Scholar-Gipsy ; " 
none  other  can  realise  how  truly  much  of  his  verse  is 
steeped  in  the  sentiment  of  Oxford — a  sentiment  beautiful 
but  melancholy,  as  of  her  spires  and  domes  and  gardens 
sleeping  beneath  the  moon.* 

In  regard  to  the  second  kind  of  interpretation  with 
which,  in  Arnold's  view,  the  poet  has  to  deal — moral 
interpretation — or  that  which  deals  with  man's  inner  being 
and  its  moral  and  spiritual  laws,  Arnold  is  not  so  successful 
as  when  dealing  with  external  Nature.  Probably  he  had 
too  little  sympathy  with  man  in  the  concrete — at  any  rate 
too  little  insight  into  his  nature — to  be  a  great  poet  of 
humanity.  Man  in  the  abstract  interested  him  greatly, 
and  he  had  a  deep  sympathy  with  certain  individuals— 
apart,  of  course,  from  his  affectionate  relations  to  his  family 
and  kindred — where  his  sensitive  and  fastidious  nature 
responded  to  the  subtle  charm  of  some  finely-touched 
personality.  I  do  not  intend,  of  course,  to  imply  that  he 
did  not  feel,  and  feel  deeply,  for  his  fellow-men — I  am  sure 
he  did.  In  speaking  of  "  Culture  and  Anarchy "  in  a 
previous  paper,  I  endeavoured  to  show  that  his  view  of 
culture  included,  as  a  necessary  part  of  the  idea,  the  effort 
to  carry  others  along  with  us  on  the  road  to  perfection ; 
and  in  all  his  critical  work — against  whatever  errors  and 

«  Cf.    "BiMjn  In  OrlticUm :"    Prafciot! 


378  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

delusions  it  was  directed — he  unquestionably  aimed  at  the 
general  good.  Those  who  think  of  him  as  "a  philosopher 
of  the  kid-glove  persuasion  "  may  be  recommended  to  read 
the  two  sonnets,  "  East  London  "  and  "  West  London,"  and 
the  two  addressed  "  to  a  Republican  friend,  1848." 

Seriousness,  sincerity — these,  looking  at  his  poetry  from 
the  moral  standpoint,  are  its  characteristic,  its  ever-present 
qualities.  "  Poetry,"  says  he,  in  his  essay  on  '  The  Study 
of  Poetry,'  "  is  a  criticism  of  life  under  the  conditions  fixed 
for  such  a  criticism  by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic 
beauty,"  and  "  those  laws,"  he  goes  on  afterwards  to  say, 
"fix  as  an  essential  condition,  in  the  poet's  treatment  of 
such  matters  as  are  here  in  question,  high  seriousness — 
the  high  seriousness  which  comes  from  absolute  sincerity." 
Such  high,  such  paramount,  importance  did  he  attach  to 
sincerity  in  poetry,  that,  in  virtue  of  its  presence,  he  would 
give  his  commendation  to  verses  which  his  fine  critical 
faculty  must  have  recognised  as  in  other  respects  very 
defective.  Poetry,  in  order  to  please  him,  must  be  sincere  ; 
and  it  must  rest  upon  a  basis  of  reality,  it  must  be  in 
harmony  with  the  nature  of  things.  Hence  his  aversion  to 
the  fantastic  and  the  bizarre  in  poetry,  and  his  low  estimate 
of  verses  which  depend  for  their  charm  mainly  upon  the 
musical  arrangement  of  sounds.  He  thus  cared  compara- 
tively little  for  Shelley,  and  expressed  amazement  (so  Mr. 
Sidney  Colvin  tells  us*)  at  the  latter's  enormously  high 
estimate  of  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,"  a  poem  which 
some  admirers  of  Keats,  by  one  of  those  strange  freaks  of 
criticism  popular  now-a-days,  seem  bent  on  placing  above 
all  his  other  works,  even  his  magnificent  odes. 

In  his  poetry  Arnold  has  expressed  his  view  of  the  world 
and  of  human  life ;  and,  as  we  saw  from  the  lines  quoted 

*  "  On  some  Letters  of  Keats"  (Mavnillan's  Magazine,  Aug.,  1888). 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  379 

from  "  Resignation,"  that  view,  the  view  of  thejpoet  as  he 
stands  apart  from  the  crowd  and  watches  the  pageant  pass, 
is  a  sufficiently  sad  one.  Nay,  perhaps,  he  has  more  truly 
expressed  his  deepest  judgment  on  human  life  in  his  poetry 
than  in  his  prose,  where  the  play  of  his  wit  and  his  pleasant 
banter  often  veil  somewhat  the  seriousness  of  his  mood. 
The  old  props,  the  old  order,  gone  or  going,  and  nothing 
as  yet  to  take  their  place ;  "  the  past  is  out  of  date,  the 
future  not  yet  born ; "  man  tossed  hither  and  thither  by 
circumstance,  a  prey  to — 

This  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims  ; 

and  now  that  the  world  has  been  robbed  of  its  divinity, 
feeling  around  him  everywhere  the  grasp  of  inexorable 
law,  or,  at  least,  the  play  of  forces  in  the  midst  of  which 
his  individual  existence  and  happiness  are  as  nothing.  Yet 
is  he  not  left  entirely  without  comfort.  He  has  the  world 
of  Nature,  with  its  thousandfold  charms,  its  thousand- 
fold solicitations ;  and  he  has  besides  the  inner  world,  the 
world,  often  unexplored,  of  his  own  nature,  by  which  he 
is  related  to  the  universe  of  things : — 

.     .    .    oar  own  only  true,  deep-buried  selves, 

Being  one  with  which  we  we  one  with  the  whole  world. 

With  our  dull  meaningless  toil,  our  vain  strivings  after 
vain  things,  all  the  dust  and  turmoil  and  unreality  of  our 
lives,  we  come  to  forget  or  ignore  our  true  natures— our 
souls : — 

.    .     .    fancy  that  we  put  forth  all  our  life 
And  never  know  how  with  the  soul  it  fares. 

It  is  the  power  of  affection  which  most  often  comes  in 
to  bring  us  back  to  ourselves.  This  is  the  theme  of  "  The 
Buried  Life,"  a  poem  which  I  cannot  but  consider  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  Mr.  Arnold  has  written,  as  it  is 
certainly  one  of  the  most  characteristic.  In  the  graceful 


380  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

but  irregular  flow  of  its  verse,  in  its  deftly  interwoven 
rhymes,  there  is  something  in  fine  accordance  with  the 
charm  and  subtlety  of  the  thought.  But  even  human 
affection,  though  it  be  not  only  the  sweetest  thing  in  life, 
but  likewise  the  most  illuminating — how  hopelessly  un- 
certain it  seems !  Fate  not  only  separates  lovers,  but  like- 
wise prevents  those  who  would  love  from  ever  meeting  on 
earth.  As  the  poet  sings  elsewhere  : — 

Each  on  his  own  strict  line  we  move, 
And  some  find  death  ere  they  find  love  ; 
So  far  apart  their  lives  are  thrown 
From  the  twin  soul  that  halves  their  own. 

Indeed,  in  the  deepest  sense,  we  are  all  alone,  like  islands 
ever  kept  apart  from  each  other  by  "  the  unplumb'd,  salt, 
estranging  sea." 

Thus  Mr.  Arnold's  criticism  of  life,  as  expressed  in  his 
poetry,  is,  on  the  whole,  a  sad  and  disheartening  one.  The 
majority  of  men  he  sees  engaged  in  hard,  profitless  toil, 
with  no  time,  perhaps,  no  care  for  aught  beside — 

most  men  in  a  brazen  prison  live, 
Where  in  the  sun's  hot  eye, 
With  heads  bent  o'er  their  toil,  they  languidly 
Their  lives  to  some  unmeaning  task  work  give, 
Dreaming  of  naught  beyond  their  prison-wall. 

Others,  in  a  sense,  masters  of  themselves,  giving  them- 
selves up  to  the  gratification  of  their  self-will,  are  ship- 
wrecked on  the  sea  of  life — madmen,  instead  of  slaves. 
For  his  own  life,  and  the  life  of  others,  Arnold  would  seek 
some  guiding  principle,  some  element  of  permanence  in 
the  flux  of  things,  in  the  mad  rush  of  modern  life — but 
finds  none : — 

For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 
'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls. 

He  is  thus  ever  haunted  by  the  sense  of  his  own  ineffec- 
tiveness, of  powers  only  half  granted  or  only  half  recog- 
nised : — 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  381 

And  on  earth  we  wander,  groping,  reeling, 

Powers  stir  in  us,  stir  and  disappear. 
Ah,  and  he,  who  placed  our  master-feeling, 

Failed  to  place  that  master-feeling  clear  ! 

What  then,  I  would  ask,  is  the  general  effect  of  Mr. 
Arnold's  poetry  upon  the  human  spirit,  so  far  as  it  sur- 
renders itself  to  its  influence ;  and  what,  amid  all  these 
melancholy  realities,  does  he  give  us  for  solace  and  support  ? 
A  thoughtful  critic  in  The  Spectator  (April  21,  1888)  finds 
a  strange  exhilaration  in  his  verse,  an  exhilaration  which 
communicates  itself  to  the  reader — the  exhilaration,  as  he 
goes  on  to  say,  "  not  of  faith,  but  of  a  passionate  sympathy 
with  the  attitude  of  mind  which  faith  alone  could  produce." 
There  is,  doubtless,  a  certain  truth  in  this,  though  exaltation 
seems  to  me  to  express  what  is  meant  better  than  exhilara- 
tion ;  and,  taking  the  total  effect  of  this  poetry,  it  might  be 
described  as  expressing  an  exalted  resignation.  It  is, 
indeed,  the  same  as  what  Mr.  Arnold,  in  his  admirable 
preface  to  "Merope,"  describes  as  the  "state  of  feeling  which 
it  is  the  highest  aim  of  tragedy  to  produce,  a  sentiment  of 
sublime  acquiescence  in  the  course  of  fate,  and  in  the  dis- 
pensations of  human  life"  This  sentiment  of  acquiescence, 
he  goes  on  to  say,  is  a  sentiment  of  repose,  and  this  too  well 
expresses  one  side  of  the  impression  his  own  poetry  leaves 
on  a  susceptible  reader.  There  is  in  poetry,  indeed,  a  far 
loftier  exaltation,  a  far  deeper  repose — for  example,  in 
Wordsworth.  It  was  not  for  Arnold  to  inspire  us  with  the 
Wordsworthian  rapture— 

Far  and  wide  the  cloud*  were  touched, 
And  in  their  silent  facet  he  could  read 
Unutterable  love.    Sound  needed  none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy  ;  his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle  :  sensation,  soul,  and  form, 
All  melted  into  him  ;   they  swallowed  up 
His  animal  being  ;  in  them  did  he  live, 
And  by  them  did  he  live  ;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not — in  enjoyment  it  expired. 


382  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

Here  we  have,  indeed,  the  passion  of  faith — not  "a 
passionate  sympathy  with  the  attitude  of  mind  which  faith 
alone  could  produce."  Such  a  sublime  exaltation  of  spirit 
cannot  be  felt  by  a  poet  for  whom  Nature  has  been  robbed 
of  its  divine  meaning — far  less  can  he  communicate  it  to 
others.  And  as  we  have  not  here  the  Wordsworthian 
rapture,  so  have  we  neither  the  Wordsworthian  repose  :— 

Retirement  then  might  hourly  look 

Upon  a  soothing  scene, 
Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook, 

Contented  and  serene ; 

With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  sleep, 

In  frosty  moonlight  glistening  ; 
Or  mountain  rivers,  where  they  creep 
Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep, 

To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listening. 

This  is,  indeed,  the  great  and  permanent  difference 
between  Wordsworth  and  Arnold,  so  far  as  concerns  the 
substance  and  the  sentiment  of  their  poetry,  that  Words- 
worth's was  a  satisfied  nature,  Arnold's  an  unsatisfied  one : 
in  the  latter  many  influences  met  and  pulled  him  divers 
ways,  so  that  he  was  neither  able  to  attain,  as  he  himself 
says,  "  Wordsworth's  sweet  calm,"  nor  Wordsworth's  rapt 
exaltation  of  soul. 

To  close  with  a  few  general  remarks.  Whatever  judg- 
ment we,  according  to  our  individual  tastes,  may  pass  upon 
the  poetry  of  Arnold,  this  must  be  said  of  it :  that  it 
occupies  in  English  poetry,  and  in  all  poetry,  a  place  apart. 
We  may  find  analogies  to  Mr.  Arnold  in  Gray,  we  may  find 
closer  analogies  in  Wordsworth,  we  may  even  detect 
affinities  in  some  respects  with  Goethe  and  Virgil;  but  in  the 
end  we  must  be  content  with  saying  that  these  do  not 
carry  us  very  far.  And  not  only  is  his  general  and  total 
effect  distinct  from  that  of  any  other  poet,  it  is  singular  to 
find  in  a  poet  who  has  assimilated  so  much  of  the  world's 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  383 

best  poetry,  so  few  reminiscences  of  the  language  of  other 
bards.  While  Tennyson,  whom  most  readers  consider,  I 
imagine,  a  much  more  spontaneous  poet,  much  more  truly 
a  poet  than  Arnold,  abounds  in  echoes  of  this  kind;  in 
Arnold,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  hardly  any  are  to  be 
found.  Arnold  has  also  this  distinction  among  English 
poets ;  that  in  him  we  see  more  clearly  than  in  any  other 
the  blending  of  the  classical  and  romantic  elements.  This,  of 
course,  happens  at  the  expense  of  his  own  theory,  by  which 
he  was  bound  to  draw  his  subjects  from  the  antique  world, 
and  to  take  the  classical  poets  for  his  models.  In  fact,  in 
about  half  of  his  poetry,  he  does  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other,  though  his  fondness  for  the  ancients  always,  doubt- 
less, exercised  a  purifying  influence  upon  his  style.  Landor 
is  as  truly  classical,  Browning,  in  a  sense,  more  typically 
modern ;  but  in  Arnold  the  ancient  and  the  modern,  the 
classical  and  the  romantic  meet,  or  rather  live  side  by 
side.  No  poet,  perhaps,  has  felt  more  deeply  the  charm 
of  the  antique  life,  and  the  antique  art ;  few  poets  have 
been  more  profoundly  affected  by  the  influence  of  modern 
thought,  and  the  complex  and  disheartening  problems 
which  beset  us  to-day.  Arnold  again  is  eminently  lucid, 
both  in  thought  and  expression.  Where  he  may  seem 
obscure,  this  arises  from  the  remoteness  of  some  of 
his  ideas  from  those  with  which  most  people  are 
occupied.  Again,  as  I  have  endeavoured  to  show,  he 
is  eminently  successful  in  dealing  with  the  aspects  of 
Nature,  and  many  a  lover  of  nature  and  of  poetry 
will  find  that  his  favourite  scenes  have  both  received  an 
added  charm  from  the  poet's  verse,  and  when  absent,  often 
by  virtue  of  its  magical  power — 

Flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  it  the  bliu  of  aolitude. 

Many  are  the  strains  of  Arnold's  which  seem  the  most 


334  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET. 

perfect  echo  in  words  of  the  lovely  sights  and  sounds  of 
Nature;  to  which  we  might  with  a  slight  extension  of  the 
meaning,  apply  his  own  language  in  speaking  of  a  passage 
in  Maurice  de  Gue'rin ;  "  words  whose  charm  is  like  that 
of  the  sounds  of  the  murmuring  forest  itself,  and  whose 
reverberations,  like  theirs,  die  away  in  the  infinite  distance 
of  the  soul." 

It  would  appear  that,  in  Mr.  Arnold's  own  estimate,  his 
prose  was  superior  in  value  to  his  poetry,  or  that,  at  any 
rate,  the  importance  of  his  own  work  was  mainly  critical 
(a  statement  which,  no  doubt,  has  a  large  measure  of 
truth).  At  the  close  of  his  "  Essay  on  the  Function  of 
Criticism  at  the  Present  Time,"  after  saying  that,  though 
"criticism  may  have,  in  no  contemptible  measure,  a  joyful 
sense  of  creative  activity,"  still  it  is  in  an  epoch  of  genuine 
creative  power  that  we  have  the  true  life  of  a  literature, 
and  the  promised  land,  towards  which  criticism  can  only 
beckon,  he  concludes  thus:  "That  promised  land  it  will 
not  be  ours  to  enter,  and  we  shall  die  in  the  wilderness ; 
but  to  have  desired  to  enter  it,  to  have  saluted  it  from 
afar,  is  already,  perhaps,  the  best  distinction  among 
contemporaries;  it  will  certainly  be  the  best  title  to 
esteem  with  posterity."  It  is  ever  the  same  old  cry 
of  ineffectiveness — of  a  finely-tempered  but  unsatisfied 
nature  (to  use  the  beautiful  Virgilian  line  which  he 
applies  to  Marcus  Aurelius)  "  tendentemque  manus 
ripse  ulterioris  amore."  But  we  who  owe  so  much  to 
Mr.  Arnold's  poetry — we  whose  spirits  he  has  calmed, 
strengthened.,  and  consoled  more  than  any  poet  since 
Wordsworth — can  we  believe  that  he  will  be  remembered 
chiefly  by  his  criticism,  even  if  we  admit  (as  admit  we 
must)  that  there  is  a  critical  element  present  in  his  poetry  ? 
Rather  do  I  believe  that  as  time  proceeds,  and  generation 
after  generation  contributes  its  little  harvest  of  verse  to 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  AS  POET.  385 

the  world's  garner,  the  unique  charm  of  this  poetry  will 
appear  in  clearer  and  ever  clearer  light : — 

And  o'er  the  plain,  where  the  dead  age 
Did  its  now  silent  warfare  wage — 
O'er  that  wide  plain,  now  wrapt  in  gloom, 
Where  many  a  splendour  finds  its  tomb, 
Many  spent  fames  and  fallen  nights — 
The  one  or  two  immortal  lights 
Rise  slowly  up  into  the  sky 
To  shine  there  everlastingly. 

Well,  he  is  gone — and  to  the  places  of  pilgrimage  to  which 
the  people  of  our  race  resort,  there  has  been  added  another 
shrine.  With  Grasmere  we  shall  associate  Laleham.  And 
as  we  think  of  our  friend — the  friend  of  our  spirits — at  rest 
beside  his  own  beloved  Thames,  and  amid  the  sweet  English 
landscape  he  loved,  we  may  fitly  call  to  mind  some  lines 
from  his  beautiful  elegy  on  the  death  of  his  brother  and 
sister,  "A  Southern  Night" — lines  which  express  the 
thought  that  the  charm  of  Nature  and  of  human  character 
are  closely  allied — both  having  their  origin  in  the  depths 
of  that  Infinite  Spirit  who  is  the  source  and  fountain  of 
all  charm : — 

And  what  but  gentleness  untired, 

And  what  but  noble  feeling  warm, 
Wherever  shown,  however  attired, 
Is  grace,  is  charm  ? 

What  else  is  all  these  waters  are, 

What  else  is  steep'd  in  lucid  sheen, 
What  else  is  bright,  what  else  is  fair, 
What  else  serene  ? 

Mild  o'er  her  grave,  ye  mountain?,  shine  ! 

Gently  by  his,  ye  waters,  glide  ! 
To  that  in  you  which  is  divine 
They  were  allied. 


w 


IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  ASHE. 

BY   M.    S.   S. 

HILE  we  were  all  thinking  and  speaking  of  our  great 
poet,  who  had  just  passed  away  at  Venice,  one  of 
our  minor  and  less  known,  yet  sweet- voiced  singers,  died  at 
his  London  lodgings,  and  was  buried  within  the  shadow  of 
the  Cheshire  hills.  This  was  Thomas  Ashe. 

He  was  born  in  1836,  at  smoky  Stockport,  which  is,  how- 
ever, as  most  of  us  know,  close  to  beautiful  country — the 
hilly  part  of  Cheshire  bordering  on  Derbyshire.  His  father 
was  at  first  a  cotton  manufacturer,  but  somewhat  late  in  life 
he  was  ordained,  and  became  Vicar  of  St.  Paul's,  Crewe. 
From  the  Stockport  Grammar  School,  where  he  so  acquitted 
himself  that  great  things  were  hoped  for  from  him,  young 
Ashe  went  to  St.  John's,  Cambridge,  and  a  Mathematical 
Honour  degree  was  taken  by  him  in  1859.  Always  the 
thoughtful  student,  with  wide  literary  tastes,  he  was  in 
that  intellectual  set  of  his  college  to  which  Dr.  Abbott  and 
Dr.  Wilson  belonged,  and  the  latter  has  kindly  sent  me 
a  few  reminiscences  of  the  Ashe  of  those  days. 

"  I  well  remember,"  he  writes,  "  making  the  acquaintance 
of  Ashe,  as  a  freshman,  in  my  own  year  and  college.  He 
was  a  fair-haired,  quiet,  north-countryman;  in  general,  grave 
almost  to  sadness,  but  his  face  often  irradiated  with  a  smile  at 
some  humour  of  his  own  or  others  in  conversation.  He  was 


IN  MBMORIAM— THOMAS  ASHE.  387 

a  member  of  a  Shakspere  Society  along  with  myself  and 
three  others,  and  every  Saturday  we  met  and  read  and 
talked,  often  into  the  small  hours.  I  cannot  even  now  read 
'King  Lear*  without  recalling  Ashe's  subtle  criticisms." 
He  knew  but  few  men ;  not  more,  I  think,  than  three  or 
four ;  but  those  who  did  know  him  had  the  firmest  faith  in 
his  genius.  Certainly,  many  of  his  early  poems  have  a 
singular  lyric  charm  and  sweetness.  Probably  his  very 
earliest  poems,  some  slight  translations  from  Uhland,  are  to 
be  found  in  The  Eagle.  I  am  pretty  sure  that  his  first 
published  paper  was  on  the  curious  subject,  "  How  far  a 
poet  may  copy  from  a  picture  without  plagiarism."  He  was 
an  excellent  prose  writer.  There  is  a  delightful  article  of 
his  on  Epitaphs  in  The  Eagle,  Vol.  I.,  page  259. 

Already,  as  these  recollections  tell  us,  the  verse-writing 
had  begun.  At  23,  as  at  53,  Ashe  felt  that  he  was  born  to 
sing,  and  must  sing,  whatever  else  he  did,  and  whether  his 
singing  was  well  or  ill  received.  He  was  ordained  and 
issued  his  first  volume  of  poems  in  the  same  year  in  which 
he  left  the  university.  For  the  next  two  or  three  years  he 
was  Curate  of  Silverstone,  in  Northamptonshire,  and 
his  work  as  a  parish  priest  was  most  earnest  and 
thorough.  His  kindness  of  heart  and  blamelessness  of 
life,  coupled  with  his  mental  gifts,  were  bound  to  make 
some  impression  upon  the  flock  of  which  he  had  charge, 
and  to  this  day  he  is  affectionately  remembered  by  some 
of  those  who  were  members  of  it.  But  this  was  his  sole 
experience  of  such  duties.  Teaching  occupied  him  for 
many  subsequent  years.  He  was  first  assistant  master  at 
Leamington  College,  and  then  mathematical  and  modern 
form  master  at  the  Ipswich  Queen  Elizabeth  School. 
Leaving  Ipswich  in  1876,  he  spent  two  years  in  the  students 
quarter  of  Paris,  studying  French  literature,  and  noting 
everything  in  the  life  around  him  with  that  ceaseless  and 


388  IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  ASHE. 

close  observation  which  was  one  of  his  characteristics.  The 
last  ten  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  London  lodgings, 
where  he  busied  himself  with  literary  work,  and  passed 
quiet  lonely  days.  He  died  of  consumption  (a  strong  man 
he  had  never  been),  after  a  few  months'  illness  most 
uncomplainingly  borne,  on  December  18,  1889. 

For  two  years,  then,  Ashe  was  the  country  curate,  for  ten 
a  teacher  of  boys,  and  for  thirteen  or  so  the  literary  man  ; 
and  he  was  certainly  always  the  untiring  student,  not  only 
of  books  of  many  kinds,  but  also  of  men  and  women.  It 
is,  however,  as  a  singer  that  I  want  especially  to  speak  of 
him,  for  he  sang  all  through  his  life,  and  put  his  heart  into 
his  singing ;  and  to  be  loved  and  thought  of  as  "  Ashe,  the 
poet,"  would  have  been  to  him  more  than  aught  else.  The 
first  (1859)  book  of  poems  was  soon  followed  by  "  Dryope, 
and  Other  Poems."  The  atmosphere  of  Greek  poetry  had 
a  strong  fascination  for  him,  and  theme  after  theme  was 
taken  by  him  at  various  times  from  Greek  myth  and 
legend.  Three  years  later  came  out  "  Pictures,  and  Other 
Poems,"  the  "  pictures "  being  a  series  of  idylls  from  the 
story  of  Eros'  love  for  Psyche,  as  told  by  Apuleius,  varied 
by  dialogue  between  two  modern  lovers.  Another  three 
years  passed,  and  "  The  Sorrows  of  Hypsipyle  "  appeared, 
a  drama  after  the  Greek.  None  of  Ashe's  works  received 
more  praise  from  the  leading  reviews  than  did  this  one, 
but  its  subject  was  not  likely  to  prove  popular.  Full  of 
melancholy  music  is  the  song  of  the  Nereids,  which  ushers 
in  Part  II.  Here  are  a  few  lines  from  it : — 

'Neath  sea-wet  tresses  our  bosoms  wholly 
Heave  for  pity  and  melancholy, 

For  those  who  suffer,  for  those  who  die. 

Mystic  dances  and  music  fashion  ; 

A  song  for  sorrow  and  mortal  passion  ; 

O'erroofd  with  billowp,  that  sigh  and  sigh. 


IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  ASHE.  389 

Their  youth  ia  sunny :   it  dwells  with  laughter : 
But  who  can  fathom  the  sorrows  after? 

Young  rills  are  merry,  but  sea-ward  flow  : 

0  love's  a  wonder,  like  fruit  tree  shaken  : 
But  fruits  are  gather'd  and  hearts  forsaken : 
Their  now  is  bitter  for  long  ago. 

"  Edith,  or,  Love  and  Life  in  Cheshire  "  (1870),  was  Ashe's 
longest  narrative  poem,  and  proved  that  he  had  story- 
telling power,  with  some  skill  in  characterisation.  The  tale 
is  interesting,  and  there  is  grace  and  charm  in  the  telling. 
The  measure  used  has  been  described  as  "  a  trochaic  metre 
intended  to  reproduce  for  English  ears  something  of  the 
effect  of  the  Latin  hexameter." 

Six  years  elapsed  before  the  little  volume  entitled  "Songs 
Now  and  Then  "  appeared ;  and  lastly,  in  1886,  a  complete 
edition  of  the  poems  was  brought  out  by  Mr.  Bell,  who  had 
from  the  first  been  his  publisher,  and  never  ceased  to  believe 
in  his  poetical  gift,  however  persistently  indifferent  to  it  the 
general  public  remained.  "  Songs  of  a  Year,"  a  little  book 
privately  printed  in  1888,  completes  the  list  of  Ashe's  poetic 
writings,  but  a  word  must  be  said  of  what  he  did  in  prose. 
He  edited  Coleridge's  "  Lectures  and  Notes  on  Shakspere," 
his  "  Miscellanies,  ^Esthetic  and  Literary,"  his  "  Table-talk 
and  Omniana,"  and  his  poems  (Aldine  edition),  besides 
writing  various  papers  for  magazines.  Some  of  his  earliest 
prose  was  hi  Chambers'  "  Book  of  Days,"  to  which  he  con- 
tributed the  greater  part  of  the  articles  on  poets. 

In  what  ways,  it  may  be  asked,  did  his  poems  reflect  the 
character  of  their  writer  ?  An  important  side  of  a  man's 
nature  is  shown  by  the  way  in  which  he  writes  and  thinks 
of  women.  In  Ashe's  poems  there  is  little  dwelling  on 
beauty  of  face  and  form,  nor  are  there  many  words  in  praise 
of  purely  intellectual  gifts ;  but  power  of  sympathy,  pity, 
tender-heartedness,  gentleness,  and  unselfishness,  these 
come  into  his  descriptions  of  women  over  and  over  again. 
26 


390  IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  A  SHE. 

Here  is  a  portrait  from  life — 

Shall  woman's  worth  be  held  disgraced, 

If  beauty  fail  the  lip  or  cheek  ? 
Shall  stainless  merit  stoop  abased 

To  those  that  will  not  deeper  seek  ? 
Each  look  of  thine  is  worth  the  gems 

Round  many  royal  diadems. 

Of  simple  manners— nobly  sad  ; 

Love- winning  eyes  for  sick  or  poor  ; 
Intent  to  succour,  making  glad 

Villager  by  his  cottage  door  ; 
I  see  thee  move,  I  see  thee  go, 

A  light  amid  the  gloom  below. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Ashe  loved  these  qualities  in 
women,  for  they  were  strongly  marked  in  his  own  character. 
Truly  kind,  most  tender-hearted  he  was,  and  even  in  the 
last  painful  weeks  of  his  life,  he  showed  an  unselfish  horror 
of  giving  trouble  to  others.  No  one  will  ever  know  how 
frequent  were  his  deeds  of  mercy  and  generosity.  A  forlorn 
girl,  dying  in  a  Paris  garret ;  a  young  wife,  with  a  month- 
old  baby,  forsaken  by  her  husband  ;  a  poor  sufferer  in  the 
cancer  hospital — these,  I  happen  to  know,  were  among  the 
many  sorrowful  creatures  he  found  out  and  befriended. 
Helpless  women  and  children  most  of  all  excited  his  pity. 
I  well  remember,  when  staying  once  at  his  father's  house, 
how  he  brought  in  a  very  dirty  little  beggar  girl  by  the 
hand,  and  asked  that  she  might  be  warmed  and  fed. 

As  many  a  single  woman  has  the  mother  deep  in  her 
heart,  so  many  a  childless  man  has  the  father  in  his,  and 
Thomas  Ashe  was  such  an  one.  He  loved  and  understood 
children,  and  they  loved  and  instinctively  trusted  him, 
making  themselves  strangely  at  home  with  the  intensely 
shy  and  reserved  man,  who  could  so  easily  when  he  chose 
keep  men  and  women  at  arm's  length.  Timid  country 
children,  the  London  street  arab,  the  fisherman's  child  on 
the  sea-shore — he  could  make  friends  with  them  all,  and  so 
it  was  natural  that  he  should  often  bring  children  into  his 
poems. 


IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  ASHE.  391 

Children  ?    Where  are  mine  ?    Where  do  you  hide  in  the  darkness  ? 

Will  you  never  sit  upon  my  knee  in  the  even  ? 

Will  you  never  listen  to  the  wonderful  stories 

I  so  long  to  tell  you,  weird  with  the  glow  of  the  embers  ? 

Something  of  the  pathos  of  Lamb's  "  Dream-children  " 
is  in  these  words  (they  are  spoken  by  a  character  in 
"  Edith ") ;  and  there  is  just  a  touch  of  the  charm  and 
"  white  simplicity  "  of  Blake's  "  Songs  of  Innocence  "  in  the 
following  "  Vision  of  Children,"  one  of  the  "  Songs  of  a 
Year":— 

I  dream'd  I  saw  a  little  brook 

Run  rippling  down  the  Strand  ; 
With  cherry-trees  and  apple-trees 

Abloom  on  either  hand  : 
The  sparrows  gather'd  from  the  squares, 

Upon  the  branches  green ; 
The  pigeons  flock'd  from  Palace  Yard, 

Afresh  their  wings  to  preen  ; 
And  children  down  St.  Martin's  Lane, 

And  out  of  Westminster, 
Came  trooping,  many  a  thousand  strong, 

With  a  bewilder'd  air. 

They  hugg'd  each  other  round  the  neck, 

And  titter'd  for  delight, 
To  see  the  yellow  daffodils, 

And  see  the  daisies  white ; 
They  rolTd  upon  the  grassy  slopes, 

And  drank  the  water  clear, 
While  'buses  the  Embankment  took, 

Ashamed  to  pass  anear  ; 
And  sandwich-men  stood  still  aghast, 

And  costennongers  smiled  ; 
And  the  policeman  on  his  beat 

Pass'd,  weeping  like  a  child. 

Of  my  friend's  deep  and  strong  love  of  Nature,  the 
poems  speak  often  and  well.  What  a  sunny  atmosphere— 
an  atmosphere  full  of  pleasant  sound — is  here : — 

I  row'd  along  the  silver  Thames. 

The  plashing  of  the  oar, 
The  water-ripple  round  the  prow, 

The  reed-lisp  by  the  shore  ; 


392  IN  ME  MORI  AM—  THOMAS  A  SHE. 

The  blue  above,  the  blue  below, 

The  soughing  of  the  breeze  ; 
Leaving  the  busy  world  awhile, 

I  fill'd  my  soul  with  these. 

And  I  forgot  the  sorrows  deep 

That  daily  fret  the  mind  ; 
And  I  forgot  how  sad  it  is 

To  strive  with  human  kind  ; 
And  I  forgot  to  keep  my  feet 

On  this  world's  slippery  way  ; 
And  gave  my  soul  to  peace  and  ease, 

And  nature,  for  a  day. 
*  *  *  * 

She  calls  us  by  the  heavenly  'songs 

Of  birds  on  every  spray  : 
The  gleams  and  shadows  beckon  us 

To  rise  and  come  away  : 
The  water-lisp,  the  rushes'  lisp, 

They  try  on  us  a  charm  : 
They  say,  "  We  have  rare  things  for  you  ; 

Men,  listen,  and  be  calm." 

A  series  of  poems  written  at  Bettws-y-coed  contains 
passages  full  of  a  beautiful  fancifulness. 

Ashe's  humour — of  the  quiet  and  unexpected  kind — does 
not  appear  in  his  poetry.  In  that  there  is  seldom  a  smile, 
either  covert  or  unconcealed.  But  of  his  sadness  it  gives, 
alas,  abundant  evidence.  Regret,  disappointment,  and 
loneliness  speak  in  it  again  and  again.  A  restless  feverish 
brain,  a  heavy  unsatisfied  heart,  seek,  undisguisedly,  calm 
and  relief  through  these  sorrowful  utterances.  And  yet  he 
would  fain  have  sung  in  a  very  different  key. 

I  will'd  to  sing  of  trust  and  hope  : 

I  made  a  vow  to  ne'er  despond  : 
But,  stumbling  in  the  way,  I  grope  ; 

And,  blinded,  cannot  look  beyond. 

The  poems  which  speak  in  varied  tones  of  my  friend's 
religious  hope  and  doubt,  belief  and  uncertainty,  aspiration 
and  failure,  are  not  very  many,  but  two  may  be  taken  as 
examples  of  them,  one  from  among  his  earlier,  and  the 


IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  ASHE.  393 

other  from  his  latest  verses.  Often  as  ideas  from  the  23rd 
Psalm  have  been  made  the  foundation  of  sacred  poems, 
they  have  seldom  perhaps  been  more  happily  woven  into 
rhyme  than  in  the  following  few  lines : — 

Our  Shepherd  feeds  his  happy  sheep 

By  springs  that  ceaseless  flow  ; 
He  opens  unto  us,  that  weep, 

His  mystic  folds  to  know. 
They  follow  Him,  they  follow  Him, 

With  wandering,  willing  feet ; 
He  guards  them  in  the  twilight  dim, 

He  keeps  them  from  the  heat. 
They  pasture  in  the  heavenly  meads  ; 

The  sad  world's  busy  din 
Can  never  reach  them  where  he  leads, 

Nor  sorrow  enter  in. 
And  dearer  than  all  earth's  delights, 

Those  meadows,  sown  of  old  ; 
Ah,  shining  days  and  holy  nights, 

That  linger  o'er  His  fold  ! 

This  is  the  other  little  poem,  which  is  entitled  "  New 
and  Old":— 

Put  Comte  for  Christ,  and  read  us  why 

The  finer  fibres  of  the  soul 
Thrill  with  a  hidden  agony 

Of  longing,  we  can  not  control 
Put  law  for  God,  and,  if  you  can, 

Unravel  us  how  over  all 
Falls  sadness,  as  of  eyes  that  scan 

The  pageant  of  a  funeral 
0  brothers,  we  are  weak  !  0  let 

Our  tired  eyes,  with  weeping  dim, 
On  visionary  Olivet, 

Find  Christ  in  all,  and  Qod  in  Him  ! 
So  might  a  quicker  life  begin, 

A  newer  force  give  strength  to  be, 
And  drain  our  bitter  cup,  within 

Our  garden  of  Qethsemane  ! " 

In  any  attempt  to  estimate  Ashe's  worth  as  a  poet,  it  is 
the  reality  of  his  lyric  genius  which  should  be  most  insisted 
on.  From  this  sprang  the  poems  which  we,  his  friends, 


394  IN  MEMO  RI AM—  THOMAS  A  SHE. 

can  least  willingly  let  die.  In  their  spontaneity,  grace  and 
musicalness,  the  best  of  them  bring  Herrick's  lyrics  to  one's 
mind.  Quoters  from  Ashe's  poems  invariably  choose  part 
of  one  of  the  "Marit"  series  of  verses,  and  certainly  they 
could  not  do  better.  What  a  light  clear  touch  is  here : — 

My  little  love  has  dark  brown  eyes, 

With  restless  lashes  sweet, 
That  haunt  me  with  a  new  surprise, 

Whene'er  we  meet. 

Her  eyes  are  wells  serene  and  still, 
Where  dreamlike  shadows  lie,  • 

And  thoughts  float  in  them  at  their  will, 
Clear  as  the  sky. 

Dear  little  love,  her  guileless  way, 

When  musing  she  will  stand, 
One  finger  with  her  lip  at  play, 

Flowers  in  her  hand  ! 

How  naive  a  grace  is  round  her  shed, 

More  exquisite  than  words  ! 
Her  dainty  little  well  set  head 

Moves  like  a  bird's! 

To  dare  to  love  her  who  am  I  ? 

And  yet,  dear  love,  I  know, 
To  make  her  happy  I  would  die, 

I  love  her  so. 

The  best  of  the  lyrics  are  love  poems,  and  if  they  do  not 
soar  to  the  heights,  nor  sound  the  depths  of  the  passion, 
there  is  yet  in  some  of  them  what  one  may  venture  to 
speak  of  as  an  unmistakable  note  of  reality.  Here  is  an 
example  of  this : — 

Dreams  !  dreams  ! — nay,  are  you,  happy  dreams, 

But  gleam  and  glamour  of  the  brain  ? 
When  even  but  to  dream  you  seems 

So  sweet  a  gain  ? 

I  stir  the  embers  to  a  glow, 

And,  sitting,  weaving  all  my  rhyme, 
See,  while  the  land  is  pale  with  snow 

A  happy  time. 


IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  ASHE.  395 

I  seem  to  watch  her  as  she  sits, 

•My  household  chattel,  my  delight ; 
Some  song  I  read  her,  while  she  knits, 
Say,  this  I  write. 

0  sweet,  my  sweet,  there  shall  not  be 

Two  hearts  that  cherish  such  accord, 
From  north  to  south,  on  land  or  sea, 

So  true  a  lord  ! 

Nay,  dreams,  if  you  should  ne'er  come  true, 

Still  but  to  dream  you  has  been  good ; 
Tour  pictured  bliss  has  roused  anew 

My  sluggish  blood. 

My  life  was  withered  at  its  root ; 

No  branch  would  spring,  no  sap  would  stir  ; 
Now  green  and  fair  its  leaflets  shoot, 

To  live  for  her. 

A  word  must  be  said  about  my  friend's  translations. 
They  were  from  the  Greek,  the  Latin,  the  German,  and  the 
French,  and  are  printed  at  the  end  of  the  collected  poems. 
I  am  greatly  tempted  to  quote  the  beautiful  lines  "  Upon 
the  heavenly  band  of  all  saints,"  from  the  Latin  of  Richard 
Crashaw,  and  the  equally  happy  translation  of  a  little  poem 
by  Alfred  de  Musset  ("  Hold  me  in  memory  still "),  but 
refrain. 

I  have  before  me  a  little  book  wherein  are  pasted  the 
principal  criticisms  on  Ashe's  poems  which  have  appeared 
at  various  times.  The  praise  is  often  of  such  a  high 
quality,  and  so  far  outweighs  the  fault-finding,  that  one 
cannot  but  ask  why  a  singer  so  appreciated  by  some,  should 
not  have  been  more  read  by  the  many,  and  become  alto- 
gether better  known.  To  me,  this  is  a  difficult  question  to 
answer ;  but,  for  one  thing,  the  man  himself  was  hardly 
ever  seen.  He  was  almost  as  difficult  to  catch  as  a  shadow, 
his  unconquerable  shyness  drawing  him  more  and  more 
away  even  from  the  society  of  the  friends  who  would  have 
been  delighted  to  meet  him,  and  to  have  lessened  the  great 
loneliness  of  his  life.  Dr.  Wilson  writes :  "  Once,  a  few 


396  IN  MEMORIAM—  THOMAS  ASHE. 

years  ago,  at  the  close  of  a  lecture  I  was  giving  in  London, 
a  small  note  was  handed  to  me.  It  was  from  Ashe,  who 
was  in  the  room.  I  hurried  to  the  door,  but  he  had  gone." 
This  friend  of  his  college  days  adds :  "  His  was  a  lovely 
nature,  unworldly,  ideal,  the  soul  of  honour,  and  breathing 
the  very  atmosphere  of  poetry."  And  the  young  man  was 
father  of  the  man  of  fifty-three.  This  was  his  nature  and 
character  to  the  last. 

FOKGET-ME-NOT  I 

BY  JAMES  BERTRAM  OLDHAM. 

FORGET-ME-NOT !  "  whispered  the  brook  to  the  hills 
it  was  hastening  by, 
And  the  high  hills  drew  nearer  together,  and  answered 

I  know  not  what, 

But  I  seemed  to  catch  faintly  the  echo  of  that  most  musi- 
cal sigh, 

Forget-me-not ! 

Then  the  thin  little  stream  hurried  on  to  fulfil  its  un- 
searchable lot, 
To  be  lost  in  the  swirl  of  the  surge  when  the  feet  of  the 

storm-fiend  fly 

Through  the  darkness  athwart  the  deep,  and  heaven  and 
earth  are  not. 

But  it  left  behind  in  the  hills,  with  its  face  upturned  to  the 

sky, 
A  floweret  that  close  to  its  heart  folds  a  hope  it  has 

never  forgot, 

And  we  murmur  still,  when  we  see  it  look  skyward  with 
pale  blue  eye, 

Forget-me-not ' 
The  Qlossop  Moors,  June  29,  1889. 


INDEX. 


Arnold  (Matthew)  as  Prose  Writer.    By  C.  E. 

Tyrer.    1. 
Arnold  (Matthew)  as  Poet    By  C.  E.  Tyrer. 

858. 
Ashe  (Thomas).    In  Memoriam.    By  M.  8.  8. 

886. 
Attkins  (Edgar)i    The  Philosophy  in  Lever's 

"Barrington."    130. 
Autumn  Reverie.    A  Poem.    By  A.  Edmea- 

ton.    127. 
Axon  (W.  E.  A.).    Story  of  the  Pled  Piper  of 

H*"if>M" .    900. 
Axon  (W.  E.  A.).    The  Counsel  of  Perfection : 

a  Poem.    286. 
Axon  (W.  E.  A.>    Note  on  William  Rowlin- 

son.    854. 
Bannister  (John).      In   Memoriam— Henry 

Lawes,  Musician.    66. 
Barrio  (J.  M.).   Review  of  his  "  When  a  Man's 

Single."    By  C.  E.  Tyrer.    288. 
Barrington,  Philosophy  in  Lever's.     By  E. 

Attkins.    180. 
Baxter  (W.  G.).     Note  on  his  "  They  had 

been  Friends  in  Youth."     By  T.  New- 

Digging.    157. 
Brierley  (Ben).    Some  Phases  of  Lancashire 

I.ifr.       Nft 

Brierley  (Ben).    Review  of  his  "  Humorous 
Rhymes."    By  J.  Mortimer.    55. 

Browning  (Robert),  Some  Aspects  of.    By  G. 
Milnor,  0.  &  Tyrer,  J. 
E.  Mercer.    101. 


Browning  (Robert).    Story  of  the  Pied  Piper 

of  Hamelln.    By  W.  E.  A.  Axon.    266. 
Counsel  of  Perfection :  a  Poem.    By  W.  E.  A. 

Axon.    286. 

Crusts.    By  W.  I.  Wild.    20. 
Edmeston  (Alfred).    An  Autumn  Reverie  : 

a  Poem.    127. 
Eliot  (George).      Fact  and    Fancy  in   her 

Works.    By  J.  T.  Foard.    28. 
Foard  (J.  T.).    Fact  and  Fancy  In  the  Works 

of  George  Eliot    28. 
Foard  (J.  T.).    Edwin  Waugh.    197. 
Foard  (J.  T.).    Shakspere's  Alleged  Forgery 

of  a  Coat  of  Arms.    276. 
Forget-me-Not :  a  Poem.    By  J.  B.  Oldham. 

896. 

Glees  and  Glee  Writers.    By  W.  I.  Wild.  244. 
Gooducre  (J.  A.).    An  Autumn  Evening :  a 

Sonnet    100. 
Hazlitt  (W.).    Review  of  Ireland's  Edition. 

By  G.  Milner  and  J.  Mortimer.    187. 
Ireland  (Alex.).    Review  of  his  "Harlitt" 

By  O.  Milner  and  J.  Mortimer.    187. 
Kay(Thos.).    My  Cabin  Window.    240. 
Lancashire  Life :  Some  Phases  of.    By  Ben 

Briorley.    205. 

Lancashire  Rhymes.    By  J.  Mortimer.    55. 
Lawes  (Henry,   IftMtctan).     In  Memoriam. 

By  J.  Bannister.    M. 

(John).     Memoir.    By  H.  Thornbtr 


398 


1XDEX. 


Leisure  and  Modern  Life.    By  C.  E.  Tyrer. 

147. 
Lever   (Charles).     The   Philosophy   of    his 

"Harrington."    By  E.  Attkins.     130. 
Mercer  (Edmund).    Browning's  "  Asolando. " 

121 
Meredith  (George).    His  Novels.    By  A.  N. 

Monkhouse.    293. 
M liner    (Geo.).      Browning's    Versification. 

101. 
Milner(G.).    Review  of  Ireland's  ''Hazlitt." 

187. 
Monkhouse  (A.  N.).    Mr.  Meredith's  Novels. 

293. 
Mortimer  (John).  Some  Lancashire  Rhymes. 

55. 
Mortimer  (John).    The  Melody  of  Browning. 

114. 
Mortimer  (John).     Concerning  Nature  and 

Some  of  her  Lovers.    160. 
Mortimer     (John).     Review     of     Ireland's 

"Hazlitt."    189. 

Mortimer  (John).   A  Story  of  a  Picture.    323. 
My  Cabin  Window.    By  T.  Kay.    240. 
Nature  and  Some  of   her   Lovers.     By   J. 

Mortimer.     160. 
Newbigging  (Thos.).    W.  G.  Baxter's  "They 

had  been  Friends  in  Youth."    157. 
Oldham  (J.  B.).     Forget-me-Not :  A  Poem. 

396. 
Philosophy  in  Lever's  "  Barrington."    By  E. 

Attkins.    130. 

Phythian  (J.  E.).    George  Sand.    211. 
Picture,  Story  of  a.    By  J.  Mortimer.    323. 


Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  Story  of  the.    By  W. 

E.  A.  Axon.    266. 
Poem.    An  Autumn  Evening.    By  A.   Ed- 

mettton.    127. 
Poem.    Counsel  of  Perfection.    By  W.  E.  A. 

Axon.     286. 
Poem.    Forget-me-Not    By  J.  B.  Oldham. 

396. 
Rowlinson  (William)  Note  on.    By  W.  E.  A. 

Axon.    354. 
S.  (M.  S.).     In  Memoriam— Thomas   Ashe 

386. 
Sand  (George).    Literary  Estimate   of    her 

Work.    By  J.  E.  Phythian.    211. 
Shakspere  (W.).    Alleged  Forgery  of  a  Coat 

of  Arms.    By  J.  T.  Foard.     276. 
Sonnet.    An  Autumn  Evening.     By  J.  A. 

Goodacre.    100. 
"They  had  been  Friends  in  Youth."    By  T. 

Newbigging.    157. 

Thornber  (Harry).    John  Leech.    328. 
Tyrer  (C.  E.).    Matthew  Arnold   as    Prose 

Writer.    1. 

Tyrer  (C.  E.).  Browning  and  Tennyson.  106. 
Tyrer  (C.  E.).  Leisure  and  Modern  Life.  147. 
Tyrer  (C.  E.).  Review  of  J.  M.  Barrie's 

11  When  a  Man's  Single."    288. 
Tyrer  (C.  E.).    Mathew  Arnold  as  Poet.    358. 
Waugh  (Edwin).    In  Memoriam.     By  J.   T. 

Foard.    197. 
"  When  a  Man's  Single,"  by  J.  M.  Barrie. 

Reviewed  by  C.  E.  Tyrer.    288. 
Wild  (W.  I.).    On  Crusts.    20. 
Wild  (W.  I).    Glees  and  Glee  Writers.    244. 


REPORT    AND    PROCEEDINGS 


FOR   THE   SESSION    1889-90, 


RULES    AND    LIST    OF     MEMBERS. 


REPORT  AND  PROCEEDINGS 


OF   THE 


Manchester  Literary  Club 


FOR     THE 


SESSION    1889-90, 


WITH 


RULES    AND    LIST    OF    MEMBERS. 


COUNCIL    FOR    1890-91. 


president  : 

GEORGE     MILNER. 


:  JOHN  H.  NODAL. 


WM.    E.    A.    AXON. 

BEN.    BRIERLEY. 

H.  H.  HOWORTH,  M.P. 


ROBERT  LANGTON. 
JOHN  MORTIMER. 
JOHN    PAGE. 


{Treasurer 

CHARLES  WM.   SUTTON. 

•fconorarg  Secretary : 

W.    R.    CREDLAND. 

t>onorarg  Xibrarian : 

HARRY   THORNBER. 

Other  Members  of  Council: 


REGINALD  BARBER. 
JOHN    BRADBURY. 
J.    F.    L.    CROSLAND. 


JAS.  T.  FOARD. 
W.  H.  GUEST 
H.  H.  SALES. 


C.    E.    TYRER,    B.A. 


Manchester     Literary    Club. 


REPORT   OF  THE   COUNCIL  ON   THE  TWENTY- 
EIGHTH   SESSION. 

IN  presenting  their  Twenty-Eighth  Annual  Report,  the  Council 
of  the  Manchester  Literary  Club  feel  that  they  can  speak  of 
the  results  of  the  session  just  closed  with  unmixed  gratification. 
They  can  justly  refer,  almost  with  enthusiasm,  to  the  high  quality 
and  genuine  literary  merit  of  the  majority  of  the  papers  read  during 
the  session.  Hardly  any  recent  session  has  been  so  prolific  in  work 
of  such  exceptional  excellence,  and  the  satisfaction  which  this  cir- 
cumstance gives  is  heightened  by  the  fact  that  most  of  the  work 
has  been  from  the  pens  of  comparatively  new  or  young  members. 
The  subjects  chosen  have  been  confined  more  strictly  to  literary 
criticism  than  usual,  there  having  been  a  striking  dearth  of  travel 
and  descriptive  papers  as  compared  with  previous  sessions.  Every- 
thing considered,  however,  the  session  just  closed  has  been  a  very 
fruitful  and  most  pleasant  one. 

Twenty-one  ordinary  meetings  have  been  held,  at  which  nine- 
teen papers  were  read  and  thirty-five  short  communications  made. 


406  COUNCIL'S  ANNUAL  REPORT. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  the  papers  : — 

1889. 
Oct.      14.  Lancashire  Folk-Lore W.  B.  A.  AXON. 

,,       21.  Henry  Lawes,  Musician    J.  BANNISTER. 

„       28.  Australian  Poetry    J.  B.  OLDHAM. 

Nov.       4.  Schaffhausen C.  T.  T.  BATKMAN. 

11.  Lord  Coke J.  T.  FOARD. 

„       25.  John  Leech HARRY  THOKNBER. 

Doc.       2.  Walt  Whitman E.  MERCBR. 

„         9.  Some  Judicial  Dogberries J.  T.  FOARD. 

„       16.  The  Alkestis  of  Euripides J.  B.  OLDHAM. 

1890. 
Jan.        6.  The  Poetry  of  D.  G.  Rossetti  JOHN  WALKER. 

„       13.  Life  on  the  Congo  River R.  C.  PHILLIPS. 

,,       20.  George  Meredith's  Novels    A.  N.  MONKHOUSE. 

Feb.        3.  Historical  Account  of  Witchcraft R.  HOOKE. 

,,       10.  The  Classic  School  in  Landscape  Painting E.  E.  MINTOV. 

,,       17.  The  Philosophy  in  Lever's  "  Barrington  " E.  ATTKINS. 

„       24.  Some  Thoughts  on  Music WILLIAM  ROBINSON. 

March    3.  The  Plays  of  Emile  Augier    A.  BRAUNE. 

„       10.  Glees  and  Glee  Writers W.  I.  WILD 

,,       17.  George  Sand  J.  E.  PHYTHI  AN. 

The  short  communications  were  as  follows  : — 

1839. 

Oct.      14.  Watts  Phillips  and  "  The  Dead  Heart "  J.  T.  FOARD. 

Noxious  Weeds R.  HOOKE. 

.,       21.  Incomes  of  Modern  Painters   J.  H.  E.  PARTIN<;TON 

28.  On  Crusts    W.  I.  WILD. 

1< . iv.       4.  Imaginary  Books  and  Libraries W.  R.  CREDLAND. 

,,       11.  Burne  Jones's  "  Delphic  Sibyl " E.  E.  MINTON. 

Poetry  of  William  Renton    JOHN  WALKER. 

,,       18.  Prout's  Harmony J.  BANNISTER. 

Tableaux  Hist,  de  la  Revolution  Frangaise H.  THORNBER. 

Forget  Mo  Not  (Roundel) J.  B.  OLDHAM. 

An  Autumn  Reverie  (Poem)    A.  EDMISTON. 

Alexander  Ireland's  "  Hazlitt " GEORGE  MILNER. 

Do.  do.          JOHN  MORTIMKR. 

Jerome's  "  Three  Men  in  a  Boat  " :   J.  F.  L.  CROSSLAND. 

Barrie's  "  When  a  Man's  Single  "    C.  E.  TVRER. 

,,       25.  Some  Designs  by  R.  Spencer  Stanhope    E.  E.  MINTON. 

Dec.       2.  Leisure  and  Modern  Life  C.  E.  TYRER. 

„         9.  Two  Poems W.  E.  A.  AXON. 

On  Book  Plates J.  B.  OLDHAM. 

,,       16.  Browning's  "Asolando"  E.  MERCER. 

Reign  of  the  Aquatint  0.  T.  T.  BATKMAN. 

1890. 

Jan.       6.  dough's  "Ambarval'a''   0.  E.  TYRER. 

„       13.  An  Irish  Folk-Tale  R.  HOOKE. 

„       20.  Tennyson's  "  Demeter  " .B.  MERCER. 

,,       27.  Browning  and  Tennyson  C.  E.  TYRER. 

The  Melody  of  Browning JOHN  MORTIMER. 

Versification  of  Browning    GEORGE  MILNER. 

Feb.       3.  Poems  of  G.  W.  Donald J.  NORBURY. 

Early  Editions  of  "  North's  Plutarch  " J.  S.  THORNTON. 

10.  Thomas  Ashe:   In  Memoriam J.  B.  OLDHAM. 


COUNCIL'S  ANNUAL  REPORT.  407 

Feb.     17.  William  Rowlinaon,  a  Manchester  Poet W.  E,  A.  AXON. 

24.  Book  Illustration E.  E.  MINTOK. 

March  3.  Some  Phases  of  Lancashire  Life BEN  BRIERLKY. 

„  10.  Story  of  a  Picture  JOHN  MORTIMER. 

17.  Art  Work  of  T.  Oldham  Barlow HARRY  THORNBER. 

The  papers  and  short  communications  may  be  thus  roughly 
classified  : — Art  and  Music,  1 2  ;  Bibliography,  3 ;  Biography,  4  ; 
Criticism,  14;  History,  3;  Humour,  4;  Poetry  and  Drama,  10; 
Sociology,  2 ;  Travel,  2. 

LIBRARY. 

The  additions  to  the  Library  have  been  28  volumes  by  gift  and 
3  volumes  by  purchase,  making  the  total  number  of  volumes  in  the 
Library  1,299,  which  are  classified  as  follows : — 

Books  by  members  489 

Other  local  books 572 

General  literature  218 

Albums  and  scrap  books 20 

1,299 

Among  the  donations  made  during  the  year  the  following  may  be 
mentioned : — C.  Hardwick's  "  Traditions,  etc.,  of  Lancashire,"  with 
the  author's  additions  and  corrections  for  a  new  edition,  from 
Miss  Hardwick;  "Catalogue  of  Theatrical  Portraits,"  compiled 
by  H.  Thornber,  specially  illustrated  copy,  from  Mr.  Thornber; 
Hariot's  "Virginia"  and  the  " Tewrdannckh,"  reprinted  by  the 
Holbein  Society,  from  the  Holbein  Society;  transactions  of  the 
Manchester  Literary  and  Philosophical  Society,  the  Lancashire 
and  Cheshire  Antiquarian  Society,  the  Historic  Society,  and  the 
Liverpool  Literary  and  Philosophical  Society,  from  the  respective 
societies. 

Members  are  earnestly  desired  to  present  copies  of  their  own 
publications  to  the  Library;  in  order  that  the  collection  may  form, 
as  far  as  possible,  a  complete  record  of  the  work  of  the  Club. 

EXCURSION. 

The  Annual  Excursion  of  the  Club  took  place  on  Saturday, 
July  6th,  1889,  and  was  participated  in  by  a  goodly  number  of 
members  and  their  friends.  The  programme  included  visits  to 
Chatsworth  and  Haddon. 


408  COUNCIL'S  ANNUAL  REPORT. 

EXTRA    SERIES    OF    PUBLICATIONS. 

In  accordance  with  the  arrangement  with  Mr.  J.  E.  Cornish  for 
the  issue  of  an  extra  series  of  volumes,  the  details  of  which  were 
explained  in  the  last  report  of  the  Council,  a  volume  of  essays  by 
the  late  Rev.  W.  A.  O'Conor  has  been  published.  It  was  pro- 
duced by  Mr.  Cornish  in  a  most  attractive  and  satisfactory  manner, 
and  those  copies  guaranteed  to  be  purchased  by  the  Club — viz., 
150 — have  been  so  well  taken  up  by  the  members  that  but  few 
remain. 

CONVERSAZIONI. 

The  Session  was  commenced  on  Monday,  October  7th,  1889, 
with  the  customary  Conversazione  in  the  Club-rooms.  The  walls 
of  the  Club  were  hung  with  a  selection  of  pictures  representative 
of  the  summer's  work  of  the  artist  members.  The  President,  in 
his  opening  speech,  congratulated  the  members  on  the  beginning 
of  another  session.  He  referred  with  much  feeling  to  the  number 
of  losses  by  death  which  the  Club  had  sustained  during  the  recess, 
and  then  spoke  at  some  length  on  the  extraordinary  development 
which  the  publication  of  cheap  and  good  literature  had  attained 
during  the  last  few  years.  The  rest  of  the  evening  was  pleasantly 
spent  in  listening  to  an  excellent  programme  of  music,  songs,  and 
recitations. 

The  Annual  Conversazione  of  the  Club  and  the  Academy  of  Fine 
Arts  was  held  in  the  City  Art  Gallery  on  Tuesday,  March  4th, 
1890.  The  President,  in  a  brief  address,  introduced  to  the  meet- 
ing Mr.  M.  G.  Glazebrook,  M.A.,  High  Master  of  the  Manchester 
Grammar  School,  who  read  an  admirable  paper  on  the  History  of 
the  Novel,  which  is  printed  in  abstract  in  the  Proceedings.  The 
pictures  forming  the  Spring  Exhibition  of  the  Academy  were  on 
view,  as  were  also  those  of  Edwin  Long,  R.A.  The  large  gather- 
ing evidently  derived  much  pleasure  from  inspecting  them,  and  in 
listening  to  a  most  excellent  selection  of  music  and  singing  arranged 
by  Mr.  John  Acton,  Mus.  Bac.  The  session  was  brought  to  a  close 
by  the  usual  Conversazione  held  in  the  Club's  Rooms  on  Monday, 
March  31st,  1890. 


COUNCIL'S  ANNUAL  REPORT.  409 

In  addition  to  these  Conversazioni,  the  paper  of  Mr.  Bannister 
on  "  Henry  Lawes,"  and  that  of  Mr.  Wild  on  "  Glees  and  Glee 
Writers,"  deserve  special  mention,  because  they  were  illustrated 
by  pianoforte  and  vocal  examples,  which  rendered  them  highly 
enjoyable  musical  nights. 

CHRISTMAS   SUPPER. 

The  Christmas  Supper  was  held  on  Monday,  December  23rd, 
1889,  in  the  Club-rooms,  and  the  attendance  of  members  and  friends 
was  very  large.  The  chair  was  occupied  by  the  President.  The 
invitation  of  a  special  guest  was  dispensed  with,  but  the  remainder 
of  the  customary  Christmas  ceremonies  were  observed,  and  evidently 
gave  as  great  pleasure  as  of  old. 

IN    MEMORIAM. 

The  losses  by  death  have  been  many  and  irreparable.  Of  some 
of  those  who  have  gone  from  us  memorial  notices  are  printed  else- 
where. The  names  are  Thomas  Barlow,  J.  S.  Dawson,  George 
Evans,  Charles  Hardwick,  J.  C.  Lockhart,  Sir  J.  A.  Picton,  William 
Wiper,  and  Edwin  Waugh. 

MEMBERSHIP   AND   FINANCE. 

The  Club  has  lost  eighteen  members  by  death  and  resignation, 
and  four  new  members  have  been  elected.  The  number  now  on 
the  list  is  217.  The  Treasurer's  balance-sheet  shows  an  income, 
including  balance  from  last  year,  of  £193  Is.  5d.,  and  an  expendi- 
ture of  £239  9s.  4d.,  against  which  there  are  good  outstanding 
subscriptions  amounting  to  £67  7s.,  Jeaving  a  balance  in  favour  of 
the  Club  of  £20  19s.  Id. 


CHARLES  W.  SUTTON,  Treasurer,  in  Account  with 
H)C»  the  Manchester  Literary  Club. 


INCOME.           £    s.    d. 

EXPENDITURE. 

£ 

8. 

d. 

To 

Balance  in  hand  May 

By  Administration  :  — 

llth,  1889      11  12     5 

Rent 

20 

o 

0 

n 

Subscriptions  received  : 

Postages  and  Sundries 

6 

14 

6 

£        8. 

3  for  1887-88...     3     3 
16  for  1888-89...  16  16 

Printing  Syllabus,  Cir- 
culars, &c.,  and  post- 

137 for  1889-90...  143  17 
163  16     0 

ing  same  
Advertising        

23 
4 

4 
18 

6 
6 

To 

Entrance  Fees  (four)  ...       4     4     0 
100    Copies  O'Conor's 

By  Publications  :  — 
Annual  Volume,  with 

Essays  sold                   12  10     0 

Authors'     Reprints, 

>• 

Manchester  Academy  — 
Expenses  Refunded  .       0  17     6 

&c 

115 
22 

5 
2 

6 

0 

O'Conor's  Essays 

Bank  Interest    016 

By  other  Expenses  :  — 

n 

Balance  Owing  to  Bank     46     7  11 

Conversazioni    
Porterage  of   Pictures 

29 

16 

0 

and  other  Expenses 

in   connection  with 

Meetings          

6 

11 

8 

Christmas  Supper     ... 

4 

14 

r> 

Excursions  

0 

18 

0 

Repairs  to  Pianoforte.. 

1 

14 

6 

Books  for  Library     .  .  . 

1 

10 

0 

Framing  Pictures     ... 

1 

6 

4 

Insurance  * 

0 

12 

6 

Bank  Commission  and 

Cheque  Book  

0 

5 

10 

£239     9     4 

£239 

9 

4 

Audited  and  found  correct, 


March  22nd,  1890. 


W.  H.  DKAN, 
ED.  MERCKR, 


Auditors. 


Proceedings. 


EXCURSION. 

SATURDAY,  JULY  6,  1889. — An  excursion  to  Chatsworth  and 
Haddon  was  made,  and  many  members  and  friends  were  present. 
By  permission  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  the  library  at  Chatsworth 
was  shown  to  the  visitors  and  the  fountains  put  into  play.  Some 
of  the  many  bibliographical  treasures  of  the  library  were  examined 
with  great  interest,  much  regret  being  expressed  that  so  hurried 
t  admitted  of  little  more  than  a  glance  at  the  outside  of  the 
volumes.  The  afternoon  was  spent  at  Haddon,  and  under  the 
guidance  of  Mr.  W.  A.  Carrington,  of  Bakewell,  the  many  points 
of  historical  interest  connected  with  that  romantic  and  beautiful 
ruiu  were  examined. 


OPENING   CONVERSAZIONE. 

MONDAY,  OCTOBER  7,  1889. — The  first  half  of  the  new  Session 
was  opened  by  the  usual  Conversazione  at  the  Grand  Hotel. 

MR.  GEORGE  MILNER,  the  President,  took  the  chair  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  said  he  was  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  welcoming 
the  guests  again  at  the  opening  conversazione  of  the  Manchester 
Literary  Club.  They  would  all  feel  that  on  this  occasion  he  spoke 
with  great  difficulty.  The  year  just  closed  had  been  a  memorable 
ion  with  the  Club— memorable  in  a  mournful  sense. 
They  had  had,  as  most  present  knew,  quite  unparalleled  losses  by 
death.  Those  losses  had  occurred  not  only  among  the  veterans  of 
the  Club,  but  among  the  younger  men  who  seemed  to  have  before 
them  many  years  of  life  and  labour.  They  had  all  been  intimately 
connected  with  the  CluK  and  their  presence  seemed  to  be  almost 


412  OPENING  CONVERSAZIONE. 

indispensable  at  the  meetings.  How  deeply  the  losses  had  affected 
himself  and  others  needed  uo  words  from  him.  He  would  only  add 
the  hope  that  such  old  friends  would  rest  in  peace,  that  their 
memory  would  be  kept  green,  not  in  sadness  but  in  thankfulness 
that  such  men  had  lived,  and  that  those  who  remained  would  draw 
themselves,  as  he  thought  they  should,  more  closely  together 
in  all  good  fellowship  and  useful  labour.  Especially  they  might 
appeal  to  the  younger  members  of  the  Club  to  come  forward 
willingly  and  take  their  share  in  the  work  of  the  Club. 
He  drew  attention  to  the  volume  of  essays  in  literature  and 
ethics  from  the  pen  of  the  late  Rev.  W.  A.  O'Conor,  recently 
published  by  the  Club.  The  book  was  a  handsome  one,  and 
although  by  no  means  fully  representative  of  Mr.  O'Conor's  work, 
in  a  certain  sense  it  generally  represented  that  work.  The  Club 
might  be  congratulated  in  having  done  this  act  of  justice  and 
affection  towards  a  member  who  had  gone  from  amongst  them, 
and  he  hoped  that  the  experiment  of  publishing  such  a  volume 
might  be  successful.  The  writings  of  many  other  men  who  had 
passed  away  from  the  Club  might  be  dealt  with  in  a  similar  way, 
and  he  hoped  the  Council  would  be  able  to  carry  out  the  idea.  The 
syllabus  for  the  first  half  of  the  year  had  been  issued,  and  he  was 
glad  to  say  that  it  was  full,  varied,  and  interesting.  Literature 
was  there  represented  in  all  its  forms,  ancient  and  modern,  local 
and  general  Art  and  music  were  also  fairly  represented.  He 
would  like  to  say  a  few  words  with  regard  to  the  cheapening 
of  literature.  There  was  no  more  remarkable  sign  of  the  times 
than  the  extraordinary  progress  which  was  now  being  made  in  the 
general  diffusion  of  the  very  best  literature  at  a  price  which  a  few 
years  ago  would  have  been  surprising.  The  latest  deve'opment  in 
this  direction  was  the  publication  by  Messrs.  Longmans  of  a  hisj;h- 
class  review  at  sixpence,  and  the  issue  of  Charles  Kin^sley's  works 
by  Messrs.  Macmillan  at  the  same  low  price.  About  200  volumes 
of  what  were  known  as  the  National  Library  had  also  been  issued 
at  threepence  each,  or  a  total  amount  of  £2  10s.  It  was  worthy 
of  note  that  this  library  was  not  made  up  of  indifferent  literature, 
but  of  the  best  works,  and  Mr.  Henry  Morley,  the  editor,  added  to 
each  book  an  admirable  introduction.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  poor  man's 
library  in  the  very  best  sense.  He  had  mentioned  the  subject 
because  he  thought  the  Club  might  do  what  lay  in  its  power  to 
popularize  such  literature.  He  had  always  been  of  opinion  that 
the  general  diffusion  of  high-class  works,  together  with  the  spread 
of  elementary  education,  would  do  a  great  deal  to  obliterate  the 
sense  of  social  inferiority  which  many  people  felt.  The  more  the 
working  and  middle  classes  studied  the  best  literature  and  made 
themselves  familiar  with  it,  the  more  that  sense  of  inferiority 
would  disappear,  and  it  was  the  province  of  the  Club  to  do  all  it 
could  to  encourage  and  increase  the  diffusion  of  such  work. 


WATTS  PHILLIPS  AND  E.  LAMAN  BLANCHARD.  413 

On  the  walls  of  the  Club-room  were  hung  pictures,  in  addition 
to  the  permanent  collection,  by  Messrs.  William  Robinson,  Ward 
Heys,  William  Artingstall,  and  Thomas  Kay,  of  Stockport,  artist 
members  of  the  Club.  The  dramatic  and  musical  part  of  the  pro- 
gramme met  with  general  acceptance,  and  a  very  pleasant  and 
successful  evening  was  passed.  The  reciters  were  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Norbury  and  Mr.  Beever ;  the  singers  Mrs.  Higgins,  Miss  Thomp- 
son, and  Mr.  Thomas  Derby,  and  Mr.  Mercer  played  a  selection  of 
music  on  the  pianoforte. 


MONDAY,  OCTOBER  14,  1889. — The  first  ordinary  business  meet- 
ing of  the  session  was  held  at  the  Grand  Hotel  Mr.  GEORGE 
MILNER  presided. 

WATTS   PHILLIPS  AND   E.  LAMAN    BLANCHARD. 

Mr.  JAMES  T.  FOARD  read  a  brief  paper  in  which  he  referred  to 
the  charge  made  against  the  late  Watts  Phillips,  author  of  "The 
Dead  Heart "  and  other  plays,  of  having  in  that  drama  plagiarized 
from  Dickens.  Some  controversy  had  taken  place  in  the  literary 
papers  arising  out  of  the  revival  of  "The  Dead  Heart"  by  Mr. 
Henry  Irving  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  London,  in  which  it  had 
been  put  forward  that  Phillips  had  taken  the  incident  of  the  sacri- 
fice of  Robert  Landry,  namely,  the  substitution  of  himself  for 
another  man  who  had  been  condemned  to  the  guillotine  in  the 
lurid  days  of  the  French  Revolution.  This  incident  was  said  to 
be  precisely  similar  to  the  sacrifice  of  Sydney  Carton  in  Dickens's 
"Tale  of  Two  Cities."  Mr.  Foard  thought  that  if  there  had  been 
any  borrowing — and  he  strongly  doubted  this,  because  there  were 
hiich  things  as  coincidences  of  thought — it  seemed  to  him  rather 
that  Dickens  had  borrowed  from  Phillips  than  vice  versd.  The 
drama  had  been  written  in  1856,  three  years  before  it  was  played, 
and  was  referred  to  in  a  letter  from  Phillips  to  Webster,  the  actor- 
-or,  which  Mr.  Foard  read.  Webster  and  Dickens  were  close 
friends  and  associates,  and  it  might  well  happen  that  Webster 
should  h;ive  referred  in  conversation  to  the  drama,  or  that  Dickens 
•  •veil  li.-ive  read  it  in  order  to  give  a  critical  opinion  on  its 
merits  to  Webster.  The  letter,  which  is  interesting  on  more  than 
one  account,  is  as  follows : — 

My  dear  Sir, — Surely  you  can't  mean  that  "  Joseph  Chavigny  "  will  not  be 

j.HMiin -»'d  until  the  new  theatre  is  built  !     If  so,  Miserere  tuei,  Deua  !    Without 

IK'  to  bore  you  with  any  vexatious  compliant*,  I  may  be  permitted  to 

agreement  when  Joseph  was  first  offered  for  sale  [this  sounds  like  a 

ion  from  Genesis].     You  gave  me  £20  fur  copyright  and  all,  stating  that 

your  reason  for  offering  me  so  small  a  sum  was  that  you  must  put  by  other 

drama.-  thru  in  hand  to  produce  it,  and  that  it  was  only  in  consideration  of  the 

•  >f  the  piece  and  the  price  that  you  would  do  so.     1  saw  it  in  the  same 

light,  and  caring  as  I  then  said  more  about  production  than  price,  at  once 

accepted  the  terms  offered.    Was  this  not  so  T    That  is  twelve  months  ago, 


414  WATTS  PHILLIPS  AND  E.  LAMAN  BLANCHARD. 

and  you  know  the  prospect  that  at  present  offers  itself  better  than  anybody  else. 
I  assure  you  that  I  have  in  everything  kept  rigidly  true  to  our  understanding 
together.  Mr.  Phelps  wrote  to  me  to  ask  me  for  a  play  that  he  might  do  in 
the  autumn.  I  am  given  to  understand  that  both  the  Olympic  and  the 
Lyceum  would  give  immediate  attention  to  a  piece  of  mine,  yet  hitherto  I  have 
kept  my  eye  steadily  on  the  Adelphi.  Our  conferences  have  always  been  so 
pleasant  and  friendly,  I,  if  I  may  say  so  without  suspicion  of  flattery,  considered 
you  as  the  actor  par  excellence  for  my  notions  of  melodrama,  and  all  I  wanted 
was  to  be  kept  going  before  the  public.  Had  "  Chavigny  "  been  produced  when 
promised  more  than  nine  months  ago,  my  position,  I  believe,  would  have  been 
materially  advanced  with  publishers  as  well  as  managers,  and  that  quite  apart 
from  dramatic  writing.  As  it  is,  any  talk  of  mine  about  capabilities  is,  to  all 
but  yourself,  but  empty  assertion.  What  am  I  to  do  if  I  do  not  prepare  some 
careful  dramas  for  other  theatres.  I  am  an  active  man,  dislike  the  dormouse 
sleep,  and  have  an  establishment  to  keep  up  with  a  family,  who  particularly 
object  to  that  chameleon  dish,  "the  air."  It  is  now  necessary  that  I  should 
work  hard,  day  and  night  if  necessary,  to  recover  the  ground  I  have  lost.  I 
say  lost,  for  you  know  how  inadequate  the  present  remuneration  has  been  for 
the  time  and  labour  :  and  after  having  completed  three  original  dramas,  I  think 
I  ought  not  to  be  [as  a  dramatic  writer]  totally  unknown  to  the  public.  Any 
arrangement  that  you  could  have  seen  your  way  clear  to  carry  out  I  would  have 
endeavoured  to  meet,  but  as  it  is,  you  must  see  the  force  of  what  I  say,  that 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  keep  to  any  theatre  from  which  I  derive  so  small  a 
modicum  of  pay  and  so  small  a  chance  of  production. 

Understand,  my  dear  sir,  that  I  would  not  on  any  account  that  you  should 
think  that  anything  I  may  do  is  contrary  to  what  you  expected  ;  we  have 
begun,  and  I  hope  shall  always  continue  pleasantly.  Therefore,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  I  will  run  no  risk  of  forfeiting  the  good  opinion  I  believe  you  have 
of  me  for  want  of  a  straightforward  statement  of  motives. 

If  I  am  passing  the  theatre  to-morrow  evening  I  will  take  my  chance  of  five 
minutes'  chat.  I  should  have  done  so  last  week  but  that  I  know  how  much 
you  are  worried  at  present,  and  fear  the  charge  of  "boredom." — 

In  haste,  very  faithfully  yours, 

B.  Webster,  Esq.  WATTS  PHILLIPS. 

Mr.  Foard  also  referred  to  the  death  of  Mr.  E.  Laman  Blanchard. 
He  had  that  day  received  a  memorial  card  from  Mrs.  E.  L. 
Blanchard,  whose  husband  had  died  on  September  4th  last,  aged 
sixty-nine,  leaving  a  ,void  in  general  literature  and  in  the  world 
of  his  acquaintances  and  friends,  that  would  not  easily  be  filled. 
Mr.  Blanchard,  who  was  the  son  of  the  once  eminent  actor,  had 
the  most  varied  and  extensive  acquaintance  with  all  things 
theatrical  and  dramatic,  probably  of  his  own  or  any  other  day. 
Mr.  Clement  Scott  had  written  a  few  lines  on  his  friend  and 
fellow- author,  which  he  ventured  to  read  : — 

Farewell,  old  friend,  whose  footsteps  on  life's  sand, 

Midst  storm  and  sun,  I  feebly  tried  to  trace, 
No  more  the  pressure  of  thy  kindly  hand, 

No  more  God's  smile  transfigured  on  thy  face  ! 
Would  I  could  fill  thy  void  in  hearts  that  ache, 

Or  better  serve  the  heart  we  both  loved  best. 
Sleep  on,  my  brother,  sleep  !  and  when  you  wake 

Whisper  'tis  true  that  after  toil  comes  rest ! 

MB.  GEORGE  MILNER  referred  briefly  to  the  recently  published 
"  Letters  and  Literary  Remains  of  Edward  Fitzgerald,"  and  asked 


FOLK-LORE  OP  LANCASHIRE.  415 

if  anyone  could  tell  the  connection,  if  any,  between  Edward 
Fitzgerald  and  Purcell  Fitzgerald,  who  formerly  lived  at  Castle 
Irwell. 

MR.  RICHARD  HOOKK  read  a  short  paper  on  some  well  known 
characters,  or  "  noxious  weeds "  which  infested  the  society  of  our 
days.  He  described  the  gentlemen  who  make  themselves  rich  out 
of  the  savings  of  the  comparatively  poor  and  helpless  by  promoting 
bogus  limited  liability  and  other  companies,  and  those  persons 
who,  whilst  outwardly  sanctimonious,  make  unholy  profits  in 
their  capacity  as  "middlemen."  To  these  weeds  and  similar 
infesters  of  the  good  grain  he  would  give  a  short  shrift  and  no 
quarter. 

FOLK-LORE   OP   LANCASHIRE. 

MR.  W.  E.  A.  AXON  read  the  principal  paper  on  the  Folk-lore  of 
Lancashire.  The  paper  was  the  substance  of  two  lectures  delivered 
at  the  National  Home  Reading  Union's  summer  assembly  at 
Blackpool,  in  July,  1889.  The  style  and  scope  of  Mr.  Axon's 
paper  may  be  indicated  by  giving  some  of  the  conclusions  which 
he  has  arrived  at  from  his  extensive  and  long-continued  inquiries 
into  the  folk-lore  of  the  County  Palatine.  He  considers  that 
the  tendency  of  modern  thought  is  to  simplification.  The 
African  savage  bowing  to  his  fetish  has  probably  a  more  com- 
plex theory  of  life  than  the  Oxford  professor,  and  the  study 
of  folk-lore  shows  how  penetrating  was  the  influence  of  custom 
and  superstition  upon  the  life  of  the  people.  It  followed  man 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  There  were  ceremonies  to  be 
observed  at  birth,  at  marriage,  at  death ;  at  every  stage  of  the 
journey  of  life.  It  gave  to  clouds  and  birds  omens  that  decided 
human  fate.  It  peopled  the  meadows  with  fairies,  and  the 
mountains  with  witches,  and  made  the  woods  and  water  alive 
with  spirits,  sometimes  friendly,  but  often  malignant.  It  lighted  the 
Beltane  fires  at  Midsummer  and  the  yule  log  at  Christmas.  The 
calendar  of  the  year  and  the  calendar  of  man's  life  alike  registered 
its  decrees.  Whatever  happened,  good  or  bad,  was  referred  alike 
to  the  supernatural  powers,  who,  for  bane  or  blessing  were 
c"ntiiMi:illy  intervening  in  the  most  trivial  details  of  every  home. 
Fairies  were  sometimes  friends  and  sometimes  foes,  but  witches 
and  warlocks  were  entirely  malicious.  The  dead  rested  not  in  their 
graves,  but  returned  to  terrify  the  living.  The  old  gods  dethroned 
fr.-m  their  eminence  remained  as  demons  to  exercise  a  real  ami 
l  power.  Viewed  in  this  light,  the  decay  of  folk-lore 
may  be  regarded  as  an  advantage.  We  may  regret  the  nymphs 
and  dryads,  and  even  the  "  lubber  fiend,"  but  with  them  vanish 
the  whole  tribe  of  spirits,  "  witches  and  warlocks  and  things  that 
cried  Boh  in  the  night"  We  will  not  desire  to  revive  or  retain 
the  popular  superstitions  and  customs  of  bygone  days,  but  as  they 
28 


416  INCOMES  OP  MODERN  PAINTERS. 

pass  away  let  us  examine  them  with  careful  and  patient  attention, 
and  see  what  they  have  to  tell  us  of  the  past  history  of  the  race 
and  the  psychology  of  primitive  man.  Studied  in  this  spirit  we 
may  sometimes  learn  as  much  from  the  observations  of  a  child's 
game  as  from  the  speculations  of  a  philosopher. 

A   discussion    followed,   in   which    Messrs.    Crosland,   Oldham, 
Wade,  Sales,  and  the  President  took  part. 


MONDAY,  OCTOBER  21,  1889. — MR.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 
Mr.  THORNBER  exhibited  a  work  entitled  "M.P.,"  showing  how  Mr. 
Teddington  Locke  was  not  returned  for  the  Incorruptible  Borough 
of  Bubengrub — drawn  and  etched  by  Watts  Phillips,  author  of  the 
"  Dead  Heart."  He  also  laid  on  the  table  a  copy  of  Vol.  I.  of 
"  Diogenes,"  a  comic  journal,  which  Watts  Phillips  had  edited  and 
illustrated. 

Mr.  E.  MERCER  (on  behalf  of  Mr.  Chrystal,  who  was  unable 
to  be  present)  presented  to  the  Club  a  copy  of  a  small  pam- 
phlet entitled,  "  A  Letter  addressed  to  a  member  of  the  Man- 
chester Racing  Association,  giving  reasons  for  refusing  to  renew  the 
lease  of  the  present  Racecourse.  By  J.  Purcell  Fitzgerald,  M.  A.,  J.P." 
The  writer  was  a  relative  of  Edward  Fitzgerald,  of  Omar  Khayyam 
fame.  The  pamphlet,  addressed  from  Castle  Irwell,  Pendleton,  and 
dated  September  20,  1867,  was  a  vigorous  protest  against  gambling 
and  drunkenness,  and  contained  amongst  other  interesting  items 
an  extract  from  the  Manchester  Free  Lance  of  May  25,  1867,  de- 
scribing the  betting  at  the  Post  Office  Hotel,  and  other  gambling 
dens  in  this  city. 

INCOMES  OF  MODERN  PAINTERS. 

Mr.  J.  E.  PARTINQTON  read  a  short  paper  on  the  Incomes  of 
Modern  Painters.  He  considered  that  the  prices  of  original  pictures 
by  living  artists  were  too  high.  Millais  got  1,000  guineas  for  a 
half-length  portrait ;  Watts  charged  £525  for  a  portrait,  head-size  ; 
and  he  had  seen  a  small  picture  by  Meissonier  for  which  £1,000 
had  been  paid.  These  high  prices  did  not  seem  to  him  right.  If  a 
painter  could  earn  as  much  by  his  work  as  would  enable  him  to 
paint  his  best  and  keep  himself  and  his  family  in  modest  comfort,  he 
would  receive  his  just  due.  He  believed  that  a  wage  of  from  £2 
to  £10  per  week  was  good  enough  for  all  grades  of  picture  painters 
as  well  as  other  working  men.  He  did  not  see  any  hardship  in 
reducing  to  these  modest  dimensions  the  incomes  of  our  Royal 
Academicians  and  the  members  of  the  two  Water-Colour  Societies. 
A  deer  forest  for  shooting,  and  a  salmon  river  for  fishing  were  not 
needful  for  a  painter's  happiness,  and  he  was  unable  to  think  of  a 
single  thing  essential  to  carrying  on  effectively  the  work  of  his  pro- 


AUSTRALIAN  POETRY.  417 

fession  which  could  not  be  got  by  a  man  earning  £500  a  year.  A 
small  income  left  the  painter  more  at  liberty  to  follow  his  own 
inclinations.  He  might  become  half  a  farmer,  like  Millet,  and 
paint  the  labourer  or  the  shepherd.  He  could  choose  his  own  sub- 
jects and  take  his  own  time  over  them.  He  believed  that  the  cause 
of  art  in  England  would  under  such  circumstances  also  flourish 
better,  for  high-class  work  would  then  be  purchaseable  at  a  reason- 
able price. 

An  animated  discussion  ensued,  which  was  participated  in  by 
Messrs.  Crosland,  Sagar,  Mortimer,  Oldham,  Barber,  and  Milner. 

Mr.  JOHN  BANNISTER  read  the  principal  paper,  on  "Henry 
Lawes,"  the  musician.  The  paper  was  illustrated  by  a  number  of 
pianoforte  and  vocal  examples,  selected  from  the  composer's  works. 
These  were  excellently  rendered  by  Mr.  Bannister  and  his  friends, 
to  whom  a  hearty  vote  of  thanks  was  accorded. 

Mr.  ABEL  HEYWOOD  pointed  out  that  one  of  the  songs  in  Walton's 
"  Angler,"  which  had  now  become  a  sort  of  "  National  Anthem  " 
with  the  angling  fraternity,  had  been  set  to  music  by  Lawes. 


MONDAY,  OCTOBER  28,  1889. — MR.  GEORGE  MILNER  presided. 

Mr.  W.  I.  WILD,  of  Stockport,  read  a  short  paper  on  "Crusts." 
He  also  announced  that  there  had  just  been  started  in  Stockport 
a  literary  club  modelled  on  the  lines  of  that  of  Manchester. 

AUSTRALIAN    POETRY' 

Mr.  J.  B.  OLDHAM  read  the  principal  paper,  on  "  Australian 
Poetry."  He  began  by  quoting  in  full  Henry  Clarence  Kendall's 
poem  entitled  "  The  Muse  of  Australia,"  and  then  proceeded  to 
describe  the  causes  which  in  his  opinion  prevented  the  English 
poet  of  the  present  day  from  being  able  to  get  as  close  to  Nature, 
in  order  to  yield  himself  to  her  influence,  as  in  the  days  when 
Mason  wrote  his  "  Letter  to  a  Friend,"  and  Collins  his  "  Ode  to 
Evening."  The  conditions  of  existence  which  surrounded  the 
poet  were  detrimental  to  his  essential  faculty  of  entering  into 
the  mysterious  companionship  with  Nature  which  she  demanded 
from  her  poetic  and  her  artistic  sons  alika  The  poet  nowadays, 
if  he  wished  to  contemplate  Nature,  was  forced  to  gaze  at  her 
through  a  surrounding  medium  crowded  with  the  dissatisfactions 
and  disgusts  which  must  arise  in  a  true  poet's  soul  from  the 
artificial  life  he  is  compelled  to  live  in  this  latter  end  of  the 
century.  As  if  it  were  not  enough  that  the  poet  should  be  driven 
to  despair  by  the  impossibility  of  getting  rid  of  the  overpowering 
sense  of  the  want  of  any  genuine  value  in  the  life  he  is  living,  or 
of  forgetting  for  a  moment  the  feeling  that  the  empire  of  the 


418  SCHAFFHAVSEN. 

commonplace  was  slowly  but  surely  closing  in  upon  him,  his  soul 
must  be  forced  to  endure  the  additional  pang  of  watching  how  all 
his  chance  of  ever  returning  to  a  free  communion  with  Nature  was 
being  selfishly  taken  away  from  him  by  those  whose  interest  it 
was  to  encourage  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town.  These 
causes  must  naturally  have  an  evil  effect  upon  English  poetry 
produced  in  the  old  country.  But  these  conditions  were  not  yet 
BO  powerful  in  Australia.  There,  outside  of  such  large  cities  as 
Melbourne  and  Sydney,  the  struggle  for  existence  was  less  acute. 
The  climate  was  a  glorious  one  for  an  existence  in  the  open  air. 
The  atmosphere  was  like  dry  champagne,  and  the  feeling  of  being 
surrounded  by  illimitable  space  must  have  its  effect  upon  the 
poetry  produced  amid  such  suitable  surroundings.  The  essayist 
illustrated  his  paper  by  numerous  examples  from  Kendall,  Gordon, 
Harpur,  Richardson,  Austral,  Stephens,  and  others. 

A  discussion  followed,  in  which  Messrs.  George  Heighway, 
James  T.  Foard,  Abel  Heywood,  John  Mortimer,  R  Wade,  W.  R. 
Credland,  and  the  President  took  part.  The  general  feeling 
appeared  to  be  that  whilst  some  fine  poetry  had  undoubtedly 
emanated  from  Australia,  there  was  yet  very  palpable  evidence  of 
imitation  of  the  poets  of  the  old  country,  and  that  it  was  too  soon 
to  expect  much  originality  from  our  Antipodean  singers. 


MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  4,  1889. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the 
chair. 

Mr.  W.  R.  CREDLAND  contributed  a  short  paper  on  Imaginary 
Books  and  Libraries,  which  was  read,  owing  to  the  absence  of  the 
writer,  by  Mr.  John  Mortimer.  Mr.  Credland  gave  some  instances 
of  Scriptural  and  other  literary  forgeries,  and  referred  to  Rabelais 
as  being  probably  the  oldest  known  inventor  of  a  list  of  purely 
imaginary  books.  He  detailed  several  instances  of  the  use  of 
fanciful  lists  of  books  as  weapons  in  the  struggles  between  political 
parties  both  in  France  and  this  country.  A  fairly  full  account  of 
the  great  "Fortsas"  hoax  perpetrated  upon  the  book-loving  world 
in  1840  was  given,  and  in  conclusion  the  titles  invented  by  Tom 
Hood  and  Charles  Dickens  were  mentioned  and  some  of  them 
read.  The  paper  was  listened  to  with  much  interest. 

SOHAFFHAUSEN. 

Mr.  C.  T.  TALLENT-BATEMAN  read  a  paper  on  the  Canton  over 
the  Rhine,  being  a  descriptive  and  historical  account  of  the 
diminutive  state  of  Schaffhausen  in  Switzerland.  He  described 
the  Canton  as  interesting  and  attractive  (a)  to  the  lovers  of  litera- 
ture by  reason  of  its  associations  with  Schiller,  Goethe,  Miiller  (the 
historian),  Walther  von  Klingen  (the  minstrel  poet;,  as  well  as 


SCHAFPHAUSEN.  419 

with  Ruskin  and  other  English  writers  who  had  described  at  least 
one  scene  in  the  Canton ;  (6)  to  lovers  of  history,  by  reason  of 
associations  with  the  struggles  of  the  early  Swiss  patriots ;  with 
the  growth  of  the  Austrian  Empire  (and  that  of  the  house  or 
dynasty  of  Hapsburg  in  particular) ;  and  with  our  own  Queen 
Elizabeth,  as  encourager  of  the  Reformation  on  the  Continent,  as 
well  as  with  the  famous  fanatic  Miinzer  (the  disciple  and  subsequent 
opponent  of  Luther),  who  raised  a  "salvation  army"  of  17,000 
men  to  overcome  all  princes  who  withstood  the  Reformation,  or 
who  differed  with  Miinzer  in  his  theological  and  political  views ; 
(c)  to  lovers  of  archaeology  and  family  hist.ory,  by  reason  of  the 
mediaeval  abbeys,  castles,  and  fortifications  which  remain  in  or 
near  the  canton ;  (d)  to  lovers  of  art,  by  reason  of  the  numerous 
town  residences  of  picturesque  design  and  decoration  in  Schaff- 
hausen  and  Stein ;  («)  to  lovers  of  the  quaint,  the  old-fashioned, 
and  the  archaic,  by  reason  of  the  survivals  in  the  canton  of 
ancient  customs,  dialects,  styles  of  dress,  and  general  social  habits 
of  the  country  people ;  and  finally  (/)  to  lovers  of  the  beautiful  in 
nature,  by  reason  of  the  lovely  river,  forest,  and  hill  scenery  in 
the  canton,  including  a  splendid  distant  prospect  of  the  Alps,  and 
particularly  the  Falls  of  the  Rhine,  the  Niagara  of  Europe.  The 
most  remarkable  characteristic  of  Schaffhausen  as  a  Swiss  canton 
is  its  (practically  entire)  surface  isolation  from  the  rest  of  the 
national  or  federal  territory,  the  separating  medium  being  the 
broad  and  deep  waters  of  the  Rhine.  This  isolation  is  not  only 
the  most  remarkable  but  also  the  most  interesting  characteristic 
of  the  state,  as  it  has  given  the  country  a  unique  history.  Unlike 
any  of  its  sister  or  foster-sister  cantons — unlike  even  Basle,  which 
it  most  nearly  resembles — it  is  historically  (what  it  appears  to 
be  physically)  a  carved-out  or  out-bitten  morsel  of  South  Germany ; 
and  thus  even  in  mediaeval  times,  while  constitutionally  and 
sympathetically  part  of  the  little  unambitious  but  brave  con- 
federacy, it  was  ever  liable  and  was  occasionally  willing  to  iden- 
tify itself  with  the  great  and  aggressive  Empire  which  was  its 
closer  neighbour  and  its,  perhaps,  more  nearly  related  kinsman. 
Mr.  Bateman  had  spent  nearly  two  years  in  residence  and  student 
life  at  Schaffhausen,  and  gave  some  detailed  descriptions  of  the 
physical  appearance  as  well  as  of  the  social  life  of  the  country. 
4  In  type  of  feature,"  he  said,  "in  language  or  dialect,  in  style  of 
dress  and  in  general  habit  of  life,  as  well  as  in  the  geographical 
location  of  his  home,  the  inhabitant  of  Schaffhausen  (town  and 
State)  clearly  proclaims  himself  a  member  of  the  historical  Swabian 
race  or  people.  He  is,  or  was,  attached  as  much  to  the  German 
'Fatherland/  the  long  dreamed-of  and  now  almost  realized  Teutonic 
Union  or  Allemannic  brotherhood,  as  he  is  to  the  sacred  Bund  or 
Pact  of  the  free  and  united  cantons.  He  is  more  Teutonic 
either  the  citizen  of  Basle  or  the  citizen  of  Zurich,  to  whom  ho 


420  REVIEW  NIGHT. 

is  supposed  to  now  bear  the  closest  likeness,  and  with  whom  he  has 
much  in  common  both  in  local  government,  religion,  and  form  of 
worship." 

A  conversation   followed,   in  which   Messrs.   Milner,  Mandley, 
Oldham,  and  Alderman  Bailey  joined. 


MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  11,  1889. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the 
chair. 

Mr.  E.  E.  MINTON  read  a  short  note  on  the  Delphic  Sibyl,  a 
painting  by  E.  Burne  Jones,  A.R.A.,  now  in  the  Manchester  City 
Art  Gallery.  He  said  that  in  this  picture  we  possessed  a  work 
which  was  an  able  example  of  self  restraint  and  almost  severe 
simplicity  in  art,  and  yet  it  would  always  please  those  who  were 
sensitive  to  beauty  of  line  and  beauty  of  colour.  Other  works  by 
Burne  Jones  might  be  more  interesting  than  this  in  subject,  but 
the  Sibyls  had  furnished  opportunities  to  the  genius  of  two  such 
diverse  artists  as  Michael  Angelo  and  Botticelli,  and  no  wonder 
that  our  great  painters  had  been  attracted  by  these  "  shadows  of 
the  ancient  world." 

Mr.  JOHN  WALKER  contributed  a  short  paper  on  "  The  Poetry 
of  William  Renton,"  and  showed  a  copy  of  his  volume  of  verse 
entitled  "  Oils  and  Water  Colours."  He  considered  Mr.  Renton  to 
be  a  fine  colourist  and  impressionist  in  verse. 

Mr.  J.  T.  FOARD  read  the  principal  paper  on  "The  Greatest 
English  Statesman."  That  statesman,  he  said,  was  Lord  Coke, 
who  was  the  real  consolidator  and  to  a  great  extent  the  author  of 
our  English  liberties.  The  British  Constitution  could  hardly  be 
said  to  have  existed  before  this  great  lawyer  had  put  it  into  form. 
The  rule  of  the  Tudor  sovereigns  was  a  despotism  tempered  only 
by  the  fear  of  assassination  and  the  desire  for  popularity,  and  this 
condition  of  things  was  swept  away  in  a  great  measure  by  the 
firmness,  the  purity,  the  love  of  righteousness,  and  the  wise 
obstinacy  of  the  judge,  who  more  than  any  other  Englishman  laid 
down  the  principles  and  axioms  of  freedom. 

A  discussion  followed,  in  which  Messrs.  Milner,  Bateman, 
Oldham,  Crosland,  Mandley,  Chrystal,  Alderman  Bailey,  and 
others  took  part. 

MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  18,  1889. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the 
chair. 

REVIEW   NIGHT. 

The  members  had  been  invited  to  offer  short  reviews  of  books, 
original  tales,  sonnets,  poems,  or  sketches.  An  unusual  number 
of  papers  were  offered,  some  of  which  had  to  be  postponed  to 
future  meetings. 


X.  SPENCER  STANHOPE'S  PAINTINGS.  421 

Mr.  JOHN  BANNISTER  gave  an  account  of  a  recently-published 
work  on  "  Harmony,"  by  Mr.  E.  Prout.  A  discussion  on  the  sub- 
ject of  harmony  arose  out  of  the  paper,  in  which  many  members 
joined. 

Mr.  HARRY  THORN  HER  exhibited  and  described  two  magnificent 
volumes  of  "Tableaux  Historiques  de  la  Revolution  Francaise," 
published  in  Paris  in  1804. 

Mr.  J.  B.  OLDHAM  read  a  roundel  entitled  "  Forget  Me  Not," 
and  Mr.  EDMISTON  contributed  a  poem  styled  "An  Autumn 
Reverie." 

Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  and  Mr.  JOHN  MORTIMER  each  read  a  short 
notice  of  Mr.  Alexander  Ireland's  "  Hazlitt" 

Mr.  J.  F.  L.  CROSLAND  read  a  short  notice  of  Jerome  K.  Jerome's 
"  Three  Men  in  a  Boat,"  and  gave  some  selections  from  the  book. 
They  elicited  great  laughter. 

Mr.  C.  E.  TYRER  contributed  a  review  of  J.  M.  Barrio's 
"  When  a  Man's  Single." 


MONDAY,  NOVEMBER   25,  1889. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the 
chair. 

R.  SPENCER  STANHOPE'S  PAINTINGS. 

Mr.  E.  E.  MINTON  read  some  notes  on  the  paintings  of  R  Spencer 
Stanhope,  whose  rich  and  beautiful  work  is  too  seldom  seen  in  our 
exhibitions.  Photographs  of  the  series  of  panels  in  the  Chapel  of 
Marlborough  College,  executed  by  the  artist  some  years  ago,  were 
exhibited,  the  subjects  being  the  "  Ministration  of  Angels  upon 
Earth."  Also  a  permanent  carbon  photograph  of  the  large  and 
important  picture  "The  Waters  of  Lethe,"  which  Mr.  Stanhope  is 
about  to  present  to  the  Manchester  City  Art  Gallery.  The  generous 
and  liberal  gift  deserves  to  be  highly  appreciated,  as  it  is  regarded 
by  the  artist  himself  as  one  of  his  chief  works  after  the  Marlborough 
series.  The  essayist  dwelt  upon  the  qualities  in  Mr.  Stanhope's 
art  which  raised  it  above  the  commonplace  and  unimaginative 
character  of  so  much  modern  painting.  It  was  an  eminently 
religious  and  Christian  art,  ideal  and  poetic  in  treatment,  and, 
while  full  of  beauty,  did  not  sacrifice  itself  to  the  taste  for  mere 
mess.  In  connection  with  the  path  in  art  which  Mr.  Stan- 
hope had  chosen,  the  highly  intellectual  work  of  John  M. 
Strudwick,  as  not  being  unlike  in  its  poetic  basis,  was  also  referred 
to.  Photographs  of  his  "  Acrasia,"  exhibited  at  the  New  Gallery 
last  year,  and  of  the  decorative  allegorical  picture,  "  The  Ramparts 
of  God's  House,"  now  in  the  Liverpool  Autumn  Exhibition,  were 
shown.  Mention  was  also  made  of  other  artists  whose  aims  and 
methods  seemed  to  justify  their  being  placed  in  the  same  group, 
namely,  Mrs.  Stillman,  Henry  Ryland,  T.  M.  Rooke,  and  F. 
Hamilton  Jackson. 


422  WALT   WHITMAN. 

Mr.  HARRY  THORNBER  read  the  principal  paper,  on  "John 
Leech,"  and  illustrated  his  subject  with  numerous  books  and 
sketches. 

A  conversation  followed,  in  which  Messrs.  Milner,  Barber,  Sales, 
and  Mortimer  took  part. 


MONDAY,  DECEMBER  2,  1889. — Mr.  JOHN  MORTIMER  presided. 
Mr.  C.  E.  TYRER  read  a  short  paper  on  "  Leisure  and  Modern 
Life." 

WALT   WHITMAN. 

Mr.    EDWARD   MERCER    read    the   principal   paper,   on   "  Walt 
Whitman."     After  characterising  Whitman's  animality,  the  essayist 
went  on  to  say  that  when  the  author  first  began  to  write  "  Leaves 
of  Grass,"  he  found  that  rhyme  required  more  art  than  he  possessed, 
and  more  study  than  he  cared  to  expend  on  the  mere  vehicle  in 
which  his  thoughts  were  to  be  carried.     Then,  finding  that  blank 
verse,  though  it  was  the  metre  in  which  the  finest  English  prose 
was  written,  and  afforded  the  greatest  needed  scope  to  an  artist, 
was  also  in  the  hands  of  a  tyro  the  feeblest  form  of  expression  that 
could  be  chosen,  he  turned  away  from  that.     He  was  an  artist,  but 
more  of  an  iron-worker  than  a  goldsmith,  and  when  he  rose  into 
true  poetry  it  was  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  he  being  under  the 
influence  of  emotion  so  strong  and  inspiring  as  to   counteract  the 
effect  of  a  want  of  art,  and  even  in  these  poems  there  was  not  that 
want,  for  they  had  taken  metrical  form ;  the  bounds  of  rhyme  and 
rule  had  become  wings.     Whitman  then,  finding  art  long  and  time 
fleeting,  and  with  a  strong  memory  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  and 
believing  himself  also  a  prophet,  chose  the  style  of  the  Scriptures, 
but  did  not  directly  imitate  that  style,  for  his  language  was  much 
more   modern   than   the   quaint   homely   Saxon   into  which  our 
inspired  translators  rendered  the  sacred  writings.     His  style  was 
not  prose  chopped   into  lengths,  but  more  after  the  manner  of  a 
chant,  and  when  the  chants  fell  below  intonation  they  relapsed  into 
something    hybrid — something    considerably    lower    than    prose. 
Whitman's  dullness  was  due  in  a  great  measure  to  his  egotism.    It 
was  not  that  of  Montaigne,  quaint,  unforced,  and  lovable,  nor  of 
Pepys  or  Evelyn,  written  for  themselves.     It  was  a  blatant  roar  of 
self,  a  constant  thrusting  forward  of  his  own  egregious  personality, 
which  many  times  counteracted  the  good  effect  his  words  would 
have  produced  had  he  only  veiled  his  personality  after  the  manner 
of  the  Khorassan  Prophet.     When  Whitman  used  a  capital  "  I "  he 
did  not,  however,  always  mean  himself.    He  touched  our  sympathies 
often   through   his   own   personality,  as   Shakspere  through  the 
medium  of  his  characters,   or,  better  still,  as  Browning  in  "  The 
Ring  and  the  Book."     He  addressed  his  readers  through  their 
emotions,  not  their  intellect.     He  never  painted  a  picture  word  by 


WALT   WHITMAN.  423 

word,  for  one  intellect  to  gather  piece  by  piece  and  fit  together 
like  a  child's  puzzle.  He  often  in  a  single  line  produced  in  his 
readers  an  emotion  akin  to  his  own,  and  they  saw  the  picture 
without  further  detail.  His  attitude  to  Nature  was  not  that  of  a 
spectator,  but  a  participator  in  her  moods,  whose  sympathy  with 
them  printed  those  moods  upon  our  minds  through  the  lens  of  our 
emotions,  as  the  sunlight  fixed  through  the  object-glass  of  a 
camera  a  photograph  upon  the  negative  plate.  Whitman  professed 
to  take  the  broadest  view  of  all  things,  but  as  his  breadth  increased 
it  was  at  the  expense  of  the  length.  When  he  opened  his  arms  to 
the  drunkard  and  beggar,  there  was  a  feeling  as  though  of  contempt 
for  those  who  were  better ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  master  and 
servant  together,  the  former  came  in  for  the  sneers,  while  the 
latter  had  the  praise.  His  democratic  views  were  similar  to  those 
in  the  old  rhyme — 

When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ? 

and  were  necessarily  considerably  at  fault.  He  only  roared  "  liberty, 
equality,  and  fraternity "  in  the  same  old  blatant  way,  without  a 
thought  that  equality  was,  is,  and  ever  will  be  impossible  on  earth. 
Whitman  was  ever  hopeful  and  had  been  truly  called  "The  Poet 
of  Joys,"  for  his  works  had  not  one  feeble  complaining  note  from 
beginning  to  end.  He  believed,  too,  that  our  modern  life  is  the 
best  possible  life  that  can  be  lived  at  present,  though  it  must 
necessarily  progress.  If  it  were  wrong  now,  the  past  was  in  fault, 
and  it  was  not  for  us  to  bewail  that  fact,  but  hasten  to  mend  it 
As  a  poet  he  rose  to  his  height  in  "  Drum  Taps,"  a  series  of  poetical 
sketches  of  the  American  War,  of  which  he  was  the  best  poetic 
chronicler.  His  religion  was  that  of  a  man  who  saw  good  in  all 
and  God  everywhere,  and  his  faith  was  so  strong  that  he  could  not 
only  confront  Death  with  indifference,  but  even  welcome  it.  He 
was  in  all  his  writings  thoroughly  in  earnest,  and  for  that  he 
deserved  at  least  our  respect ;  and  though  all  he  had  intended  for 
poetry  was  not  such,  and  though  he  might  never  be  a  popular 
poet,  yet  he  had  written  much  that  future  and  more  discerning 
generations  than  this  would  not  allow  to  die.  The  essayist 
illustrated  the  paper  by  selections  from  Whitman's  book,  "  Leaves 
of  Grass." 

The  paper  was  followed  by  a  lively  discussion,  in  which  Messrs. 
Mortimer,  Oldliam,  BoekkuM,  Foard,  Sales,  and  Lee  Hutchins  (an 
American  visitor  and  oM  Harvard  University  man)  took  part 


MONDAY,  DECEMBER  9,  1889.— Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  presided. 

Two  poems  entitled  "  An  Italian  Sermon  "  and  "  Perfection,"  by 
Mr.  W.  E.  A.  Axon,  were  read  in  the  absence  of  the  writer,  by  the 
President. 


424  BOOK  PLATES. 

AN   ITALIAN   SERMON. 

"Che  cosa  e  uomo?  L'uomo  e  rosa  mattutina,  peregrine  e 
viandante  e  servo  morte :  la  rosa  mattutina  sull'  aurora  s'apre, 
s'e  fresca  e  bella  ;  poi,  come  il  sole  la  scalda  un  poco,  subito  cade  e 
seccasi.  Cosi  e  1'uomo  uu  poci  di  tempo  chiaro  e  fresco,  e  una 
febbre  viene  e  hallo  morto ;  e  peregrine  della  sua  patria  del  cielo,  e 
qui  e  forestiero ;  servo  de'  morti  s'intende,  per6che  1'uomo  ignora 
si  ricompera  della  morte.  Va  I'uomo  a  dormire,  per6ch6  se  non 
dormisse  morebbe ;  levasi  dal  letto,  e  vestesi  perche  non  gli  faccia 
freddo,  per  paura  della  morte ;  va  a  desinare,  per  mangiare,  acci6 
che  viva,  per  paura  della  morte :  bee  perch6  ha  sete,  per  paura 
della  morte :  e  cosi  dell'  altre  cose." — Francesco  Sacchetti,  1335- 
1410. 

The  sunlight  streamed  through  windows  rich  and  bright, 

And  bathed  the  pulpit  in  a  golden  flood, 

Wherein  the  preacher,  pale,  and  sad  of  face, 

Stood  as  the  Baptist  stood  in  Jordan's  stream. 

"  What,"  said  the  preacher,  "  then  is  mortal  man, 

And  unto  what  shall  we  compare  his  life  ? 

He  is  but  as  the  rose  of  morning  prime — 

Bat  as  a  trav'ler  on  a  pilgrimage — 

Through  all  his  life  he  is  the  Slave  of  Death. 

When  morning  dawns  the  rose  is  fresh  and  fair, 

But  droops  and  dies  beneath  the  sun's  hot  rays  ; 

So  man  is  full  of  health  and  full  of  pride, 

The  Fever  comes  and  carries  him  to  Death. 

A  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  here  he  is, 

A  wand'rer  from  his  heavenly  fatherland. 

The  Slave  of  Death  he  is,  and  does  not  know 

A  ransom  from  the  fear  or  pain  of  Death  ; 

He  sleeps — for  if  he  slept  not  he  would  die. 

He  rises  from  his  bed  and  clothes  himself, 

And  guards  himself  from  cold — for  fear  of  Death  ; 

He  eats  that  he  may  live — for  fear  of  Death  ; 

He  drinks  to  quench  his  thirst— for  fear  of  Death  ; 

And  lives  his  Jife  in  fear — the  Slave  of  Death." 

BOOK    PLATES. 

Mr.  J.  B.  OLDHAM  read  a  review  of  Mr.  J.  Paul  Rylands's 
"Notes  on  Book  Plates,  with  special  reference  to  Lancashire  and 
Cheshire."  Privately  printed,  1889. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  asserts  that — 

He  who  reads  right  will  rarely  look  upon 
A  better  poem  than  his  lexicon  ; 

but  I  doubt  greatly  if  one  could  assert  as  much  about  this 
book,  even  though  there  is  a  certain  sense  of  the  mutability  of 
all  things  human,  running  like  an  undercurrent  of  quiet  thoughts 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  volume.  It  can  hardly,  therefore, 
be  made  a  basis  for  a  disquisition  on  things  poetical.  However, 
as  Johnson  says,  "Every  one  can  exert  such  judgment  as  he  has 
upon  the  work  of  another,"  and  therefore  I  will  turn  to  the  book 
itself  to  find  what  there  is  in  it  to  please  or  displease. 


BOOK  PLATES.  425 

I  never  had  any  taste  for  antiquarian  learning  otherwise  than 
as  it  concerned  the  intellectual  advance  of  humanity,  or  as  it  could 
tell  something  about  the  passions,  the  hopes,  the  yearnings, 
the  mode  of  life  of  men  and  women  of  bygone  generations.  To 
me  the  mere  study  of  antiquity  without  a  humanising  element  is 
a  disagreeable  thing,  and  I  have  always  had  a  feeling  of  the 
triviality  of  such  studies  as  result  in  works  like  this.  It  was 
therefore  with  surprise  that  I  discovered  in  the  perusal  of  these 
notes  how  interesting  and  even  fascinating  such  a  work  can  be 
made.  Such  things  are  always  more  or  less  personal  to  the 
reader  himself  and  scarcely  intelligible  to  others,  and  it  is,  there- 
fore, difficult  to  indicate  passages  of  special  interest.  But  I  would 
call  attention  to  the  book-plate  engraved  by  Bartolozzi  for  Sir 
Foster  Cunliffe,  and  that  engraved  by  Bartolozzi's  pupil,  J.  K. 
Sherwin,  for  John  Blackburne,  Esq.,  of  Oxford,  and  also  that  en- 
graved by  Pye,  of  Birmingham,  for  Mr.  John  Nicholson,  a  Stock- 
port  attorney,  in  1798. 

There  are  also  mentioned  the  book-plates  of  Abdias  Ashton, 
Simuel  Pepys,  and  Thomas  Barritt,  the  sadler-antiquary  of 
Manchester. 

Whilst  reading  the  book,  the  thought  occurred  to  me — not 
an  original  thought  by  any  means — in  what  curious  ways  the  evi- 
dence of  the  past  lives  of  men  are  preserved.  The  most  trivial  and 
unworthy  motives  may  result  in  producing  material  of  which  the 
historian  of  the  future  will  gladly  avail  himself,  while  the  most 
persistent  efforts  to  perpetuate  some  kind  of  testimony  result  only 
in  the  most  absolute  oblivion.  The  vanity  of  a  mere  nobody  may 
afford  the  only  means  of  proving  the  existence  of  causes  without  a 
knowledge  of  the  existence  of  which  actual  historical  facts  would 
be  utterly  unintelligible.  Out  of  such  small  things  do  such  great 
things  come.  And  of  this  order  of  things  is  a  book-plate.  Its 
very  essence  is  vanity.  The  collector  of  a  library  is  anxious  to  per- 
petuate the  fact  that  some  particular  book  has  belonged  to  him, 
and  he  satisfies  his  vanity  in  two  ways  by  having  his  armorial 
bearings  engraved  on  a  book-plate  and  pasted  in  his  books.  So  far 
it  is  all  vanity,  and  when — 

Death  burst*  among  them  like  a  shell, 
And  scatters  them  about  the  town, 

and  his  books  come  to  be  a  desideratum  to  the  collector  for  any 
cause  whatever,  again  it  is  all  vanity.  Only  a  few  book-plates  are 
desirable  on  account  of  their  beauty,  like  the  Bartolozzi  engraving 
Foster  Cunliffe's  book-plate,  or  the  book-plate  engraved  by 
J  K.  Sherwin,  the  pupil  of  Bartolozzi.  Fewer  still  are  of  value  as 
historic  monuments.  The  fact  is,  book-plate  collecting  is  like  the 
collecting  of  used  stamps,  an  interesting  and  very  harmless  hobby  ; 
but  one  which  must  seem  to  have  an  element  of  absurdity  in  it  to 


426  SOME  JUDICIAL  DOGBERRIES. 

any  one  who  feels  the  reality  of  existence  too  vividly  to  be  able  to 
go  pottering  about  after  little  slips  of  paper  pasted  in  the  inside  of 
old  books. 

Of  the  book  itself,  there  is  no  difficulty  in  expressing  an  opinion. 
There  are  only  two  valid  excuses  for  the  existence  of  any  book.  It 
should  help  us  either  to  enjoy  life  or  to  endure  it  Does  this  book 
do  either  ?  I  think  it  does  both.  As  an  artistic  production,  there 
can  be  no  two  opinions  about  it.  Paper,  letterpress,  and  binding 
fill  the  reader  with  the  utmost  pleasure,  and  the  aspect  under 
which  the  vanity  of  the  dead  generation  is  exhibited  to  us,  makes 
them  appear  in  such  a  soft  and  tenderly  diffused  light  that  the 
sinister  side  of  life  is  altogether  lost  sight  of.  Thus  it  helps  us 
both  to  enjoy  life  and  to  endure  it,  and  in  doing  so  proves  its  right 
to  exist. 

SOME   JUDICIAL    DOGBERRIES. 

Mr.  J.  T.  FOARD  read  the  principal  paper  on  "  Some  Judicial  Dog- 
berries," which  dealt  with  the  eccentricities  of  expression,  quaint 
logic,  and  blunders  of  sense  and  sound  of  various  members  of  the 
judicial  bench,  English  and  Scotch,  in  their  charges  to  juries,  and 
in  their  profuse  and  frequently  lavish  administration  of  gratuitous 
advice.  The  sketches  of  persons  introduced  included  Sergeant 
Arabin,  who  is  epitomized  in  a  small  pamphlet  or  volume  of  Law 
Reports,  "  Arabiniana,  London,  1843,  printed  for  private  distri- 
bution only,"  with  the  motto  from  "Macbeth" — "Duncan  :  What 
bloody  man  is  that  ?  Malcolm :  This  is  the  sergeant " — Baron  Platt, 
Sergeant  Adams,  and  the  Scotch  judges,  Lords  Braxfield,  Eskgrove, 
and  Herman,  and  the  Welsh  Lord  Chief  Justice,  Lord  Kenyon. 
Some  of  the  "  derangement  of  epitaphs  "  cited,  to  adopt  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop's  phraseology,  were  quite  in  Dogberry's  vein,  and  created 
great  amusement.  Arabin,  in  commenting  on  the  testimony  of  a 
Hebrew  witness  called  for  the  defence,  with  a  vague  recollection  of 
Horace  only,  said,  "  Credat  Judseus  Apollo,"  and  in  sentencing  a 
poor  woman  of  more  than  ordinary  culpability  in  May,  1833,  re- 
marked, when  condemning  her  at  the  Old  Bailey  to  transportation, 
"  You  must  go  out  of  the  country,  you  have  disgraced  even  your 
sex,"  which  was  certainly  intended  to  be  vehemently  severe.  To 
another  prisoner  he  said,  "  You  must  not  take  the  law  into  your 
own  hands  and  steal,"  and  "  I  cannot,  if  so  disposed,  compound  a 
felony,  the  King  alone  can ; "  and  as  a  reason  for  leniency  sub- 
mitted in  his  charge  to  the  jury,  "  that  the  prisoner  had  been 
seven  weeks  in  gaol,  and  that  they  (the  jury)  might  therefore  lean 
to  the  side  of  mercy  and  acquit  him,"  which  might  be  described 
as  more  humane  than  logical.  In  a  case  of  two  prisoners  acting 
in  concert  in  a  robbery,  he  placed  the  facts  conclusively  thus  :  "  If 
ever  there  was  a  case  of  clearer  evidence  than  this  of  persons 
acting  together,  this  case  is  that  case."  Lord  Eskgrove,  who  was 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SUPPER.  427 

always  a  source  of  amusement  and  "  a  perennial  fountain  of  fun  " 
to  his  contemporaries  for  his  eccentricities  of  manner  and  pedantry 
of  expression,  was  laid  under  contribution  for  several  stories  in  the 
same  vein,  as  well  as  Baron  Platt  and  Lord  Kenyon — famous  for 
"bad  Latin  and  good  law" — for  instances  of  broken  metaphors 
hardly  inferior  in  their  way  to  those  assigned  to  Sir  Boyle  Roche. 
A  conversation  followed,  in  which  many  good  stories  of  judicial 
celebrities  were  narrated  by  various  members,  Messrs.  Milner, 
Buckland,  Attkins,  Mercer,  Mandley,  Mortimer,  Crosland,  Thorpe, 
Braune,  and  Shaw  taking  part. 


MONDAY,  DECEMBER  16,  1889. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the 
chair. 

Papers  were  read  on  Robert  Browning's  last  volume  "  Asolando," 
and  appropriate  allusions  made  to  the  poet's  recent  death,  by  Mr. 
Edmund  Mercer  and  Mr.  B.  Sagar. 

Mr.  C.  T.  TALLENT-BATEMAN  read  a  paper  on  "The  Reign  of 
the  Aquatint,"  and  exhibited  a  large  and  varied  collection  of  aqua- 
tints, from  about  1720  downwards,  which  included  specimens  and 
proofs  in  all  stages. 

Mr.  J.  B.  OLDHAM  read  the  principal  paper  on  the  "  Alkestis" 
of  Euripides.  In  the  conversation  which  followed  Dr.  John  Scott 
gave  an  exhaustive  estimate  of  Euripides'  work,  and  denned  his 
position  among  the  Greek  dramatists. 


THE   CHRISTMAS   SUPPER. 

MONDAY,  DECEMBER  23, 1889.— -The  first  half  of  the  Session  was 
brought  to  a  close  by  holding  the  usual  Christmas  Supper  in  the 
Club  Rooms.  Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  presided  and  there  was  a  large 
gathering  of  members  and  friends.  The  usual  Christmas  Ceremonies 
were  observed.  The  Secretary,  Mr.  W.  R.  Credland,  habited  as  an 
ancient  cook,  brought  in  the  boar's  head.  He  was  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Thomas  Derby,  who  sang  the  old  carol  "  The  Boar's  Head  in 
Hand  bring  I,"  the  company  joining  in  the  chorus.  After  supper 
had  been  served  the  President  recited  the  accustomed  ode,  "  Here's 
Merry  Christmas  Come  Again,"  which  had  been  heard  for  so  many 
years  past,  on  similar  occasions,  from  the  late  Charles  Hard  wick. 
The  Wassail  Bowl  was  tlu  n  l.rought  in,  Mr.  H.  H.  Sale*,  in  tin- 
unavoidable  absence  of  Mr.  John  Page,  impersonating  Father 
Christmas,  and  Mr.  Derby  singing  the  Wassail  Song.  The  musi- 
cal programme  was  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  J.  F.  L.  Crosland, 
and  was  greatly  enjoyed.  Songs  and  readings  were  given  by  Mr. 
Collier,  Mr.  John  All. :,,  Mr.  C.  R  Hahn,  and  Mr.  Crosland.  The 
only  toast  submitted,  in  addition  to  that  of  "  The  Queen,"  was 


428  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

"  Success  to  the  Manchester  Literary  Club,"  which  was  proposed 
by  Mr.  H.  H.  Ho  worth,  M.P.,  and  seconded  by  Alderman  Bailey. 
A  thoroughly  delightful  evening  was  brought  to  a  close  by  the 
singing  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  the  orthodox  clasping  of  hands 
being  scrupulously  observed. 


MONDAY,  JANUARY  6,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 
CLOUGH'S  "AMBARVALIA." 

Mr.  C.  E.  TYRER,  read  a  short  paper  on  Arthur  Hugh  dough's 
"  Ambarvalia."  This,  he  said  was  not  Clough's  first  literary  ven- 
ture, though  it  was  now  probably  the  scarcest  of  his  books.  It 
was  written  in  conjunction  with  Thomas  Burbidge,  a  poet  whose 
work  seemed  to  have  been  almost  completely  forgotten.  The 
title  Ambarvalia  was,  he  thought,  taken  from  the  sacrificial  rites 
performed  by  a  Roman  College  of  Priests  called  Fratres  Arvales  for 
blessing  the  fields  in  the  Ager  Romanes.  The  chief  interest  in  the 
portion  of  the  volume  contributed  by  Clough  lay  in  the  compari- 
son of  the  verses,  as  there  printed,  with  later  editions  of  his  poems. 
There  were  some  ten  pages  which  were  not  reproduced  in  any  col- 
lection of  Clough's  works,  and  as  they  seemed  to  have  been  marked 
by  Clough  himself  for  omission,  their  exclusion  was  probably  wise, 
because  none  of  them  appeared  to  be  of  great  merit.  Some  of  the 
other  poems  were  worthy  of  his  fame,  especially  those  dealing  with 
the  conflict  between  the  ideal  and  the  actual,  a  theme  so  strongly 
favoured  by  him. 

DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI. 

Mr.  JOHN  WALKER  read  the  principal  paper  on  the  "  Poetry  of 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti."  He  said  the  Genius  of  Rossetti  had  left  an 
ineffaceable  mark  on  the  art  and  poetry  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
The  complexity  of  treatment  in  his  verse  rendered  it,  however,  of 
little  interest  to  the  readers  of  so-called  popular  poetry.  He  was 
a  conscientious  worker  with  ideals  of  high  excellence,  but  one  who 
was  somewhat  apt  to  lose  himself  in  clouds  of  artificial  mysticism. 
The  work  he  had  left  behind  was  entitled  to  our  admiration  because 
its  principal  quality  was  that  which  genius  gave  to  verse  when 
working  with  a  high  purpose  and  in  strict  accordance  with  the 
canons  of  Art.  The  chief  characteristic  of  his  poetry  was  solem- 
nity and  its  chief  defect  artificiality.  It  was  probable  that  his  fame, 
as  a  poet,  would  rest,  in  a  great  measure,  on  that  exquisite  creation 
of  youth  and  noble  hope,  "The  Blessed  Damozel,"  for  in  it  we 
found  the  keynote  of  his  nature  and  the  foundation  of  nearly  all 
his  work.  It  was  completed  when  he  was  about  nineteen.  His 
poem  entitled  "  Jenny  "  was  one  of  those  which  he  handed  to  Rus- 
kin,  with  the  view  of  getting  his  assistance  in  offering  a  few  to 
Thackeray,  then  editor  of  the  CornhUl  Magazine.  Mr.  Ruskin 


IRISH  FOLK-TALES.  429 

did  not  approve  of  this  production,  one  of  his  objections  being  that 
"Jenny"  was  not  a  true  rhyme  to  "guinea,"  in  the  opening  coup- 
let In  "  The  Cloud  Confines,"  Rossetti  echoes  our  own  feelings  on 
the  mutability  and  complexities  of  life  and  our  vague  surmises 
and  doubts  as  to  our  eventual  destiny.  This  lyric  takes  rank  as 
one  of  the  finest  in  the  English  language.  In  his  own  opinion, 
this  was  his  best  production.  He  was  one  of  the  most  perfect  of 
English  sonnet  writers.  His  short  and  brilliant  career  would 
live  long  in  men's  memories,  and  his  faults  would  be  forgotten  in 
admiration  for  his  perfections. 


MONDAY,  JANUARY  13,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 

IRISH    FOLK-TALES. 

Mr.  RICHARD  HOOKE  read  a  short  story  in  imitation  of  some 
Berber  Folk-Tales  lately  given  at  the  Club.  The  story  is  founded 
on  the  mythical  legtnd  of  the  Giant's  Causeway,  and  concluded  as 
follows : — Meantime  the  terrible  news  had  reached  the  ears  of 
Phadrig  (the  Irish  giant)  and  his  wife  at  their  dwelling  among  the 
hills  of  Meath.  We  hear  of  men  of  great  mental  powers  often 
spoken  of  as  having  "  giant  intellects,"  but  from  all  I  have  heard 
of  giants  the  intellect  seems  to  me  their  weakest  point. 
But  Phadrig  MacFaddh  was  blest  with  a  wife,  and  Mrs. 
MacFaddh,  if  she  had  not  more  brains  than  her  giant  husband, 
hers  were  certainly  of  a  brighter  quality.  "So,"  said  she  to 
Phadrig,  "Sure  I  tould  you,  he's  arroived,  waded  across  from 
Scotland,  and,  from  all  I  hear,  by  jabers  you're  not  big  enough 
to  carry  dhrinks  to  him  !  He's  buildin'  a  causeway  over  the  sea, 
and  he  says  if  he  can  only  conquer  you,  and  bate  ye  into 
smidthereens,  he'll  droive  ye  home  wid  all  the  cattle  from 
Corruck  to  Carlingford  to  stock  and  labour  his  ugly  hoighland 
hills  !"  "Ogh  !  ogh  on,  aree  achushla  dhuboo,  oo  oo  !  my  heart  is 
gone  down  into  my  breeches,"  cried  Phadrig;  "what  are  we  to  do 
at  all  at  all  1 "  And  he  sat  down  and  began  to  scratch  his  head. 
It  is  said  that  when  at  a  loss  an  Irishman  always  proceeds  to 
scratch  his  head,  to  stir  up  his  brains  we  should  suppose,  but  he 
calls  it  "  consulting  his  crown  lawyers."  Phadrig's  skull,  however, 
was  so  thick  that  not  an  idea  could  he  scratch  either  into  or  out  of  it. 
Not  BO  his  clever  wife ;  she  had  set  her  wits  to  work,  and  at  length 
she  exclaims  :  "  Cheer  up,  Phadrig — I  have  it,"  says  she ;  "  lave  it 
all  to  me,  do  as  I  tell  ye,  and  lave  the  rest  to  me.  Get  you  up 
to-morrow  morning  by  the  screek  o'  day,  go  down  to  Newry,  buy  a 
shipload  of  the  biggest  planks  in  Newry,  bring  them  home  on  your 
back  and  lave  the  rest  to  me."  Next  morning  saw  the  giant  on 
his  way  to  that  ancient  timber  mart ;  a  shipload  of  the  largest 
planks  was  bought,  and  the  same  evening  saw  Phadrig,  like  the 


430  IRISH  FOLK-TALES. 

mighty  Hebrew  with  the  gates  of  Gaza,  returning  with  the  great 
load  upon  his  back.  The  following  day  saw  the  giant  under  the 
instructions  of  his  spouse  engaged  in  the  construction  of  a  cradle 
large  enough  to  hold  himself,  and  in  wkich  he  could  sleep  com- 
fortably. The  cradle  was  finished,  and,  says  Mrs.  MacFaddh  to 
her  husband,  "Now,"  says  she,  "Dhu  Bumph  will  be  here 
to-morrow ;  soon  as  he  comes  in  sight  get  you  into  the  cradle,  hap 
yourself  up,  and  lave  the  rest  to  me.  When  I  give  you  the  wink, 
do  you  snore  as  loud  as  your  ould  uncle  the  big  ogre  of  Connaught." 
In  due  time  arrived  the  renowned  giant  of  Caledon,  and  was 
received  by  Mrs.  MacFaddh  with  the  greatest  deference  and  her 
best  courtesies.  The  Scot  introduced  himself  by  inquiring  if 
"  Maister  MacFaddh  were  at  hame,  as,  hearing  muckle  rumours 
o'  his  great  strength  and  prowess,  he  had  cam  a'  the  wa'  frae  Scotland 
to  pi  his  respects  to  him."  Mrs.  MacFaddh  replied  that  her  husband 
had  gone  up  to  the  Curraghof  Kildare  on  special  business,  "but  plase 
God,"  said  she,  "  he'll  be  home  this  evening,  and  will  be  proud  to  see 
your  honour — that  is,  if  he  has  not  had  a  drop  too  much,  in  which  case 
he  is  sometimes  dangerous  to  both  friends  and  enemies;  manetime  will 
your  honour  sit  down  and  take  a  mouthful  of  mountain  dew  and 
a  cake  after  your  long  walk."  Now  this  clever  woman  had 
dexterously  managed  to  bake  the  griddle  itself  inside  of  one  of  her 
great  oat  cakes,  and  this  she  hospitably  placed  before  the  stranger. 
The  northman's  appetite  was  sharp,  and  he  at  once  essayed  a  bite, 
but,  after  divers  failures,  he  remarked  to  Mrs.  MacFaddh  that  her 
"  drink  was  grand,  but  her  bannocks  were  unco'  hard."  "  Well, 
your  honour,"  said  she,  "  I'm  just  bakin'  them  for  the  young  gossoon 
in  the  cradle,  and,  as  he's  gettin'  his  new  teeth  he  loikes  them  crisp." 
Meanwhile  Phadrig,  according  to  instructions,  was  snoring  in  his 
cradle  as  loud  as  his  "ould  uncle,  the  big  ogre  of  Connaught." 
The  alarming  size  of  the  cradle,  and  the  terrible  snores  of  its 
occupant,  had  already  somewhat  disconcerted  the  cautious  Scot ; 
his  giant  heart  in  turn  began  to  fail,  and  even  the  large  "  mouthfuls 
of  mountain  dew  "  failed  to  hide  his  growing  uneasiness.  At  length 
he  enquired  of  his  hostess  if  he  "  micht  take  the  liberty  of  a  keek 
at  the  bairn  in  the  cradle  1 "  "  Agh,  wid  the  greatest  of  pleasure, 
your  honour,"  and,  turning  to  the  cradle  she  cried  out,  "  Get  up, 
ye  lazy  spalpeen,  here's  a  gentleman  has  come  all  the  way  from 
Scotland  to  see  your  fadther ;  get  up  and  help  to  amuse  him  till 
your  fadther  comes  home ;  show  him  how  he's  teachin'  ye  to  throw 
stones  and  the  like  o'  that.  Bedad,  yer  honour,"  turning  to 
Dhu  Bumph,  "  his  fadther  has  taught  him  to  stand  on  the  hill 
above  and  knock  down  a  bullock  for  his  breakfast  on  the  Hill  of 
Howth."  MacFaddh  now  gathered  himself  up,  got  out  of  his 
cradle  and  stood  erect  with  his  great  blankets  around  him,  to  the 
intense  astonishment  of  the  Scottish  visitor.  Mrs.  MacFaddh  then 
told  the  boy  to  pick  up  a  stone  and  throw  it  across  the  bay,  over  to 


2ENNYSOITS  "  DEMETER  AND  OTHER  POEMS."  431 

the  Mourne  mountains.  This  he  did  with  apparent  ease,  to  the 
greater  alarm  and  dismay  of  the  Scot  At  length,  after  the  process 
of  realizing  the  power  displayed,  the  size  of  the  stone,  the  distance, 
and  the  ease  with  which  it  was  thrown,  Dhu  Bumph  turned 
cautiously  to  his  hostess,  and  said,  "  Weel,  Mrs.  McFaddh,  that's 
no  sae  bad ;  micht  I  speer  hoo  faur  could  his  father  beat  that  1" 
"  His  fadther  !  ogh  arragh  na  cushla  !  just  wait  till  he  comes  home, 
bedad  he'll  throw  it  over  to  Scotland  as  asy  as  winkin',  and,  if  he 
has  taken  an  extra  punshon  or  two  of  the  native,  he'll  send  it  to 
Amirica  or  the  Keep  of  Good  Hope  if  you  loike."  The  giant's 
gullibility  was,  as  I  said  before,  accompanied  by  some  national 
discretion.  The  return  of  M'Faddh,  the  father  o'  sich  a  bairn,  and 
probably  under  the  influence  of  an  extra  punshon  or  two,  were 
possibilities  wisely  to  be  avoided,  so,  with  excuses  as  plausible  as 
he  could  frame,  he  took  a  hurried  leave  ;  no  grass  grew  under  his 
feet  till  he  reached  his  causeway,  which  he  crossed  in  breathless 
haste,  prudently  demolishing  it  behind  him  as  he  passed,  lest 
MacFaddh  should  follow,  and  from  that  day  forth  this  great  giant 
was  seen  no  more  on  the  hills  of  Erin. 

Mr.  R.  C.  PHILLIPS  gave  an  address  on  "Life  on  the  Congo 
River,"  which  was  illustrated  by  a  series  of  lime-light  views  from 
photographs  taken  by  himself.  The  lecture  consisted  of  a  running 
narrative,  often  vivid  and  deeply  interesting,  of  personal  experiences 
and  adventures  in  the  Congo  district,  and  included  much  curious 
information  on  the  habits  and  customs  of  the  natives.  The  lecture 
was  warmly  applauded,  and  a  cordial  vote  of  thanks  was  accorded 
to  Mr.  Phillips  on  the  motion  of  Mr.  J.  T.  Foard,  seconded  by 
Mr.  Thomas  Kay.  

MONDAY,  JANUARY  20,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  presided. 

Mr.  EDMUND  MERCER  read  a  short  paper  on  Tennyson's  new  book, 
11  Demeter,  and  other  poems,"  which  he  characterised  as  the  noble 
child  of  the  poet's  old  age ;  and  as  a  refutation,  if  any  were  needed, 
of  a  recent  article  by  Professor  Max  Miiller,  who  advocated  the 
removal  from  office  of  elderly  people  to  make  room  for  younger  men. 
The  essayist  quoted  several  of  the  finest  poems:  "Demeter 
and  Persephone  " ;  "  Vastness,"  by  an  Evolutionist ;  "  Happy,"  and 
"  Crossing  the  Bar,"  which  last  seemed  as  though  sung  by  the  poet 
with  a  sound  of  farewell  in  his  voice,  from  a  Charon-steered  boat, 

though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  tee  my  Pilot  face  to  face, 
When  I  have  crowed  the  bar." 

Mr.  A.  N.  MONKHOUSB  read  the  principal  paper,  on  "George 
Meredith'e  Novels." 

An  animated  conversation  followed,  which  was  joined  in  by  the 
President,  Messrs.  John  Mortimer,  B.  Sagar,  J.  Ernest  Phythian, 
W.  R.  Credland,  and  E.  Mercer. 
29 


432        POEMS,  BALLADS,  AND  SONGS  OF  Q.   W.  DONALD. 
MONDAY,  JANUARY  27,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 

BROWNING    NIGHT. 

The  evening  was  devoted  to  the  consideration  of  Robert  Browning 
as  a  Poet. 

Mr.  B.  SAGAR  exhibited  a  number  of  portraits  of  Browning. 
Some  autograph  letters  addressed  to  the  late  John  Leech  were 
shown  by  Mr.  Thornber. 

Mr.  C.  E.  TYRER  read  a  short  paper  comparing  the  work  of  the 
two  poets,  Tennyson  and  Browning. 

Mr.  JOHN  MORTIMER  followed  with  a  paper  on  Browning's  Melody. 

Mr.  MILNER  contributed  a  short  paper  on  the  Versification  of 
Browning. 

Mr.  R.  S.  CHRYSTAL  gave  a  humorous  account  of  his  efforts  to 
master  "  Sordello." 

Messrs.  J.  E.  PHYTHIAN  and  E.  MERCER  criticised  the  papers  read. 

Considerable  interest  was  attracted  by  the  singing  of  several  of 
Browning's  lyrics. 

At  the  close  of  the  meeting,  the  PRESIDENT,  on  behalf  of  the 
members,  offered  congratulations  and  a  hearty  welcome  to  an  old 
member  of  the  Club,  Mr.  E.  Bruce  Hindle,  who,  about  two  years 
ago,  received  an  official  appointment  at  Accra,  on  the  West  Coast 
of  Africa,  and  who  had  returned  home  on  leave  of  absence. 


MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  3, 1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 

Some  books  presented  to  the  Club,  at  the  request  of  the  late 
Oharles  Hardwick,  were  laid  on  the  table.  Amongst  them  was  a 
copy  of  his  "  Traditions  and  Folklore  of  Lancashire,"  containing 
many  notes  and  emendations  by  him,  including  a  memorandum  to 
the  effect  that  he  desired  the  Club  to  accept  the  copyright  of  the 
work. 

MR.    G.   W.    DONALD. 

Mr.  JONATHAN  NORBURY  read  a  short  paper  on  the  "Poems, 
Ballads,  and  Songs  of  G.  W.  Donald,"  keeper  of  the  Abbey  of 
Arbroath.  He  said  Mr.  Donald  was  a  native  of  Forfar,  and  was 
nearly  seventy  years  of  age.  His  father  and  grandfather  both 
dabbled  in  song  making,  so  that  it  might  be  said  rhyme  was  here- 
ditary with  him.  Before  he  was  eleven  years  old  he  had  composed 
songs  which  were  popular  at  social  gatherings.  He  became  a  school- 
master, and  finally  received  the  appointment  of  keeper  of  Arbroath 
Abbey.  He  published  in  1879  a  small  quarto  volume  containing 
a  collection  of  his  poems.  Though  he  had  not  acquired  much 
beyond  a  local  reputation,  his  songs  were  appreciated  by  many  of 
his  countrymen,  and  were  worthy  of  more  than  passing  attention. 
The  essayist  became  acquainted  with  him  on  a  visit  to  Arbroath, 


WITCHCRAFT.  433 

and  found  him  to  be  a  man  of  uncommon  order  of  mind,  and 
possessing  a  great  store  of  poetical  and  legendary  lore.  Mr. 
Norbury  read  a  selection  from  the  poet's  productions,  some  of 
which  elicited  great  appreciation. 

Mr.  J.  S.  THORNTON  read  a  short  paper  on  some  early  editions  of 
North's  Plutarch,  and  exhibited  a  copy  of  the  first  edition,  1579,  of 
the  second  edition,  1595,  and  a  fine  set  of  Amyot's  Plutarch,  from 
which  North  translated.  North's  Plutarch  was  one  of  the  books 
wherefrom  Shakspeare  drew  materials  for  some  of  his  plays,  and 
Mr.  Thornton  read  a  few  extracts  which  he  pointed  out  had  been 
transferred  almost  bodily  to  certain  tragedies  of  the  dramatist 
The  first  edition  of  North's  Plutarch,  1579,  has  since  the  meeting 
of  the  Club  been  deposited  permanently  in  the  Owens  College 
library. 

WITCHCRAFT. 

Mr.  RICHARD  HOOKE  read  the  principal  paper,  entitled  "The 
Darkest  Page  of  History."     It  was  a  sketch  of  the  superstition  of 
witchcraft,  and  was  listened  to  with  great  interest.     In  the  course 
of  the  paper  Mr.  Hooke  said  :  We  often  hear  it  said,  and  probably 
with  truth,  that  every  man  is  insane  on  some  subject,  either  for  a 
time  or  throughout  life,  and  we  have  ample  evidence  in  history  to 
show  that  a  whole  community,  or  nation,  or  generation,  are  as  liable 
to  fits  of  insanity,  long  or  short,  as  is  a  single  brain  or  individual. 
It  is  to  one  of  those  deplorable  fits  of  superstitious  madness  which 
took  hold  of  many  generations  of  men,  making  havoc  of  the  human 
race  and  spilling  oceans  of  innocent  blood,  that  I  would  now  draw 
attention,  chiefly  with   a   view  to  show   how   much   reason   we 
have  to  be  thankful  that  we  were  born  in  better  days,  that  our 
little  span  of  life  has  fallen  in  the  midst  of  a  generation  of  whom, 
a  few,  at  least,  are  comparatively  sane.     Some  time  ago  a  passage 
appeared  in  an  American  magazine  stating  that  a  calculation  had 
been  made  showing  that  a  single  sentence  found  in  the  Mosaic  law, 
namely,  "  Thou  shalt  not  suffer  a  witch  to  live,"  had  cost  since  the 
time  of  its  utterance  no  less  than  a  hundred  millions  of  innocent 
human  lives !  In  the  time  of  Moses  it  was  evident  there  were  impos- 
tors who,  as  in  later  times,  trafficked  on  the  ignorance  and  credulity 
of  mankind,  insulting  the  Hebrew  Jehovah  by  pretending  to  His 
powers ;  hence  the  law  which  Moses  promulgated  against  these  crimi- 
nals. This  command,  misunderstood,  or  misinterpreted  by  the  mono- 
maniacs of  after  ages,  has  been  the  chief  cause  of  the  blackest  and 
bloodiest  stains  on  the  pages  of  history.     The  Witch  of  Moses — 
according  to  the  best  authorities — means  only  a  "  divineress,"  or 
dabbler  in  sorcery  or  spells;  but  the  more  modern  witch  of  the  days 
of  Christianity  was  a  very  different  character,  joining  to  her  power 
of  foretelling  future  events  that  of  working  evil  upon  the  life,  limb, 
and  possessions  of  mankind.     This  great  power  was  acquired  only 


434  WITCHCRAFT. 

from  the  Devil  himself  by  an  express  and  solemn  compact  signed  in 
blood,  by  which  the  wizard  or  the  witch  renounced  baptism,  and  sold 
his  or  her  immortal  soul  to  the  Evil  One,  and  that  without  any 
hope  of  redemption.  This  horrible  belief  no  doubt  had  its  origin 
in  ancient  paganism  and  the  fetishism  of  the  earlier  barbarous 
nations.  We  will  not  go  back  so  far,  but  begin  at  the  time  when 
men  arrived  at  the  knowledge  or  belief  in  the  existence  of  one  true 
God,  and,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  existence  of  an  opposing  spirit, 
purely  wicked,  scarcely  less  powerful,  and  the  enemy  of  God  and 
man.  Previously,  sorcery  and  magic  were  seldom  punished  with 
death,  as  they  were  often  allied  with  the  most  useful  knowledge  in 
chemistry  and  the  healing  art ;  but  when  the  belief  became  general 
that  the  sorcerer  or  witch  was  in  league  with,  and  derived  their 
powers  from,  the  Evil  One,  the  pious  mind  was  filled  with  horror. 
This  feeling  zealously  fostered,  first  by  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy 
and  then  in  even  a  greater  degree  by  the  Protestant,  rose  to  a  frenzy 
that  for  three  or  four  centuries  filled  Europe  with  appalling  blood- 
shed and  cruelty.  The  belief  that  disembodied  spirits  are  permitted 
to  visit  and  roam  through  this  world  has  its  foundation,  probably, 
on  the  sublime  hope  of  immortality  with  which  we  are  gifted,  and 
which  to  many  in  all  ages  has  been  the  chief  solace  and  the  greatest 
triumph  of  reason ;  but  in  the  earlier  days  of  little  knowledge  this 
belief  became  the  source  of  a  train  of  the  most  wretched  and 
miserable  superstitions,  through  which  for  generations  the  earth 
was  deluged  with  blood  and  horror.  All  Europe,  for  a  period  of 
three  or  four  centuries  brooded  in  the  belief,  not  only  that  departed 
spirits  walked  the  earth  to  meddle  in  the  affairs  of  men,  but  that 
men  by  the  aid  of  the  Devil  had  power  to  summon  evil  spirits  to 
work  woe  and  ill  upon  their  fellow  men.  All  ranks  and  classes 
were  seized  with  this  terrible  epidemic.  No  man  felt  himself 
secure,  either  in  his  person  or  his  possessions,  from  the  assaults  of 
the  Evil  One  or  his  agents.  Every  calamity  that  befel  was  the 
deed  of  a  witch.  Europe  went  mad.  The  word  witch  was  on  every 
tongue,  and  for  a  long  series  of  years,  so  multitudinous  were  the  trials 
for  witchcraft  that  (says  Florimond)  "all  other  crimes  were  forgotten.'* 
Men  distinguished  for  intellect,  education,  and  goodness  joined 
and  sympathised  with  the  most  ignorant  rustics  in  their  implicit 
belief  in  and  horror  of  witchcraft.  There  are  so  many  wonderful 
and  mysterious  appearances  in  nature  for  which  science  and  phi- 
losophy cannot  even  yet  fully  account,  that  it  is  not  altogether 
surprising  that  at  a  time  when  the  laws  of  nature  were  so  much 
less  understood,  men  in  their  ignorance  should  attach  to  super- 
natural agency  every  appearance  which  they  could  not  otherwise 
explain.  Science  has  lifted  the  veil,  and  is  ever  busy  in  clearing 
away  the  blind  superstitions  and  misty  horrors  in  which  our  fore- 
fathers lived ;  and  I  trust  that  we  have  reason  to  hope  that  our 
still  more  enlightened  children  of  the  future  may  yet  look  back  in 


THOMAS  A  SHE.  435 

wonder  and  disgust  at  the  follies  of  the  present  day,  when  millions 
of  men  are  supported  in  idleness,  trained  and  equipped  at  a  cost 
of  untold  treasures,  to  raise  which  the  peaceful  and  industrious 
are  ever  unduly  burdened ;  all  the  mighty  powers  of  science  and 
the  ingenuity  of  man  combined  to  construct  the  most  deadly 
engines  solely  for  the  menace  and  destruction  of  their  fellow- 
creatures.  Our  warriors  advance  the  plea,  "  We  must  guard  our 
hearths  and  homes."  This  argument  would  doubtless  be  unan- 
swerable if  we  had  an  outward  enemy  to  fear,  but  it  must  fall  to 
the  ground  when  increased  wisdom  shows  that  man  has  no  enemy 
worthy  of  fear  on  this  planet  but  himself.  Wisdom  and  knowledge 
are  steadily  advancing ;  the  unfortunate  who  has  fits  or  imagines 
himself  a  wolf  is  now  sent  to  the  hospital  or  to  an  asylum  instead 
of  to  the  halter  or  the  stake,  as  in  what  we  sometimes  hear  called 
"  the  good  old  times,"  and  we  must  devoutly  hope  that  the  yet 
wiser  men  of  future  generations  may  sit  in  council  as  peaceful 
arbitrators  in  the  quarrels  of  nations,  instead  of  madly  driving 
hosts  of  innocent  men  and  poor  dumb  animals  to  mutual  slaughter 
and  destruction. 

A  conversation  followed,  in  which  Messrs.  George  Milner,  J.  T. 
Foard,  R  S.  Chrystal,  J.  S.  Thornton,  William  Dawes,  W.  R. 
Credland,  and  John  Mortimer  joined. 


MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  10, 1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 

THOMAS   ASHE. 

Mr.  J.  B.  OLDHAM  read  a  short  communication  in  memoriam  of 
the  late  Thomas  Ashe.  He  began  his  paper  by  calling  attention 
to  the  complete  failure  of  Mr.  Ashe  to  obtain  the  attention  of  the 
reading  public.  This  was,  however,  no  criterion  of  the  worth  of 
Mr.  Ashe's  work.  Success  and  failure  are  but  relative  terms,  and 
the  work  which  proves  a  failure  now  may  hereafter  have  effects  out 
of  all  proportion  to  its  apparent  want  of  success  at  the  moment 
As  Mr.  Ashe  himself  puts  it,  "You  may  not  do  much  in  this  world 
but  you  succeed  in  the  universe,"  or  as  Browning  said — 

Imperfection  means  perfection  hid 
Reserved  in  part  to  grace  the  aftertime. 

Mr.  Oldham  then  gave  a  brief  sketch  of  Mr.  Ashe's  life,  concluding 
with  an  estimate  of  his  position  in  the  poetical  world.  Mr.  Ashe, 
he  said,  was  not  a  great  poet  Probably  he  was  not  even  a  great 
second-rate  poet  But  no  one  who  read  his  poems  could  fail  to 
perceive  that  his  was  a  true  poetic  gift,  and  that  he  was  not 
without  occasions  when  he  attained  almost  the  highest  point  of  pure 
poetry.  And  yet  there  was  something  inherent  in  his  work  which 
always  rendered  it  unsatisfying.  It  was  too  sweet  and  uuagressive 
to  please  the  taste  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Mr.  Oldham  ex- 


436  THE  CLASSIC  SCHOOL  IN  LANDSCAPE. 

hibited  several  photographs  of  Mr.  Ashe  taken  at  various  periods 
of  his  life,  and  also  a  number  of  articles  and  manuscript  obiter 
dicta  of  the  poet  which  had  been  lent  to  him. 

THE   CLASSIC   SCHOOL   IN    LANDSCAPE. 

Mr.  E.  E.  MINTON  read  the  principal  paper  on  the  Classic  School 
in  Landscape.  The  fact  of  the  widespread  character  of  the  art  of 
landscape  painting  in  modern  times,  its  rise  during  the  later  years 
of  the  Renaissance,  and  its  subsequent  development  in  different 
countries  simultaneously,  were  briefly  touched  upon.  The  initia- 
tory steps  in  the  new  art  taken  by  Titian  at  Venice  and  Patiner  in 
Belgium  did  not  lead  immediately  to  the  founding  of  schools  of 
landscape.  But  in  the  course  of  a  century,  say  from  1550  to  1650, 
the  art  had  made  rapid  progress,  and  was  from  henceforth  to  become 
an  independent  province  in  human  culture.  At  Rome,  a  school  of 
landscape  based  partly  on  classical  literature  and  study  of  ancient 
art,  was  originated  by  Nicolas  Poussin.  His  life  and  work  were 
then  sketched.  He  had  been  called  "  the  father  of  heroic 
landscape,"  and  though  his  figure  subjects  were  both  numerous 
and  important,  yet  it  is  his  landscapes  which  impress  us  by 
their  serene  and  stately  character.  The  works  of  Claude  Lor- 
raine, though  lacking  the  impressive  style  of  N.  Poussin,  were 
from  their  sunny  charm  the  more  popular.  Between  the  two  we 
might  place  Caspar  Poussin  or  Dughet,  the  brother-in-law  of 
Nicolas  Poussin,  who  was  his  disciple  in  landscape  painting. 
Passing  over  obscure  names  we  came  to  our  own  Richard  Wilson, 
who  had  been  truly  styled  "  the  English  Claude,"  a  painter  whose 
work,  little  noticed  in  his  own  day,  was  now  regarded  as  of  singu- 
larly rich  beauty ;  Turner,  who  was  greatly  impressed  by  Claude, 
and  sought  to  measure  his  strength  with  the  seventeenth  century 
master  in  many  of  his  paintings ;  and  lastly,  Samuel  Palmer,  who 
sought  to  unite  literature  and  art  in  the  light  afforded  him  by 
study  of  the  works  of  Poussin  and  Claude  Lorraine,  whose  true 
follower  he  humbly  strove  to  be.  The  classic  tradition  might  be 
said  to  be  dead  in  our  day,  though  its  influence  might  be  detected 
at  times  remotely.  On  the  other  hand,  many  new  influences  were 
at  work,  and  new  sources  of  inspiration  were  being  sought.  There 
was  not  much  of  an  initial  character  in  the  landscape  art  of  the 
present.  Science,  with  its  omnivorous  appetite  for  facts,  dominated 
largely  the  pictorial  arts.  But  this  could  not  last  for  ever.  By 
and  by  the  reaction  would  come,  and  the  imagination  crave  a 
return  to  the  ideal.  In  conclusion  reference  was  made  to  the 
unreal  character  of  much  of  the  professed  admiration  of  landscape 
painting  in  the  face  of  the  unchecked  destruction  of  beautiful 
scenery  continually  going  on  in  industrial  neighbourhoods.  Still 
the  love  of  nature  was  undoubtedly  genuine  with  most  people,  and 


BOOK  ILLUSTRATION.  437 

we  all  owed  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  our  modern  landscape  painters 
who  had  taught  us  to  see  so  much  in  nature's  realm  which  without 
their  works  we  should  not  have  learnt  to  look  for. 

The  paper  was  illustrated  by  engravings  and  photogravures.  A 
small  original  sketch  by  Richard  Wilson  was  also  contributed  by 
Mr.  Alex.  Taylor. 

A  conversation  followed,  in  which  Dr.  Pankhurst  (a  visitor), 
Messrs.  George  Milner,  A.  H.  Davies-Colley,  R.  Barber,  John 
Mortimer,  R  S.  Chrystal,  and  Richard  Bagot  took  part 


MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  17,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  presided. 

•  Mr.  W.  E.  A.  AXON  submitted  a  short  paper  on  "William 
Rowlinson,  a  Manchester  poet." 

Mr.  C.  H.  STOTT  exhibited  a  "Buddhist  Bible"  written  in 
Burmese  on  long  strips  of  papyrus,  and  made  a  few  explanatory 
remarks  thereon. 

Mr.  ALEXANDER  TAYLOR  laid  on  the  table  a  copy  of  the  original 
music  and  words  to  the  old  song,  entitled  "  Manchester's  improving 
daily,"  and  expressed  some  doubt  as  to  the  authorship  of  the  song, 
it  having  been  attributed  both  to  Ben  Oldfield  and  J.  B.  Geogeghan, 
a  humorist  well  known  in  Manchester  some  thirty  or  forty  years 
ago. 

Mr.  EDGAR  ATTKINS  read  the  principal  paper,  on  the  Philosophy 
in  Charles  Lever's  "  Barrington." 

A  lively  conversation  followed,  in  which  Messrs.  Milner,  E. 
Mercer,  R  S.  Chrystal,  E.  B.  Kindle,  and  John  Mortimer  took 
Part  

MONDAY,  FEBRUARY  24, 1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 

BOOK   ILLUSTRATION. 

Mr.  E.  E.  MINTON  read  a  short  paper  on  "  Some  Recent  Ten- 
dencies in  Book  Illustration."  He  was  of  opinion  that  the  art  of 
book  illustration  was  deteriorating  in  spite  of  the  immense  increase 
in  the  number  of  illustrated  books  and  magazines.  This  was 
owing  largely  to  the  introduction  of  mechanical  methods  of  repro- 
>n,  but  more  to  false  ideas  regarding  art.  The  Americans 
were  especially  blameable  in  this  respect,  as  they  had  tried  to 
make  one  art  imitate  another  instead  of  doing  its  rightful  work. 
Bold  and  simple  wood  engraving  in  the  manner  of  the  originators 
of  that  art  was  the  finest  and  the  best  It  should  be  of  a  decora- 
tive character,  should  be  really  explanatory  of  the  text,  and  should 
be  printed  with  the  letterpress.  He  exhibited  a  collection  of 
magazines  and  books  in  illustration  of  his  views.  They  were  the 


438  THOUGHTS   ABOUT  MUSIC. 

Century  Guild  Hobby  Horse,  the  Dial,  a  new  journal  recently 
begun  by  Mr.  Shannon,  the  artist,  and  others  of  like  character. 
These  were,  he  thought,  worthy  of  support  because  of  their  decided 
originality  and  the  excellence  of  their  paper  and  printing,  although 
the  Dial  had  been  characterised  by  the  Magazine  of  Art  as  a 
"  mixture  of  nudity  and  nonsense." 

Considerable  discussion  followed,  which  was  shared  in  by  Messrs. 
Milner,  Sales,  Stott,  Dinsmore,  and  Clough. 

THOUGHTS   ABOUT   MUSIC. 

Mr.  WILLIAM  ROBINSON  read  the  principal  paper  entitled 
"Thoughts  about  Music."  He  said  that  to  attempt  a  paper  on  such 
a  subject  as  music  was  perhaps  the  height  of  rashness  in  face  of  the 
statement  in  a  local  paper  that  "  of  all  departments  of  literature 
that  which  concerns  itself  with  music — whether  in  the  form  of 
biographies  of  musicians  and  composers  or  of  musical  criticism — 
was  on  the  whole  the  dullest,  and  least  repaid  the  work  of  perusal." 
To  be  "  moved  with  concourse  of  sweet  sound  "  was  to  have  "music 
in  the  soul"  according  to  Shakspere.  This  was  not  merely  a 
poetical  idea,  but  an  absolute  fact.  Indeed  all  genuine  poetry 
was  a  beautiful  presentation  of  truth  either  of  fact  or  symbol.  But 
though  these  words  of  our  great  poet  had  been  read  and  quoted 
numberless  times,  still  he  doubted  if  the  exact  meaning  contained 
by  the  words  had  often  been  realised.  Our  ideas  of  music  had 
generally  been  directed  towards,  and  limited  by,  the  concourse  of 
sweet  sounds,  but  these  of  themselves  do  not  constitute  music. 
True,  they  were  the  instrumental  means  by  which  music  was  con- 
veyed to  the  soul  from  some  other  source  of  music — music  itself 
being  in  the  soul.  The  gift  of  music  was  a  most  precious  thing. 
It  was  bestowed  more  or  less  upon  every  one.  Not  many,  however, 
were  endowed  with  the  wondrous  power  of  presenting  to  their  fellows 
the  ordered  beauty  of  sublime  harmonies,  nor  was  it  given  to  every- 
one to  tread  the  halls  and  courts  of  musical  science.  But  to  almost 
all  music  was  given  as  a  dowry  of  heaven-born  power  to  rise  above 
themselves — to  listen  and  to  love.  Far-reaching  indeed  was  the 
range  of  the  influence  of  music.  It  could  gladden  the  home  of  the 
peasant  as  well  as  flood  with  delight  the  palace  of  the  sovereign. 
It  could  companion  us  in  every  state  of  mind  or  circumstance,  could 
mourn  with  those  who  wept,  as  well  as  rejoice  with  those  who  are 
glad,  could  make  merry  with  harmless  mirth,  or  breathe  a  calm 
over  the  troubled  spirit,  could  so  whisper  of  its  divine  source  that 
wherever  it  went  it  would  elevate  and  bless.  The  essayist,  speaking 
of  the  pianoforte,  said  that  from  its  presence,  of  one  quality  or 
another,  in  nearly  every  household,  we  might  almost  be  persuaded 
that  we  were  becoming  a  very  musical  people.  Yet  Professor  Stan- 
ford Villiers  had  ascribed  the  inaccuracy  of  ear  in  the  present 
generation  to  the  all-pervading  and  exclusive  use  of  the  piano, 


PLAYS  OP  EM1LE  AUQIER.  439 

which  had  the  disadvantage  of  being  inherently  out  of  tune,  in- 
capable of  sustaining  sounds,  and  was  metallic  and  variable  in 
tone.  For  himself  he  thought  that  the  real  cultivation  of  music 
amongst  us  as  a  people  ought  to  be  by  feeding  and  strengthening 
the  poetical  and  emotional  powers  of  our  nature,  and  by  an  assimila- 
tion of  thought  and  feeling  from  such  harmonious  combinations  of 
fitting  sounds  as  are  produced  by  highly  gifted  musical  natures. 
When  so  received  and  assimilated  they  became  music  in  the  soul. 

A  conversation  followed,  in  which  Mr.  W.  H.  Collier  (a  visitor), 
Mr.  George  Milner,  Mr.  J.  8.  Shaw,  and  Mr.  J.  Bannister  took  part. 


MONDAY,  MARCH  3,  1 890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  presided. 
Mr.  BEN  BRIERLEY  read  a  short  paper  on  "Some  Phases  of 
Lancashire  Life." 

PLAYS   OF    SMILE   AUGIER. 

Mr.  ADOLF  BRAUNE  read  the  principal  paper  on  "  Some  of  the 
Plays  of  Emile  Augier."  He  said  Augier  was  born  at  Valence,  on 
the  Rhone,  in  September,  1820,  and  was  therefore  a  southerner, 
like  his  intimate  friend  and  fellow-dramatist  Francois  Ponsard. 
Neither  poet,  however,  betrayed  in  his  works  from  what  native 
soil  he  had  sprung.  What  glowing  inspiration  did  a  meridional 
like  Alphonse  Daudet  draw  from  the  scenes  and  customs  of  the 
south !  Not  only  his  novels  vibrated  with  the  fiery  pulsation  of 
the  province,  but  his  exquisite  tragedy  "  FArlesienne  "  breathed  the 
spirit  of  the  Camargne  and  derived  from  its  scenes  pathos  and 
grace.  M.  Augier,  on  the  contrary — and  this  is  the  first  important 
trait  in  the  character  of  his  writings — has  not  in  a  single  line  per- 
mitted us  to  infer  in  what  part  of  France  lay  his  birth.  In  all  his 
28  plays  the  scene  might  be  said  to  be  one  and  the  same — the  Paris- 
ian drawing-room  ;  not  but  that  at  times  we  were  introduced  to  an 
artist's  studio,  a  lawyer's  cabinet,  or  the  terrace  of  a  seigneur's 
park.  With  Augier  there  was  no  need  of  a  slang  dictionary  for 
comprehension.  The  essayist  traced  Augier's  life  up  to  the  time 
of  producing  his  first  play,  and  then  criticised  many  of  the  drama- 
tist's contemporaries  with  him.  His  first  play  "  La  digue',"  was 
brought  out  in  1844,  and  was  a  comedy  in  two  acts  in  verse.  It 
had  been  refused  at  the  Com&iie  Franchise,  but  was  accepted  by 
Lireux,  the  director  of  the  Odeon.  That  refusal  heightened  the 
brilliancy  of  its  success.  The  distinguished  company  which  had 
assembled  in  the  foyer  to  welcome  the  first  performance — the  poet 
Theodore  de  Banville  among  them — as  well  as  the  general  public 
were  unanimous  in  proclaiming  that  a  genuine  poet  had  nt  length 
arisen.  The  originality  of  the  diction,  the  easy  flow  of  the  verses, 
the  sparkling  wit,  the  clever  contrivance  of  comic  situations, 
charmed  us  to-day  as  they  delighted  the  audience  of  the  first 


440  JOINT  CONVERSAZIONE. 

night.  The  plot  of  the  comedy,  together  with  its  poetical  qualities, 
took  the  favour  of  the  public  by  storm.  Our  present  taste  would 
not  overlook  that  "  La  Cigue  "  had  a  tinge  of  conventionality,  nor 
that  the  dialogues  of  the  rivals  were  artificial  in  their  parallelism. 
But  it  was  then  hailed  with  ungrudging  approval  as  a  relief  from 
the  incubus  of  romanticism.  Silently  Augier  had  taught  himself 
the  art  of  writing  French  dramatic  verse,  and  building  up  charac- 
ters and  complete  plays.  His  clear  vision  of  his  own  shortcomings 
was  one  of  the  estimable  qualities  in  Augier.  Some  of  the  most 
important  plays  by  Augier  were  analysed,  and  in  conclusion  it  was 
doubted  whether  the  literature  of  the  world  contained  one  comedy 
that  was  absolutely  perfect,  yet  amongst  the  dozen  best  producers 
of  comedy  Augier  would  certainly  find  a  place. 

Messrs.  Newton,  Stott,  and  others  joined  in  the  conversation 
which  followed. 


JOINT    CONVERSAZIONE  OF    THE  ACADEMY  OF  ART  AND    THE  LITERARY 

CLUB. 

TUESDAY,  MARCH  4,  1890. — The  annual  joint  soiree  of  the  Man- 
chester Academy  of  Fine  Arts  and  the  Manchester  Literary  Club 
was  held  in  the  rooms  of  the  Art  Gallery,  Mosley  Street.  There 
was  a  large  gathering.  The  greater  part  of  the  evening  was 
devoted  to  an  inspection  of  the  pictures  and  to  music. 

The  chair  was  occupied  by  Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER,  who  welcomed 
all  present  to  that  pleasant  annual  gathering.  He  remarked  that 
he  did  not  mean  to  say  that  everybody  in  those  rooms  were 
necessarily  persons  deeply  interested  either  in  art  or  literature, 
but  certainly  one  might  take  it  for  granted  that  in  a  general  way 
all  present  that  evening  were  interested  in  such  things  and  cared 
for  them.  He  ventured  to  think  that  the  more  persons  there  were 
who  cared  for  literature  and  art  the  better  it  would  be  for  Man- 
chester. They  must  all  love  their  native  city,  although  many  of  its 
aspects  might  be  unlovely.  Although  they  deplored  certain  condi- 
tions in  their  midst,  they  ought  to  feel  encouraged,  especially  of  late 
years,  by  the  very  large  number  of  persons  who  were  evidently  do- 
ing all  they  could  to  improve  the  city  in  regard  to  its  buildings,  its 
atmosphere,  and  its  streams.  Quite  a  large  number  of  people  were 
addressing  themselves  to  ameliorating  the  condition  of  our  working 
classes,  and  especiallywas  this  the  case  as  regarded  Ancoats.  One 
indication  of  the  improvement  which  would  take  place  as  regarded 
Manchester  was  the  greater  interest  which  was  being  taken  on  all 
sides  in  literature  and  art.  There  were  few  towns  or  cities  out  of 
London  where  such  a  great  interest  was  taken  in  such  matters  as 
was  the  case  in  Manchester. 

During  an  interval  an  address  was  given  by  Mr.  M.  G.  Glaze- 
brook,  high  master  of  the  Manchester  Grammar  School 


HISTORY  OP  THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL.  441 


HISTORY   OF   THE   ENGLISH   NOVEL. 

Mr.  GLAZEBROOK  said  :  It  is  a  commonplace  remark  that  the 
novel  fills  in  modern  society  the  place  which  was  occupied  in 
ancient  Athens  or  Elizabethan  England  by  the  drama.  It  is  not 
so  generally  perceived  that  there  is  a  very  close  resemblance 
between  the  development  of  the  novel  and  the  development  of 
Greek  tragedy.  Had  I  more  time  at  my  disposal  I  think  I  could 
show  that  the  parallel  is  very  exact.  But  all  I  propose  to  do  now 
is  to  follow  the  well-known  lines  of  dramatic  development  in 
dealing  with  the  novel — tracing  separately  the  various  elements 
which  it  has  added  to  itself  one  by  one — sueh  as  plot,  character, 
analysis,  purpose,  and  background.  In  so  doing  I  shall  avoid  all 
but  the  most  necessary  names,  and,  omitting  all  questions  of  origin, 
begin  at  once  with  Defoe,  who  for  practical  purposes  may  be  con- 
sidered the  first  real  novelist  in  England.  It  is  hardly  unfair  to 
Defoe  to  say  that  his  novels  contain  only  one  element — that  of 
incident  "Moll  Flanders,"  which  is  usually  quoted  as  a  type  of  his 
work,  is  little  more  than  a  series  of  incidents,  which  are  connected 
only  by  the  fact  that  they  happen  in  the  life  of  one  person.  Plot 
there  is  none,  and  the  drawing  of  character  is  quite  rudimentary. 
Ever  since  then  the  novel  has  been  developing  new  characteristics, 
till  it  has  become  a  very  complicated  form  of  literature.  But 
just  as  beside  all  the  wonderful  developments  of  animal  species 
there  has  always  remained  a  genus  of  undeveloped  protoplasm,  so 
the  rudimentary  type  of  novel  has  never  died  out  There  have 
never  failed  lineal  descendants  of  "Moll  Flanders,"  with  all  her  sim- 
plicity of  feature.  In  my  boyhood  the  family  was  in  reduced 
circumstances,  and  went  under  the  generic  title  of  the  "  sixpenny 
awful."  But  since  then  a  considerable  number  have  reached  the 
value  of  a  shilling,  and  some  are  dressed  in  a  handsome  suit  of 
scarlet,  paid  for  by  the  wealth  of  "  King  Solomon's  Mines."  The  fact 
is  that  in  the  novelist's  world,  as  in  the  theatre,  there  are  always 
"  the  groundlings,"  and  there  are  always  those  who  write  for  them. 
And  now  and  again  the  dulness  of  sentimental  or  analytical  writers 
leads  to  a  general  reaction  in  favour  of  simple  incident. 

It  was  to  be  expected  that  plot  would  early  become  an  important 
element  in  the  novel.  But  it  is  remarkable  that  the  genius  of 
Fielding  brought  that  element  into  perfection  at  once.  The  plot 
of  (( Tom  Jones  "  still  stands  without  a  rival,and  that  in  spite  of 
the  efforts  of  a  series  of  writers  who,  like  Wilkie  Collins,  have  de- 
voted themselves  to  plot  to  the  exclusion  of  other  interests.  Of 
these  survivals  (as  we  may  call  them),  perhaps  the  most  curious  is 
"  The  Mystery  of  a  Hansom  Cab."  Nothing  could  be  more  vulgar 
than  its  style  and  its  tone.  Its  characters  are  mere  dummies,  and 
its  incidents  are  weak.  Yet  a  clever  plot  won  for  it  a  temporary, 
but  enormous  popularity.  The  reason  of  this  is  no  doubt  to  be 


442  HISTORY  OF  THE  ENGLISH  NO  VEL. 

found  partly  in  the  gradual  disappearance  of  plot-interest  from 
current  novels.  In  Sir  Walter  Scott  that  element  is  still  strong ; 
in  Dickens  and  Thackeray  it  is  decidedly  weaker ;  in  George  Eliot  it 
grows  very  faint ;  in  Henry  James  and  his  school  it  is  evanescent. 
It  is  not  strange  that  when  what  Aristotle  calls  the  prime  neces- 
sity of  a  drama,  and  Thackeray  the  prime  necessity  of  a  novel, 
threatens  to  disappear,  there  should  be  violent  reactions. 

The  decadence  of  plot  seems  to  be  due  partly  to  the  increasing 
tameness  and  monotony  of  modern  society,  in  which  it  is  difficult 
for  a  man  to  associate  with  any  but  those  who  are  just  like  himself, 
but  still  more  to  the  growth  of  other  elements  of  interest.  Chief 
among  these  is  the  study  of  character.  Except  in  the  case  of 
Richardson,  who  had  no  important  imitators,  the  early  writers  deal 
with  the  characters  of  rather  a  low  type.  They  were  content  with 
the  average  man  or  woman  of  each  class,  or  something  below  the 
average.  Squire  Allworthy,  though  a  most  respectable  man,  is  not 
original  or  even  intellectual ;  and  it  would  be  difficult  even  in  Miss 
Austen  to  find  a  personality  which  deserves  more  than  very 
moderate  esteem.  Scott,  with  his  marvellous  range  of  knowledge 
and  sympathy,  did  much  to  raise  the  level.  He  introduces  us  to 
some  persons  who  bear  the  stamp  of  genius.  But  they  are  histori- 
cal characters  whom  we  view  from  a  distance.  Our  intimate 
friends  are  at  best,  like  Jeanie  Deans,  simple  and  good,  without 
genius  or  culture.  In  reading  Dickens  we  cannot  but  be  conscious 
of  a  decline.  Much  as  we  love  Sam  Weller  and  Peggotty,  Little 
Dorrit  and  the  Brothers  Cheeryble,  we  cannot  claim  that  they 
belong  to  the  nobler  types  of  human  nature.  Even  Thackeray 
does  not  rise  very  high.  Esmond  and  Colonel  Newcome  are,  per- 
haps, his  noblest  creations,  but  generous  and  chivalrous  as  they  are, 
they  stop  short  of  the  world  of  ideals. 

In  the  prelude  to  "  Middlemarch  "  there  are  some  words  which 
strike  a  new  chord.  "  Many  Theresas  have  been  born,  who  found 
for  themselves  no  epic  life,  wherein  there  was  a  constant  unfolding 
of  far-resonant  action :  perhaps  only  a  life  of  mistakes,  the  off- 
spring of  a  certain  spiritual  grandeur  ill-matched  with  the  mean- 
ness of  opportunity  ;  perhaps  a  tragic  failure  which  found  no  sacred 
poet,  and  sank,  unwept,  into  oblivion."  Not  only  in  Dorothea, 
but  in  Romola  and  Maggie  Tulliver  we  recognise  a  new  type  of 
character.  Here  we  are  in  close  sympathy  with  the  nobler  side  of 
a  noble  nature.  It  is  the  great  merit  of  George  Eliot  to  have 
opened  the  way  into  a  new  and  higher  world  of  character.  We 
cannot  say  that  her  mantle  has  fallen  on  any  one  writer,  but  we 
can  trace  her  influence  in  the  efforts  of  many  to  portray  the  nobler 
side  of  life. 

Unfortunately  there  is  another  and  less  admirable  innovation  of 
George  Eliot's  which  it  is  easier  to  imitate.  In  her  later  books  the 
analysis  of  character  and  motive  is  carried  to  a  degree  which  is  at 


HISTORY  OF  THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL.  443 

once  wearisome  and  inartistic.  In  this  line,  her  true  successor  is 
Henry  James,  some  of  whose  books  are  like  glimpses  into  the 
laboratory  of  a  vivisectionist.  He  is,  however,  a  master  of  his  art, 
and  his  scalpel  cuts  clean.  When  a  weaker  hand  tries  to  wield 
that  dangerous  weapon  it  works  sad  havoc.  Many  an  author's 
characters,  instead  of  being  dissected,  are  merely  cut  up.  Just  as 
the  elevation  of  character  is  the  most  hopeful  sign  for  the  future 
of  the  novel,  this  tendency  to  analysis  is  the  most  threatening. 
Analysis  is  contrary  to  the  essence  of  art;  and  if  the  novelist 
ceases  to  be  an  artist,  his  work  will  soon  perish. 

In  a  strict  chronological  order  the  mention  of  analysis  should 
be  preceded  by  that  of  purpose.  So  far  as  professions  go,  the  very 
earliest  novelists  professed  to  have  a  moral  purpose.  Defoe  and 
Fielding  argued  that  because  their  books  presented  vice,  always 
followed  by  its  punishment,  they  must  be  moral  teachers.  The 
same  apology  is  offered  by  Daudet  and  Zola  for  their  infinitely 
worse  atrocities ;  and  it  is  an  apology  which  no  sensible  man  will 
admit  for  a  moment.  The  fact  is,  that  Fielding,  like  Miss  Austen 
and  Scott,  described  the  world  as  he  saw  it,  in  the  spirit  of  the 
poet,  not  of  the  preacher.  These  had  no  purpose,  any  more  than 
Shakspere  had,  except  to  portray,  with  truth,  the  play  of  men's 
various  passions.  And  such  portraiture,  when  honestly  done,  is  a 
true  moral  teacher. 

But  with  Dickens  and  Thackeray  we  find  another  kind  of  pur- 
pose coming  in.  Both  of  them,  but  chiefly  Thackeray,  are  fond  of 
apologies  to  the  reader,  treating  of  moral  and  social  questions  sug- 
gested by  the  story.  Now  in  the  novel,  as  well  as  in  the  drama, 
the  gnomic  element  has  an  appropriate  place.  But  when  Euripides 
allowed  maxims  to  encroach  on  the  actions  of  his  plays,  he  inflicted 
a  deadly  wound  upon  Greek  tragedy.  And  the  same  must  be  said, 
if  not  of  Thackeray,  at  least  of  George  Eliot,  who  incessantly  in- 
terupts  her  narrative  with  comments  upon  her  characters  or  upon 
lit.  in  general.  If  any  one  doubt  that  she  exceeds  due  measure 
in  tii  i«  respect  let  him  read  the  good-sized  volume  entitled  "Wise, 
Witty,  and  Tender  Sayings,  selected  from  the  Works  of  George 
Eliot."  They  are  as  numerous  as  the  proverbs  of  Solomon,  and 
not  much  more  suited  for  a  place  in  a  novel  Now,  what  the  great 
ones  do  the  less  will  imitate.  It  is  hardly  possible  now  to  open  a 
new  novel  without  finding  some  foolish  prate  about  things  in  gene- 
ral. A  good  example  of  this  was  recently  sent  by  the  author  to 
the  heads  of  a  great  many  schools  and  colleges.  It  is  a  book  en- 
titled "  Cyril,"  which,  under  pretence  of  telling  a  story,  inculcates 
a  vast  number  of  crude  educational  theories. 

The  same  book  illustrates  another  side  of  the  development  of 
purpose.  Dickens  had  shown  in  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  and  "  Oliver 
Twist "  how  effective  a  weapon  the  novel  might  be  for  attacking  a 
social  abuse.  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  "  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to 


444  HISTORY  OP  THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL. 

Mend,"  and  "All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men,"  have  all  had  a 
similar  influence  for  good.  Now  these  books  have  one  characteris- 
tic in  common.  The  effective  part  of  them  is  not  the  argument, 
but  the  presentation  in  concrete  and  personal  form  of  some  evil 
custom.  Although,  therefore,  they  belong  to  a  narrow  form  of  art, 
they  may  still  be  called  artistic ;  just  as  we  give  the  title  to  a  pic- 
ture of  Boors  drinking,  by  Teniers.  But  just  as  we  deny  the  title 
of  artistic  on  the  one  hand  to  a  mere  photograph  of  some  object  in 
itself  hideous  or  disgusting,  and,  on  the  other,  to  the  formless 
smudges  of  the  extreme  Impressionists :  so  there  are  two  further 
developments  of  the  novel  of  purpose  which  seem  to  lie  outside 
the  region  of  art.  One  is  the  so-called  realistic  novel,  such  as  the 
remarkable  "  Village  Tragedy,"  by  Mrs.  M.  Woods.  It  is  a  study 
in  the  spirit  of  the  French  realists  of  unmitigated  baseness  and 
squalor.  It  is  as  abstract  as  Euclid,  for  it  deals  apart  with  ele- 
ments which  in  real  life  can  never  be  found  separate.  The  other 
is  the  novel  to  illustrate  a  theory,  where  the  interest  lies  not  in  ac- 
tion, but  in  argument.  Such  is  "  Cyril " — a  collection  of  conver- 
sations tending  to  build  up  a  political  theory.  Such,  no  doubt,  is 
the  novel  which  was  advertised  the  other  day,  as  intended  to  show 
the  evil  of  payment  by  results.  The  appearances  of  such  books 
cannot  but  inspire  alarm  in  those  who  love  good  novels.  For  the 
didactic  novel  is  a  very  convenient  form  of  composition.  It  is  a 
gilded  pill  which  the  public  will  swallow  readily,  when  they  will 
not  listen  to  serious  teaching.  And  there  are  obvious  attractions 
to  the  author  in  a  kind  of  composition  whose  form  serves  to  con- 
ceal the  defects  of  its  logic,  while  its  logic  serves  to  excuse  the 
defects  of  its  form. 

I  should  be  insensible  to  the  spirit  of  the  age  if  I  neglected  to 
draw  attention  to  one  feature  which  the  novel  has  in  common  with 
the  art  of  painting  and  the  drama.  Our  age  is  the  age  of  back- 
grounds. To  take  the  simplest  example  first — when  Rembrandt 
or  Titian  painted  a  portrait,  he  was  content  to  paint  the  man  him- 
self: the  background  was  plain  uniform  tint.  Now  there  are  too 
many  artists  who  devote  more  thought  to  the  background  than  to 
the  portrait  The  whole  is  such  a  pretty  arrangement  of  colour 
that  any  prominence  of  one  part — such  as  the  face — would  be  felt 
as  an  impertinence.  On  the  stage  the  same  principle  rules.  In 
Shakspere's  time  the  arrangements  were  of  the  simplest,  and  the 
merit  of  a  play  was  judged  by  the  plot,  the  poetry,  and  the  acting. 
Now  we  have  changed  all  that :  and  the  designers  of  the  dresses 
and  scenery  count  for  more  than  the  actors  or  the  playwrights. 
It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  examples  of  this  all  pervading  ten- 
dency in  other  forms  of  literature  :  in  the  novel  it  is  most  remark- 
able of  all.  We  have  all  read  and  enjoyed  the  charming  bits  of 
description  which  are  scattered  through  the  writings  of  Scott. 
Sometimes  he  treats  of  Highland  scenery,  sometimes  of  the  man- 


THOMAS  OLDHAM  BARLOW.  445 

ners  and  habits  of  thought  of  a  distant  age.  But,  like  those 
exquisite  bits  of  landscape  which  lend  an  additional  charm  to  some 
of  Raphael's  Madonnas,  these  descriptions  are  always  strictly  sub- 
ordinated to  the  principal  object  of  interest.  It  was  reserved  for 
our  generation  to  discover  that  a  story  might  be  written  for  the 
sake  of  the  descriptions.  Grateful  as  we  are  to  Black  for  helping 
us  to  enjoy  Highland  scenery,  and  to  Howells  for  the  graceful  word- 
painting  which  recalls  Venice,  we  must  still  protest  to  them  that 
they  are  corrupting  their  art.  In  the  novel,  as  in  the  drama, 
action  and  character  must  hold  the  first  place. 

History  has  led  me  to  trench  a  little  upon  the  function  of  the  critic. 
But  I  will  only  remind  you  in  conclusion  that  sound  criticism  must 
be  based  upon  the  study  of  literary  history  and  of  human  nature.  I 
hope  we  are  all  friends  of  the  novel,  and  wish  it  well  in  the  future. 
Well,  we  can  all  do  something  for  it  by  promoting  sound  opinions. 
Criticism  cannot  inspire,  but  it  has  a  great  negative  power.  It  can 
strip  the  novel  of  meretricious  ornament,  confine  it  to  its  proper 
sphere,  and  guide  it  towards  its  legitimate  object*. 


MONDAY,  MARCH  10,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILKER  in  the  Chair. 

Mr.  JOHN  MORTIMER  read  a  short  paper  entitled  "  The  Story  of 
a  Picture." 

Mr.  W.  I.  WILD  read  the  principal  paper,  on  "Glees  and  Glee 
Writers."  The  paper  was  illustrated  by  the  rendering  of  :i 
selection  of  glees  in  a  most  artistic  manner  by  Messrs.  J.  Smith, 
A.  Wilkinson,  W.  Pearson,  W.  Anderton,  juur.,  find  J.  Royle, 
accompanied  on  the  piano  by  Mr.  E.  Edmonson.  The  high 
excellence  of  the  singing  elicited  enthusiastic  appreciation,  and  on 
the  motion  of  Mr.  J.  T.  Foard,  seconded  by  Mr.  J.  B.  Shaw,  a 
hearty  vote  of  thanks  was  given  to  the  performers  for  the  pleasure 
they  had  afforded. 

MONDAY,  MARCH  17,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 

THOMAS  OLDHAM  BARLOW. 

Mr.  HARRY  THORNBBR  read  a  short  paper  on  Thomas  Oldham 
Barlow,  R.  A.  He  said  this  famous  engraver  was  born  at  Oldham, 
August  4,  1824.  Like  most  artists  who  have  made  a  name  for 
themselves,  he,  when  very  young,  displayed  considerable  talent  as 
a  draughtsman;  and  on  leaving  school  his  father  apprenticed  him 
for  six  yean  to  Messrs.  Stephenson  and  Royston,  the  well-known 
engravers  of  Manchester.  During  his  apprenticeship  Barlow 
attended  the  then  recently  established  School  of  Design  in  this 
city,  and  as  a  pupil  there  made  such  progress  that  in  1846  he  was 
fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  prize  of  ten  guineas  offered  by  the 
Council  of  the  School  for  the  best  original  design,  in  one  colour 
only,  suitable  for  a  muslin  print,  and  composed  of  foliage, 


446  ANNUAL  MEETING. 

geometrical  figures,  or  other  conventional  ornament.  After  his 
apprenticeship  was  completed,  Barlow  removed  to  London,  there 
not  being  a  good  opening  in  Manchester  for  a  line  engraver.  The 
essayist  spoke  of  the  way  in  which  Barlow  brought  himself  into 
public  notice,  and  of  his  acquaintance  with  John  Phillip,  Thomas 
Creswick,  R.A.,  and  others.  The  best  portrait  of  Thomas  Oldham 
Barlow  is  the  one  by  Sir  J.  E.  Millais,  E.A.,  exhibited  at  the  Royal 
Academy  in  1886  (Millais's  solitary  exhibit  that  year),  and  now  in 
the  possession  of  the  Corporation  of  Oldham,  a  most  fitting 
memorial  of  him  for  his  native  town  to  own  and  be  proud  of. 
Barlow  was  elected  an  R.A.  in  1888,  with  all  the  honours.  The 
writer  read  a  list  of  Barlow's  principal  works,  and  also  drew 
attention  to  the  admirable  proof  engraving  of  Millais's  portrait 
of  Tennyson,  a  specimen  of  Barlow's  handiwork,  which  he  had 
kindly  presented  to  the  Manchester  Literary  Club.  In  con- 
clusion, the  essayist  said :  I  trust  that  sooner  or  later  a  good 
representative  collection  of  Barlow's  engravings  will  be  placed 
in  the  permanent  galleries  of  the  Manchester  Corporation,  not 
only  to  do  honour  to  a  Lancashire  man,  but  as  a  tribute  to  the 
artistic  excellence  of  the  work  of  one  who,  although  not  the  first 
engraver  of  his  day  (being  second  only  to  William  Cousins),  will 
always  take  a  very  high  rank  amongst  English  engravers. 

In  illustration  of  his  paper  Mr.  Thornber  exhibited  several 
examples  of  Barlow's  work,  together  with  some  specimens  of  stipple 
and  mezzotint  engraving  of  the  last  century. 

Mr.  TALLENT-BATEMAN  exhibited  a  collection  of  aquatints, 
principally  by  William  Gilpin. 

Mr.  J.  H.  NODAL  suggested  that  a  full  evening  might  profitably 
be  spent  in  the  consideration  of  these  delightful  mezzotints  and 
aquatints.  He  urged  Mr.  Thornber  to  continue  his  valuable 
researches  into  the  lives  and  works  of  Lancashire  artists,  instancing 
the  late  Mr.  James  Stephenson  as  a  proper  subject.  The  publica- 
tion in  the  Club's  "  Papers  "  of  full  lists  of  the  works  of  Barlow 
and  other  local  engravers  would  be  an  important  and  valuable 
contribution  to  the  history  of  art. 

Mr.  C.  W.  SUTTON  laid  on  the  table  an  almanack  for  1827, 
printed  in  Carlsruhe,  measuring  only  three-quarters  of  an  inch  by 
half  an  inch,  one  of  the  smallest  books  in  the  world.  It  had  been 
handed  to  him  by  Mr.  Thornber  as  a  present  to  the  Free  Reference 
Library. 

MR.  J.  E.  PHYTHIAN  read  the  principal  paper  on  "  George  Sand." 


ANNUAL    MEETING. 

MONDAY,  MARCH  24,  1890. — Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  in  the  chair. 
Mr.  W.  R.  CRBDLAND,  the  honorary  secretary,  read  the  twenty- 
eighth  annual  report  of  the  Council. 


ANNUAL  MEETING.  447 

Mr.  CHARLES  W.  SUTTON,  treasurer,  submitted  his  financial  state- 
ment, which  showed  an  income  during  the  year  of  £193,  which 
included  the  balance  from  last  year,  and  an  expenditure  of 
£239  10s.,  against  which  there  were  good  outstanding  subscrip- 
tions to  the  amount  of  £67.  This  left  a  favourable  balance  of 
about  £21. 

The  PRESIDENT  moved  the  adoption  of  the  report  and  balance- 
sheet  He  said  the  financial  statement  was  not  all  that  could  be 
desired,  but  it  was  only  right  to  say  that  that  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  late  treasurer  (Mr.  J.  C.  Lockhart)  was  for  a  long  time 
before  he  died  seriously  ill,  and  Mr.  Sutton  had  not  had  time  to 
put  the  finances  in  that  condition  which  was  desired,  and  which 
no  doubt  would  be  achieved.  The  number  of  subscriptions  not 
yet  received  was  much  larger  than  it  ought  to  be,  but  Mr.  Sutton 
having  carefully  looked  over  them,  regarded  them  as  safe  to  a  great 
extent.  When  they  had  been  received  the  Club  would  be  placed 
in  a  sound  financial  position.  They  could  not  help  regretting  the 
very  heavy  loss  the  Club  had  sustained  during  the  past  year  in  the 
removal  by  death  of  a  large  number  of  their  fellow-members,  and 
especially  of  many  who  were  amongst  the  oldest  and  most  active 
in  the  Club.  On  the  other  hand,  they  had  to  congratulate  them- 
selves upon  the  great  activity  shown  by  the  new  and  the 
younger  members.  That  feature  had  struck  all  of  them  during 
the  past  session,  and  he  hoped  that  it  would  continue.  The 
older  members  must  necessarily  be  removed,  and  what  had  to  be 
looked  for  was  that  their  places  should  be  taken  by  younger  men. 
In  another  respect  the  past  session  had  been  eminently  satisfactory. 
He  had  been  a  member  of  the  Club  for  a  long  time,  and  he  must 
say  that  he  could  not  remember  any  session  of  the  Club  when  so 
many  papers  of  such  high  excellence  were  read  as  those  during  the 
paat  session.  That  was  a  point  upon  which  the  members  might 
congratulate  themselves,  as  it  proved  that  in  the  real  work  of  the 
Club  they  had  quite  maintained  the  position  that  was  expected  of 
them. 

Mr.  H.  H.  SALES  seconded  the  motion.  He  said  he  heartily 
endorsed  all  that  had  been  said  about  the  session  through  which 
they  had  just  passed.  One  thing  which  had  struck  him  and 
several  other  members  was  that  there  was  a  great  danger  of  the 
club  becoming  too  respectable ;  he  meant  that  it  might  become  too 
stiff  and  formal,  not  a  club  but  a  literary  society.  It  was  estab- 
lished as  a  literary  club,  and  the  president  had  often  from  the  chair 
stated  that  so  and  so  should  be  elected  members  because  they  were 
"clubbable"  men.  The  club  element  was  fast  dying  out,  and  that 
had  to  a  very  great  extent  affected  the  attendance  of  a  number  of 
members  who  were  losing  interest  in  the  Club.  The  question  for 
the  COMIM  il  t<>  consider  was  whether  the  high  literary  standard 
could  be  combined  with  the  social  element,  the  absence  of  which 
30 


448  ANNUAL  MEETING. 

resulted  in  a  number  of  the  members  not  knowing  some  of  their 
fellow-members.  He  had  spoken  to  several  of  the  members  on 
the  subject,  and  he  suggested  whether  it  would  not  be  possible  to 
introduce  a  feature  which  would  bring  all  of  them  closer  together. 
His  idea  was  that  in  the  middle  of  the  session  there  should  be  a 
house  supper,  or  more  than  one  in  the  session,  to  which  some 
guest  might  be  invited  on  condition  that  he  did  not  make  a  long 
speech.  A  literary  night  might  well  be  dispensed  with  in  favour 
of  a  social  gathering.  That,  he  believed,  would  retain  and  foster 
the  clubbable  element  amongst  them. 

The  PRESIDENT  said  so  far  as  the  views  of  the  Council  had  been 
ascertained  they  were  quite  in  accord  with  this  suggestion,  and  if 
anything  could*  be  done  to  increase  the  social  character  of  their 
meetings  they  should  be  glad  to  do  it. 

The  motion  as  to  the  adoption  of  the  report  and  balance  sheet 
was  passed. 

Mr.  JOHN  MORTIMER  then  took  the  chair,  and  moved  that  Mr. 
George  Milner  be  re-elected  president  for  the  ensuing  year.  All 
the  members  knew  how  ably  he  had  fulfilled  the  duties  of  President 
in  the  past,  and  how  sincerely  interested  he  was  in  the  Club,  which 
occupied  a  large  share  of  his  intellectual  life.  He  had  heard  him 
say  that  he  would  keep  to  the  Literary  Club  if  there  were  only 
half  a  dozen  members  in  it.  That  was  the  right  sort  of  spirit  to 
have,  and  if  it  were  carried  out  amongst  the  members,  the  future 
of  the  Club  would  be  bright  and  prosperous. 

Mr.  JOHN  PAGE  seconded  the  motion,  which  was  passed  unani- 
mously. 

Mr.  MILNER  thanked  the  members  for  this  renewed  mark  of  their 
confidence.  He  must  say  that  he  felt  that  a  heavy  responsibility 
rested  upon  his  shoulders  as  President  in  consequence  of  the 
changing  character  of  the  membership,  and  he  had  felt  acutely  the 
loss  not  only  of  those  who  were  devoted  to  the  welfare  of  the  Club, 
but  of  some  who  had  been  amongst  his  dearest  personal  friends. 
He  was  quite  willing  to  do  what  he  could  to  carry  forward  that 
which  was  very  dear  to  him,  he  meant  the  promotion  of  literary 
pursuits  in  Manchester. 

Mr.  J.  H.  Nodal,  as  an  ex-President  of  the  Club,  was  elected  a 
member  of  the  Council ;  and  the  following  gentlemen  were  elected 
Vice-Presidents  :  Messrs.  John  Mortimer,  John  Page,  W.  E.  A. 
Axon,  H.  H.  Howorth,  M.P.,  Robert  Langton,  Edwin  Waugh,  and 
Ben  Brierley.  Mr.  Charles  W.  Sutton,  was  elected  Treasurer ; 
Mr.  W.  R.  Credland,  Honorary  Secretary ;  Mr.  Harry  Thornber, 
Librarian ;  and  a  ballot  was  taken  in  respect  of  seven  other  mem- 
of  the  Council,  eleven  candidates  having  been  nominated.  The 
gentlemen  elected  were  Messrs.  Reginald  Barber,  John  Bradbury, 
J.  F.  L.  Crosland,  J.  T.  Foard,  W.  H.  Guest,  H.  H.  Sales,  and  C. 


CLOSING  CONVERSAZIONE.  449 

E.  Tyrer ;  the  new  members  of  the  Council  being  Messrs.  Barber 
and  Sales,  who  took  the  places  of  Messrs.  Ward  Keys  and  J.  B. 
Oldham. 

A  motion  was  moved,  "  That  it  is  immaterial  to  the  members  of 
this  Club  as  to  whether  the  weekly  meetings  be  held  on  Monday 
or  Tuesday."  There  voted  for  the  resolution  12,  against  it  14,  and 
the  motion  was  therefore  lost. 


THE   CLOSING   CONVERSAZIONE. 

MONDAY,  MARCH  31,  1890. — The  closing  conversazione  of  the 
Club  was  held  at  the  Grand  Hotel.  Mr.  GEORGE  MILNER  presided, 
and  there  was  a  large  gathering.  A  number  of  prints  and 
drawings  by  Rowlandsou  and  Caldecott,  from  the  collection  of  Mr. 
Harry  Thornber,  were  hung  on  the  walls,  and  a  special  selection 
of  aquatints  were  also  lent  and  described  by  Mr.  Tallent-Bateman. 
A  musical  programme,  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  J.  F.  L.  Crosland, 
was  carried  on  during  the  evening.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Murphy  and 
Mr.  Smith  rendered  a  number  of  duets  and  trios  on  the  mandolin, 
zither,  and  guitar ;  Mrs.  Norbury  recited  a  poem  entitled  "  Sue," 
written  by  Mr.  W.  I.  Wild;  Mr.  Montgomery  sang  two  of  his 
original  songs ;  Mr.  Murphy  sang  some  selections  from  Doris  and 
other  operas,  and  Percival  Graves's  song,  "  Father  O'Flynn ; "  and 
Mr.  Crosland  recited  "  The  Tapestry  Weavers."  A  cordial  vote  of 
thanks  was  given  to  the  entertainers. 

The  President,  in  addressing  the  members,  referred  in  terms  of 
satisfaction  to  the  excellence  of  the  session  just  closed,  as  regarded 
the  amount  of  the  work  done,  its  quality,  and  its  variety,  and  said 
he  was  glad  to  say  that  foreign  literature,  also,  had  not  been 
neglected.  Continuing,  he  said: — "Now  if  the  function  of  a 
literary  and  artistic  Club  be  to  study,  and  to  promote  the  study  of, 
literature  and  art,  then  this  Club  has  fulfilled  its  function.  Mr. 
Andrew  Lang,  in  a  recent  lecture,  speaks  of  'people  whose  chief  in- 
terest^ is  in  letters,  whose  chief  pleasure  is  in  study  or  composition, 
who  rejoice  in  a  fine  sentence  as  others  do  in  a  well-modelled  limb  or 
a  delicately  touched  landscape.'  These  are  the  people  who  naturally 
find  their  way  into  a  literary  club.  Of  course  the  amount  of 
interest  will  vary,  and  it  will  be  less  exclusive  in  some  than  in 
others.  It  is  not  desirable  that  it  should  be  too  exclusive,  for  lit'.- 
is  more  than  letters;  but  still  the  presence  of  this  feeling  for 
literature — the  sense  of  beauty  in  literature — is  surely  essential 
and  proper  to  membership  of  a  literary  club." 

Referring  to  the  publication  of  the  O'Couor  volume,  he  said  : — 
"I  should  be  very  glad  if  similar  honour  and  justice  could  be 
done  to  other  members  of  the  Club  who  have  passed  away, 
continued : — "  A  word  may  surely  here  be  permitted  about  the 


450  CLOSING  CONVERSAZIONE. 

proposed  New  Education  Code.  At  the  Joint  Conversazione, 
twelve  months  ago,  I  referred  to  this  subject,  and  said :  *  There 
was  a  growing  and  a  healthy  dissatisfaction  with  regard  to  our 
elementary  education,  and  a  demand  for  some  reform  in  a 
system  which  appeared  to  have  been  built  on  the  foundation 
of  endless  examinations,  grinding  for  passes,  and  the  reduction 
of  all  tests  to  money  payments  and  cash  value.'  That  reform 
seemed  to  be  now  within  reach.  The  New  Code,  if  it  can 
be  carried,  will  abolish  « payment  by  results.'  I  confess  I  heard! 
the  news  with  something  like  the  feeling  of  joy  which  might  b& 
expected  to  fill  one's  heart  if  one  heard  that  some  great  commu- 
nity of  slaves  had  been  emancipated.  Our  elementary  education 
has  been  a  deplorable  slavery  for  both  masters  and  pupils.  Let  us 
trust  that  there  will  now  be  an  end  of  education  by  machinery, 
and  that  the  days  of  the  pass-grinder  and  of  despicable  depen- 
dency upon  money  grants  as  a  result  are  over.  A  civilised 
and  an  educated  country  never  made  a  greater  mistake  than  did 
our  own  when  it  accepted  Robert  Lowe's  system  of  *  payment  by 
results.'  Of  all  persons  the  teacher  should  be  a  person  who  can  be 
trusted.  He  must  be  trusted  if  education  is  to  be  real  and  worthy 
of  the  name.  If  he  cannot  be  individually  trusted  let  him 
be  discarded.  We  shall  now  breathe  a  freer  air,  and  education  in 
its  proper  sense  will  have  a  chance.  Note  the  prominence  which 
is  to  be  given  to  recitation  of  poetry  from  Shakespeare,  Milton,  or 
some  other  standard  author.  Nothing  is  more  important  than 
this.  Edward  Thring  used  to  say  that  if  his  boys  could  learn 
nothing  else  at  Uppingham,  they  should  learn  to  read  aloud 
intelligently  and  clearly.  I  trust  the  members  of  this  Club  will 
give  their  support  to  the  principles  of  the  Code  while  it  is  under 
discussion." 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 


MR.    CHARLES    HARDWICK. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Charles  Hardwick  took  place  on  Monday, 
July  8th,  1889,  at  his  residence,  72,  Talbot  Street,  Moss  Side. 
Mr.  Hardwick  had  for  some  months  been  suffering  from  tumour  in 
the  throat  and  diabetes,  although  he  had  not  been  entirely  confined 
to  the  house.  He  was  72  years  of  age,  and  during  the  greater 
part  of  his  long  life  he  was  a  well-known  personage  not  only  in 
Lancashire  but  throughout  the  kingdom.  Locally  he  achieved 
some  reputation  as  a  painter  and  as  a  writer,  but  he  will  chiefly  be 
remembered  by  the  great  services  he  for  nearly  half  a  century 
rendered  to  the  cause  of  friendly  societies  in  general  and  to  the 
Oddfellows  Order  in  particular. 

Charles  Hardwick  was  born  at  Preston  on  September  10,  1817, 
his  father  being  an  innkeeper  of  that  town.  He  received  his 
education  at  private  schools,  and  supplemented  the  information  he 
thus  acquired  by  diligent  study  at  the  local  literary  institutions. 
At  the  age  of  14  he  was  apprenticed  to  the  printer  of  the 
Preston  Chronicle,  and  while  serving  his  time  he  continued  to  avail 
himself  of  all  opportunities  for  study,  notwithstanding  that  the 
death  of  his  father,  when  Charles  was  only  18  years  of  age,  and 
the  fact  that  his  mother  had  died  some  years  previously,  left  him 
t)ii>  head  of  a  large  family  with  responsibilities  that  must  at  his 
tige  have  demanded  much  of  his  time  and  thought  When  22 
years  of  age  he  married  Elizabeth  Addison,  of  Leyland.  She 
died  two  years  afterwards,  leaving  one  child,  a  girl.  Mr.  Hard- 
wick's  attention  was  first  directed  to  Oddfellowship  in  1841, 
when  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  Pleasant  Retreat  Lodge  in 
Preston.  For  four  years  he  took  little  part  or  interest  in  the 
affairs  of  the  Order,  but  in  1845  considerable  concern  was  felt  as 
to  the  financial  position  of  the  society,  and  a  proposition  was  made 
%\  it  h  a  view  to  placing  the  Unity  on  an  improved  basis.  Mr.  Hard- 
wick was  one  of  the  most  earnest  supporters  of  the  proposed 


452  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

reform,  and  by  his  advocacy  he  succeeded  iu  inducing  his  lodge  to 
adopt  it.     The  example  thus  set  was  largely  followed  by  other 
lodges,  and  a  reform  was  accomplished  which  saved  the  Order  from 
the  wreck  into  which  so  many  similar  institutions  had  drifted.    By 
his  action  in  this  matter  Mr.  Hardwick  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  prominent  members  of  the  Order,  and  he  was  speedily 
placed  in  office,  and  from  time  to  time  promoted.     In  December, 
1845,    he   was   unanimously   appointed    secretary   of    his   lodge. 
At  Christmas,  1848,  he  was  chosen  Deputy  Grand  Master  of  the 
district  by  a  large  majority,  and  in  the  following  year  he  was 
elected  Provincial  Grand  Master.     At  the  close  of  his  tenure  of 
office  a  complete  set  of  the  "  Penny  Cyclopaedia,"  bound  and  placed 
in  a  mahogany  bookcase,  bearing  an  inscription,  was  presented  to 
him;  and  his  own  lodge  also  marked  the  close  of    his  district 
services  by  presenting  to  him  the  thanks  of  its  members,  engrossed 
and  framed.     Mr.  Hardwick  was  chosen  in  1851  to  represent  his 
district  at  the  Dublin  A.M.C.,  and  in  the  succeeding  years  he  was 
sent  to  the  annual  gatherings  at  Carlisle,  Preston,  London,  Durham, 
and  Lincoln.     In  1856  he  was  appointed  Deputy  Grand  Master  of 
the  Manchester  Unity,  and  in  1857  he  received  the  highest  honour 
in  Odd  fellowship  which  it  was  in  the  power  of  the  assembled 
representatives  to  offer.     Being  still  dissatisfied  with  the  financial 
position  of  the  Order,  he  prepared  in  1850,  while  Grand  Master  of 
the  Preston  district,  an  elaborate  statement  of  the  assets  and 
liabilities  of   the  whole   district,    according   to   the   ages  of  the 
members.     This  report  was  extensively  circulated,  not  only  among 
the  lodges  specially  concerned,  but  throughout  the  whole  Unity. 
Mr.  Hardwick  continued  to  collect  information  on  the  subject,  and 
the  result  of  his  researches  was  given  to  the  public  in  a  lecture 
under  the  title  of  "  Friendly  Societies :  their  History,  Progress, 
Prospects,  and  Utility,"  which  he  delivered  to  the  members  of  the 
Preston  Institution  for  the  Diffusion  of  Knowledge  in  1851.     It 
was  delivered  also  in  the  Chorley,  Bolton,  South  London,  and  Man- 
chester districts.     It  was  then  published  as  a  pamphlet,  and  two 
large  editions  were  soon  sold,  and  subsequently  a  "people's  edition" 
was  quickly  disposed  of.     This  did  not  complete  Mr.  Hardwick's 
literary  labours  on  behalf  of  friendly  societies.     In  1859  he  pub- 
lished  a  work   entitled    "  Manual   for   Patrons  and  Members  of 
Friendly  Societies,"  which  had  a  ready  sale,  and  the  contents  of 
which  were  very  highly  spoken  of.     In  1862  he  became  the  editor 
of  the  Oddfellows'  Magazine,  and  frequently  contributed  articles  to 
its  pages.     He  also  wrote  an  important  paper  to  the  Royal  Com- 
mission on  Friendly  Societies,  he  being  too  unwell  to  attend  and 
give  evidence   before   that   body  as   requested.     The   paper  was 
printed  as  an  appendix  to  the  report  of  the  Commission. 

At   the   close   of    his   term   of   apprenticeship   Mr.    Hardwick 
abandoned  the  "  stick  and  the  frame,"  and  devoted  himself  assidu- 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  453 

ously  to  the  study  of  pictorial  art  as  a  profession,  he  having 
dabbled  in  the  business  while  still  a  printer.  In  pursuit  of  his 
studies,  in  1839  he  went  to  London  and  thence  to  Italy,  and  when 
he  returned  to  Preston  he  began  life  anew  as  a  portrait  painter 
and  a  teacher  of  drawing.  He  gave  a  very  interesting  sketch  ot 
his  life  as  an  art  student  in  London,  in  a  series  of  papers  he  read 
before  the  Manchester  Literary  Club,  in  1888. 

After  a  time,  Mr.  Hardwick  laid  down  the  brush  and  pencil  for 
the  pen,  and  proved  himself  a  prolific  writer.  For  several  years  he 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  Eliza  CooKs  Journal  for  which  he 
wrote  "  Harry  Hartley,"  a  story  intended  to  show  working-men  the 
advantages  of  belonging  to  a  friendly  society.  The  tale  afterwards 
appeared  in  the  Oddfellows'  Magazine  in  an  altered  form,  under 
the  title  of  "Mary  Hartley;  or,  the  Oddfellow's  Wife."  He  also 
contributed  to  Eliza  Cook's  Journal  papers  on  "  Burial  Clubs  and 
Child  Murder,"  his  purpose  being  to  show  the  fallacy  of  the  sup- 
position that  burial  clubs  caused  a  great  deal  of  infanticide.  One 
of  his  latest  contributions  to  this  paper  was  entitled  "  Lancashire 
Stump  Oratory  and  Reminiscences  of  the  Labour  Battle,"  which 
ran  over  eight  chapters.  In  1854,  he  wrote  a  series  of  papers  on 
friendly  societies  for  a  New  York  periodical,  called  the  Golden  Rule, 
and  for  a  London  paper  named  the  Empire,  Mr.  Hard  wick's 
literary  labours  were  not  confined  to  promulgation  of  the  advan- 
tages of  self-help ;  he  also  dealt  with  local  history.  He  was  the 
author  of  a  "History  of  Preston  and  Its  Environs"  (1859),  and 
"Traditions  and  Folk-lore  of  Lancashire"  (1872),  and  the  editor  of 
"Country  Words"  (1866).  Another  important  work  which  issued 
from  his  pen  was  "  The  Ancient  Battlefields  of  Lancashire  "  (1882), 
and  he  was  also  a  frequent  writer  in  the  periodical  press.  He  was 
one  of  the  six  founders  of  the  Manchester  Literary  Club,  which 
was  started  in  1862.  He  was  its  treasurer  from  its  commence- 
ment to  1872,  and  since  that  time  one  of  its  Vice-presidents. 
He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  St.  George  Literary  Club, 
Hulme,  and  of  the  Dramatic  Reform  Association,  He  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Lancashire  and  Cheshire  Historical  Society  since  1856, 
and  often  contributed  to  the  transactions.  He  was  also  a  member 
of  the  Manchester  Geological  Society  for  many  years.  In  Novem- 
ber, 1875,  at  a  banquet  given  him  by  his  fellow-townsmen  in  the 
Preston  Corn  Exchange,  he  was  presented  with  a  beautiful  time- 
pittt 


MR.   JOSEPH    CARTER    LOCKHART. 

Mr.  Joseph  Carter  Lockhart,  of  36,  Thomas  Street,  Cheetham 
Hill,  died  on  July  24th,  1889,  at  the  early  age  of  48.  Mr. 
Lockhart  had  been  ill  for  about  nine  months,  suffering  from 
cancer  in  the  bladder.  He  underwent  an  operation  in  October, 


454  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

1888,  and  although  he  did  not  pass  through  it  so  well  as 
could  have  been  desired,  his  death  was  unexpected.  Mr. 
Lockhart  was  chiefly  known  to  the  public  as  treasurer  of  the 
Manchester  Literary  Club,  which  position  he  had  held  for  some 
fourteen  years.  He  was  a  genial,  warm  hearted  man,  with  an 
infinite  fund  of  kindly  humour  at  his  command,  and  he  was 
greatly  respected  and  esteemed  by  all  who  were  brought  into 
contact  with  him.  The  members  of  the  Literary  Club  have  on 
two  occasions  shown  their  regard  for  him  in  a  marked  manner. 
At  the  Christmas  symposium,  held  in  December,  1887,  Mr. 
Reginald  Barber,  a  member,  presented  the  club  with  a  fine  portrait 
of  Mr.  Lockhart,  and  in  June,  1889,  in  anticipation  of  Mr. 
Lockhart  resigning  his  position  as  treasurer,  .he  became  the  recipient 
of  an  illuminated  and  framed  address,  and  a  purse  containing 
120  guineas.  His  resignation  was  accepted  by  the  Council  with 
the  most  sincere  regret.  Mr.  Lockhart's  contributions  to  the 
Club  were  usually  of  a  humorous  character,  and  he  obtained  some 
reputation  as  a  faithful  portrayer  of  Lancashire  Life.  "  The  Man 
with  the  Iron  Mask  "  is  perhaps  the  best  known  of  his  writings, 
and  this  he  occasionally  recited  at  the  social  meetings  of  the  Club. 
He  was  at  one  time  a  contributor  to  Ben  Brierletfs  Journal,  and 
he  often  wrote  in  Odds  and  Ends,  a  manuscript  magazine  cir- 
culated by  the  St.  Paul's  Literary  Society,  an  institution  with 
which  he  was  for  many  years  connected,  he  having  been  a  scholar 
at  the  Bennett  Street  School.  Mr.  Lockhart  was  related  by 
marriage  to  Mr.  George  Milner,  and  was  a  partner  in  the  firm  of 
G.  Milner  and  Co.  The  funeral  took  place  at  St.  Paul's,  Kersal. 


MB.    WILLIAM    WIPER. 

The  death  of  Mr.  William  Wiper  occurred  after  a  brief  illness  at 
his  residence  in  Higher  Broughton,  Manchester,  on  Thursday,  July  3rd, 
1889,  in  his  fifty-first  year.  Mr.  Wiper  was  second  son  of  the  late  Mr. 
John  Wiper,  of  Kendal.  He  served  his  apprenticeship  with  Messrs. 
Rhodes  and  Sons,  drapers,  of  that  town,  and  afterwards  spent  some 
years  of  his  business  life  in  Carlisle.  About  twenty-three  years 
ago  he  came  to  Manchester,  where  he  soon  afterwards  became 
cashier  with  the  firm  of  Messrs.  Heap  and  Harrison,  and  their 
successors,  Messrs.  Mack,  Hamilton,  and  Co.,  upholsterers.  With 
that  firm  he  remained  a  trusted  and  valued  servant  until  his 
death.  Mr.  Wiper  was  widely  read  in  the  history  of  his  beloved 
native  county,  and  he  contributed  some  excellent  memoirs  to  a 
series  of  "  Westmorland  Worthies,"  published  in  the  Westmorland 
Gazette,  a  few  years  ago.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Westmorland 
and  Cumberland  Archaeological  Society,  to  whose  transactions  he 
occasionally  contributed.  His  last  paper  on  the  Layburnes  of 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  455 

Cunswlck,  was  read  by  Mr.  Wiper  at  the  society's  meeting  at 
Kendal,  in  1888,  and  was  included  in  their  Transactions.  He 
always  delighted  in  visiting  Kendal,  which  he  stoutly  maintained 
to  be  to  him  the  fairest  spot  on  earth,  and  his  last  short  holiday 
was  spent  there.  His  remains  were  buried  in  the  valley  he  loved 
so  well. 


MR.    GEOROB   EVANS. 

A  group  of  sincere  mourners  gathered  in  the  Borough  Cemetery 
of  Salford  at  Weaste,  by  the  grave  side  of  the  late  Mr.  George 
Evans,  who  died  at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  fifty-four,  on 
Tuesday,  June  10th,  1890,  at  his  residence,  Mauldeth  Road, 
Withington.  The  announcement  of  his  death  came  with  a  shock 
to  his  numerous  friends,  though  he  had  been  suffering  more  or 
less  from  bronchitis  for  some  months.  His  ailment  developed  into 
pleurisy,  and  to  its  attack  he  ultimately  succumbed. 

Beginning  his  business  life  in  the  office  of  Messrs.  Sale, 
Worthington,  and  Shipman,  and  afterwards  practising  as  an 
accountant,  Mr.  Evans  was  appointed  secretary  of  the  Manchester 
Mechanics'  Institution  in  1872,  being  then  in  his  thirty -seventh 
year,  and  he  held  the  office  with  much  acceptance  till  the  for- 
mation of  the  Withington  Local  Board  in  1877,  when  he  was 
appointed  Clerk  out  of  eighty  candidates,  and  occupied  the  post 
until  the  time  of  his  death,  performing  the  duties  with  undeviating 
regularity,  and  securing  the  entire  confidence  of  the  members. 
Indeed  Alderman  Gaddum,  the  present  chairman  of  the  board,  in 
a  speech  during  the  County  Council  election,  incidentally  and  with 
pardonable  exaggeration,  described  Mr.  Evans  as  "  the  best  local 
board  clerk  in  England."  Meanwhile  he  had  become  widely  known 
as  an  elocutionist  of  great  ability,  and  his  services  were  in  request 
among  various  institutions  throughout  the  district,  and  for  chari- 
table objects,  when  they  were  given  gratuitously.  His  favourite 
author  for  the  purpose  of  his  recitals  was  Charles  Dickens,  and  his 
interpretations  of  the  "  Christmas  Carol "  and  "  Dr.  Marigold  " 
(delivered  entirely  from  memory)  were  perhaps  the  most  attractive 
pieces  in  his  repertory. 

Apart  from  his  official  duties  and  these  semi-professional  elocu- 
tionary engagements,  Mr.  Evans  was  pre-eminently  interested  in 
literature  and  art  He  was  a  member  of  the  Arts,  the  Brasenose, 
and  the  Literary  Clubs,  and  to  each  from  time  to  time  he  rendered 
active  service.  For  the  Brasenose  Club  he  was  mainly  instru- 
mental in  collecting  the  fide  exhibition  of  drawings  by  Randolph 
Caldecott  which  was  held  during  the  summer  of  last  year.  He  pre- 
pared the  admirable  catalogue  and  wrote  the  introductory  m< 
That  catalogue,  "  printed  for  private  circulation,"  illustrated  by  Mr. 


456  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

Henry  Watkinson,  and  containing  what  we  consider  to  be  the  most 
life-like  and  characteristic  portrait  of  the  artist,  is  to  this  day  one  of 
the  pleasautest  memorials  extant  of  Randolph  Caldecott.  During  the 
past  two  or  three  months  Mr.  Evans  has  been  quite  as  energetically 
and  successfully  engaged  in  a  similar  undertaking  for  the  same  club, 
the  artist  selected  for  illustration  on  this  occasion  being  Mr.  Fredk. 
J.  Shields.  A  fine  collection  is  the  result,  and  Mr.  Evans  was 
busy  with  his  self-imposed  duty  of  compiling  the  catalogue  and 
seeing  it  through  the  press  when  the  illness  overtook  him  which 
has  proved  fatal.  The  Arts  Club  witnessed,  we  believe,  Mr.  Evans's 
last  appearance  as  an  elocutionist.  He  was  present  at  the  annual 
Shaksperian  celebration  in  April  last,  and  gave  with  his  customary 
power  two  widely  contrasted  selections — the  banquet  scene  in 
Macbeth,  and  Sir  John  Falstaff's  account  of  the  robbery  at  Gadshill 
from  King  Henry  the  Fourth.  For  the  Literary  Club,  which  he 
joined  in  1877,  he  acted  as  honorary  secretary  for  nine  years, 
resigning  the  office  at  the  beginning  of  the  session  of  1886-7, 
when  he  was  presented  by  the  members  with  an  illuminated  address 
and  a  purse  of  gold  "  as  a  token  of  esteem  and  regard  for  his 
personal  character,  and  in  recognition  of  the  very  able  and 
courteous  manner  in  which  he  had  discharged  his  onerous  duties." 
Although  not  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  proceedings — his  only 
important  papers  being  one  "  In  Praise  of  Poetry,"  and  another 
on  "William  Barnes,  the  Devonshire  Poet" — he  was  invaluable  as 
an  organizer,  and  the  arrangements  of  the  excursions  and  con- 
versaziones were  left  almost  entirely  in  his  hands.  At  the  annual 
meeting  of  the  Club  in  April  last  he  was  elected  as  one  of  the 
vice-presidents. 

Mr.  Evans's  uncle,  George  Evans,  was  a  portrait  painter,  many 
years  resident  in  Manchester,  where  he  died  about  the  year  1879. 
From  early  association  with  him  the  nephew  seems  to  have  derived 
not  only  a  liking  for  things  artistic  but  a  fair  knowledge  of  drawing, 
and  the  sketches  in  black  and  white  which  he  occasionally  produced 
showed  a  good  deal  of  skill  and  an  eye  for  the  picturesque.  Some 
of  these  have  appeared  in  the  Literary  Club  volumes.  The  same 
artistic  bent,  along  with  his  sympathetic  spirit,  led  him  to  organise 
a  movement  for  the  purchase  of  the  drawings  by  John  Leech,  the 
famous  Punch  artist,  which  remained  in  the  possession  of  Leech's 
two  surviving  and  impoverished  sisters,  and  which  necessity  com- 
pelled them  to  offer  for  sale.  Mr.  Evans  succeeded  in  forming  an 
influential  committee,  and  raising  no  less  than  ,£500,  which  sum 
was  expended  in  the  purchase  of  150  of  Leech's  original  drawings 
for  the  Manchester  Corporation  Art  Gallery  and  fifty  for  the  Muni- 
cipal Art  Gallery  in  Nottingham  Castle.  He  had  been  engaged  for 
some  years  in  collecting  materials  for  a  Life  of  John  Leech,  but 
whether  he  had  begun  the  writing  of  the  biography  we  are  unable 
to  say.  Energetic  and  active  in  many  directions,  he  lived  a  full 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  457 

life,  and  has  left  behind  the  memory  of  a  useful   and  unsullied 
career. 

At  the  Salford  Borough  Cemetery  Mr.  Evans  is  laid  in  that 
portion  of  the  ground  set  apart  for  members  of  the  Church  of 
England.  A  few  paces  away,  near  the  footpath  which  encircles  the 
little  church  where  the  first  part  of  the  funeral  service  is  read, 
rests  Robert  B.  Brough,  poet  and  dramatist  A  tall  fir  tree  grows 
on  Mr.  Brough's  grave,  which  is  unmarked  by  inscription  or  stone 
of  any  kind.  The  mourners  at  the  funeral  included  Mrs.  Evans, 
the  widow,  Miss  Evans,  Miss  Hartley,  Miss  T.  Hartley,  Miss  B. 
Hartley,  and  Mr.  Brown.  The  Withington  Local  Board  were 
represented  by  Alderman  G.  H.  Gaddum,  the  chairman,  Dr.  Rains, 
Mr.  Jonathan  Street,  Mr.  John  Moore,  Mr.  Joseph  Jackson,  Mr. 
J.  W.  G.  Coombs,  members  of  the  board,  and  Dr.  Railton,  the 
medical  officer.  The  Manchester  Literary  Club  was  represented 
by  Messrs.  George  Milner  (president),  John  H.  Nodal  (ex- president), 
John  Bradbury,  Charles  W.  Sutton,  John  Page,  Thomas  Heighway, 
Ward  Heys,  Robert  Langton,  Joseph  C.  Lockhart,  Harry  Thornber, 
and  W.  R.  Credland,  honorary  secretary.  Messrs.  Nodal,  Bradbury, 
and  Thornber,  along  with  Mr.  Henry  F.  Warden,  also  represented 
the  Arts  Club.  Amongst  others  present  were  Messrs.  J.  J.  Alley, 
John  Lang,  William  Dinsmore,  Lachlan  M'Lachlau,  Henry 
Somerset,  James  Andrew,  Joseph  Swarbrick  (late  surveyor  to  the 
Withington  Local  Board),  A.  H.  Mountain  (Mr.  Swarbrick's 
successor),  A.  Roberts  (assistant  clerk  to  the  board),  J.  H.  Norris 
(rate  collector),  Henry  Townson  (outdoor  superintendent),  J.  T. 
Shawcross  (nuisance  inspector),  and  Joseph  Smith  (inspector  of 
hackney  coaches  and  lamps).  The  funeral  service  in  the  church 
and  at  the  grave-side  was  read  by  the  Rev.  Francis  H.  A.  Wright, 
B.A.,  vicar  of  St  Paul's,  Paddington,  near  Pendleton. 

To  the  Editor  of  tlie  Manchester  City  News. 

Sir, — The  City  News  of  Saturday  next,  I  feel  sure,  will  contain 
a  notice  of  the  late  George  Evans  of  Withington.  I  knew  his  fine 
spirit  dwelt  in  a  frail  tenement,  but  the  announcement  of  his 
death  comes  to  me  this -morning  with  a  saddening  effect.  The 
society  of  Withington  and  of  Manchester  has  less  of  intellect,  fine 
culture,  and  genuine  human  sympathy  in  it  to-day  than  it  had 
yesterday.  He  was  a  good  man,  and  amongst  the  best  of  friends 
those  who  have  such  can  have.  I  will  not  trespass  upon  your 
valuable  space.  For  the  sake  of  many  who  will  much  miss  him. 
what  should  bo  said  of  him,  you  will  say  much  better  than  I  can. 
By  your  permission,  this  humble  tribute  from  the  moorlands  to  his 
gentle  character  and  high  worth  may  have  a  place  at  the  conclusion, 
of  your  own  memorial  of  him.  MORGAN  BRI BULKY. 

Denshaw  House,  June  12,  1889. 

— From  the  Mancfoikr  City  Newt 


458  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

MR.    EDWIN   WAUGH. 

The  mortal  remains  of  the  kind-hearted  and  genial  writer 
Edwin  Waugh,  were  borne  to  their  resting  place,  on  Saturday, 
May  3rd,  1890,  and  the  impressive  scene  in  Kersal  Churchyard 
will  not  soon  be  forgotten  by  any  of  those  who  witnessed  or 
took  part  in  it.  The  bells  were  tolling  the  last  farewell  to  a  poet 
whose  songs  had  for  many  years  moved  the  soul  and  touched  the 
heart  of  countless  multitudes  of  the  people  of  his  native  county. 
The  afternoon  light  was  flushing  with  soft  colour  the  hillocks  and 
hollows  of  the  moor  over  which  he  had  loved  to  wander  ;  where  he 
was  wont  to  rest  and  look  longingly  towards  the  distant  hills  of  East 
Lancashire,  which  inspired  some  of  his  most  exquisite  fancies,  and 
under  whose  shadows  he  fixed  the  scenes  of  his  raciest  sketches. 
The  company  assembled  to  pay  the  last  honours  to  Edwin  Waugh 
included  many  of  his  oldest  friends,  those,  indeed,  whom  he  would 
have  wished  to  be  identified  with  such  a  demonstration  of  affec- 
tionate regard.  The  two  municipalities  and  the  leading  literary 
societies  of  the  city  were  worthily  represented.  There  were  some 
present  who  had  been  for  many  years  his  comrades  in  the  republic 
of  letters,  others  who  had  been  able  to  encourage  the  earliest  efforts 
of  his  muse — and  others  again  who  had  sustained  and  encouraged 
him,  as  he  always  gratefully  remembered,  in  seasons  of  trial  and 
depression — friends  who  knew  him  ere  the  "  forties  "  were  half 
numbered,  and  others  who,  less  acquainted  with  him  personally, 
were  not  less  willing  to  show  their  cordial  appreciation  of  his  con- 
spicuous merit  as  a  writer  j  and  common  sentiments  moved  the 
hearts  of  all  these  mourners,  of  the  friends  of  fifty  years  ago  and 
those  of  yesterday,  and  the  sharers  of  his  joys  and  mirthful  hours, 
of  those  who  had  listened  to  his  songs  from  his  own  lips,  or  had 
been  seen  with  him  for  a  brief  hour  on  the  mimic  stage,  and  of 
those  still  dearer  companions  who  shared  his  most  intimate 
thoughts.  One  and  all  lamented  the  loss  of  the  man,  and  recog- 
nised his  possession  of  the  gifts  of  true  poetry  and  genuine 
humour. 

The  last  resting  place  was  well  chosen.  Kersal  Moor  is  a  heath  that 
Edwin  Waugh  had  long  loved,  and  the  Kersal  Hotel  which  was  once 
known  as  the  Turf  Tavern  was  his  home  for  an  extended  period. 
In  the  same  cemetery,  not  far  from  the  spot  where  he  sleeps  his  last 
sleep,  are  the  graves  of  many  honoured  citizens,  with  some  of  whom 
he  was  associated  by  personal  or  political  relations.  The  massive 
block  of  granite  erected  to  the  memory  of  one  of  the  most  genial 
and  accomplished  of  men,  Dr.  Angus  Smith,  is  not  far  away.  Near 
the  wicket  gate  on  the  northern  side  of  the  graveyard,  is  a  conspicuous 
monument,  inscribed  with  the  names  of  William  Rawson,  sometime 
treasurer  of  the  Anti-Corn  Law  League,  and  of  his  son,  Henry 
Rawson,  whose  first  association  with  Waugh  dated  from  the  days  of 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  459 

the  Lancashire  Public  School  Association ;  and  hard  by  another 
stone  covers  the  remains  of  Waugh's  friend,  Henry  Barry  Peacock, 
whose  connection  with  the  Examiner  and  Times  as  critic  and  literary 
editor,  and  whose  efforts  to  provide  high-class  musical  and  dramatic 
entertainments  for  the  people  are  still  well  remembered.  But  in 
other  respects  the  place  was  appropriate.  Kersal  Moor  has  a  history 
of  its  own.  It  was  often  the  gathering  ground  of  the  multitude  in 
old  days  for  political  and  other  objects.  It  has  seen  more  than  one 
military  encampment ;  its  races  were  once  the  pride  of  the  county ; 
and  in  its  immediate  neighbourhood  there  are  still  traces  of  the 
manners  and  customs  and  speech  of  former  generations  of  the  old 
order,  which  Edwin  Waugh  described  with  such  tenderness,  such 
insight,  and  such  appreciative  humour. 

It  there  had  been  any  doubt  about  the  popularity  of  Waugh  as  a 
writer,  about  the  fact  that  by  his  lyrics  and  sketches  he  had  moved 
the  imagination  of  the  people  of  his  native  county,  the  many 
signs  of  interest  and  the  manifestations  of  sympathy  which  have 
been  noticed  since  his  death  would  have  removed  it  In  every 
town  and  village  of  North  and  South-East  Lancashire — we  might 
almost  say  of  the  whole  county — the  announcement  of  his  death 
called  forth  expressions  of  genuine  regret,  and  it  was  generally 
felt  that  we  had  lost  in  Edwin  Waugh  not  only  one  of  our  most 
popular  and  successful  authors,  but  in  many  respects  a  typical 
Lancashire  man.  And  there  is  some  slight  consolation  to  be 
derived  from  the  fact  that  even  in  these  stirring  times,  when  the 
minds  of  men  are  so  much  occupied  by  the  discussion  of  political 
and  social  questions,  when  material  interests  are  said  to  be  of 
greater  concern  than  ever  to  the  multitudes  of  our  towns,  there  is 
so  much  readiness  to  listen  to  such  quaint  and  homely  stories  as 
those  of  Edwin  Waugb,  and  to  such  touching  songs  as  he  has 
sung. 

In  speaking  of  Edwin  Waugh  as  a  typical  Lancashire  man  we 
refer  to  the  undoubted  fact  that  his  best  work  is  distinctly  and 
essentially  local  both  in  substance  and  form.  The  pathos  and 
humour  of  Besom  Ben,  and  of  his  best  lyrics,  would  doubtless  be  to 
some  extent  appreciated  by  any  one  to  whom  such  qualities  appeal 
in  any  degree ;  but  their  full  force  could  no  more  be  understood  by 
those  who  were  ignorant  of  the  diction  and  inflection  of  the  Lan- 
cashire dialect  than  the  poems  of  Bums  can  be  by  readers  wh« 
no  knowledge  of  the  Lowland  Scotch  language.  Edwin  Waugh 
was  a  Lancashire  poet  in  a  sense  that  Charles  Swain  was  not; 
there  was  nothing  local  in  the  language  of  Swain,  and  Waugh  was 
even  more  of  a  dialect  writer  than  was  Mr.  Barnes  ;  for  he,  with  all 
his  close  acquaintance  wit  1 1  tin-  Dorsetshire  speech  of  the  people, 
did  not  use  it  in  his  everyday  discourse.  But  the  earliest  language 
to  which  Edwin  Waugh  was  accustomed  was  the  rich  Lancashire 
dialect  which,  though  it  may  now  lack  some  of  its  pristine  force 


460  MEMQRIAL  NOTICES. 

and  expressiveness,  is  still  spoken  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Rochdale. 
You  could  not  talk  for  two  minutes  with  Waugh  without  discover- 
ing that  he  was  a  Lancashire  man,  and  those  who  were  familiar 
with  the  niceties  of  district  distinctions  had  no  difficulty  in  guessing 
the  particular  part  of  the  county  to  which  he  originally  belonged. 

We  do  not  forget  that  a  considerable  portion  of  the  published 
works  of  Edwin  Waugh  are  written  in  the  ordinary  language  of  an 
educated  Englishman,  and  some  of  these  are  very  good  of  their 
kind,  but  they  are  not  his  best  works.  And  when  the  remark  is 
made  that  his  best  monument  will  be  his  books,  it  will  be  more 
accurate  to  say  that  his  books  afford  material  for  a  monumental 
edition.  For  it  will  be  scarcely  denied  that  it  would  be  well 
for  the  future  fame  of  Waugh  if  a  judicious  selection  of  his 
best  works  were  made.  He  often  worked  under  pressure,  and 
he  freely  admitted  that  much  that  he  wrote  against  time  was 
very  unsatisfactory  to  himself.  His  genius  was  fettered,  his  muse 
was  even  dull,  when  he  wrote  under  compulsion,  when  he  knew 
that  a  certain  amount  of  "copy"  must  be  produced  on  a  given 
day.  The  brief  descriptions  of  his  native  moorlands,  written  under 
the  inspiration  of  deep  sympathy  with  nature,  are  worth  pages  of 
the  more  elaborate  descriptions,  of  the  stories  and  sketches,  that 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  manners  and  customs  and  people  of 
the  Lancashire  moors.  Compare,  for  example,  the  two  following 
sketches,  taken  almost  at  random.  The  first  is  a  characteristic 
East  Lancashire  scene  : — 

"  It  was  a  fine  autumn  day,  clear  and  cool.  Dead  leaves  were 
whirling  about  the  roadside.  I  toiled  slowly  up  the  hill  to  the 
famous  HornclifFe  Quarries,  where  the  sounds  of  picks,  chisels,  and 
gavelocks*  used  by  the  workmen  rose  strangely  clear  amidst  the 
surrounding  stillness.  From  the  quarries  I  got  up  by  an  old  pack- 
horse  road  to  a  commanding  elevation  at  the  top  of  the  moors. 
Here  I  sat  down  on  a  rude  block  of  mossy  stone  upon  a  bleak 
point  of  the  hills  overlooking  one  of  the  most  picturesque  parts  of 
the  Irwell  valley.  .  .  .  Lodges  of  water  and  beautiful  reaches 
of  the  winding  river  gleamed  in  the  evening  sun  among  green 
holms  and  patches  of  woodland,  far  down  the  vale;  and  mills, 
mansions,  farmsteads,  churches,  and  busy  hamlets  succeeded  each 
other  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  The  moorland  tops  and  slopes 
were  all  purpled  with  fading  heather,  save  here  and  there,  where  a 
well-defined  tract  of  green  showed  that  cultivation  had  worked  up 
a  little  plot  of  the  wilderness  into  pasture  land.  From  a  lofty 
perch  of  the  hills,  in  the  north-west,  the  sounds  of  Haslingden 
church  bells  came  sweetly  upon  the  ear,  swayed  to  and  fro  by  the 
unsettled  wind,  now  soft  and  low,  borne  away  by  the  breeze,  now 
full  and  clear,  sweeping  by  one  in  a  great  gust  of  melody,  and  dying 
out  upon  the  moorland  wilds  behind.  Up  from  the  valley  came 
drowsy  sounds  that  tell  of  the  wane  of  day.  ...  A  woman's 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  461 

voice  floated  up  from  the  pasture  of  an  old  farmhouse  calling  the 
cattle  home.  ...  I  could  hear  the  far-off  prattle  of  girls 
mingled  with  the  lazy  joltings  of  a  cart,  the  occasional  crack  of  a 
whip,  and  the  surly  call  of  a  driver  to  his  horses  on  the  high  road 
half  a  mile  below  me.  .  .  .  High  above  the  green  valley  011 
both  sides  the  moorland  stretched  away  in  billowy  wildernesses — 
dark,  bleak,  and  almost  soundless,  save  where  the  wind  rasped  his 
wild  anthem  upon  the  heathery  waste.  ...  It  was  a  striking 
scene,  and  it  was  an  impressive  hour.  The  bold,  round,  flat-topped 
height  of  Musbury  Tor  stood  gloomily  proud  on  the  opposite  side, 
girdled  off  from  the  rest  of  the  hills  by  a  green  vale." 

Every  one  who  knows  the  neighbourhood  will  acknowledge  the 
accuracy  of  the  description,  and  one  need  not  know  it  to  appreciate 
the  charm  of  the  picture.  But  the  following  quotation  from  an 
account  of  a  railway  journey  from  Manchester  to  Carlisle  is  less 
satisfactory : — 

"  We  pass  Eccles,  with  its  fine  old  church ;  we  pass  Worsley, 
with  the  halls  of  the  Earls  of  Ellesmere  on  the  green  hillside 
overlooking  the  southward  plain;  we  pass  Tyldesley,  with  its 
historic  memories  of  the  old  Tyldesleys  *  of  that  ilk,'  especially  Sir 
Thomas,  who  died  fighting  for  Charles  I.  (sic) ;  and  now  as  we  draw 
near  to  Wigan,  the  fine  old  church  is  in  full  view  at  the  head  of 
the  town.  Here  we  are  at  Wigan.  The  place  is  smokeless  to-day — 
comparatively  so — because  it  is  Sunday.  But  during  the  week  it 
is  a  scene  of  great  activity — a  great  and  growing  activity — both 
on  the  surface  and  deep  down  below  the  surface ;  for  the  land 
under  the  town  and  for  a  considerable  distance  around  is  all 
tunnelled  and  honeycombed  with  excavations  for  coals.  And  this 
reminds  me  that  about  twenty  years  ago  I  went  down  one  of 
Messrs.  Brancker's  pits  at  Orrell,  about  two  miles  from  this  town, 
the  workings  of  which  are  about  1,700ft.  deep,  where  I  got  a  piece 
of  cannel  coal,  which  I  now  possess  in  the  shape  of  a  large 
inkstan.l." 

Every  one  will  admit  that  the  author  was  more  at  home  in  his 
picture  of  the  evening  hour  on  the  lonely  hills  than  in  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  railway  journey.  Among  the  less-known  works  tluiv 
are,  however,  many  very  delightful  passages,  gems  of  description, 
and  not  a  few  exquisite  flights  of  fancy  ;  but  Edwin  Waugh  will 
probably  be  best  remembered  by  his  lyrics  and  humorous  sketches 
rse.  He  was  a  capital  story-teller,  indeed,  both  with  the  li\  in- 
voice and  by  the  pen ;  but  he  was  deficient  in  the  constructive 
faculty  necessary  for  the  carrying  out  of  an  elaborate  plot,  and 
though  Besom  Ben  is  the  hero  of  a  series  of  tales,  they  are  at  beet 
a  collection  of  delightfully  characteristic  sketches.  He  will,  of 
course,  be  the  subject  of  a  biography,  and  the  materials  for  the 
preparation  of  one  are  abundant.  He  has  himself  supplied  not  a 
few  of  them,  and  the  story  of  his  life  is  both  directly  and  indirectly 


462  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

told  in  several  of  his  works.  Among  his  friends  there  are  several 
who  knew  him  intimately,  to  whom  his  closest  thoughts  were 
revealed,  who  were  tender  to  his  failings  without  being  blind  to 
them,  and  who  knew  the  lights  and  shadows  of  his  character  to  an 
extent  only  possible  by  keen  observers  and  sympathetic  natures. 
It  would  perhaps  have  troubled  him  to  believe  that  in  the  places 
now  associated  with  his  name  he  would  ever  become  as  unknown  as 
he  found  Collier  to  be  when  he  made  a  pilgrimage  to  his  birthplace 
in  the  parish  of  Flixton  ;  but  it  is  safe  to  predict  that  the  memory 
of  Edwin  Waugh  will  be  kept  green  on  the  hillsides  of  his  native 
county  for  generations  to  come.  The  garlands  of  the  hearse  have 
already  begun  to  fade,  but  the  perfect  flower  of  his  poesy  will 
flourish ;  the  hand  can  no  longer  write,  and  the  lips  no  longer 
repeat ;  but  the  poet's  name  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity  and 
remembered  as  long  as  Lancashire  can  appreciate  humour  racy  of 
the  soil  and  songs  which  reveal  the  truth  and  tenderness  of  homely 
life.  Few  men  more  keenly  loved  the  hills  and  valleys  of  his  own 
district  than  Edwin  Waugh,  and  to  him  assuredly  may  be  applied 
the  beautiful  lines  written  of  another  moorland  poet — 

Touched  by  his  hand  the  wayside  weed 
Becomes  a  flower  ;  the  lowliest  seed 

Beside  the  stream 

Is  clothed  with  beauty  ;  gorse  and  grass 
And  heather  where  his  footsteps  pass 

The  brighter  seem. 

— From  the  Manchester  Weekly  Times. 


THE    LATE   MB.    EDWIN    WAUGH. 

The  body  of  Mr.  Edwin  Waugh  was  buried  on  Saturday,  May  3rd, 
with  every  demonstration  of  widespread  sympathy  and  respect. 
The  obsequies  were  attended  not  only  by  numerous  representatives 
of  literature,  art,  music,  the  law,  and  the  drama,  but  by  thousands 
of  persons  who  have  known  and  learned  to  love  the  poet  through 
his  works.  The  great  crowd  that  gathered  at  the  Exchange  Station 
to  receive  the  corpse  on  its  arrival  from  Liverpool  was  constantly 
augmented  as  it  made  its  way  to  Kersal,  and  at  the  churchyard 
there  it  was  joined  by  a  large  contingent  who  had  already  secured 
advantageous  positions  in  the  church  and  in  the  graveyard.  The 
funeral  was  indeed  a  public  tribute  to  the  popularity  'of  the 
deceased,  and  a  public  recognition  of  the  high  position  he  held  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people. 

The  body,  enclosed  in  a  coffin  of  polished  oak,  was  removed  from 
the  residence  of  the  deceased,  "  The  Hollins,"  New  Brighton,  at 
half-past  eleven  on  Saturday  morning.  Wreaths  from  Mr.  Samuel 
Pope,  Q.C.,  Dr.  Bride,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  H.  Johnson,  Mr.  J.  Bui- 
lough,  and  other  personal  friends,  covered  the  coffin.  The  body 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  463 

was  conveyed  to  Seacombe  in  a  hearse  with  glass  sides,  and  was 
accompanied  by  the  chief  mourners,  Mr.  Robert  Liddell,  Mr.  A. 
Tweedale,  and  Mr.  T.  Moorhouse.  From  Seacombe  boat  was  taken 
to  Liverpool,  and  the  mourners  and  their  charge  left  Lime  Street 
Station  by  the  two  o'clock  express  for  Manchester.  The  train 
was  some  ten  minutes  late  in  arriving  at  Manchester.  The  coffin, 
which  now  was  still  further  hidden  by  beautiful  floral  emblems  of 
love  and  respect,  sent  by  the  Arts  Club,  the  Brasenose  Club,  Mr. 
T.  W.  Gillibrani  Mr.  Joseph  Broome,  Mrs.  W.  A.  Turner,  Mrs.  W. 
Bleackley,  Mrs.  H.  M.  Richardson,  and  other  admirers,  was  placed 
upon  a  Darley  car,  drawn  by  four  splendid  horses,  and  a  procession 
was  formed.  First  marched  a  number  of  policemen,  then  came 
deputations  from  Lancashire  towns  on  foot  A  carriage  followed 
containing  the  Mayor  of  Manchester  (Mr.  Alderman  John  Mark) 
and  Mr.  Joseph  Broome.  After  this  came  the  funeral  car,  followed 
by  twenty  mourning  coaches  containing  members  of  deputations 
and  others.  By  each  side  of  the  Darley  car  walked  a  number  of 
Waugh's  special  friends,  each  carrying  a  wreath.  They  were 
Mr.  T.  R  Wilkinson,  Mr.  T.  W.  Gillibrand,  Mr.  George  Milner, 
Dr.  Buckley,  Mr.  Ben  Brierley,  Mr.  J.  H.  Nodal,  and  Mr. 
Alexander  Ireland.  Mr.  John  Bullough,  of  Accrington,  should 
have  formed  an  eighth,  but  he  was  unable  to  be  present. 
The  route  was  kept  by  a  large  number  of  policemen,  who  were  also 
present  in  considerable  force  in  the  churchyard,  but,  as  may  be 
supposed,  there  was  little  need  for  their  services.  A  thick  line  of 
people  congregated  on  each  side  of  Strangeways  and  Bury  New 
Road,  and  showed  the  usual  signs  of  respect  as  the  procession 
passed.  The  progress  made  was  very  slow,  for  the  road  for  almost 
the  whole  distance  from  Exchange  Station  to  St  Paul's,  Kersal,  is 
a  steep  uphill  gradient,  and  among  the  walking  deputations  were 
many  elderly  men,  to  whom  it  would  be  no  easy  task  to  cover 
between  two  and  three  miles  with  a  hot  sun  beating  down  upon 
them.  At  the  spot  where  the  Salford  boundary  crosses  Bury  New 
Road,  the  procession  was  joined  by  the  Mayor  of  Salford  (Mr.  R 
Robinson),  who  was  accompanied  by  Mr.  Alderman  J.  B.  McKerrow, 
Mr.  Alderman  Charles  Makinsou,  and  others,  and  these  gentlemen 
led  the  way  to  the  church.  On  arriving  at  St  Paul's,  an 
avenue  was  formed  by  the  deputations  from  the  yard  gate 
to  the  porch,  and  through  this  the  coffin  was  borne  shoulder 
high.  The  Rev.  Canon  Crane,  the  Rev.  Prebendary  Macdonald, 
and  the  choir  (who  specially  attended  from  the  Cathedral) 
met  the  coffin  at  the  porch  and  led  the  way  slowly  up  the 
aisle,  the  clergymen  reading  the  opening  sentences  of  the 
Burial  Service.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  high  trestles  in  tin- 
chancel,  and  while  the  mourners  were  taking  their  seats,  the 
Corporation  organist,  Mr.  .1  K  I'yne,  played  a  dirge.  The  whole 
church  was  pervaded  with  the  odour  of  the  flowers  forming  the 
31 


464  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

wreaths.  Every  seat  in  the  place  was  filled,  and  a  large  number 
of  persons  waited  in  the  churchyard  near  to  the  open  grave.  The 
service  was  choral,  and  included  Spohr's  "  Blessed  are  the  departed  " 
from  the  "  T^ast  Judgment,"  which  was  given  as  an  anthem.  Two 
hymns  were  sung  during  the  service,  the  first  beginning:  "Oh, 
God,  our  help  in  ages  past,"  and  the  second  being  the  equally  well- 
known  Easter  hymn,  "  Jesus  lives !  No  longer  now." 

The  Rev.  Canon  Crane,  before  the  final  hymn  was  sung, 
ascended  the  pulpit  and  delivered  a  short  address.  He  said  :  We 
have  met  on  this  bright  day  of  May  to  discharge  the  last  office  of 
love  and  mercy  to  Edwin  Waugh,  and  to  place  with  reverence  his 
body  in  the  grave.  In  the  presence  of  death  men  speak  in  whispers. 
Memories  of  the  past  appear  then  like  vivid  realities.  The  sound 
of  the  voice  now  silent  haunts  us  as  though  spoken  far  away,  yet 
clear.  The  pressure  of  the  hand  is  still  felt.  The  heart  can  speak 
when  living  lips  fail  to  express  its  emotions.  I  shall  best  consult 
your  wishes  on  this  occasion,  long  to  be  remembered  by  us  all,  if 
my  words  be  few,  truthful,  and  simple.  We  desire  to  utter  no 
laudation  of  such  a  man  as  Edwin  Waugh.  Thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  who  loved  him  are  with  us  in  spirit  to-day ;  they  are 
listening  to  the  blessed  words  of  hope  and  love  with  which  the 
Church  commits  the  bodies  of  her  children  to  the  dust.  Multi- 
tudes will  say  "  amen"  to  the  prayers  we  offer.  They  will  associate 
a  name  dear  to  them  with  the  hymn  that  tells  us  that  "  Jesus 
lives."  They,  with  us,  will  feel  that  their  own  sweet  singer  of 
Lancashire  is  deathless  by  the  power  of  his  Saviour ;  that  the  spirit 
that  breathes  in  all  the  songs  he  has  given  them  is  their  own  pre- 
cious possession.  While  he  lived  he  thought  of,  he  sang  for,  he 
loved  his  own  people.  He  spoke  to  them  in  their  native  tongue. 
He  knew  them  instinctively,  and  pictured  them  in  all  their  qualities 
(of  sterling  worth  as  in  their  foibles)  so  truthfully  and  with  such 
subtlety  that  they  opened  their  ears  to  listen  when  he  spoke,  and 
accepted  his  delineation  of  their  character  as  real.  What  a  ter- 
rible power  to  be  possessed  of — to  gain  the  attention  of  a  people  ! 
Terrible  in  its  responsibility,  I  mean ;  a  power  which,  if  abused, 
ultimately  recoils  on  the  possessor  and  his  memory — a  vengeance 
altogether  inadequate  to  the  evil  wrought  and  the  poison  spread. 
There  have  been  poets  and  writers  whose  pages  have  been  sullied 
by  morbid  views  of  life,  provoking  sickly,  unhealthy  thoughts, 
or  inspiring  unholy,  unmanly  living.  But  in  the  volumes  of 
this  man  there  is  nothing  to  cause  a  blush  or  to  suggest 
regret  or  encourage  falsehood.  Of  a  lowly  condition  in  the 
esteem  of  this  world,  he  was  of  a  race  that  with  proper 
pride  takes  its  position,  humble  though  it  be,  and  without  affecta- 
tion maintains  its  dignity.  As  a  man,  he  showed  in  all  the 
thoughts  he  expressed  that  his  fellows  in  all  their  trials,  their 
homely  joys,  their  pleasures,  can  be  happy  and  contented,  caring 
for  the  little  circumstances  of  life  that  mould  the  character  of  us 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.]  465 

all  so  strangely.  Shall  we  say  of  him  that  his  life  of  more  than 
seventy  years  has  been  spent  in  vain ;  that  the  dear  friends  who 
sympathised  with  him  in  his  terrible  sufferings  and  soothed  his  last 
days  can  look  upon  their  service  in  any  other  light  but  a  privilege? 
His  words  will  be  treasured  in  our  homes ;  they  will  be  handed 
down  to  the  generations  to  come.  He  has  left  to  Lancashire  a 
heritage  of  which  it  is  and  will  be  proud.  The  wild,  free,  breezy 
measures  of  this  moorland  poet  are  healthy,  bracing,  and  in- 
vigorating to  the  heart  The  tenderness  of  his  homely  pictures 
will  comfort  and  soothe  many  a  village  home.  The  lessons  taught 
in  his  own  way  will  sink  into  the  life  of  the  people,  and  will  bring 
forth  sound  fruit.  No ;  the  work  of  such  a  man  as  this  never 
dies.  It  is  with  such  stuff  that  the  fibre  of  a  people  is  strengthened. 
Of  sickly  sentiment  he  was  destitute.  As  a  strong  man  he  spoke 
to  a  strong  people,  but  to  a  people  who  can  feel,  and  feel  deeply ; 
and  because  he  sounded  the  very  depths  of  their  hearts,  because 
he,  like  his  immortal  predecessor,  Shakspere,  could  put  into 
language,  clear,  expressive,  simple,  and  familiar,  their  own 
thoughts  and  doings  and  aspirations — they  ail  felt  that  for 
that  they  loved  him — they  will  keep  him  ever  in  sweet  remem- 
brance. We  go  with  solemn  thoughts  to  his  graveside,  and  we 
reverently  lay  his  body  in  the  peaceful  churchyard.  Brave,  loving, 
simple  heart !  Who  will  not  be  grateful  for  the  treasures  Edwin 
Waugh  has  bequeathed  to  us  ?  There  will  be  yet,  and  for  long 
years  to  come,  many  a  tear  shed,  many  hearts  brightened,  many  a 
sorrow  soothed  by  the  songs  of  this  true  man,  whose  last  word 
has  been  spoken,  whose  harp  is  now  unstrung.  God  has  given  rest 
to  his  weary  body.  There  is  sure  and  certain  hope  through  the 
one  Saviour  of  us  all  of  his  blessed  resurrection.  Listen  for  a 
moment  while  I  repeat  to  you  some  of  this  man's  last  words,  which 
we  have  been  fortunate  to  hear.  They  are  characteristic — they 
\vill  find  a  response  in  every  heart — they  are  full  of  his  own 
pathos — they  seem  prophetic  as  well  as  supremely  poetic — votes  as 
he  was : — 

Ob,  the  wide,  wide  world,  it  is  lone  and  cold, 
When  our  darlings  are  laid  in  the  silent  mould  ; 
And  the  poor  old  wanderer  may  pine  for  rest, 
But  the  great,  good  God  knows  his  own  time  beat 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  service  in  the  church,  as  the  congrega- 
tion filed  out,  Mr.  Pyne  played  the  "  Dead  March  "  from  "  SauL" 
The  grave,  which  is  on  that  side  of  the  churchyard  overlooking 
Agecroft  and  Kersal  Moor,  had  been  very  beautifully  prepared, 
the  sides  being  lined  with  moss,  from  which  jetted  great  white  lilies, 
roses,  pinks,  lilies  of  the  valley,  spircua,  and  sprigs  of  maid* 
fern.  Many  of  the  personal  friends  of  the  deceased  wore  in  their 
ii holes  slips  of  rosemary,  which  they  threw  into  the  grave  as 
the  concluding  sentences  of  the  burial  service  were  being 
pronounced. 


466  MEMORIAL   NOTICES. 

The  following  deputations  attended  : 

Manchester  Literary  Club  :  Mr.  George  Milner  (president),  Mr. 
W.  R.  Credland  (Hon.  Secretary),  Mr.  W.  H.  Guest,  Mr.  R.  W. 
Langton,  Mr.  John  Bradbury,  Mr.  C.  E.  Tyrer,  Mr.  John  Mortimer, 
Mr.  W.  H.  Darling,  Mr.  W.  Dinsmore. 

Manchester  Brasenose  Club :  Mr.  T.  W.  Gillibrand  (chairman), 
Mr.  Alfred  Darbishire,  Mr.  J.  R.  Newby,  Mr.  F.  R.  B.  Lindsell, 
Mr.  William  Grimshaw,  Mr.  James  Lamb,  Mr.  John  Angell,  Mr. 
Unger,  Mr.  Horkheimer,  Mr.  Harold  Agnew,  Mr.  W.  Lord,  Mr. 
George  Freemantle,  Dr.  Pankhurst,  Mr.  J.  A.  Scott,  Mr.  G.  B.  L. 
Woodburne,  Alderman  W.  H.  Bailey,  Mr.  R.  C.  Potter,  Mr.  Louis 
Calvert,  Mr.  E.  Salomons,  Mr.  H.  F.  Blair,  Mr.  F.  J.  Faraday,  Mr. 
Abel  Hey  wood,  jun.,  Mr.  A.  H.  Davies-Colley,  Mr.  William  Percy. 
Arts  Club :  Mr.  J.  H.  Nodal  (chairman),  Mr.  R.  E.  Johnson 
(secretary),  Mr.  James  Burgess,  Mr.  C.  E.  Rowley,  Mr.  William 
Dawes,  Mr.  J.  D.  Calder,  Mr.  Warwick  Brooks,  Mr.  R.  Dottie, 
Mr.  W.  Baldwin,  Mr.  Charles  Clegg,  Mr.  W.  Tomlinson,  Mr.  Ben 
Brierley,  Mr.  John  Harwood. 

Manchester  Gentleman's  Glee  Club  :  Mr.  R.  A.  Armitage. 
Lancashire    and    Cheshire    Antiquarian    Society :    Mr.    W.    D. 
Warburton,  Mr.  G.  C.  Yates,  Mr.  A.  Stansfield,  Mr.  Richard  Hooke, 
Mr.  C.  G.  Higginson. 

Manchester  Press  Club  :  Mr.  H.  S.  Green,  Mr.  H.  Flint,  Mr.  W. 
J.  Boyd,  Mr.  F.  W.  Spilling,  Mr.  R.  A.  Toleith. 
Order  of  Rechabites :  Mr.  Henry  Sharpies. 
Co-operative  Wholesale  Society  :  Mr.  Frank  Hollins,  Mr.  William 
Bates,  Mr.  J.  M.  Percival,  Mr.  Thomas  Broderick. 

Heaton  Chapel  Reform  Club :  Mr.  Alderman  Forrest,  Mr.  G.  H. 
Swindells. 

Stockport  Reform  Association  :  Mr.  John  Fielding. 
Manchester  Geographical  Society  :  Mr.  Eli  Sowerbutts. 
National  Reform  Union  :  Mr.  A.  G.  Symonds,  Mr.  A.  C.  Yates, 
Mr.  James  Ward. 

Among  others  present  were  the  Mayor  of  Manchester  (Mr. 
Alderman  Mark),  the  Mayor  of  Salford  (Mr.  B.  Robinson),  Sir  J.  J. 
Harwood,  Mr.  Henry  Dunckley,  Mr.  T.  R.  Wilkinson,  Mr.  Alderman 
Charles  Makinson,  Mr.  Alderman  J.  B.  M'Kerrow,  Mr.  Samuel 
Laycock,  Mr.  C.  W.  Sutton,  Mr.  E.  J.  Broadfield,  Mr.  George 
Broadfield,  Miss  Gertrude  Thomson,  Mr.  R.  Crozier,  Mr.  Adam 
Murray,  Mr.  John  Lang,  Mr.  W.  Rigby,  Mr.  M'Kay  (New  Brighton), 
Mr.  J.  T.  Foard,  Mr.  John  Dronsfield  (Oldham),  Dr.  S.  Buckley 
(Didsbury),  Mr.  J.  Widdup  (Rochdale  Pioneers'  Co-operative 
Society),  Mr.  John  Hardy,  Mr.  S.  Wrigley  (Oldham),  Mr.  I. 
Thompson,  Mr.  R.  Kenyon  (Oldham),  Mr.  Robert  Wilde  (Middle- 
ton),  Mr.  John  Stott,  Mr.  Walter  Stott,  Mr.  John  Cross  (Leigh), 
Mr.  Lachlan  M'Lachlan,  Mr.  Wm.  Greenough,  Mr.  C.  R.  Allen,  Mr. 
Geo.  Thompson,  Dr.  Bride,  Mr.  J.  B.  Greenwood,  Mr.  W.  L.  Hockin, 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  467 

Mr.  John  Hall,  Mr.  Price  Martin,  Mr.  W.  Johnson,  Mr.  W.  E.  A. 
Axon,  Mr.  F.  W.  Crosfield,  the  Rev.  F.  B.  Wright,  Mr.  G.  H.  Tar- 
buck,  the  Rev.  David  Round,  Mr.  Richard  Hankinson,  Mr.  John 
Lilly  (Brazilian  Consul),  Mr.  Thomas  Roberts,  Mr.  John  Bancroft, 
Mr.  John  Holding,  Mr.  J.  C.  Emerson,  Mr.  John  Evans,  Mr.  W. 
Hewitson,  Mr.  J.  Shuttleworth,  Mr.  J.  H.  Hague,  Mr.  Joseph 
Broome,  Mr.  James  Heyworth  (Town  Clerk,  Bacup),  Mr.  G.  L.  Baker 
(Liverpool),  Dr.  Ramsden,  Mr.  James  Dawson,  Mr.  Albert  Nichol- 
son, Mr.  J.  S.  R.  Phillips,  Mr.  Joshua  Hampson,  Mr.  Malcolm  Wood, 
Commander  Scott. 

The  police  arrangements  were  efficiently  carried  out  by  Mr.  W. 
F.  Smith,  deputy  chief  constable,  in  Manchester,  and  by  Mr. 
Superintendent  Donohoe  in  Salford.  Messrs.  Kendal,  Milne,  and 
Co.,  of  Deansgate,  had  the  conduct  of  the  funeral. 

Afterwards  a  large  number  of  persons  visited  the  grave,  which 
was  completely  covered  with  the  wreaths  that  had  been  placed  on 
the  coffin. — From  tJu  Manchester  Examiner  and  Times. 


EDWIN    WAUGH.       BY   GEORGE    MILNER. 

The  public  funeral  which  was  accorded  to  our  Lancashire  poet 
on  Saturday  must  have  been  especially  gratifying  to  his  large  and 
deeply-attached  circle  of  personal  friends,  as  well  as  to  all  those 
who  are  interested  in  the  literature  of  the  country.  The  great 
success  of  the  demonstration  was  hardly  anticipated.  "  We  must 
not  expect  a  large  gathering,"  it  was  said,  "  for  the  number  of  per- 
sons who  have  any  interest  in  poets,  and  particularly  in  provincial 
poets,  is  after  all  very  small"  But  apparently  there  were  more 
who  cared  about  our  dear  old  singer  than  we  thought  The  crowd 
was  large,  representative,  and  sympathetic,  both  at  the  station  and 
at  Kersal.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  Manchester  represented  in  its 
corporate  capacity  by  the  Mayor,  who  returned  specially  from 
Edinburgh  in  order  to  be  present  The  Mayor  of  Salford  also  joined 
the  procession.  The  surrounding  towns  sent  their  contingents — 
Rochdale,  Oldham,  Ashton,  Saddleworth.  The  workman  was  there 
conspicuously.  I  noticed  one  rough-looking  labourer  who  followed 
nil  the  way,  with  ;i  child  holding  by  either  hand.  Men  like  this 
felt  that  the  poet  was  one  of  their  own  class,  that  he  knew  their 
lives  from  \\ithm,  and  that,  inarticulate  themselves,  in  his  pages 
thm  sorrows,  their  simple  joys,  their  limited  aspirations  found  a 
voice. 

It  was  well  that  his  remains  were  brought  back  to  Manchester. 
His  wish  was  to  lie  at  last  among  us.  Though  the  sea-shore 
at  New  Brighton  added  much  happiness  to  his  later  years,  his 
thoughts  were  always  in  Manchester.  When  near  the  end,  and 
when  his  mind  began  to  wander  a  little,  he  said,  imperatively : 
11  Dress  me,  and  take  me  to  Manchester."  Alas !  he  was  destined 


468  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

to  come  no  more  except  in  his  last  robes.  No  better  resting-place 
could  have  been  found  for  him  than  Kersal.  He  lies  on  the  edge 
of  the  moorland.  The  sun  will  shine  freely  on  his  grave  and  the 
moorland  wind  will  blow  over  it :  and  that  is  well,  for  no  descrip- 
tion fits  him  better  than  that  of  "The  Moorland  Poet."  The 
service  in  the  church  was  impressively  rendered  by  Mr.  Pyne  and 
the  Cathedral  choir ;  and  Canon's  Crane's  address  struck  the  right 
note — it  was  that  of  a  man  speaking  to  men.  The  scene  at  the 
grave  side  was  very  impressive.  Many  a  veteran's  eyes  were  wet 
with  tears  as  the  solemn  words  of  sorrow — sorrow  not  without 
hope — were  tenderly  chanted  by  the  choir ;  and  when  all  was  over, 
and  we  had  cast  our  sprigs  of  rosemary  on  his  coffin,  with  the 
familiar  words,  "  That's  for  remembrance,"  we  turned  to  face  a 
world  which  seemed  colder  and  darker  for  the  loss  of  dear  Edwin 
Waugh. 

As  I  have  said,  he  was  essentially  a  moorland  poet.    The  follow- 
ing is  one  of  the  finest  verses  he  ever  wrote  : — 

Yon  moorland  hills  are  bloomin'  wild 

At  th'  endin'  o'  July ; 
Yon  woodlan'  cloofs  an'  valleys  green 

The  sweetest  under  th'  sky  ; 
Yon  dainty  rindles,  dancin'  deawn 

Fro'  th'  mountains  into  th'  plain  : 
As  soon  as  th'  new  moon  rises,  lads, 

I'm  off  to  th'  moors  again. 

And  this  was  a  theme  of  which  he  never  tired  either  in  prose  or 
verse.  The  love  of  the  moorland  was  in  his  blood,  and  very  curiously 
its  characteristics  were  reproduced  in  his  personality.  His  nature 
was  large  and  healthy,  broad  and  breezy,  robust  and  strong.  No 
man  had  less  of  the  morbid  and  puling  poet  about  him.  He  was 
fond  of  clothing  himself  in  honest  homespun  of  the  thickest  texture, 
and  of  wearing  huge  broad-soled  boots,  guiltless  of  polish.  It  was 
not  often  that  he  attempted  to  get  into  evening  dress,  and  when 
he  did  the  attempt  was  only  partially  successful  and  the  result 
ludicrous.  He  was  too  large  for  such  things,  and  always  looked  as 
if  his  next  breath  would  burst  his  sable  fetters.  It  used  to  be  said 
that  some  one  who  went  into  his  bedroom  one  morning  found  his 
tweed  suit  standing  up  on  end  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  without 
support;  and  I  have  heard  him  convulse  a  quiet  household  by 
giving,  in  a  vein  of  richest  humour,  elaborate  instructions  overnight 
to  the  maid  about  not  having  his  boots  spoiled  with  blacking. 
Like  Bamford,  he  had  the  ease  and  natural  manners  of  a  born 
gentleman — a  gentleman  of  the  older  sort — and  his  bearing  showed 
no  restraint  or  timidity  in  the  presence  of  persons  who  were  socially 
his  superiors. 

Some  years  ago,  while  his  voice  yet  remained  to  him,  he  was  a 
fine  reader  of  his  own  works.     He  never  dramatised,  but  his  into- 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  469 

nation  of  the  dialect  and  his  sympathy  with  the  character  he  was 
delineating  were  always  perfect.  Those  who  heard  him  sing  were 
fortunate  ;  he  had  a  good  ear  for  music  and  a  voice  which,  though 
not  strong,  was  sweet  and  which  warbled  like  a  bird.  I  feel  sure 
his  mother  must  have  sung  old  ballads  to  him  when  he  was  a 
child. 

However  fine  his  humour  was  as  shown  in  his  printed  works,  it 
was  nothing  to  his  power  as  a  story-teller  with  the  living  voice. 
I  have  never  known  his  superior  in  this,  when  the  fit  was  on  him 
and  the  surroundings  congenial.  He  would  take  a  slight  hint  or 
some  bald  anecdote,  and  work  upon  it  extemporaneously  by  the 
process  which  is  best  known  as  "  piling-on,"  and  yet  with  artistic 
suppression,  until  his  hearers  were  almost  suffocated  with  insup- 
portable laughter.  His  power  of  picturesque  phrasing  both  in 
conversation  and  with  his  pen  was  very  striking.  Curious  felicity 
of  expression  was  certainly  one  of  his  gifts.  He  could  always  hit 
the  right  word,  and  often  he  could  concentrate  a  page  into  a  single 
happy  sentence.  I  was  once  walking  with  him  and  other  friends 
on  the  slopes  of  Pendle,  and  coming  to  a  gate  which  must  be 
climbed  or  crept  through,  a  member  of  the  party  who  was  distin- 
guished for  his  knowledge  of  antiquities,  chose  to  draw  his  slender 
body  through  the  bars  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  mounting. 
While  the  feat  was  proceeding  Waugh,  standing  a  little  distance 
away,  struck  an  attitude,  and  spreading  out  his  large  hands,  as  his 
manner  was,  said  :  "  Look  at  him  !  look  at  him  !  By  the  mass,  he's 
like  an  antiquarian  ferret  wriggling  through  a  keyhole!" 

His  best  written  instance  of  what  I  have  called  "  piling-on,"  will 
be  found  in  "The  Lancashire  Volunteers."  His  best  piece  of 
rough  humour  is  "  The  Birtle  Carter's  Story  of  Owd  Bodle  ;"  but 
" Besom  Ben"  is  incomparably  his  finest  all-round  piece  of  prose. 
In  it  humour  and  pathos,  tenderness  and  rollicking  fun  alternate 
and  are  artistically  heightened  by  the  introduction,  as  a  back- 
ground, of  quiet  sketches  of  inanimate  nature  done  with  a  master 
:m«l  in  polished  English.  "Besom  Ben"  deserves  to  be  pub- 
lished with  illustrations  in  a  separate  volume.  All  his  early  poems 
are  good,  and  should  be  republished  with  a  selection  from  his  later 
work  in  rhyme.  Such  of  his  songs  as  have  been  set  to  music 
1  be  issued  separately  with  the  music.  His  best  work  of  all 
is  his  dialectal  verse.  There  are  two  reasons  for  this.  In  tho 
dialect  he  had  an  unerring  instinct,  \\  not  a  philologist 

like  Barnes,  he  was  to  the  manner  born  and  bred  ;  and,  secondly,  he 
had  a  real  gift  for  poetry.  "  Come  Whoam  to  thi  Childer  an'  Me," 
though  his  best-known  song,  and  deserving  its  popularity,  is  not 
his  best  lyric.  I  j.n-fer  "Jamie's  Frolic,"  "The  Dule's  i'  this 
Bonnet  o'  Mine,"  "  I've  Worn  my  bits  o'  Shoon  Away,"  "  Gentle 
Jone,"  "  God  Bless  thi  Silver  Yure,"  «•  Eawr  Folk,"  and,  lastly, 
"  Owd  Enoch."  I  venture  to  think  that  some  of  those  who  stood 


470  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

by  the  open  grave  on  Saturday  were  repeating  to  themselves  a  fine 
stanza  from  the  last-named  poem — 

An'  when  they  put  Enoch  to  bed  deawn  i'th'  greawnd 

A  rook  o'  poor  neighbours  stood  bare-yedded  reawnd  ; 

They  dropt  sprigs  o'  rosemary,  an'  this  wur  their  text : 

"  Th'  owd  crayter's  laid  by — we  may  haply  be  th'  next  ? " 


A   SPRIG    OF    ROSEMARY.       BY   JOHN    MORTIMER. 

Naught  for  the  poor  corpse  lying  here 

Remain  to-day  but  the  white  bier, 

But  burial  chant  and  bended  knee, 

But  sighs  and  tears  that  heaviest  be, 

But  rent  rose-flower  and  rosemary. — D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

In  one  of  his  sonnets  Keats  tells  how  in  the  spring-time  there 
comes  sometimes  a  day,  "  born  of  the  gentle  south,"  with  a  sky  of 
blue  and  "the  feel  of  May"  about  it — a  day  "when  calmest 
thoughts  come  round  us,  as  of  leaves  budding" — thoughts,  too, 
that  have  other  blendings,  such  as — 

The  gradual  sand  that  through  an  hourglass  runs, 
A  woodland  rivulet,  a  poet's  death. 

It  was  on  such  a  day  in  May  that  we  were  gathered  together  to 
take  part  in  a  poet's  funeral.  The  sweetest  of  all  the  Lancashire 
singers,  like  the  layrock  at  eventide,  had — 

Finished  his  wark  aboon, 
An'  laid  his  music  by, 

and  while  we  waited  for  the  flower-laden  coffin  to  be  placed  on  the 
funeral  car,  the  faithful  Felix  (Mr.  John  Page)  handed  us  each  a 
sprig  of  rosemary  to  bear  with  us  to  the  grave.  We  who  knew  this 
giver,  and  knew  how  much  he  loved  old  customs  and  old  friends, 
could  not  but  be  touched  by  the  tender  feeling  which  had  prompted 
the  revival  of  an  old-world  ceremonial.  The  poet  himself  had 
loved  such  quaint  observance;  indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
said  to  his  friend — 

If  there  be 

Any  so  kind  as  to  accompany 

My  body  to  the  earth,     .... 
....     Pray  thee  see  they  have 

A  sprig  of  rosemary    .... 

To  smell  at  as  they  walk  along  the  streets. 

11  Rosemary  for  remembrance ;"  how  did  it  come  to  have  that 
significance  1  What  subtle  influence  was  there  about  it  in  form  or 
fragrance  which  rendered  it  a  fitting  symbol  of  unforgetfulness  ? 
However  it  may  have  originated,  it  has  from  remote  times  been  a 
favourite  herb.  The  old  herbalists  said  it  had  power  to  comfort 
the  brain  and  strengthen  the  memory.  "  As  for  Rosemarine,"  says 
Sir  Thomas  More,  "  I  lett  it  run  alle  over  my  garden  walls,  not 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  471 

onlie  because  my  bees  love  it,  but  because  'tis  a  herb  sacred  to 
remembrance,  and  therefore  to  friendship,  whence  a  sprig  of  it 
hath  a  dumb  language  that  maketh  it  the  chosen  emblem  of  our 
funeral  wakes  and  in  our  buriall  grounds."  It  was  for  Edwin 
Waugh  we  were  to  bear  the  rosemary  that  day ;  so  one  took  the 
evergreen  spray,  and  found  in  its  aromatic  fragrance  a  thought- 
suggestive  odour  which  still  lives  within  the  sense  it  quickened. 

Rosemary  remembrances  are  not  necessarily  sad.  The  plant 
itself  is  not  altogether  funereal,  for  if  you  will  look  on  the  under- 
side of  the  dark-green  leaf  you  will  see  that  it  is  relieved  with  silver 
grey.  Rosemary  has  been  allied  in  its  ceremonial  uses  with  life 
and  joy,  with  love  and  death.  It  was  used  alike  at  marriage  feasts, 
at  merry  makings,  and  at  funerals.  The  bride  was  wreathed  with 
it,  sprigs  of  it  were  tied  about  her  silken  sleeves,  and  in  the  bridal 
procession  a  bunch  of  it  was  carried  before  her  in  a  fair  bride  cup. 
The  sprays  when  thus  used  were  dipped  in  scented  water,  and  their 
presence  in  the  ceremony  was  typical  of  that  remembrance  which 
the  bride  should  have  in  her  new  home  of  the  old  one  she  had 
left. 

The  sprig  of  rosemary  which  one  carries  to  the  grave  of  such  a 
poet  as  the  one  who  is  gone  has  a  peculiar  fragrance  of  its  own. 
Remembering  him  in  his  personality,  and  remembering  also  his  love 
of  nature,  one  is  reminded  of  those  lines  which  Wordsworth  penned 
for  a  poet's  grave — 

But  who  ia  he,  with  modest  looks, 

And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown  ? 
He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 

A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 

Of  hill  and  valley  he  has  viewed, 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 

Here  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 

Some  random  truth*  he  can  impart, 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  its  own  heart, 

This  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye,  it  should  be  remembered,  was  garnered 
for  humble  folk.  In  this  regard  Waugh  was  the  poor  man's  poet. 
Like  Wordsworth,  he  brought  poetry  into  the  huts  where  poor  men 
lie.  He  wrote  songs  for  them  in  their  own  folk  speech,  moved 
them  to  laughter  and  to  tears,  cheered  them  in  times  of  sorrow, 
and  showed  them  how  much  idyllic  beauty  could  be  found  in  the 
homely  incidents  of  their  obscure  and  apparently  commonplace 
lives.  What  echoes  of  these  songs  come  back  with  the  smell  of 
the  rosemary !  "  Come  Whoam  to  thi  Childer  an'  Me,"  "  God  bless 
them  Poor  Folk,"  "Tickle  Times,"  "Owd  Enoch,"  « Eawr  Folk," 
"I've  Worn  my  biU  o'  Shoon  Away,"  "Gentle  Jone;"  the  very 


472  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

titles  of  these  are  musical  to  the  Lancashire  ear  that  is  familiar  with 
the  burdens  of  them.  In  exquisite  prose,  too,  he  opened  the  dyes 
of  humble  folk  to  the  beauty  of  the  natural  world  that  lay  about 
them,  revealing  to  them  the  charms  of  their  moorlands,  cloughs,  and 
dells.  He  could  throw  around  a  cottage  garden  a  light  that  made  it 
lovely.  Take  that,  for  instance,  where  "  Besom  Ben  "  lived.  The 
aromatic  fragrance  of  the  rosemary  recalls  the  picture ;  all  round 
it  was  the  heathery  moorland,  and  the  heather  bloom  filled  the 
morning  air  with  sweetness.  Wild  birds  twittered  around  the 
cottage,  and  the  lark  was  singing  in  the  sky  above.  In  the  garden 
were  "  a  few  pet  flowers  and  aromatic  herbs  mingling  their  sweets 
with  the  'goodly  smells'  of  a  bush  of  sweetbriar  and  a  bed  of 
flowering  mignonette."  .  .  .  "  The  water  of  the  spring  in  front 
of  the  cottage  was  running  over  the  lip  of  a  green  dock  leaf  which 
Billy  had  placed  in  the  stone  spout  the  day  before.  The  slant 
sunshine  caught  the  pearly  rindle  as  it  fell  into  the  trough,  tinging 
it  with  rosy  beauty ;  and  golden  ripples  shimmered  on  the  surface 
of  the  well,  for  a  little  wind  had  got  up ;  and  all  the  dewdrops  on 
the  moorland  were  trembling  with  delight  in  morning's  sunny 
smile.  It  was  a  sweet  nook  of  solitary  life,  that  rough  cottage 
among  the  wild  heather,  and  the  fresh  elements  of  nature  played 
about  it  lovingly."  With  what  keen  pleasure  one  first  reads  these 
bits  of  descriptive  beauty,  interspersed  with  songs  and  interwoven 
with  his  humorous  stories  !  It  seems  as  if  the  poet  had — 

Laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool,  flowery  lap  of  earth  ; 
Smiles  broke  from  us,  and  we  had  ease, 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again. 

Another  rosemary  remembrance  remains.  It  is  of  one  of  those 
festivals  where  the  fragrant  herb,  in  song  at  least,  is  associated 
with  bays : — 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary, 

And  I  bid  you,  my  masters,  be  merry. 

That  was  the  carol  usually  sung  on  such  occasions.  With  the 
recollection  of  it  there  comes  a  vision  of  a  poet's  face,  lit  up  with 
twinkling  eyes,  seen  among  the  holly  and  the  lights,  and  one  hears 
him  crooning  in  his  own  melodious  way  such  songs  as  "The 
Grindlestone,"  "  Sweetheart  Yate,"  or  "  When  drowsy  daylight's 
drooping  e'e."  The  songs  remain,  but  the  voice  of  the  singer  is 
gone,  or  exists  only  as  a  lingering,  far-off  echo. 

Rosemary,  or  Rosmarinus,  the  plant  that  grows  by,  and  is 
nourished  with  the  dew  of,  the  sea.  This,  too,  has  its  own  thought- 
remembrance.  The  poet  who  was  born  among  the  moorlands,  and 
loved  them  always,  had  an  affection,  too,  for  the  sea,  and  ended 
his  days  on  that  Mersey  shore  where  he  could  watch  the  salt  sea- 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  473 

water  flowing  by.  The  lives  of  men,  poets  or  others,  are  as  streams 
that  flow  to  the  main.  The  tiny  moorland  rill,  by-and-by,  becomes 
a  river,  and  as  a  man  travels  with  the  stream  of  his  life  he  comes 
in  time  to  where  "  the  pale  waste  widens  around  him,  and  the  banks 
fade  dimmer  away."  Then,  "the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night 
wind  of  death 

Brings  up  the  stream 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  Infinite  Sea. 

A   PERSONAL   SKETCH. 

How  should  it  come  about  that,  in  thinking  over  long  years  of 
intimacy  with  Edwin  Waugh,  that  morning  on  the  moorland  de- 
scribed in  the  opening  of  the  story  of  "  Besom  Ben  "  should  persist 
in  thrusting  itself  on  one's  recollection,  and  will  not  be  denied  ? 
That  description  of  the  moorland  morning,  when  Besom  Ben  came 
out  of  his  cottage  to  souse  himself  at  the  fresh  stream  of  spring 
water,  and  then  trundled  himself  as  a  mop  to  get  dry  again,  taking 
in  the  heathery  air  and  spluttering  out  the  fresh  moisture  like  a 
human  "Newfoundland,"  can  scarcely  be  surpassed  by  any  de- 
scriptive writing  in  our  English  tongue.  Its  vividness  and  freshness, 
as  Waugh  used  to  read  it  to  us,  seemed  to  open  the  windows  of 
the  closest  lecture  or  the  most  perfumed  drawing  room,  and  to  take 
us  all  out  on  to  the  moorside  to  inhale  the  earliest  incense  of  the 
morning  steaming  up  from  Nature's  fragrant  altar. 

Now  that  description  in  "  Besom  Ben "  always  seemed  to  the 
present  writer  a  compendious  epitome  of  Waugh's  own  soul — as 
though  he  would  have  followed  a  fellow  poet  in  declaring  that  the 
turf  should  be  his  fragrant  shrine — 

My  temple,  Lord,  that  arch  of  Thine, 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  air, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayer  ! 

For  as  regards  the  glories  of  nature,  and  through  nature  up  to 
heights — for  the  scaling  of  which  the  soul  of  each  of  us  must 
measure  itself — our  dear  old  boy  had  the  soul  of  a  seer  ;  and  this 
attribute  came  out  very  strongly  sometimes  in  his  current  talk,  as 
if  he  would  have  shouted  out,  with  that  right  hand  of  his  uplifted, 
as  we  all  were  so  accustomed  to—"  How  beautiful  are  thy  taber- 
nacles, O  Lord  of  Hosts  !"  Those  of  us  (and  there  were  some  even 
to  the  end)  who  took,  as  it  were,  an  outside  tailors  measure  of 
Edwin  Waugh's  sentiments,  were  twisted  round  into  a  pregnant 
reverence  by  the  rapt  earnestness  of  the  man,  which  stille.l  tlu« 
gabble  of  miscellaneous  talk  all  about,  and  erected  a  still  pediment 
Moment's  mental  rest  Not  that  Edwin  Waugh  ever  posed  as 
a  talker  himself  or  an  abrupt  breaker  in  upon  the  talk  of  others. 
He  was  the  most  patient  of  listeners,  and  let  down  bores  with  t  In- 
easiest  of  slopes.  Perhaps  saying  "that's  a  good  'un,  that's  bonnie, 
begad,"  when  his  heart  was  far  from  it,  and  only  his  easy  good 
nature  would  be  laying  around. 


474  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

Earnest  whist  players,  men  of  science  in  that  stately  card  com- 
bination gave  themselves  up  at  first  start  to  a  sort  of  Domdaniel 
dance  when  our  Lancashire  humorist,  talking  in  that  low-toned 
snuffle  which  he  sometimes  affected,  trumped  his  partner's  trick, 
and  then  anathematised  himself  in  an  explanation,  which  caused 
the  common  room  of  the  Brasenose  to  ring  with  laughter. 

At  the  Brasenose  Club,  which  in  his  later  years  was  Waugh's 
favourite  haunt,  and  of  which  society  he  was  undoubtedly,  as  regards 
literary  reputation,  the  chief  corner  stone,  our  dear  old  friend  was 
also  unquestionably  the  most  popular  member.  To  strangers  he 
was  never  made  a  lion  of  by  his  fellow-members,  but,  as  becomes 
good  clubbable  behaviour,  went  in  with  the  ruck.  We  never  lionised 
him  as  "the  great  Edwin  Waugh,"  or  "our  Lancashire  humorist, 
my  dear  sir,  of  whom  you  may,"  &c.,  &c. !  but  rather  took  the  jets 
of  humour  or  quaint  description  or  bits  of  slapdash  Lancashire 
phrasing,  as  if  the  club  subsisted  on  good  things  of  the  sort,  at 
the  sound  of  which  the  greenest  of  the  junior  members  would  scorn 
to  turn  a  hair. 

In  our  club  talk,  whether  at  the  card  table,  at  which  the  old- 
fashioned  whist  player  could  have  dispensed  with  it,  or  in  casual  talk 
round  the  fire,  Waugh  never  forced  the  running.  Argufying  he  dis- 
liked very  much,  and  when  our  learned  and  dexterous  and  withal 
goodnatured  and  accomplished  LL.D.  brought  out  his  "Niagara" 
fire  engine  of  eloquence,  and  played  and  ricocheted  from  pillar  to 
post,  Waugh  would  sometimes  say,  "  The  doctor's  gradely  a-gate 
this  evening  ! "  and  then  up  would  go  that  gesture  of  the  extended 
right  hand,  and  the  sound  of  a  pinch  of  snuff  be  followed  by  the 
repetition,  "  The  doctor's  a-gate  for  sure ;  he  is,  by  gum  !  Garstang, 
a  cup  of  tea  ! " 

That  gesture  of  the  right  hand,  which  was  just  held  out 
slightly,  helped  the  deliberate  articulation  of  our  poet  very  much. 
It  was  precisely  the  only  action  which  John  Bright  permitted 
himself  in  speaking,  and  Waugh's  use  of  the  same  gesture  always 
reminded  one  of  his  great  neighbour.  But  Bright  in  ordinary  talk 
used  no  hand  action  at  all,  whereas  Waugh,  if  he  uttered  two 
sentences,  raised  his  hand  in  emphasis.  Both  these  distinguished 
Rochdalers,  so  different  in  many  particulars,  were  remarkably  alike 
in  this,  viz. :  that  the  one  in  private,  and  the  other  in  public,  were 
the  most  deliberate  speakers  to  whom  we  ever  listened,  and 
thereby  their  sayings  achieved  a  most  telling  momentum. 
Let  rapid  speakers  beware.  They  syringe  one's  ears  with  such 
a  force  that  half  the  charge  never  gets  inside  at  all. 

This  is  not  the  time,  nor  this  the  pen,  to  sum  up  the  Waugh 
writings,  or  to  attempt  to  assign  to  them  their  rightful  place  in  the 
literature  of  his  country.  To  the  dwellers  in  Lancashire,  York- 
shire, Cheshire,  and  Derbyshire,  they  will  possess  a  force  and  signi- 
ficance and  charm  which  it  would  be  idle  to  suppose  they  can  ever 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  475 

hold  amidst  more  distant  communities — more  distant  and,  conse- 
quently, unused  to  the  rougher  dialects  of  our  County  Palatine. 
Nevertheless,  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  assume  that  the  strong 
Doric — as  it  is  sometimes  called — of  these  parts  of  England  was 
the  sole  or  even  the  habitual  vehicle  of  the  thoughts  of  our  dear 
old  Edwin.  Any  reader  who  may  be  scared  by  the  strong  Doric, 
and  desire  a  diction  easier  of  digestion,  will  find  pieces  amidst  the 
Waugh  writings  both  of  prose  and  verse  which  in  pure,  delicious 
English,  shining  and  glancing  with  a  natural  polish,  may  take  rank 
with  the  choicest  wield  era  of  our  mother  tongue.  He  saw  with  his 
eyes  and  felt  in  his  soul  the  beauties  of  the  natural  world,  and 
tried  to  paint  them  in  appropriate  words — as  many  of  us  can 
testify,  with  marvellous  success.  Whether  he  were  stippling,  as  it 
were,  the  poor  surroundings  of  a  home  in  a  Lancashire  fold,  or 
taking  hold  with  a  wider  brush  of  the  sunshine  bath  or  the  rushing 
waters  in  a  moorland  ravine,  one  must  feel  that  this  workman 
enjoyed  his  work,  and  that  his  grip  thereof  would  catch  his 
readers  too.  Over  incidents  and  surroundings  which  to  a  stranger, 
unaccustomed  to  the  bye  ways  of  Lancashire  life,  might  sometimes 
be  deemed  uncouth,  and  certainly  un picturesque,  perhaps  even 
sometimes  repellent,  Waugh  possessed  the  faculty  of  throwing  a 
naturalness  which  helped  to  make  the  rough  places  smooth  and  to 
link  us  on,  for  instance,  to  Besom  Ben  or  Owd  Swaddle,  the 
immortal  manufacturer  of  "new  shoon,"  as  men  and  brethren. 
This  of  the  author.  Of  the  man,  the  friend,  the  large-hearted, 
wide-souled  companion  in  sunshine  and  in  shade — especially  the 
latter — who  shall  compute  the  aching  void  not  in  this  world  to  be 
filled  up? 

To  ike  Editor  of  the  Examiner  and  Times. 
,  —In  the  appreciative  biographical  notice  of  our  lamented 
friend,  Edwin  Waugh,  which  appeared  in  your  paper,  reference  was 
made  to  his  connection  with  my  father,  the  late  Henry  Barry  Peacock; 
and  it  occurs  to  me  that  some  further  details  of  this  business 
relationship  may  be  of  interest  to  your  readers.  It  is  a  matter  of 
notoriety  that  my  father,  in  association  with  his  son-in-law,  the 
late  Mr.  Henry  Rawson,  and  Mr.  George  Wilson,  for  many  years 
conducted  the  concerts  and  entertainments  at  the  Free-trade 
I  i;t  11.  Wanting  some  clerical  assistance,  my  father  offered  the 
post  to  Mr.  Waugh.  In  doing  so  he  was  prompted  by  a  desire  to 
place  his  young  friend  in  a  position  to  woo  his  muse  without 
realising— 

The  consummation  of  *11  e&rthly  ills 

The  butcher's,  baker's,  and  the  weekly  bilk. 

It  soon  became  evident,  however,  that  the  work  of  looking  after 
"  eawtlandish  player  folk "  was  far  from  congenial  to  the  moor- 


476  MEMORIAL  NOTICES. 

land  poet,  and  employer  and  employed  began  to  look  somewhat 
askance  at  each  other.  Each  felt  conscious  of  being  in  a  false  posi- 
tion, but  neither  liked  to  say  the  word  which  would  put  matters  to 
rights.  My  father,  to  whom  the  duty  really  belonged,  affectionate 
and  warm-hearted  always,  shrank  from  doing  anything  which  might 
be  construed  into  an  unkindness,  and  so  he  postponed  suggesting 
to  his  secretary  the  advisability  of  resigning  his  seals  of  office — in 
other  words,  giving  him  the  "  bullet."  At  length  my  father  sum- 
moned up  his  courage,  which,  Bob  Acres-like,  had  been  oozing  out 
of  his  finger  ends,  and  in  a  state  of  nervous  agitation  sent  forth  his 
fiat,  but  in  somewhat  apologetic  language.  A  look  of  intense  relief 
passed  over  Mr.  Waugh's  countenance.  "  My  dear  friend  Peacock," 
replied  the  poet,  "give  me  your  hand.  Don't  apologise.  You've 
taken  a  load  off  my  heart  that  has  been  completely  weighing  me 
down.  Once  again,  I'm  a  happy  man."  And  tears  rolled  down  the 
cheeks  of  the  two  men  as  they  grasped  each  other's  hands,  in  token 
of  a  perfect  reunion. — Yours,  etc.,  BEDDOES  PEACOCK. 


EDWIN    WAUGH. 
IN   MEMORIAM. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  time. 

Head  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  song  gushed  from  his  heart, 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start. 

— LONGFELLOW, 

Not  from  the  princely  palace, 
Not  from  the  baron's  hold, 
Where  the  maid  is  ever  lovely, 
And  the  "  gallant "  ever  bold. 

Not  from  the  depths  of  Hades, 

Not  from  Olympian  heights, 
Where  the  soul  is  sunk  in  sadness, 

Or  raised  to  ethereal  heights. 

Not  thence  came  the  song  of  the  singer, 
It  came  from  the  moorland  nigh, 

From  the  farmstead  and  the  cottage, 
From  the  hearth  we  were  seated  by. 

It  spoke  of  our  own  dear  country, 

And  little  it  cared  to  roam  ; 
Its  notes  were  the  magic  music 

Of  the  voice  that  sings  of  home. 


MEMORIAL  NOTICES.  477 

It  told  of  the  lifelong  struggles 

Of  thousands  who  wove  and  spun, 
And  wearily  toiled  in  shed  and  mill 

For  the  bread  so  hardly  won. 

Though  we  revel  and  reel  in  the  splendour 

Of  the  present  or  of  the  past, 
To  itself  and  its  close  surroundings 

Must  the  heart  come  home  at  last. 

And  this  was  the  truth  that  he  taught  us, 

In  his  tender  and  artless  lay, 
Culled  from  the  common  roadside, 

Inspired  by  the  passing  day. 

His  was  the  kindly  genius, 

The  censure  that  does  not  fret, 
The  satire  that  is  not  painful, 

The  wit  in  politeness  set 

He  has  gone  to  his  rest  in  the  springtime, 

When  the  singing  of  birds  has  come, 
And  the  tongue  that  echoed  their  music 

For  ever  on  earth  is  dumb. 

Through  hamlet  and  heath  and  meadow 

His  rambles  are  past  and  o'er, 
Yet  the  songs  of  "  The  Bard  of  the  Moorlands  " 

Are  with  us  for  evermore. 

ARTHUR  HILL. 
— From  the  Manchester  Weekly  Times  Supplement 


List  of  Members. 


ABBOTT,  T.  C.,  East  Legh,  Queen's  Road,  Altrincham. 

ABERCROMBIE,  William,  Mansfield  Chambers,  St.  Ann's  Square. 

ACTON,  H.  M.,  B.A.,  21,  South  Hill  Park,  Hampstead, 

ADSHBAD.  Joseph,  Peel  Moat,  Heatou  Chapel. 

ALLBN,  Alfred,  c/o  W.  H.  Smith  and  Son,  Blackfriars- street. 

ALLEN,  F.  Howard,  79,  King-street,  Manchester. 

AITOREW,  James,  Woodlea,  Wellington  Road,  Alexandra  Park,  Manchester. 

ANGELL,  John,  F.C.S.,  Ducie  Grove,  Oxford  Road,  Manchester. 

ARNOLD,  Clarence,  7,  St.  Ann's  Square,  Manchester. 

ARNOLD,  W.  T.,  75,  Nelson-street,  Oxford  Road,  Manchester. 

ATTKINS,  Edgar,  67,  Camp-street,  Lower  Broughton. 

AXON,  William  E.  A.,  The  Armytage,  Ashley  Road,  Bowdon. 

BACKHOUSE,  Thomas  J.,  York  Cliff,  Langho,  near  Blackburn. 

BAGOT,  Richard,  Bridge-street,  Manchester. 

BAILEY,  William  Henry,  Summerfield  House,  Eccles  New  Road,  Eocles. 

BANNISTER,  John,  44,  Broadway,  Salford. 

BARBER,  Reginald,  7,  Lome  Terrace,  Fallowfield. 

BARLOW,  Samuel,  J.P.,  Stake  Hill,  Chadderton. 

BATESON,  Harold  D.,  Longworth,  Woolton,  near  Liverpool. 

BAUGH,  Jos.,  Edendale,  Whalley  Range. 

BECKETT,  Thomas,  Whitefield,  near  Manchester. 

BEHRENS,  Gustav,  36,  Princess-street,  Manchester. 

BELLHOUSE,  James,  38,  Walnut-street,  Cheetham. 

BENNETT,  Robert  J.,  17,  Cooper-street,  Manchester. 

BENNIE,  Andrew,  District  Bank,  Manchester. 

BERRY,  James,  153,  Moss  Lane  East,  Moss  Side. 

BLACKLEY,  Charles  H.,  M.D.,  Arnside,  Stretford  Road,  Old  Trafford. 

BLACKLOCK,  Christopher,  2,  St.  James's  Square. 

BODDINGTON,  Hemry,  Pownall  Hall,  Wilmslow. 


MEMBERS.  479 

BOWRINO,  George,  M.D.,  324,  Oxford-street 

BRADBURY,  John,  F.R.S.L.,  Stamford  New  Road,  Altrincham. 

BRADLEY,  Francis  E.,  LL.B.,  2,  St  James's- square. 

BRAUNE,  Adolf,  8,  Dude-street,  Greenheys. 

BRIKRLBY,  Benjamin,  The  Poplars,  Church  Lane,  Harpurhey. 

BRIKRLKY,  James,  Fairfield. 

BROOKES,  Warwick,  350,  Oxford-street,  Chorlton-on-Medlock. 

BDCKLAND,  J.  D.,  Free  Library,  Stockport 

BURTON,  John  Henry,  Warrenlea,  Ashton-under-Lyne. 

BUTTBRWORTH,  J.  H.,  B.A.,  Glebe  Mills,  Hollinwood. 

BUXTON,  J.  H.,0uardian  Office,  Manchester. 

CADMAN,  Rev.  W.  G.,  Church  Lane,  Harpurhey. 

CALLISON,  R  D.,  Town  Hall,  Manchester. 

CHADWICK,  Robert,  39,  Withington  Road,  Brooks's  Bar,  Manchester. 

CHATWOOD,  Samuel,  11,  Cross-street. 

CHRISTIE,  Richard  Copley,  M.A.,  Chancellor  of  the  Diocese  of  Manchester, 

The  Elms,  Roehampton,  S.W. 
CHRYBTAL,  R  S.,  11,  Market-street,  Manchester. 
CLARK,  J.  H.,  F.RG.S.,  Temple  Lodge,  Cheetham. 
CLOUOH,  William,  Manchester  and  Sal  ford  Bank,  Manchester. 
COBLXY,  T.  R,  Brook  Villas,  Church  Lane,  Harpurhey. 
COCKS,  John,  Stockport  Road,  Bredbury. 
COLLINS,  James,  King-street,  Manchester. 
COTTRBLL,  William  F.,  207,  Eccles  New  Road,  Salford. 
CRKDLAND,  William  Robert,  Free  Library,  King-street,  Manchester. 
CaorroN,  Henry  T.,  86,  Brazennose-street,  Manchester. 
CROSLAND,  J.  F.  L.,  Mem.  Inst.  M.E.,  67,  King-street,  Manchester. 

DABUNO,  William  H.,  F.C.S.,  126,  Oxford  Road,  Manchester. 

DAVIKS-COLLEY,  Alfred  Hugh,  60,  King-street,  Manchester. 

DAWKS,  William,  2,  Cooper-street,  Manchester. 

DBAN,  W.  H.,  29,  Princess-street,  Manchester. 

DERBY,  Thomas,  64a,  Swan-street. 

DINSUORK,  William,  16,  Chestnut-street,  Hightowu. 

Dixox,  John,  Gilda  Brook,  Eccles. 

EASTWOOD,  John  Adam,  Ash  field,  Peel' Moat  Road,  Heaton  Moor,  Stockport 

EDMKBTON,  Alfred,  224,  Lower  Broughton  Road. 

EDMONDS,  Daniel,  7,  Studley  Terrace,  Moss  Lane  East. 

EMRYB-JONBS,  A.,  M.D.,  10,  St.  John-street,  Manchester. 

ESTOOURT,   Charles,  F.C.S.,  F.I.C.,  St  Andrew's  Chambers,  Albert  Square 

Manchester. 
EYANB,  Rev.  W.,  Queen's  Road,  Oldham. 

POARD,  Jas.  T.,  Victoria  Park. 

Fox,  William  J.,  36,  BUhop-street,  MOM  Side. 

GANNON,  Henry,  Barlow  Moor  Road,  Didsbury. 

GILL,  Richard,  Examiner  Office,  7,  Pall  Mall,  Manchester. 

GILUBRAND,  Thomas  Walton,  Holly  Bank,  Bow  don. 

GILLOW,  Joseph,  Woodlands,  Bowdon. 

GOODACRB,  J.  A.,  7,  Nicholas  Croft,  Manchester. 

QOUOH,  Thomas,  GrenviUe-street,  Stockport. 

GRADWKLL,  Samuel,  Holme*  Chapel,  ChesUire. 

32 


480  MEMBERS. 

GRANTHAM,  John,  Rothsay  Place,  Old  Trafford. 
GRAY,  George  William,  Fern  Bank,  Plymouth  Grove. 
GUEST,  VV.  H.,  Arlington  Place,  Oxford-street,  Manchester. 

HADFIELD,  Edward,  Harrol  Terrace,  Manchester  Road,  Swiiiton. 

HALL,  John,  Chorley  Road,  Bolton. 

HALL,  Joseph,  M.A.,  Hulme  Grammar  School,  Alexandra  Park. 

HALL,  Oscar  S.,  Derby  House,  Bury. 

HARDY,  James  Richard,  390,  Oldham  Road,  Manchester. 

HARVEY,  William,  Nantwich. 

HEALBY,  George,  F.R.M.S.,  Brantfield,  Bowness. 

HEIGH  WAY,  George,  Rose  Hill,  Millgate  Lane,  Didsbury. 

HBIQHWAY,  Thomas,  Beechmount,  Marple,  Cheshire. 

HEYWOOD,  Abel,  jun.,  Oldbam-street,  Manchester. 

HILLS,  A.  E.,  10,  Belgrave  Crescent,  Eccles. 

HINDLK,  Edward  Bruce,  4,  Spring  Gardens,  Stockport. 

HOLLINS,  J.  G.,  4,  Slade  Lane,  Longsight. 

HOOKB,  Richard,  M.A.A.,  Kersal  Dale,  Higher  Broughton,  Manchester. 

HOPWOOD,  W.  F.,  Stalybridge. 

HOBSFALL,  T.  C.,  J.P.,  Swanscoe  Park,  Macclesfield. 

HOWORTH,  Henry  H.,  M.P.,  F.S.A.,  Bentcliff,  Eccles. 

HUGHES,  Walter,  B.Al,  Cheetwood  House,  Cheetwood,  Manchester. 

HUGHKS,  T.  Cann,  M.A.,  Town  Hall,  Manchester. 

INGLEBY,  Joseph,  Ingleside,  Marple  Bridge. 
IRELAND,  Alexander,  31,  Mauldeth  Road,  Fallowfield. 

JONES,  William,  Consolidated  Bank,  King  Street. 
KAY,  Thomas,  Moorfield,  Stockport. 

LAMBERT,  James  J.,  20,  Cross-street,  Manchester. 

LANQTON,  Robert,  Albert  Chambers,  Corporation-street,  Manchester. 

LAW,  Edwin,  10,  Shakespeare  Crescent,  Patricroft. 

LAYCOCK,  Samuel,  48,  Foxhall  Road,  Blackpool. 

LKDWAKD,  H.  D.,  South  Bank,  Rose  Hill,  Bowdon. 

LEKS,  Edmund,  119,  Talbot-street,  Moss  S>'de. 

LEGGK,  Alfred  Owen,  Levenshulme-street,  Gorton. 

LINGS,  Thomas,  Beech  House,  Northenden. 

LITHGOW,  R.   A.  Douglas,   M.D.,  27a,  Lowndes-street,   Belgrave  Square, 

London,  S.W. 
LONODEN,  A.  W.,  Lin  wood,  Marple. 

MANDLEY,  James  George,  23,  Wellington-street,  Higher  Broughton,  Manchester 

M'CLRLLAND,  Thomas. 

MELLOR,  Zachary,  Town  Clerk,  Rochdale. 

MERCKR,  Edmoud,  34,  Brazennose-street. 

MILNER,  George,  J.P.,  59a,  Mosley- street,  Manchester. 

MINTON,  E.  E.,  District  Bank,  Bury. 

MONKHODSB,  A.  N.,  Knutsford. 

MORTIMER,  John,  96,  Lloyd-street,  Greenheys. 

Moss,  James,  24,  Duchy-street,  Seedley. 

MUNS,  W.  W.,  42,  Johnson-street,  Cheetham. 

MURPHY,  William  H.,  18,  Lime  Grove,  Oxford  Road. 

MURRAY,  Solomon,  Hampden  Levenshuline. 


MEMBERS.  481 

NBWBIOOINO,  Thomas,  Emberton  Lodge,  Ecclea,  Manchester. 
NBWTON,  Richard,  24,  York  Place,  Oxford-street,  Chorlton-on-Medlock. 
NICHOLSON,  Albert,  62,  Fountain-street,  Manchester. 
NODAL,  John  H..  The  Orange,  Heaton  Moor,  near  Stockport 
NORBDRT,  Jonathan,  The  Firs,  Bowdon. 
NUTTER,  Henry,  Burnley. 

OKRLL,  Peter,  78,  Churchgate,  Stockport 

OLDHAM,  J.  B.,  B  A.,  Wbeatfield  House,  Heaton  Norris,  Stockport. 

OLIVKK,  James,  J.P.,  Parkfield,  Higher  Crumpsall,  Manchester. 

FACET,  O.  F.,  Chorlton  Road,  Manchester. 

PAOB,  John,  Markets  Office,  Town  Hall,  Manchester. 

PARKINSON,  Richard,  White  House,  Barr  Hill,  154,  Bolton  Roa  1,  Peudleton. 

PBARSON,  George,  Southside,  Wilmslow,  near  Manchester. 

PEEL,  Robert,  Fulshaw  House,  Wilmslow. 

PBRCT,  William,  M  on  ton-street,  Oreeuheys. 

PERKINS,  Qeorge,  21,  Kennedy -street,  Manchester. 

PBTTT,  Alfred  M.,  29,  Brown-street,  Manchester. 

PHILLIPS,  J.  S.  R.,  2,  Belumnt,  Higher  Broughton. 

PHTTHIAN,  J.  Erne«t,  27,  Brazennose-street,  Manchester. 

PICKELLS,  W.  E.,  Melbourne,  Australia. 

POTTER,  Charles,  Llanbedr  Lodge,  Con  way. 

PROVIS,  Charles  William,  Chapel  Walks,  Manchester. 

RAUBDKN,  William  F.,  M.D.,  Dobcross,  Saddleworth. 

RBDPERN,  B.  A.,  4,  Lever-street,  Piccadilly,  Manchester. 

ROBINSON,  William,  26,  King-street. 

Ross,  R.  M.,  6,  South-street,  Manchester. 

ROWCLIFFE,  W.  E.,  Queen's  Chambers,  John  Dalton-ntreet. 

ROTLE,  William  A.,  17,  Cooper-street,  Manchester. 

SAGAR,  Benjamin,  Willow  Bank,  Helton  Moor. 

SALES,  H.  fl.,  68,  Greame-street,  Whalley  Range. 

SOOTT,  John,  M.A.,  M.S.,  249,  Upper  Brook-street,  Chorlton-on-Medlock. 

SCOTT,  Fred,  44,  John  Dal  ton-street. 

SHAW,  J.  B.,  Holly  Bank,  Chester  Road. 

SHKFFIKLD,  Qeorge,  Douglas,  Isle  of  Man. 

SHEPHERD,  Thos.,  Waverley  Hotel,  Ecclea  New  Road. 

SHIELDS,  Frederick  J.,  A.S.P.W.,  7,  Lodge  Place,  St  John's  Wood,  Lend  .n. 

SIMPSON,  Edwin  O.,  Rose  Hill,  Didsbury. 

SINCLAIR,  Dr.  Wm.  J.,  268,  Oxford  Road,  Manchester. 

SLATTBR,  Henry,  J.P.,  69,  Ducie  Orove,  Chorlton-on-Medlock. 

SOMERSET,  Henry,  61,  Portland-street 

SOUTHERN,  James  W.,  J.P.,  Burnagc  Lodge,  Buruage  Lan*,  Levenshulroe. 

SOWBRBUTTS,  Eli,  Cheetwood,  Manchester. 

STANBKIELD.  Abraham,  Kersal  Moor,  Manchester. 

STERUNO,  Wm.,  Platt  Lane,  Ruahnlme. 

STRVKNS,  Marshall,  Ship  Canal  Office,  Dean^gate. 

STOTT,  Charles  H.,  17,  St  Ann's  Square,  Manchester. 

SUTTON,  Charle.  W.,  Free  Library,  King-stfeet  Manoherter. 

TALBOT,  Edward,  B.A.,  19,  Woodland-  Road,  Cbeethatn 
TALLEXT-BATBMAN,  Charlee  T.,  64,  Crow-street 
TATLOB,  Alex.,  18,  St  Mary's  Place,  Bury. 


482  MEMBERS. 

TAYLOR,  John  Ellor,  F.L.S.,  F.G.S.,  Museum,  Ipswich. 

THOMPSON,  Jas.,  junior,  Mitton  Bank,  Mitton,  Blackburn. 

THOMPSON,  C.  H.,  20,  Brazennose-street. 

THORNBBR,  H.,  Broad  Road,  Sale. 

THORP,  Samuel,  The  Cottage,  Rainow,  Macclesfield. 

THORP,  Wm.,  Moaton  Lane,  Blackley. 

TOMLINSON,  Walter,  21,  Alexandra  Grove,  Plymouth  Grove. 

TYRKR,  Cuthbert  Evan,  B.A.,  Manchester  and  Salford  Bank,  Mosley-street. 

UDALL,  R.  J.,  2,  Lower  Mosley-street. 

VEBVERS,  Harrison,  M.  Inst.  C.E.,  The  Lakes,  Dukinfield. 

WADB,  Richard,  23a,  George-street,  Manchester. 

WAINWRIQHT,  Joel,  Finch  wood,  Compstall,  near  Stockport. 

WAKEFIELD,  Samuel,  Marsland-street,  Stockport. 

WALKER,  John,  Chamber  Hall,  Bury. 

WALKER,  Samuel,  Grange  Vale  Mill,  Oldham. 

WARBURTON,  Samuel,  10,  Wilton  Polygon,  Cheetham  Hill,  Crumpsall. 

WARDEN,  Henry,  Brighton  Grove,  Rusholme. 

WATKINSON,  Henry,  John  Dal  ton-street,  Manchester. 

WHILET,  Henry,  Town  Hall,  Manchester. 

WILD,  W.  I.,  30,  Market  Place,  Stockport. 

WILKINSON,  T.  R.,  The  Polygon,  Ardwick. 


List  of  Members. 

SHOWING     THE     YEAR     OF     ELECTION. 


1881—  John  Page.  Old  Trafford. 

„      Benjamin  Brierley,  Harpurhey. 
186S-S-T.  J.  Backhouse,  Blackburn. 
„     Charles  Potter,  Conway. 

0«o.  Healey,  Bownem,  Windcrmere. 
William  Percy,  Manchester. 
1866-Zachary  Mellor,  Rochdale. 
1867—  W.  F.  Kamaden,  M.D.,  Saddlewortli. 
1868-Harrison  Veevera,  Dukinfield. 

„      T.  Newbigjjing,  Ecclea. 
18W-J.  H.  Nodal,  Beaton  Moor. 
1873-John  Mortimer.  Manchester. 

UeorgeMilner,  Morton. 
1878-  Samuel  Qrad  well,  Manchester. 
1874-James  W.  Southern.  Lerenahulme. 

W.  K.  A.  Axon,  Manchester. 
„      Walter  Tomlinion,  Manchester. 
,,     James  Brierley,  Droylsden. 
„     John  Adam  Eastwood.  Manchester. 

Richard  Newton.  Moston. 
„      KU  Sowerbutts,  Manchester. 
„     James  Collins,  Manchester. 
„     Samuel  Warburton,  Crumpnall. 
1875—  Albert  Nicholson,  Manchester. 
„     Charles  W.  Button,  Manchester. 
..      Alfred  Alien,  Manchester. 
..      Beniamin  A.  Rcdfern,  Manchester. 

Abel  Heywood,  jun.,  Manchester. 
,.     James  Richard  Hard/,  Manchester. 
„     Henry  Watkinson,  Manchester. 
Henry  Thos  Croftnn,  Manchester. 
.  -- 


1876—  Warwick  Brookes,  Manchester. 
,.     William  Henry  Bailey,  Salford. 

HmrTlL  Howortb,  F.H.A.,    M.P., 

„     John  H.  Burt 

8.R, 
„     WtllUm  Jones,  Salford. 

!!     Alfred  Owen  * 
1877-Hmry  Nutter.  Bar 
..     John  Halt,  Bottom 
.,     John  Angell,  F.C.8.,  Manchester. 
John  Cock*,  Bradbury. 


1877— William  Dawes,  Manchester. 
,.     R.  M.  Ross,  Hulme. 

"ter. 

„      T.  Read  Wilkinson,  Maml 
,,      Wm.  Abercrombie.  Manchester. 
,,      Solomon  Murray,  Leveiishulme. 
„      Henry  Gannon,  Didsbury. 
«,     Thomas  C.  Horsfall,  Alderlcy  Edge. 
,     J.  F.  L.  Crosland,  M.  Inst.  M.E., 

Th.'.  {h. mi. 

1878-Christopher  Blacklock,  Hulme. 
„     William  H.  Darling,  Manchester. 
„      F.  Howard  Allen,  Manchester. 
„     Joseph  Gillow,  Bowdon. 
„     R.  Copley  Christie,  M.  A.,  Manchester 

Walter  Hughes,  B.  A.   Manchester. 
'„     Edwin  IAW.  Salford. 
,      J,  H.  Buxtou,  Manchester. 
..     Richard  Bapot,  Manchester. 
1879— R.  A.   Douglas- Lithgow,  M.D., 

London. 

,,     James  George  Mandley,  Salford. 
„      James  Andrew,  Manelu  - 
1880 — Thomas  Heigh  way,  Manchester. 
„     James  Oliver.  Manchester. 
Alfred  M   Petty,  Manchester, 
raham  Stansfield.  KemU  Moor. 

on  A   Koyle,  Manchester. 
„      Robert  J.  Bennett,  Manchester. 

A.  H.  lUvlM-CoUey,  Manchester. 
,     John  Bradbury,  F.R.8.L., 

M.nu-h,  st.-r. 
II.  D.  Ledward,  Manchester. 


..     Thomas  Kay.  Stock  port, 

MO-  ll.-nry  NV.i.il,.,,.   M.ml.-M.T 

„     T.  R.  Cobley,  Manchester. 

„     W.  H.  Dean,  Manchester. 

PickolU,  A 

„      C.  E.Tyrcr.  B.A..  Man,-h« 
,     John  Grantham.  Manchester. 
,.     Alexander  Ireland,  Man«h«ster. 
,     James  John  Lambert, 
,      T.  W.  Ollltbrand.  Mam 

loy,  M.D..  Mai 


484 


MEMBERS. 


1881— Edgar  Attkins,  Manchester. 
,,     George  Pearson,  Wilmslow. 
1882— Edward  Bruce  Hindle,  Stockport. 
,,     J.  A.  Goodftcre,  Manchester. 
„      Henry  Whiley,  Manchester. 
1883— William  F.  Cottrell,  Salford. 
,,      Wm.  Robert  Credland,  Manchester. 
„      Chas.  T.  Talleut-Bateman, 

Manchester. 

„      George  Heighway,  Manchester. 
Wm.  J.  Sinclair,  M.A.,  M.D., 

Manchester. 

W.  W.  Mnnn,  Cheetham. 
„      Charles  Estcourt,   F.C.S.,   F.I.C., 

Manchester. 

„      W.  I.  Wild,  Stockport. 
„      W.  T.  Arnold,  M.A.,  Manchester. 
.      John  Bannister,  Pendleton. 

Richard  Hooke,  M.A.A.,  Manchester. 
1884— J  .hn  Scott,  M.A.,  M.B.,  Manchester. 
,,      F.  E.  Bradley,  LL.B.,  Hulme. 
„      Alfred  Edmeston,  Lower  Broughton. 
,,      James  Bellhouse,  Cheetham. 
„      Thos.  M'Clelland,  Eccles. 
„      Joel  Wainwright,  Compstall. 
„      Reginald  Barber,  Fallowfield. 
„      J.  B.  Oldham,  B.A.,  Heaton  Norris. 
„      Clarence  Arnold,  Manchester. 
,,      Adolf  Braune,  Greenheys. 
1885— J.  D.  Buckland,  Stockport. 
,,      H.  Thornber,  Sale. 
,,      Andrew  Bennie,  Manchester. 
„      Charles  Wm.  Provis,  Manchester. 

Henry  Boddington,  Wilmslow. 
„      J.  H.  Clark,  F.R.G.S., Cheetham. 
,      James  Moss,  Salford. 

Edward  Talbot,  B.  A.,  Cheetham  Hill 
„      H.  M.  Acton,  B.A.,  London. 
,,      Samuel  Barlow,  J.P.,  Chadderton. 
,,      George  Bowringf,  M.D.,  Manchester. 
,,     Joseph  Hall,  M.A.,  HI  an  Chester. 
„      Frederick  Scott,  Manchester. 
1886— Geo.  Wm.  Gray,  Manchester. 

Rev.  W.  G.  Cadman,  Harpurhey. 

Henry  Slatter,  J.P.,  Manchester. 

J.  G.  Hollins,  Longsight. 

Joseph  Ingleby,  Marple  Bridge 

William  Dinsmore,  Manchester. 

Samuel  Walker,  Oldham. 

J.  Ernest  Phythian.  Manchester. 

Wm.  Clough,  Manchester. 

T.  C.  Abbott,  Altrincham. 

A.  Emrys- Jones,  M.D.,  Manchester. 


1836— H.  H.  Sales,  Whalley  Range. 
1887— Edward  Hadfield,  Swinton. 
,,      George  Perkins,  Manchester. 
,,      Benjamin  Sagar,  Heaton  Moor. 
,,      Edwin  G.  Simpson,  Manchester. 
,,      Henry  Somerset,  Manchester. 
,,      W.  F.  Hop  wood,  Staly  bridge. 
,,      John  Dixon,  Eccles. 
,,     James  Berry,  Moss  Lane  East. 
„      Marshall  Stevens,  Manchester. 
,,      Wm.  J.  Fox,  Moss  side. 
„      Samuel  Wakefield,  Stockport. 
„      Sam.  Chatwood,  Manchester. 
,,      Thos.  Lings,  Northenden. 
„     Alex.  Taylor,  Bury. 
„     Jas.  Thomson,  jun.,  Mitton,  Black- 
burn. 

1888— Robert  Chad  wick,  Brooks's  Bar. 
,,     Daniel  Edmonds,  Moss  Lane. 

Jont.  Norbury,  Bowdon. 

Jas.  B.  Shaw,  Old  Trafford. 

Thos.  Derby,  Manchester. 

Jas.  T.  Foard,  Victoria  Park. 

Jos.  Baugh,  Whalley  Range. 

R.  8.  Chrystal,  Manchester. 

Rev.  Wm.  Evans,  Oldham. 

Thos.  Gough,  Stockport. 

T.  Cann  Hughes,  M.A.,  Manchester. 

A.  W.  Longden,  Stockport. 

E.  E.  Minton,  Bury. 

A.  N.  Monkhouse,  Knutsford. 

G.  F.  Pacey,  Manchester. 

Robert  Peel,  Wilmslow. 

W.  E.  Rowcliffe,  Manchester. 

Thos.  Shepherd,  Salford. 

Wm.  Sterling,  Rusholme. 

C.  H.  Thompson,  Manchester. 

Wm.  Thorp,  Blackley. 

John  Walker,  Bury. 
1889 — Edmond  Mercer,  Manchester 
,,      J.  H.  Butterworth,  B.A.,  Oldham. 
„     Joseph  Adshead,  Heaton  Chapel. 
„     A.  E.  Hills,  Eccles. 
„      C.  H.  Stott,  Manchester. 
1890— Harold  D.  Bateson,  Liverpool. 
„      Oscar  S.  Hall,  Bury. 
„     William  Harvey,  Nantwich. 
,,      Edmund  Lees,  Moss  Side. 
,,      William  H.  Murphy,  Oxford  Road. 
,,      Peter  Okell,  Stockport. 
,,      Samuel  Thorp,  Rainow. 
„      R.  D.  Callison,  Manchester. 


Ibonorars  /I&embers, 


1866— John  E.  Taylor,  F.L.S.,  Ipswich. 

,,      Samuel  Laycock,  Blackpool. 
1875 -Fred.  J.  Shields,  A.S.P.W.,  Londou. 


1882— George  Sheffield,  Douglas. 
1889— Benjamin  Brierley. 
1890— William  Percy. 


Rules. 

The  objects  of  the  Manchester  Literary  Club  are  : — 

1.  To  encourage  the  pursuit  of  Literature  and  Art;  t »  pro- 

mote research  in  the  several  departments  of  intellectual 
work  ;  and  to  further  the  interests  of  Authors  and 
Artists  in  Lancashire. 

2.  To  publish  from  time  to  time  works  illustrating  or  eluci- 

dating the  art,  literature,  and  history  of  the  county. 

.     3.  To  provide  a  place  of  meeting  where  persons  interested  in 
the  furtherance  of  these  objects  can  associate  together. 


1. 

MEMBERSHIP. 

Membership  of  the  Club  shall  be  limited  to  authors,  journalists, 
men  of  letters,  painters,  sculptors,  architects,  engravers,  musical 
composers,  members  of  the  learned  professions  and  of  English  and 
Foreign  universities,  librarians,  and  generally  persons  engaged  or 
specially  interested  in  literary  or  artistic  pursuits. 

The  Club  shall  consist  of  ordinary,  corresponding,  and  honorary 
members.  The  nomination  of  a  candidate  for  ordinary  and  cor- 
responding membership  must  be  entered  in  the  candidates'  book 
and  signed  by  two  members,  who  shall  state  the  qcudiftofttioni  of 
the  candidate.  If  the  nominee  for  ordinary  im •inluMshij.  is  n 
\\ithin  t<>n  inih-s  <»f  Manchester,  he  must  have  attended  at 
one  of  the  ordinary  meetings  of  the  Club  before  the  Icdlot  is  t:ik«-n. 
It  shall  be  competent  for  the  Council  to  submit  to  the  Club  for 
election  as  a  corresponding  member  any  person  having  the  neces- 
sary qualification,  but  being  resident  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  the  city  of  Manchester.  Corresponding  members  shall  be 
entitled  to  receive  a  copy  of  the  "  Papers,"  and  to  all  the  privileges 
of  ordinary  members  when  temporarily  in  Manchester.  All  uomi- 


486  RULES. 

nations  shall  be  announced  to  the  members,  and  the  names  posted 
on  the  notice  board.  The  ballot  shall  be  taken  by  the  Council 
(acting  as  a  Ballot  Committee)  at  their  next  ordinary  meeting.  A 
majority  of  two-thirds  shall  be  requisite  to  secure  election. 

Nominations  for  honorary  membership  to  be  made  by  three  sub- 
scribing members,  and  entered  in  the  candidates'  book,  stating  the 
grounds  of  the  nomination.  The  voting  to  take  place  in  the  same 
manner  as  for  ordinary  and  corresponding  members. 

Each  new  member  shall  have  his  election  notified  to  him  by  the 
Honorary  Secretary,  and  shall,  at  the  same  time,  be  furnished  with 
a  copy  of  the  Rules  of  the  Club,  and  be  required  to  remit  to  the 
Treasurer,  within  one  month,  his  entrance  fee  and  subscription  ; 
and  if  the  same  be  unpaid  one  month  after  his  election,  his  name 
shall  be  struck  off  the  list  of  members,  unless  he  can  justify  the 
delay  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Council.  No  new  member  (other 
than  honorary)  shall  participate  in  any  of  the  advantages  of  the 
Club  until  he  has  paid  his  entrance  fee  and  subscription. 

2. 

SUBSCRIPTIONS. 

The  subscription  for  ordinary  members  shall  be  one  guinea,  and 
for  corresponding  members  half  a  guinea  per  annum,  payable  in 
advance  on  the  29th  of  September  in  each  year,  and  shall  be  paid 
to  the  Treasurer.  New  members,  ordinary  or  corresponding,  shall 
also  pay  an  entrance  fee  of  one  guinea.  The  Council  shall  have 
power  to  transfer  the  name  of  an  ordinary  member  to  the  list  of 
corresponding  members.  No  member  whose  subscription  is  unpaid 
on  the  1st  of  November  shall  be  entitled  to  vote  at  any  meeting. 

Any  member  may  resign  on  giving  one  month's  notice  to  the 
Honorary  Secretary  before  the  first  Monday  in  October,  otherwise 
he  shall  pay  his  subscription  for  the  following  session.  The  name 
of  every  member  in  arrear  shall  be  placed  conspicuously  in  the 
room  one  month  before  the  last  meeting  of  the  session  is  held,  and 
if  the  subscription  be  not  paid  within  one  month  after  such  meet- 
ing, he  shall  cease  to  be  a  member,  unless  he  can  justify  the  delay 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Council 

All  arrears  may  be  sued  for  in  the  name  of  the  President, 
Treasurer,  or  Honorary  Secretary  for  the  time  being,  in  the 
Manchester  County  Court.  See  17  and  18  Vic.,  cap.  112,  sec.  25. 

3. 

MEETINGS. 

The  ordinary  session  shall  commence  on  the  first  Monday  in 
October,  and  terminate  on  the  last  Monday  in  March,  unless  the 
Council  deem  it  desirable  to  hold  further  meetings  in  April. 
Special  meetings  may  be  held  during  the  vacation  at  the  discre- 


RULES.  487 

tion  of  the  Council,  or  on  the  requisition  of  any  six  members 
duly  presented  to  the  Honorary  Secretary.  The  Club,  during 
the  ordinary  session,  to  meet  on  each  Monday,  and  begin  its 
proceedings  not  later  than  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  by  the 
Secretary  reading  the  minutes  of  the  previous  weekly  or  other 
meeting ;  after  which  the  time,  until  eight  o'clock,  shall  be  occu- 
pied by  the  reception  of  short  communications  and  notes  and  in 
general  conversation,  and  at  eight  o'clock  prompt  the  paper  or 
other  business  of  the  evening  as  set  down  in  the  syllabus  shall 
be  proceeded  with.  The  subjects  under  discussion  may  be 
adjourned  from  time  to  time.  Each  member  shall  have  the 
privilege  of  introducing  a  friend  to  the  meetings ;  but  no  person  so 
introduced  shall  take  part  in  the  proceedings,  unless  invited  to 
do  so  by  the  President,  to  whom  the  visitor's  name  shall  be  com- 
municated on  his  entrance  into  the  room,  and  shall  also  be  entered 
in  the  Visitors'  Book,  with  the  name  of  the  member  introducing 
such  visitor. 

4. 

OFFICERS   AND   COUNCIL. 

The  business  affairs  of  the  Club  shall  be  conducted  by  a  Council, 
to  consist  of  a  President,  Vice-Presidents  (whose  names  shall  be 
submitted  by  the  Council  for  election  at  the  annual  meeting),  a 
Treasurer,  two  Librarians,  a  Secretary,  and  seven  members,  who 
shall  be  elected,  by  ballot,  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  session,  and 
hold  office  until  the  election  of  the  Council  in  the  following  year. 
A  vacancy  may  be  filled  up  at  any  ordinary  meeting.  The  Council 
to  sit,  each  regular  meeting  night,  at  least  one  hour  before  the 
assembling  of  the  Club.  The  Council  shall  have  power  to  erase 
the  name  of  any  member  from  the  books  of  the  Club  on  due  cause 
being  shown. 

Two  Auditors  shall  be  appointed  by  the  members  at  the 
ordinary  meeting  next  preceding  the  final  meeting  of  the  session, 
to  audit  the  Treasurer's  accounts.  A  nomination  paper  for  the 
selection  of  officers  shall  be  placed  on  the  table  of  the  Club  on 
each  of  the  last  four  meetings  of  the  session  prior  to  the  annual 
business  meeting.  No  nominations  shall  be  taken  after  the  last 
meeting  but  one  of  the  session. 

5. 

DUTIES   OF   OFFICERS. 

The  duty  of  the  President  shall  be  to  preside  at  the  meetings  of 
the  Club,  and  to  maintain  order.  His  decision  in  all  questions  of 
precedence  among  speakers,  and  on  all  disputes  which  may  arise 
during  the  meeting  shall  be  absolute.  In  the  absence  of  the 
President  or  Vice-presidents  at  seven  o'clock,  it  shall  be  competent 
for  the  members  present  to  elect  a  chairman. 
33 


488  RULES. 

The  Treasurer  shall  take  charge  of  all  moneys  belonging  to  the 
Club,  pay  all  accounts  signed  by  the  President,  and  submit  his 
accounts  and  books  for  audit  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  session. 

The  Auditors  shall,  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  session,  attend 
at  the  Club-room  and  audit  the  accounts  of  the  year,  and,  if 
correct,  sign  the  same. 

The  Honorary  Librarians  shall  have  charge  of  all  the  books, 
MSS.,  and  scrap-books  belonging  to  the  Club.  They  shall  keep  a 
register  of  all  purchases  and  donations,  shall  acknowledge  the  gifts 
to  the  Club,  and  shall  present  a  report  on  the  condition  of  the 
library  to  the  yearly  business  meeting  at  the  end  of  each  session. 

The  duties  of  the  Honorary  Secretary  shall  be  to  attend  all 
meetings  of  the  Council  and  Club,  to  enter  in  detail,  as  far  as 
practicable,  the  proceedings  at  each  meeting ;  to  conduct  the 
correspondence,  file  all  letters  received,  and  convene  all  meetings, 
by  circular,  if  necessary.  He  shall  also  prepare  and  present  to  the 
Council  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  session  in  each  year  a  report  of 
the  year's  work,  and,  after  confirmation  by  the  Council,  shall  read 
the  same  to  the  members. 

6. 

SECTIONS. 

Sections  for  the  pursuit  of  special  branches  of  literary  or  artistic 
work  may  at  any  time  be  formed  by  resolution  of  the  Club ;  and 
the  Council  shall  be  empowered  to  frame  bye-laws  necessary  for  the 
government  of  any  such  section. 

7. 

SYLLABUS   AND   ANNUAL   VOLUME. 

The  syllabus  of  the  session  shall  be  prepared  in  two  sections — 
one  to  be  issued,  if  possible,  a  week  before  the  commencement  of 
the  session,  viz.,  in  the  last  week  in  September,  and  the  other  at 
Christmas.  A  copy  of  each  shall  be  forwarded  by  the  Secretary  to 
every  member.  The  report  of  the  year,  together  with  the  Papers 
and  Proceedings  of  the  Club,  shall  be  bound  up  at  the  end  of  each 
session,  and  a  copy  forwarded  to  every  member.  A  list  of  the 
officers  and  members,  with  their  full  addresses,  and  the  Treasurer's 
balance  sheet,  shall  be  appended  to  the  report. 

8. 

ALTERATION    OF    RULES. 

No  new  rule,  or  alteration  in  these  rules,  or  of  the  place  of 
meeting,  shall  be  made  without  a  special  meeting  of  the  Club 
being  convened  for  the  purpose,  of  which  seven  days'  notice  shall 
be  given. 


INDEX. 


Annual  Meeting.    446. 

Arnold  (Matthew)  as  Prose  Writer.    By  C.  K. 

Tyrer.     1. 
Arnold  (Matthew)  as  Poet    By  C.  E.  Tyrer. 

In  Memorlam.    By  M.S.  8. 


Aahe(Thos.X  Notice  of.  By  J.R  Oldham.  435. 
Attklns  (Edgar}    The  Philosophy  in  Lever's 

"  Barrington."    130. 

Augier  (EmifeX  Plays  of.  By  A.  Braune.  439. 
Australian  Poetry.    By  J.  R  Oldham.    417. 
Autumn  Reverie.    A  Poem.    By  A.  Edmes- 

ton.    127. 
Axon  (W.  E.  A.).    Story  of  the  Pled  Piper  of 

AxonfW.  E.A.X    The  Counsel  of  Perfection : 

a  Poem.    286. 

Axon  (W.  E.  A.).    Note  on  William  Rowlin- 
am     Mi. 
>n  (W.  B.  A.).     Folk-Lore  of  Lancashire. 

Axon  (W.  E.  A.).     An  Italian  Sermon :  a 


(John).      In   Memorlam-Henry 
Lawes,  Musician.    66. 
Barlow  (T.   Oldham),   Notice  of.     By   H. 


Barrle(J,M.)L    Review  of  his  «  When  a  Man's 

Q   K.  Tvnr.      Mt 

losophy  in  Lever's.     Bj  E. 
m(0.  T.  T.).    Schaffhauscn.    418. 


cter  (W.  O.).     Note  on  his  ••  They  had 
been  Friends  in  Youth."     By  T.  New- 

BfeBdnard'uman)  and  Watts  Phillips.    By 

J.  T.  Foard.    413. 
BookPlatea.    By  J.  R  Oldham.    424. 


r.    Q    K. 

rear      101 
Browning  (S>b*rt>'  Story  o<tb.PUd 

ofHamelin.    By  W.  B.  A.  Axon. 
Browning  Night    432. 


Christinas  Supper 

ConversazionL    411,  440,  449. 

Council's  Report    421. 

Counsel  of  Perfection :  a  Poem.    By  W.  E.  A. 

Axon.    286. 
Crusts.    By  W.  I.  Wild.    20. 

Dogberries,  Judicial.    By  J.  T.  Foard.    426. 
Donald  (O.  W.)t .  Poems  and  Songs  of.    By  J. 
Norbury.    432. 

Edmeston  (Alfred).    An  Autumn  Reverie: 

a  Poem.    127. 
Eliot  (George).      Fact  and   Fancy  in   her 

Works.    ByJ.  T.  Foard.    28. 
Evans  (George).    Memorial  Notice.    456. 
Excursion.    411. 

Foard  (J.  T.).    Fact  and  Fancy  in  the  Work* 

of  George  Eliot    28. 
Foard  (J.T^     Edwin  Waugh.    197. 
Foard  (J.  T.).    Shakspere's  Alleged  Forgery 

of  a  Coat  of  ArmsV  276. 
Foard  (J.  T.).  Some  Judicial  Dogberries.  426. 
Folk-lore  of  Lancashire.    By !T  E.  A.  Axon. 

415. 

Folk  Tales,  Irish.    By  R.  Hooke.    429. 
Forget-me-Not :  a  Poem.    By  J.  a  Oldham. 


Glasebrook  (M.  Q.).    History  of  the 

Novel    441. 
Glee*  and  Olee  Writers.    By  W.I.  Wild.  244. 
Goodaere  (J.  A.).    An  Autumn  Evening :  a 

Bonnet    100. 

Hardwick  (Charles).    Memorial  Nottos.    461. 
Haslitt  (W.).    Review  of  Ireland's  Editioo. 

By  O.  Mllner  and  J.  Mortimer.    187. 
Hooke  (R.X     Irish  Folk  Tales.    419. 
Hooke  (R.).    Witchcraft    418. 

Inland  (Alex.).    Review  of  his  "Hadltt" 

Hx   (i     Mill,,  i   .....1.1     M-rlimrr       IT 

Irish  Folk  Tales.    By  R.  Hooka.    429. 
Judicial  Dogberries.    By  J.  T.  Foard.    426. 
Ksy(Thos.X    My  Cabin  Window.    240. 
Lancashire  Life:  BOOM  Phases  of.    By  Ben 


490 


INDEX. 


Lancashire  Rhymes.    By  J.  Mortimer.    55. 
Lancashire  Folk  Lore.    By  W.  £.  A.  Axon. 

415. 
Landscape,  Classic   School   in.     By    E.  E. 

Miuton.     436. 
Lawes  (Henry,    Musician).      In  Memoriam. 

By  J.  Bannister.    66. 
Leech  (John).     Memoir.    By  H.  Thornber. 

328. 
Leisure  and  Modern  Life.    By  C.  E.  Tyrer. 

147. 
Lever  (Charles).     The    Philosophy   in    his 

"Barrington."    By  E.  Attkins.     130. 
Library  Table.     J.   M.   Barrie's    "When    a 

Man's  Single."    By  C.  E.  Tyrer.     288. 
Lockhart  (J.  C.).    Memorial  Notice.    453. 

Members,  List  of.  478. 
Memorial  Notices.  451. 
Mercer  (Edmund).  Browning's  "  Asolando. " 

122. 

Mercer  (E.)-     Walt  Whitman.    422. 
Meredith  (George).     His  Novels.     By  A.  N. 

Monkhouse.     293. 
Milner    (Geo.).      Browning's    Versification. 

101. 
Milner  (G.).    Review  of  Ireland's  ''Hazlitt." 

187. 
Milner  (G.).     Memorial   Notice   of    Edwin 

Waugh.    467. 
Minton  (E.  E.).     Notes  on  R.  S.  Stanhope's 

Paintings.    421. 

Minton  (E.  E.).    The  Classic  School  in  Land- 
scape.   436. 
Monkhouse  (A.  N.).    Mr.  Meredith's  Novels. 

293. 
Mortimer  (John).  Some  Lancashire  Rhymes. 

55. 
Mortimer  (John).    The  Melody  of  Browning. 

Mortimer  (John).     Concerning  Nature  and 

Some  of  her  Lovers.     160. 
Mortimer     (John).      Review     of     Ireland's 

"Hazlitt."    189. 

Mortimer  (John).  A  Story  of  a  Picture.  323. 
Mortimer  (John).  A  Sprig  of  Rosemary.  470 
Music,  Thoughts  About.  By  W.  Robinson. 

438. 

Musical  Evenings.    417,  445. 
My  Cabin  Window.     By  T.  Kay.     240. 

Nature  and  Some  of   her    Lovers.      By   J. 

Mortimer.     160. 
Newbigging (Thos.).    W.  G.  Baxter's  "They 

had  been  Friends  in  Youth."    157. 
Norbury  (J.).    Poems  and  Songs  of  G.  W. 

Donald.    432. 
Novel,  English,  History  of  the.    By  M.  G. 

Glazebrook.     441. 

Oldham  (J.  B.).     Forget-me-Not :  A  Poem. 

396. 

Oldham  (J.  B.).    Australian  Poetry.    417. 
Oldham  (J.  B.).    Book  Plates.    424. 
Oldham  (J.  B.).    Thomas  Ashe.    485. 


Phillips  (Watts)  and  Laman  Blanchard.    By 

J.  T.  Foard.    413. 
Philosophy  in  Lever's  "Barrington."    By  E. 

Attkins.     130. 

Phythian  (J.  E.).    George  Sand.    211. 
Picture,  Story  of  a.     By  J.  Mortimer.    323. 
Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  Story  of  the.   By  W. 

E.  A.  Axon.     266. 

Plays  of  Emile  Augier.  By  A.  Braune.  439. 
Poem.  An  Autumn  Evening.  By  A.  Ed- 

meuton.     127. 
Poem.    Counsel  of  Perfection.    By  W.  E.  A. 

Axon.     286. 
Poem.    Forget-me-Not.    By  J.  B.  Oldham. 

396. 
Poem :  An  Italian  Sermon.    By  W.   E.  A. 

Axon.     424. 
Proceedings.    411. 

Review  Night.    420. 

Robinson  (W.).    Thoughts  about  Music.    438. 

Rowlinson  (William)  Note  on.     By  W.  E.  A. 

Axon.    354. 
Rules,  List  of.    485. 

S.  (M.   S.).     In  Memoriam— Thomas   Ashe. 

386. 
Sand  (George).     Literary  Estimate    of    her 

Work.    By  J.  E.  Phythian.    211. 
Schaffhausen.    By    C.    T.    Tallent-Bateman. 

418. 
Shakspere  (W.).    Alleged  Forgery  of  a  Co;xt 

of  Arms.    By  J.  T.  Foard.    276. 
Sonnet.    An  Autumn  Evening.     By  J.   A. 

Goodacre.     100. 

Sprig  of  Rosemary.  By  J.  Mortimer.  470. 
Stanhope  (R.  Spencer).  Notes  on  his 

Paintings.    By  E.  E.  Minton.    421. 

"They  had  been  Friends  in  Youth."    By  T. 

Newbigging.     157. 

Thornber  (Harry).    John  Leech.     328. 
Thornber  (Harry).    Thos.  Oldham    Barlow. 

445. 

Treasurer's  Statement.     410. 
Tyrer  (C.   E.).    Matthew  Arnold    as    Prose 

Writer.     1. 

Tyrer  (C.  E.).  Browning  and  Tennyson.  106. 
Tyrer  (C.  E.).  Leisure  and  Modern  Life.  147. 
Tyrer  (C.  E.).  Review  of  J.  M.  Barrie's 

"  When  a  Man's  Single."    288. 
Tyrer  (C.  E.).    Mathew  Arnold  as  Poet.    358. 

Waugh  (Edwin).     In  Memoriam.     By  J.  T. 

Foard.     197. 

Waugh  (Edwin),  Memorial  Notices.    458. 
"When  a  Man's  Single,"  by  J.   M.  Barrie. 

Reviewed  by  C.  E.  Tyrer.    288. 
Whitman  (Walt),  Notice  of.    By  E.  Mercer. 

422. 

Wild  (W.  I.).    On  Crusts.    20. 
Wild  (W.  I.).    Glees  and  Glee  Writers.    244. 
Wiper  (William).    Memorial  Notice.    454. 
Witchcraft.    By  R.  Hooke.    433. 


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