PAPEES AND MEMOIR OF
FLEEMING JENKIN

VOL. I.

PRINTED BY

SPOTT1SWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON

FLEEMING JENKIN

AGED 51

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MR. JOHN MOFFAT, EDINBURGH

PAPEES

LITERAKY, SCIENTIFIC, &c.

BY THE LATE

FLEEMING JENKIN, F.E.S., LL.D.

PROFESSOR OF ENGINEERING IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH

EDITED BY

SIDNEY COLVIN, M.A. AND J. A. EWING, F.B.S.

WITH A MEMOIR BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

o (.1

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I.

LONDON
LONGMANS, GEE EN, AND CO.

AND NEW YORK : W EAST 16th STEEET

1887

All rights reserved

M3

V, I

CONTENTS

OP

THE FIRST VOLUME.

MEMOIR BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
CHAPTER I.

PAGE

The Jenkins of Stowting — Fleeming's grandfather — Mrs. Buckner's for-
tune— Fleeming's father ; goes to sea ; at St. Helena ; meets King
Tom ; service in the West Indies ; end of his career — The Campbell-
Jacksons — Fleeming's mother — Fleeming's uncle John xi

CHAPTER II.

1833-1851.

Birth and Childhood — Edinburgh — Frankfort-on-the-Main — Paris — The
Revolution of 1848 — The Insurrection — Flight to Italy — Sympathy
with Italy — The Insurrection in Genoa — A Student in Genoa — The
Lad and his Mother ; : ".'-." . .' " . . . . xxviii

CHAPTER III.

1851-1858.

Return to England — Fleeming at Fairbairn's — Experience in a Strike—
Dr. Bell and Greek Architecture — The Gaskells — Fleeming at Green-
wich— The Austins — Fleeming and the Austins — His Engagement —
Fleeming and Sir W. Thomson . . . . . . xlvii

CHAPTER IV.

1859-1868.

Fleeming's Marriage — His Married Life — Professional Difficulties — Life at
Claygate — Illness of Mrs. F. Jenkin — and of Fleeming- -Appointment
to the Chair at Edinburgh Ixiii

CHAPTER V.
Notes of Telegraph Voyages, 1858 to 1873 ....... Ixxiv

CHAPTER VI.

1869-1885.

Edinburgh — Colleagues— Farrago Vltce—l. The Family Circle — Fleeming
and his Sons — Highland Life — The Cruise of the Steam Launch —

vi CONTENTS

PAGE

Summer in Styria — Eustic Manners — II. The Drama — Private The-
atricals— III. Sanitary Associations — The Phonograph — IV. Fleem-
ing's Acquaintance with a Student — His late Maturity of Mind —
Eeligion and Morality — His Love of Heroism — Taste in Literature —
V. His Talk — His late Popularity — Letter from M. Tre"lat. . . cxiv

CHAPTER VII.

1875-1885.

Mrs. Jenkin's Illness— Captain Jenkin — The Golden Wedding — Death of
Uncle John — Death of Mr. and Mrs. Austin — Illness and Death of
the Captain — Death of Mrs. Jenkin — Effect on Fleeming — Telpher-
age— The End cxlv

APPENDIX.

I. Note on the Contributions of Fleeming Jenkin to Electrical and

Engineering Science : by SIE WILLIAM THOMSON, F.E.S., LL.D. . civ

T.I. Note on the work of Fleeming Jenkin in connection with Sanitary

Eeform : by LT.-COL. ALEXANDER FERGUSSON clix

PAPERS BY FLEEMING JENKIN.

PREFATORY NOTE : by Sidney Colvin, M.A clxxiii

LITEEATUEE AND DEAMA:

THE 'AGAMEMNON' AND * TRACHTNI^J ' 3

ON THE ANTIQUE GREEK DRESS FOR WOMEN .... 35
MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH . . ... . . .45

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, MRS. BEVERLEY, AND LADY

EANDOLPH 67

TALMA ON THE ACTOR'S ART 87

ARTIST AND CRITIC 93

GRISELDA 100

ON EHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE ..... .149

A FRAGMENT ON GEORGE ELIOT 171

SPECULATIVE SCIENCE:

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 177

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 215

A FRAGMENT ON TRUTH . 264

ILLUSTEATIONS.

FLEEMING JEN KIN, AGED 51. From a Photograph by Mr.

John Moffat, 135 Princes Street, Edinburgh . . . Frontispiece

MRS. JENKIN. From a Sketch talien by Jter Son at Genoa . To face p. xlvi

FLEEMING JENKIN, AGED 26. From a Sketch by Himself . „ Ixviii

THE CHILDREN. From a Letter written at Claygate . . „ Ixxii

SHIPMATES. From Sltetches in Note-boohs . ... „ ex

FRAU MOSER. From the Styrian Sketch-book . . . „ cxx

WALPURGA. From the Styrian Sketch-book . . , , „ cxxti

MEMOIE

OF

FLEEMING JENKIN

MEMOIR

CHAPTER I.

The Jenkins of Stowting — Fleeming's grandfather — Mrs. Buckner's fortune —
Fleeming's father ; goes to sea ; at St. Helena ; meets King Tom ; service
in the West Indies ; end of his career — The Campbell-Jacksons —
Fleeming's mother — Fleeming's uncle John.

IN the reign of Henry VIII,, a family of the name of Jenkin,
claiming to come from York, and bearing the arms of Jenkin ap
Philip of St. Melans, are found reputably settled in the county
of Kent. Persons of strong genealogical pinion pass from
William Jenkin, Mayor of Folkestone in 1555, to his contem-
porary ' John Jenkin, of the Citie of York, Receiver General of
the County,' and thence, by way of Jenkin ap Philip, to the proper
summit of any Cambrian pedigree — a prince ; ' Guaith Voeth,
Lord of Cardigan,' the name and style of him. It may suffice,
however, for the present, that these Kentish Jenkins must have
undoubtedly derived from Wales, and being a stock of some
efficiency, they struck root and grew to wealth and consequence
in their new home.

Of their consequence we have proof enough in the fact that The Jen-
not only was William Jenkin (as already mentioned) Mayor of
Folkestone in 1555, but no less than twenty-three times in the
succeeding century and a half, a Jenkin (William, Thomas,
Henry, or Robert) sat in the same place of humble honour. Of
their wealth we know that, in the reign of Charles I., Thomas
Jenkin of Eythorne was more than once in the market buying
land, and notably, in 1633, acquired the manor of Stowting Court.
This was an estate of some 320 acres, six miles from Hythe,

VOL. i. a

Xll

in the Bailiwick and Hundred of Stowting, and the Lathe of
Shipway, held of the Crown in capite by the service of six men
and a constable to defend the passage of the sea at Sandgate.
It had a chequered history before it fell into the hands of Thomas
of Eythorne, having been sold and given from one to another—
to the Archbishop, to Heringods, to the Burghershes, to Pavelys,
Trivets, Cliffords, Wenlocks, Beauchamps, Nevilles, Kempes, and
Clarkes : a piece of Kentish ground condemned to see new faces
and to be no man's home. But from 1633 onward it became the
anchor of the Jenkin family in Kent ; and though passed on
from brother to brother, held in shares between uncle and
nephew, burthened by debts and jointures, and at least once
sold and bought in again, it remains to this day in the hands of the
direct line. It is not my design, nor have I the necessary know-
ledge, to give a history of this obscure family. But this is an
age when genealogy has taken a new lease of life, and become
for the first time a human science ; so that we no longer study
it in quest of the Guaith Voeths, but to trace out some of the
secrets of descent and destiny ; and as we study, we think less of
Sir Bernard Burke and more of Mr. Galton. Not only do our
character and talents lie upon the anvil and receive their temper
during generations ; bat the very plot of our life's story unfolds
itself on a scale of centuries, and the biography of the man is
only an episode in the epic of the family. From this point of
view I ask the reader's leave to begin this notice of a remark-
able man who was my friend, with the accession of his great-
grandfather, John Jenkin.

This John Jenkin, a grandson of Damaris Kingsley, of the
family of Westward Ho!' was born in 1727, and married Eliza-
beth, daughter of Thomas Frewen, of Church House, Northiam.
The Jenkins had now been long enough intermarrying with
their Kentish neighbours to be Kentish folk themselves in all
but name ; and with the Frewens in particular their connection
is singularly involved. John and his wife were each descended
in the third degree from another Thomas Frewen, Vicar of
Northiam, and brother to Accepted Frewen, Archbishop of
York. John's mother had married a Frewen for a second

THE JENKINS OF STOWTING xiii

husband. And the last complication was to be added by the
Bishop of Chichester's brother, Charles Buckner, Vice- Admiral
of the White, who was twice married, first to a paternal cousin
of Squire John, and second to Anne, only sister of the Squire's
wife, and already the widow of another Frewen. The reader
must bear Mrs. Buckner in mind ; it was by means of that lady
that Fleeming Jenkin began life as a poor man. Meanwhile,
the relationship of any Frewen to any Jenkin at the end of these
evolutions presents a problem almost insoluble ; and we need
not wonder if Mrs. John, thus exercised in her immediate circle,
was in her old age ' a great genealogist of all Sussex families,
arid much consulted.' The names Frewen and Jenkin may
almost seem to have been interchangeable at will ; and yet
Fate proceeds with such particularity that it was perhaps on the
point of name the family was ruined.

The John Jenkins had a family of one daughter and five
extravagant and unpractical sons. The eldest, Stephen, entered
the Church and held the living of Salehurst, where he offered,
we may hope, an extreme example of the clergy of the age. He
was a handsome figure of a man ; jovial and jocular ; fond of his
garden, which produced under his care the finest fruits of the
neighbourhood ; and like all the family, very choice in horses.
He drove tandem ; like Jehu, furiously. His saddle horse,
Captain (for the names of horses are piously preserved in the
family chronicle which I follow) was trained to break into a
gallop as soon as the vicar's foot was thrown across its back ; nor
would the rein be drawn in the nine miles between Northiam
and the Vicarage door. Debt was the man's proper element ; he
used to skulk from arrest in the chancel of his church ; and the
speed of Captain may have come sometimes handy. At an early
age this unconventional parson married his cook, and by her he
had two daughters and one son. One of the daughters died
unmarried ; the other imitated her father, and married ' impru-
dently.' The son. still more gallantly continuing the tradition,
entered the army, loaded himself with debt, was forced to sell
out, took refuge in the Marines, and was lost on the Dogger
Bank in the war-ship Minotaur. If he did not marry below

a 2

xiy . . MEMOIR

him, like his father, his sister, and a certain great-uncle William,
it was perhaps because he never married at all.

The second brother, Thomas, who was employed in the
General Post Office, followed in all material points the example
of Stephen, married c not very creditably,' and spent all the
money he could lay his hands on. He died without issue ; as
did the fourth brother, John, who was of weak intellect and
feeble health, and the fifth brother, William, whose brief career
as one of Mrs. Buckner's satellites will fall to be considered
later on. So soon, then, as the Minotaur had struck upon the
Dogger Bank, Stowting and the line of the Jenkin family fell
on the shoulders of the third brother, Charles.

Fleem- Facility and self-indulgence are the family marks ; facility

orand- (^° JU(%e ^J ^nese imprudent marriages) being at once their
father. quality and their defect ; but in the case of Charles, a man of
exceptional beauty and sweetness both of face and disposition,
the family fault had quite grown to be a virtue, and we find him
in consequence the drudge and milk-cow of his relatives. Born
in 1766, Charles served at sea in his youth, and smelt both salt
water and powder. The Jenkins had inclined hitherto, as far as
I can make out, to the land service. Stephen's son had been a
soldier ; William (fourth of Stowting) had been an officer of the
unhappy Braddock's in America, where, by the way, he owned
and afterwards sold an estate on the James River, called after
the parental seat ; of which I should like well to hear if it still
bears the name. It was probably by the influence of Captain
Buckner, already connected with the family by his first marriage,
that Charles Jenkin turned his mind in the direction of the
navy ; and it was in Buckner's own ship, the Prothee, 64, that
the lad made his only campaign. It was in the days of Rodney's
war, when the Protliee, we read, captured two large privateers
to windward of Barbadoes, and was ' materially and distin-
guishedly engaged ' in both the actions with De Grasse. While
at sea, Charles kept a journal, and made strange archaic pilot-
book sketches, part plan, part elevation, some of which survive
for the amusement of posterity. He did a good deal of surveying,
so that here we may perhaps lay our finger on the beginning of

FLEEMIN&S GRANDFATHER xv

Fleeming's education as an engineer. What is still more strange,
among the relics of the handsome midshipman and his stay in
the gun-room of the Prothee, I find a code of signals graphically
represented, for all the world as it would have been done by his
grandson.

On the declaration of peace, Charles, because he had suffered
from scurvy, received his mother's orders to retire ; and he was
not the man to refuse a request, far less to disobey a command.
Thereupon he turned farmer, a trade he was to practise on a
large scale ; and we find him married to a Miss Schirr, a woman
of some fortune, the daughter of a London merchant. Stephen,
the not very reverend, was still alive, galloping about the
country or skulking in his chancel. It does not appear whether
he let or sold the paternal manor to Charles ; one or other, it
must have been ; and the sailor-farmer settled at Stowting, with
his wife, his mother, his unmarried sister, and his sick brother
John. Out of the six people of whom his nearest family con-
sisted, three were in his own house, and two others (the horse-
leeches, Stephen and Thomas) he appears to have continued to
assist with more amiability than wisdom. He hunted, belonged
to the Yeomanry, owned famous horses, Maggie and Lucy, the
latter coveted by royalty itself. ' Lord Rokeby, his neighbour,
called him kinsman,' writes my artless chronicler, l and altogether
life was very cheery/ At Stowting his three sons, John, Charles,
and Thomas Frewen, and his younger daughter, Anna, were all
born to him ; and the reader should here be told that it is through
the report of this second Charles (born 1801) that he has been
looking on at these confused passages of family history.

In the year 1805 the ruin of the Jenkins was begun. It

Buckner's
was the work of a fallacious lady already mentioned, Aunt Anne fortune.

Frewen, a sister of Mrs. John. Twice married, first to her
cousin Charles Frewen, clerk to the Court of Chancery, Bruns-
wick Herald, and Usher of the Black Rod, and secondly to
Admiral Buckner, she was denied issue in both beds, and
being very rich — she died worth about 60,OOOZ., mostly in land
— she was in perpetual quest of an heir. The mirage of this
fortune hung before successive members of the Jenkin family

xvi MEMOIR

until her death in 1825, when it dissolved and left the latest
Alnaschar face to face with bankruptcy. The grandniece, Stephen's
daughter, the one who had not ' married imprudently,' appears
to have been the first ; for she was taken abroad by the golden
aunt, and died in her care at Ghent in 1792. Next she adopted
William, the youngest of the five nephews ; took him abroad
with her — it seems as if that were in the formula ; was shut up
with him in Paris by the Revolution ; brought him back to
Windsor, and got him a place in the King's Body Guard, where
he attracted the notice of George III. by his proficiency in
German. In 1797, being on guard at St. James's Palace,
William took a cold which carried him off; and Aunt Anne was
once more left heirless. Lastly, in 1805, perhaps moved by the
Admiral, who had a kindness for his old midshipman, perhaps
pleased by the good looks and the good nature of the man him-
self, Mrs. Buckner turned her eyes upon Charles Jenkin. He
was not only to be the heir, however, he was to be the chief
hand in a somewhat wild scheme of family farming. Mrs.
Jenkin, the mother, contributed 164 acres of land ; Mrs. Buckner,
570, some at Northiam, some farther off; Charles let one-half
of Stowting to a tenant, and threw the other and various
scattered parcels into the common enterprise ; so that the whole
farm amounted to near upon a thousand acres, and was scattered
over thirty miles of country. The ex-seaman of thirty-nine, on
whose wisdom and ubiquity the scheme depended, was to live
in the meanwhile without care or fear. He was to check himself
in nothing ; his two extravagances, valuable horses and worthless
brothers, were to be indulged in comfort ; and whether the year
quite paid itself or not, whether successive years left accumulated
savings or only a growing deficit, the fortune of the golden aunt
should in the end repair all.

On this understanding Charles Jenkin transported his
family to Church House, Northiam : Charles the second, then a
child of three, among the number. Through the eyes of the
boy we have glimpses of the life that followed : of Admiral and
Mrs. Buckner driving up from Windsor in a coach and six, two
post horses and their own four ; of the house full of visitors, the

FLEE MING'S FATHER xvii

great roasts at the fire, the tables in the servants' hall laid for
thirty or forty for a month together ; of the daily press of
neighbours, many of whom, Frew ens, Lords, Bishops, Batchellors,
and Dynes, were also kinsfolk ; and the parties ' under the
great spreading chestnuts of the old fore court,' where the
young people danced and made merry to the music of the
village band. Or perhaps, in the depth of winter, the father
would bid young Charles saddle his pony ; they would ride
the thirty miles from Northiam to Stowting, with the snow to
the pony's saddle girths, and be received by the tenants like
princes.

This life of delights, with the continual visible comings
and goings of the golden aunt, was well qualified to relax the
fibre of the lads. John the heir, a yeoman and a fox-hunter,
c loud and notorious with his whip and spurs,' settled down into
a kind of Tony Lumpkin, waiting for the shoes of his father and
his aunt. Thomas Frewen, the youngest, is briefly dismissed as
* a handsome beau ; ' but he had the merit or the good fortune to
become a doctor of medicine, so that when the crash came he
was not empty-handed for the war of life. Charles, at the day-
school of Northiam, grew so well acquainted with the rod,
that his floggings became matter of pleasantry and reached the
ears of Admiral Buckner, Hereupon that tall, rough-voiced,
formidable uncle entered with the lad into a covenant : every time
that Charles was thrashed he was to pay the Admiral a penny ;
every day that he escaped, the process was to be reversed. ' I
recollect,' writes Charles, ' going crying to my mother to be taken
to the Admiral to pay my debt.' It would seem by these terms
the speculation was a losing one ; yet it is probable it paid
indirectly by bringing the boy under remark. The Admiral
was no enemy to dunces ; he loved courage, and Charles, while
yet little more than a baby, would ride the great horse into the
pond. Presently it was decided that here was the stuff of a fine
sailor ; and at an early period the name of Charles Jenkin was
entered on a ship's books.

From Northiam he was sent to another school at Boonshill,
near Eye, where the master took ' infinite delight ' in strapping

. xviii MEMOIR

him. ' It keeps me warm and makes you grow,' he used to say.
And the stripes were not altogether wasted, for the dunce,
though still very < raw,' made progress with his studies. It was
known, moreover, that he was going to sea, always a ground of
pre-eminence with schoolboys ; and in his case the glory was
not altogether future, it wore a present form when he came
driving to Rye behind four horses in the same carriage with
an Admiral. ' I was not a little proud, you may believe,'
says he.

In 1814, when he was thirteen years of age, he was carried
by his father to Chichester to the Bishop's Palace. The Bishop
had heard from his brother the Admiral that Charles was likely
to do well, and had an order from Lord Melville for the lad's
admission to the Royal Naval College at Portsmouth. Both the
Bishop and the Admiral patted him on the head and said,
' Charles will restore the old family ; ' by which I gather with
some surprise that, even in these days of open house at Northiam
and golden hope of my aunt's fortune, the family was supposed
to stand in need of restoration. But the past is apt to look
brighter than nature, above all to those enamoured of their
genealogy ; and the ravages of Stephen and Thomas must have
always given matter of alarm.

What with the flattery of bishops and admirals, the fine
company in which he found himself at Portsmouth, his visits
home, with their gaiety and greatness of life, his visits to Mrs.
Buckner (soon a widow) at Windsor, where he had a pony
kept for him and visited at Lord Melville's and Lord Harcourt's
and the Leveson-Gowers, he began to have ' bumptious notions,'
and his head was ' somewhat turned with fine people ; ' as to
some extent it remained throughout his innocent and honour-
able life

Goes to In this frame of mind the boy was appointed to the Con-

queror, Captain Davie, humorously known as Gentle Johnnie.
The captain had earned this name by his style of discipline,
which would have figured well in the pages of Marryat : ' Put
the prisoner's head in a bag and give him another dozen ! '
survives as a specimen of his commands ; and the men were

AT ST. HELENA xix

often punished twice or thrice in a week. On board the ship
of this disciplinarian, Charles and his father were carried in a
billy-boat from Sheerness in December 1816 : Charles with an
outfit suitable to his pretentions, a twenty- guinea sextant and
120 dollars in silver, which were ordered into the care of the
gunner. ' The old clerks and mates,' he writes, c used to laugh
and jeer me for joining the ship in a billy-boat, and when they
found I was from Kent, vowed I was an old Kentish smuggler.
This to my pride, you will believe, was not a little offensive.'

The Conqueror carried the flag of Vice- Admiral Plampin, At St.
commanding at the Cape and St. Helena ; and at that all-
important islet, in July 1817, she relieved the flagship of Sir
Pulteney Malcolm. Thus it befel that Charles Jenkin, coming
too late for the epic of the French wars, played a small part in
the dreary and disgraceful afterpiece of St. Helena. Life on the
guardship was onerous and irksome. The anchor was never
lifted, sail never made, the great guns were silent ; none was
allowed on shore except on duty ; all day the movements of the
imperial captive were signalled to and fro ; all night the boats
rowed guard around the accessible portions of the coast. This
prolonged stagnation and petty watchfulness in what Napoleon
himself called that ' unchristian ' clima,te, told cruelly on the
health of the ship's company. In eighteen months, according
to O'Meara, the Conqueror had lost one hundred and ten men
and invalided home one hundred and seven, ' being more than a
third of her complement.' It does not seem that our young
midshipman so much as once set eyes on Bonaparte ; and yet in
other ways Jenkin was more fortunate than some of his com-
rades. He drew in water-colour ; not so badly as his father, yet
ill enough ; and this art was so rare aboard the Conqueror that
even his humble proficiency marked him out and procured him
some alleviations. Admiral Plampin had succeeded Napoleon
at the Briars ; and here he had young Jenkin staying with him
to make sketches of the historic house. One of these is before
me as I write, and gives a strange notion of the arts in our old
English Navy. Yet it was again as an artist that the lad was
taken for a run to Rio, and apparently for a second outing in

xx MEMOIR

a ten-gun brig. These, and a cruise of six weeks to windward
of the island undertaken by the Conqueror herself in quest of
health, were the only breaks in three years of murderous in-
action ; and at the end of that period Jenkin was invalided
home, having 'lost his health entirely.'

Meets As he left the deck of the guard-ship the historic part of

King Tom. ^ career came to an end. For forty-two years he continued to
serve his country obscurely on the seas, sometimes thanked for
inconspicuous and honourable services, but denied any opportu-
nity of serious distinction. He was first two years in the Larne,
Captain Tait, hunting pirates and keeping a watch on the
Turkish and Greek squadrons in the Archipelago. Captain
Tait was a favourite with Sir Thomas Maitland, High Commis-
sioner of the Ionian Islands — King Tom as he was called — who
frequently took passage in the Larne. King Tom knew every
inch of the Mediterranean, and was a terror to the officers of the
watch. He would come on deck at night ; and with his broad
Scotch accent, ' Well, sir,' he would say, ' what depth of water
have ye ? Well now, sound ; and ye'll just find so or so many
fathoms,' as the case might be ; and the obnoxious passenger
was generally right. On one occasion, as the ship was going
into Corfu, Sir Thomas came up the hatchway and cast his eyes
towards the gallows. ' Bangham ' — Charles Jenkin heard him
say to his aide-de-camp, Lord Bangham — ' where the devil is
that other chap ? I left four fellows hanging there ; now I can
only see three. Mind there is another there to-morrow.' And
sure enough there was another Greek dangling the next day.
c Captain Hamilton, of the Cambrian, kept the Greeks in order
afloat,' writes my author, l and King Tom ashore.'

Services From 1823 onward, the chief scene of Charles Jenkin's

West activities was in the West Indies, where he was engaged off and

Indies. on till 1844, now as a subaltern, now in a vessel of his own,

hunting out pirates ' then very notorious ' in the Leeward

Islands, cruising after slavers, or carrying dollars and provisions

for the Government. While yet a midshipman, he accompanied

Mr. Cockburn to Caraccas and had a sight of Bolivar. In

the brigantine Griffon, which he commanded in his last years

IN THE WEST INDIES xxi

in the West Indies, he carried aid to Guadeloupe after the
earthquake, and twice earned the thanks of Government : once
for an expedition to Nicaragua to extort, under threat of a
blockade, proper apologies and a sum of money due to certain
British merchants ; and once during an insurrection in San
Domingo, for the rescue of certain others from a perilous im-
prisonment and the recovery of a ' chest of money ' of which
they had been robbed. Once, on the other hand, he earned his
share of public censure. This was in 1837, when he commanded
the Romney lying in the inner harbour of Havannah. The
Romney was in no proper sense a man-of-war ; she was a slave-
hulk, the bonded warehouse of the Mixed Slave Commission ;
where negroes, captured out of slavers under Spanish colours,
were detained provisionally, till the Commission should decide
upon their case and either set them free or bind them to ap-
prenticeship. To this ship, already an eyesore to the authorities,
a Cuban slave made his escape. The position was invidious ;
on one side were the tradition of the British flag and the state
of public sentiment at home ; on the other, the certainty that
if the slave were kept, the Romney would be ordered at once
out of the harbour, and the object of the Mixed Commission
compromised. Without consultation with any other officer,
Captain Jenkin (then lieutenant) returned the man to shore and
took the Captain-General's receipt. Lord Palmerston approved
his course ; but the zealots of the anti-slave trade movement
(never to be named without respect) were much dissatisfied ;
and thirty-nine years later, the matter was again canvassed in
Parliament, and Lord Palmerston and Captain Jenkin defended
by Admiral Erskine in a letter to the Times (March 13, 1876).

In 1845, while still lieutenant, Charles Jenkin acted as End of his
Admiral Pigot's flag captain in the Cove of Cork, where there (
were some thirty pennants ; and about the same time, closed his
career by an act of personal bravery. He had proceeded with
his boats to the help of a merchant vessel, whose cargo of com-
bustibles had taken fire and was smouldering under hatches ;
his sailors were in the hold, where the fumes were already heavy,
and Jenkin was on deck directing operations, when he found

xxii MEMOIR

his orders were no longer answered from below : he jumped
down without hesitation and slung up several insensible men
with his own hand. For this act, he received a letter from the
Lords of the Admiralty expressing a sense of his gallantry ; and
pretty soon after was promoted Commander, superseded, and
could never again obtain employment.

The In 1828 or 1829, Cbarles Jenkin was in the same watch

Jacksons w^n another midshipman, Robert Colin Campbell Jackson, who
introduced him to his family in Jamaica. The father, the
Honourable Robert Jackson, Gustos Rotulorum of Kingston,
came of a Yorkshire family, said to be originally Scotch ; and
on the mother's side, counted kinship with some of the Forbeses.
The mother was Susan Campbell, one of the Campbells of Au-
chenbreck. Her father Colin, a merchant in Greenock, is said
to have been the heir to both the estate and the baronetcy ; he
claimed neither, which casts a doubt upon the fact ; but he had
pride enough himself, and taught enough pride to his family,
for any station or descent in Christendom. He had four
daughters. One married an Edinburgh writer, as I have it on
a first account — a minister, according to another — a man at least
of reasonable station, but not good enough for the Campbells
of Auchenbreck ; and the erring one was instantly discarded.
Another married an actor of the name of Adcock, whom (as I
receive the tale) she had seen acting in a barn; but the phrase
should perhaps be regarded rather as a measure of the family
annoyance, than a mirror of the facts. The marriage was
not in itself unhappy ; Adcock was a gentleman by birth and
made a good husband ; the family reasonably prospered, and
one of the daughters married no less a man than Clarkson
Stanfield. But by the father, and the two remaining Miss
Campbells, people of fierce passions and a truly Highland
pride, the derogation was bitterly resented. For long the
sisters lived estranged ; then, Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Adcock
were reconciled for a moment, only to quarrel the more fiercely ;
the name of Mrs. Adcock was proscribed, nor did it again pass
her sister's lips, until the morning when she announced : ' Mary
Adcock is dead ; I saw her in her shroud last night.' Second

THE CAMPBELL-JACKSONS xxiii

sight was hereditary in the house ; and sure enough, as I have it
reported, on that very night Mrs. Adcock had passed away. Thus,
of the four daughters, two had, according to the idiotic notions
of their friends, disgraced themselves in marriage ; the others
supported the honour of the family with a better grace, and
married West Indian magnates of whom, I believe, the world
has never heard and would not care to hear : So strange a thing
is this hereditary pride. Of Mr. Jackson, beyond the fact that
he was Fleeming's grandfather, I know naught. His wife, as I
have said, was a woman of fierce passions ; she would tie her
house slaves to the bed and lash them with her own hand ; and
her conduct to her wild and down-going sons, was a mixture of
almost insane self-sacrifice and wholly insane violence of temper.
She had three sons and one daughter. Two of the sons went
utterly to ruin, and reduced their mother to poverty. The
third went to India, a slim, delicate lad, and passed so wholly
from the knowledge of his relatives that he was thought to be
long dead. Years later, when his sister was living in Genoa, a
red-bearded man of great strength and stature, tanned by
years in India, and his hands covered with barbaric gems, entered
the room unannounced, as she was playing the piano, lifted her
from her seat, and kissed her. It was her brother, suddenly
returned out of a past that was never very clearly understood,
with the rank of general, many strange gems, many cloudy
stories of adventure, and next his heart, the daguerreotype of an
Indian prince with whom he had mixed blood.

The last of this wild family, the daughter, Henrietta Camilla, Fleem-
became the wife of the midshipman Charles, and the mother of : Bother
the subject of this notice, Fleeming Jenkin. She was a woman
of parts and courage. Not beautiful, she had a far higher gift,
the art of seeming so ; played the part of a belle in society, while
far lovelier women were left unattended ; and up to old age, had
much of both the exigency and the charm that mark that
character. She drew naturally, for she had no training, with
unusual skill ; and it was from her, and not from the two naval
artists, that Fleeming inherited his eye and hand. She played
on the harp and sang with something beyond the talent of an

xxiv MEMOIR

amateur. At the age of seventeen, she heard Pasta in Paris ;
flew up in a fire of youthful enthusiasm ; and the next morning,
all alone and without introduction, found her way into the
presence of the prima donna and begged for lessons. Pasta
made her sing, kissed her when she had done, and though she
refused to be her mistress, placed her in the hands of a friend.
Nor was this all ; for when Pasta returned to Paris, she sent for
the girl (once at least) to test her progress. But Mrs. Jenkin's
talents were not so remarkable as her fortitude and strength of
will ; and it was in an art for which she had no natural taste
(the art of literature) that she appeared before the public. Her
novels, though they attained and merited a certain popularity
both in France and England, are a measure only of her courage.
They were a task, not a beloved task ; they were written for
money in days of poverty, and they served their end. In the
least thing as well as in the greatest, in every province of life
as well as in her novels, she displayed the same capacity of
taking infinite pains, which descended to her son. When she
was about forty (as near as her age was known) she lost her
voice ; set herself at once to learn the piano, working eight hours
a day ; and attained to such proficiency that her collaboration
in chamber music was courted by professionals. And more
than twenty years later, the old lady might have been seen
clauntlessly beginning the study of Hebrew. This is the more
ethereal part of courage ; nor was she wanting in the more
material. Once when a neighbouring groom, a married man,
had seduced her maid, Mrs. Jenkin mounted her horse, rode
over to the stable entrance and horsewhipped the man with her
own hand.

How a match came about between this talented and spirited
girl and the young midshipman, is not very easy to conceive.
Charles Jenkin was one of the finest creatures breathing ;
loyalty, devotion, simple natural piety, boyish cheerfulness,
tender and manly sentiment in the old sailor fashion, were in
him inherent and inextinguishable either by age, suffering, or
injustice. He looked, as he was, every inch a gentleman ; he
must have been everywhere notable, even among handsome men,

FATHER AND MOTHER xxv

both for his face and his gallant bearing ; not so much that of a
sailor, you would have said, as like one of those gentle and
graceful soldiers that, to this day, are the most pleasant of
Englishmen to see. But though he was in these ways noble,
the dunce scholar of Northiam was to the end no genius. Upon
all points that a man must understand to be a gentleman, to be
upright, gallant, affectionate and dead to self, Captain Jenkin
was more knowing than one among a thousand ; outside of that,
his mind was very largely blank. He had indeed a simplicity
that came near to vacancy ; and in the first forty years of his
married life, this want grew more accentuated. In both families
imprudent marriages had been the rule ; but neither Jenkin nor
Campbell had ever entered into a more unequal union. It was
the captain's good looks, we may suppose, that gained for him
this elevation ; and in some ways and for many years of his life,
he had to pay the penalty. His wife, impatient of his incapacity
and surrounded by brilliant friends, used him with a certain con-
tempt. She was the managing partner ; the life was hers, not
his ; after his retirement they lived much abroad, where the
poor captain, who could never learn any language but his own,
sat in the corner mumchance ; and even his son, carried away
by his bright mother, did not recognise for long the treasures of
simple chivalry that lay buried in the heart of his father. Yet
it would be an error to regard this marriage as unfortunate. It
not only lasted long enough to justify itself in a beautiful and
touching epilogue, but it gave to the world the scientific
work and what (while time was) were of far greater value, the
delightful qualities of Fleeming Jenkin. The Kentish-Welsh
family, facile, extravagant, generous to a fault and far from
brilliant, had given the father, an extreme example of its
humble virtues. On the other side, the wild, cruel, proud and
somewhat blackguard stock of the Scotch Campbell- Jackson s had
put forth, in the person of the mother, all its force and courage.
The marriage fell in evil days. In 1823, the bubble of the
Golden Aunt's inheritance had burst. She died holding the
hand of the nephew she had so wantonly deceived ; at the last
she drew him down and seemed to bless him, surely with some

xxvi MEMOIR

remorseful feeling ; for when the will was opened, there was not
found so much as the mention of his name. He was deeply in
debt ; in debt even to the estate of his deceiver, so that he had
to sell a piece of land to clear himself. ' My dear boy,' he said
to Charles, ' there will be nothing left for you. I am a ruined
man.' And here follows for me the strangest part of this story.
From the death of the treacherous aunt, Charles Jenkin senior
had still some nine years to live ; it was perhaps too late for
him to turn to saving, and perhaps his affairs were past resto-
ration. But his family at least had all this while to prepare ;
they were still young men, and knew what they had to look for
at their father's death ; and yet when that happened in Sep-
tember 1831, the heir was still apathetically waiting. Poor
Fleem- John, the days of his whips and spurs and Yeomanry dinners

ing's were quite over ; and with that incredible softness of the Jenkin

uncle

John. nature, he settled down, for the rest of a long life, into something

not far removed above a peasant. The mill farm at Stowting
had been saved out of the wreck ; and here he built himself a
house on the Mexican model, and made the two ends meet with
rustic thrift, gathering dung with his own hands upon the road
and not at all abashed at his employment. In dress, voice and
manner, he fell into mere country plainness ; lived without the
least care for appearances, the least regret for the past or dis-
contentment with the present ; and when he came to die, died
with Stoic cheerfulness, announcing that he had had a comfort-
able time and was yet well pleased to go. One would think there
was little active virtue to be inherited from such a race ; and
yet in this same voluntary peasant, the special gift of Fleeming
Jenkin was already half developed. The old man to the end
was perpetually inventing ; his strange, ill-spelled, unpunctuated
correspondence is full (when he does not drop into cookery re-
ceipts) of pumps, road engines, steam- diggers, steam-ploughs,
and steam-threshing machines ; and I have it on Fleeming's
word that what he did was full of ingenuity — only, as if by some
cross destiny, useless. These disappointments he not only took
with imperturbable good humour, but rejoiced with a particular
relish over his nephew's success in the same field. * I glory in

FLEEMINGS UNCLE JOHN xxvii

the professor,' he wrote to his brother ; and to Fleeming him-
self, with a touch of simple drollery, ' I was much pleased with
your lecture but why did you hit me so hard with Conisure's '
(connoisseur's, quasi amateur's) ' engineering ? Oh, what pre-
sumption ! — either of you or myself ! ' A quaint, pathetic figure,
this of uncle John, with his dung cart and his inventions ; and
the romantic fancy of his Mexican house ; and his craze about
the Lost Tribes, which seemed to the worthy man the key of all
perplexities ; and his quiet conscience, looking back on a life not
altogether vain, for he was a good son to his father while his
father lived, and when evil days approached, he had proved
himself a cheerful Stoic.

It followed from John's inertia, that the duty of winding
up the estate fell into the hands of Charles. He managed it
with no more skill than might be expected of a sailor ashore,
saved a bare livelihood for John and nothing for the rest.
Eight months later, he married Miss Jackson ; and with her
money, bought in some two-thirds of Stowting. In the beginning
of the little family history which I have been following to so
great an extent, the Captain mentions, with a delightful pride :
4 A Court Baron and Court Leet are regularly held by the Lady
of the Manor, Mrs. Henrietta Camilla Jenkin ; ' and indeed the
pleasure of so describing his wife, was the most solid benefit of
the investment ; for the purchase was heavily encumbered and
paid them nothing till some years before their death. In the
meanwhile, the Jackson family also, what with wild sons, an in-
dulgent mother and the impending emancipation of the slaves, was
moving nearer and nearer to beggary ; and thus of two doomed
and declining houses, the subject of this memoir was born, heir
to an estate and to no money, yet with inherited qualities that
were to make him known and loved.

VOL. I.

XXV111

MEMOIR

CHAPTER II.

1833-1851.

Birth and Childhood — Edinburgh — Frankfort -on-the-Main — Paris — The Revo-
lution of 1848 — The Insurrection — Flight to Italy — Sympathy with Italy
— The Insurrection in Genoa — A Student in Genoa — The Lad and his
Mother.

Birth and HENRY CHARLES FLEEMING JENKIN (Fleeming, pronounced Flem-
ming, to his friends and family) was born in a Government
building on the coast of Kent, near Dungeness, where his father
was serving at the time in the Coastguard, on March 25, 1833,
and named after Admiral Fleeming, one of his father's protectors
in the navy.

His childhood was vagrant like his life. Once he was left
in the care of his grandmother Jackson, while Mrs. Jenkin
sailed in her husband's ship and stayed a year at the Havannah.
The tragic woman was besides from time to time a member of
the family ; she was in distress of mind and reduced in fortune
by the misconduct of her sons ; her destitution and solitude made
it a recurring duty to receive her, her violence continually
enforced fresh separations. In her passion of a disappointed
mother, she was a fit object of pity ; but her grandson, who
heard her load his own mother with cruel insults and reproaches,
conceived for her an indignant and impatient hatred, for which
he blamed himself in later life. It is strange from this point of
view to see his childish letters to Mrs. Jackson ; and to think
that a man, distinguished above all by stubborn truthfulness,
should have been brought up to such dissimulation. But this
is of course unavoidable in life ; it did no harm to Jenkin ; and
whether he got harm or benefit from a so early acquaintance
with violent and hateful scenes, is more than I can guess. The

CHILDHOOD

XXIX

experience, at least, was formative ; and in judging his character
it should not be forgotten. But Mrs. Jackson was not the only
stranger in their gates ; the Captain's sister, Aunt Anna Jenkin,
lived with them until her death ; she had all the Jenkin beauty
of countenance, though she was unhappily deformed in body
and of frail health ; and she even excelled her gentle and
ineffectual family in all amiable qualities. So that each of the
two races from which Fleeming sprang, had an outpost by his
very cradle ; the one he instinctively loved, the other hated ;
and the lifelong war in his members had begun thus early by a
victory for what was best.

We can trace the family from one country place to another in
the south of Scotland ; where the child learned his taste for sport
by riding home the pony from the moors. Before he was nine, he
could write such a passage as this about a Hallowe'en observance :
1 1 pulled a middling-sized cabbage-runt with a pretty sum of
gold about it. No witches would run after me when I was
sowing my hempseed this year : my nuts blazed away together
very comfortably to the end of their lives and when mamma put
hers in which were meant for herself and papa they blazed away
in the like manner.' Before he was ten he could write, with a
really irritating precocity, that he had been ' making some
pictures from a book called " Les Francais peints par eux-
memes." ... It is full of pictures of all classes, with a descrip-
tion of each in French. The pictures are a little caricatured,
but not much.' Doubtless this was only an echo from his
mother, but it shows the atmosphere in which he breathed. It
must have been a good change for this art critic to be the play-
mate of Mary Macdonald, their gardener's daughter at Barjarg,
and to sup with her family on potatoes and milk ; and Fleeming
himself attached some value to this early and friendly experience
of another class.

His education, in the formal sense, began at Jedburgh. Edin-
Thence he went to the Edinburgh Academy, where Clerk Maxwell Frankfort,
was his senior and Tait his classmate ; bore away many prizes ;
and was once unjustly flogged by Rector Williams. He used
to insist that all his bad schoolfellows had died early, a belief

b2

xxx MEMOIR

.

amusingly characteristic of the man's consistent optimism. In
1846 the mother and son proceeded to Frankfort-on-the-Main,
where they were soon joined by the father, now reduced to
inaction and to play something like third fiddle in his narrow
household. The emancipation of the slaves had deprived them
of their last resource beyond the half-pay of a captain ; and life
abroad was not only desirable for the sake of Fleeming's educa-
tion, it was almost enforced by reasons of economy. But it
was, no doubt, somewhat hard upon the captain. Certainly
that perennial boy found a companion in his son ; they were
both active and eager, both willing to be amused, both young,
if not in years, then in character. They went out together on
excursions and sketched old castles, sitting side by side ; they
had an angry rivalry in walking, doubtless equally sincere upon
both sides ; and indeed we may say that Fleeming was excep-
tionally favoured, and that no boy had ever a companion more
innocent, engaging, gay and airy. But although in this case
it would be easy to exaggerate its import, yet, in the Jenkin
family also, the tragedy of the generations was proceeding, and
the child was growing out of his father's knowledge. His
artistic aptitude was of a different order. Already he had his
quick sight of many sides of life ; he already overflowed with
distinctions and generalisations, contrasting the dramatic art
and national character of England, Germany, Italy, and France.
If he were dull, he would write stories and poems. ' I have
written,' he says at thirteen, ' a very long story in heroic
measure, 300 lines, and another Scotch story and innumerable
bits of poetry ; ' and at the same age he had not only a keen
feeling for scenery, but could do something with his pen to call
it up. I feel I do always less than justice to the delightful
memory of Captain Jenkin ; but with a lad of this character,
cutting the teeth of his intelligence, he was sure to fall into the
background.

Paris. The family removed in 1847 to Paris, where Fleeming was

lution of Put to school under one Deluc. There he learned French, and

1848. ^jf £ne captain is right) first began to show a taste for mathe-

matics. But a far more important teacher than Deluc was at

THE REVOLUTION OF 1848 xxxi

hand ; the year 1848, so momentous for Europe, was momentous
also for Fleeming's character. The family politics were Liberal ;
Mrs. Jenkin, generous before all things, was sure to be upon
the side of exiles ; and in the house of a Paris friend of hers,
Mrs. Turner — already known to fame as Shelley's Cornelia de
Boinville — Fleemingsaw and heard such men as Manin, Gioberti,
and the Ruffinis. He was thus prepared to sympathise with
revolution ; and when the hour came, and he found himself in the
midst of stirring and influential events, the lad's whole character
was moved. He corresponded at that time with a young Edin-
burgh friend, one Frank Scott; and I am here going to draw
somewhat largely on this boyish correspondence. It gives us at
once a picture of the Revolution and a portrait of Jenkin at
fifteen ; not so different (his friends will think) from the Jenkin
of the end — boyish, simple, opinionated, delighting in action,
delighting before all things in any generous sentiment.

'February 23, 1848.

' When at 7 o'clock to-day I went out, I met a large band
going round the streets, calling on the inhabitants to illuminate
their houses, and bearing torches. This was all very good fun, and
everybody was delighted ; but as they stopped rather long and
were rather turbulent in the Place de la Madeleine, near where
we live ' [in the Rue Caumartin] ' a squadron of dragoons came
up, formed, and charged at a hand gallop. This was a very
pretty sight ; the crowd was not too thick, so they easily got
away ; and the dragoons only gave blows with the back of the
sword, which hurt but did not wound. I was as close to them
as I am now to the other side of the table ; it was rather
impressive, however. At the second charge they rode on the
pavement and knocked the torches out of the fellows' hands ;
rather a shame, too — wouldn't be stood in England. . . . '

[At] ' ten minutes to ten ... I went a long way along the
Boulevards, passing by the office of Foreign Affairs, where
Guizot lives, and where to-night there were about a thousand
troops protecting him from the fury of the populace. After
this was passed, the number of the people thickened, till about

xxxii MEMOIR

half a mile further on, I met a troop of vagabonds, the wildest
vagabonds in the world — Paris vagabonds, well armed, having
probably broken into gunsmiths' shops and taken the guns and
swords. They were about a hundred. These were followed by
about a thousand (I am rather diminishing than exaggerating
numbers all through), indifferently armed with rusty sabres,
sticks, &c. An uncountable troop of gentlemen, workmen,
shopkeepers' wives (Paris women dare anything), ladies' maids,
common women — in fact, a crowd of all classes, though by far
the greater number were of the better dressed class — followed.
Indeed, it was a splendid sight : the mob in front chanting the
" Marseillaise" the national war hymn, grave and powerful,
sweetened by the night air — though night in these splendid
streets was turned into day, every window was filled with lamps,
dim torches were tossing in the crowd . . . for Guizot has late
this night given in his resignation, and this was an improvised
illumination.

' I and my father had turned with the crowd, and were close
behind the second troop of vagabonds. Joy was on every face.
I remarked to papa that " I would not have missed the scene
for anything, I might never see such a splendid one," when
plong went one shot — every face went pale — r-r-r-r-r went the
whole detachment, [and] the whole crowd of gentlemen and
ladies turned and cut. Such a scene ! — ladies, gentlemen, and
vagabonds went sprawling in the mud, not shot but tripped up ;
and those that went down could not rise, they were trampled
over. . . I ran a short time straight on and did not fall, then
turned down a side street, ran fifty yards and felt tolerably safe ;
looked for papa, did not see him ; so walked on quickly, giving
the news as I went.' [It appears, from another letter, the boy
was the first to carry word of the firing to the Rue St. Honore ;
and that his news wherever he brought it was received with
hurrahs. It was an odd entrance upon life for a little English
lad, thus to play the part of rumour in such a crisis of the history
of France.]

' But now a new fear came over me. I had little doubt but
my papa was safe, but my fear was that he should arrive at

THE REVOLUTION OF 1848 xxxiii

home before me and tell the story ; in that case I knew my
mamma would go half mad with fright, so on I went as quick as
possible. I heard no more discharges. When I got half way
home, I found my way blocked up by troops. That way or
the Boulevards I must pass. In the Boulevards they were
fighting, and I was afraid all other passages might be blocked
up ... and I should have to sleep in a hotel in that case, and
then my mamma — however, after a long detour, I found a passage
and ran home, and in our street joined papa.

1 . . . I'll tell you to-morrow the other facts gathered from
newspapers and papa. . . . To-night I have given you what I
have seen with my own eyes an hour ago, and began trembling
with excitement and fear. If I have been too long on this one
subject, it is because it is yet before my eyes.

' Monday, 24.

' It was that fire raised the people. There was fighting all
through the night in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, on the
Boulevards where they had been shot at, and at the Porte St.
Denis. At ten o'clock, they resigned the house of the Minister
of Foreign Affairs (where the disastrous volley was fired) to
the people, who immediately took possession of it. I went
to school but [was] hardly there when the row in that quarter
commenced. Barricades began to be fixed. Everyone was
very grave now ; the externes went away, but no one came to
fetch me, so I had to stay. No lessons could go on. A troop
of armed men took possession of the barricades, so it was sup-
posed I should have to sleep there. The revolters came and
asked for arms, but Deluc (head-master) is a National Guard, and
he said he had only his own and he wanted them ; but he said
he would not fire on them. Then they asked for wine, which
he gave them. They took good care not to get drunk, know-
ing they would not be able to fight. They were very polite
and behaved extremely well.

c About 12 o'clock a servant came for a boy who lived near
me, [and] Deluc thought it best to send me with him. We
heard a good deal of firing near, but did not come across any of

xxxiv MEMOIR

the parties. As we approached the railway, the barricades were
no longer formed of palings, planks, or stones ; but they had
got all the omnibuses as they passed, sent the horses and pas-
sengers about their business, and turned them over. A double
row of overturned coaches made a capital barricade, with a few
paving stones.

' When I got home I found to my astonishment that in our
fighting quarter it was much quieter. Mamma had just been out
seeing the troops in the Place de la Concorde, when suddenly
the Municipal Guard, now fairly exasperated, prevented the
National Guard from proceeding, and fired at them ; the Na-
tional Guard had come with their musquets not loaded, but at
length returned the fire. Mamma saw the National Guard fire.
The Municipal Guard were round the corner. She was delighted
for she saw no person killed, though many of the Municipals
were. . . .

* 1 immediately went out with my papa (mamma had just
come back with him) and went to the Place de la Concorde. There
was an enormous quantity of troops in the Place. Suddenly the
gates of the gardens of the Tuileries opened : we rushed forward,
out gallopped an enormous number of cuirassiers, in the middle
of which were a couple of low carriages, said first to contain the
Count de Paris and the Duchess of Orleans, but afterwards they
said it was the King and Queen ; and then I heard he had ab-
dicated. I returned and gave the news.

' Went out again up the Boulevards. The house of the
Minister of Foreign Affairs was filled with people and " Hotel da
Peuple " written on it ; the Boulevards were barricaded with fine
old trees that were cut down and stretched all across the road.
We went through a great many little streets, all strongly barri-
caded, and sentinels of the people at the principal of them. The
streets are very unquiet, filled with armed men and women, for
the troops had followed the ex- King to Neuilly and left Paris in
the power of the people. We met the captain of the Third
Legion of the National Guard (who had principally protected the
people), badly wounded by a Municipal Guard, stretched on a
litter. He was in possession of his senses. He was surrounded

THE REVOLUTION OF 1848 xxxv

by a troop of men crying "Our brave captain — we have him yet
— he's not dead ! Vive la Reforme ! " This cry was responded to
by all, and every one saluted him as he passed. I do not know
if he was mortally wounded. That Third Legion has behaved
splendidly.

' I then returned, and shortly afterwards went out again to
the garden of the Tuileries. They were given up to the people
and the palace was being sacked. The people were firing blank
cartridge to testify their joy and they had a cannon on the top
of the palace. It was a sight to see a palace sacked and armed
vagabonds firing out of the windows, and throwing shirts, papers,
and dresses of all kinds out of the windows. They are not
rogues, these French ; they are not stealing, burning, or doing
much harm. In the Tuileries they have dressed up some
of the statues, broken some, and stolen nothing but queer
dresses. I say, Frank, you must not hate the French ; hate
the Germans if you like. The French laugh at us a little and
call out Goddam in the streets ; but to-day, in civil war, when
they might have put a bullet through our heads, I never was
insulted once.

' At present we have a provisional Government, consisting
of Odion [sic] Barrot, Lamartine, Marast, and some others ;
among them a common workman, but very intelligent. This is
a triumph of liberty — rather I

* Now then, Frank, what do you think of it ? I in a revolu-
tion, and out all day. Just think, what fun ! So it was at first,
till I was fired at yesterday ; but to-day I was not frightened, but
it turned me sick at heart, I don't know why. There has been
no great bloodshed, [though] I certainly have seen men's blood
several times. But there's something shocking to see a whole
armed populace, though not furious, for not one single shop has
been broken open, except the gunsmiths' shops, and most of the
arms will probably be taken back again. For the French have
no cupidity in their nature ; they don't like to steal — it is not in
their nature. I shall send this letter in a day or two, when
I am sure the post will go again. I know I have been a long
time writing, but I hope you will find the matter of this letter

xxxvi MEMOIR

interesting , as coming from a person resident on the spot ;
though probably you don't take much interest in the French, but

I can think, write, and speak on no other subject.

'Feb. 25.

( There is no more fighting, the people have conquered ; but
the barricades are still kept up, and the people are in arms, more
than ever fearing some new act of treachery on the part of
the ex-King. The fight where I was was the principal cause
of the Kevolution. I was in little danger from the shot, for
there was an immense crowd in front of me, though quite within
gunshot. [By another letter, a hundred yards from the troops.]
I wished I had stopped there.

4 The Paris streets are filled with the most extraordinaiy
crowds of men, women and children, ladies and gentlemen.
Every person joyful. The bands of armed men are perfectly
polite. Mamma and aunt to-day walked through armed crowds
alone, that were firing blank cartridge in all directions. Every
person made way with the greatest politeness, and one common
man with a blouse, coming by accident against her, immediately
stopped to beg her pardon in the politest manner. There are
few drunken men. The Tuileries is still being run over by the
people ; they only broke two things, a bust of Louis Philippe
and one of Marshal Bugeaud, who fired on the people. . . .

' I have been out all day again to-day, and precious tired I
am. The Republican party seem the strongest, and are going
about with red ribbons in their button-holes. . . .

' The title of " Mister " is abandoned ; they say nothing but
" Citizen," and the people are shaking hands amazingly. They
have got to the top of the public monuments, and, mingling
with bronze or stone statues, five or six make a sort of
tableau vivant, the top man holding up the red flag of the Re-
public ; and right well they do it, and very picturesque they
look. I think I shall put this letter in the post to-morrow as

we got a letter to-night.

(On Envelope.)

' M. Lamartine has now by his eloquence conquered the
whole armed crowd of citizens threatening to kill him if he did

THE REVOLUTION OF 1848 xxxvii

not immediately proclaim the Republic and red flag. He said he
could not yield to the citizens of Paris alone, that the whole
country must be consulted, that he chose the tricolour, for it
had followed and accompanied the triumphs of France all over
the world, and that the red flag had only been dipped in the
blood of the citizens. For sixty hours he has been quieting
the people : he is at the head of everything. Don't be pre-
judiced, Frank, by what you see in the papers. The French
have acted nobly, splendidly ; there has been no brutality,
plundering, or stealing. ... I did not like the French before ;
but in this respect they are the finest people in the world. I
am so glad to have been here.'

And there one could wish to stop with this apotheosis of
liberty and order read with the generous enthusiasm of a boy ;
but as the reader knows, it was but the first act of the piece.
The letters, vivid as they are, written as they were by a hand
trembling with fear and excitement, yet do injustice, in their
boyishness of tone, to the profound effect produced. At the
sound of these songs and shot of cannon, the boy's mind awoke.
He dated his own appreciation of the art of acting from the day
when he saw and heard Rachel recite the ' Marseillaise ' at the
Francais, the tricolor in her arms. What is still more strange,
he had been up to then invincibly indifferent to music, insomuch
that he could not distinguish ' God save the Queen ' from
' Bonnie Dundee ; ' and now, to the chanting of the mob, he
amazed his family by learning and singing ' Mourir pour la
Patrie.' But the letters, though they prepare the mind for no
such revolution in the boy's tastes and feelings, are yet full of
entertaining traits. Let the reader note Fleeming's eagerness
to influence his friend Frank, an incipient Tory (no less) as
further history displayed ; his unconscious indifference to his
father and devotion to his mother, betrayed in so many signi-
ficant expressions and omissions ; the sense of dignity of this
diminutive ' person resident on the spot,' who was so happy
as to escape insult ; and the strange picture of the household
— father, mother, son, and even poor Aunt Anna — all day in

xxxviii MEMOIR

the streets in the thick of this rough business, and the boy
packed off alone to school in a distant quarter on the very
morrow of the massacre.

They had all the gift of enjoying life's texture as it comes :
they were all born optimists. The name of liberty was honoured
in that family, its spirit also, but within stringent limits ; and
some of the foreign friends of Mrs. Jenkin were, as I have said,
men distinguished on the Liberal side. Like Wordsworth, they
beheld

France standing on the top of golden hours
And human nature seeming born again.

At once, by temper and belief, they were formed to find their
element in such a decent and whiggish convulsion, spectacular
in its course, moderate in its purpose. For them,

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven.

And I cannot but smile when I think that (again like Words-
worth) they should have so specially disliked the consequence.
The Insur- It came upon them by surprise. Liberal friends of the precise
right shade of colour had assured them, in Mrs. Turner's drawing-
room, that all was for the best ; and they rose on February
28 without fear. About the middle of the day they heard
the sound of musketry, and the next morning they were
wakened by the cannonade. The French who had behaved so
1 splendidly,' pausing, at the voice of Lamartine, just where
judicious Liberals could have desired — the French, who had ' no
cupidity in their nature,' were now about to play a variation on
the theme rebellion. The Jenkins took refuge in the house of
Mrs. Turner, the house of the false prophets, ' Anna going with
Mrs. Turner, that she might be prevented speaking English,
Fleeming, Miss H. and I ' (it is the mother who writes) c walking
together. As we reached the Kue de Clichy, the report of the
cannon sounded close to our ears and made our hearts sick, I
assure you. The fighting was at the barrier Rochechouart, a
few streets off. All Saturday and Sunday we were a prey to

THE PARIS INSURRECTION xxxix

great alarm, there came so many reports that the insurgents
were getting the upper hand. One could tell the state of affairs
from the extreme quiet or the sudden hum in the street. When
the news was bad, all the houses closed and the people disap-
peared ; when better, the doors half opened and you heard the
sound of men again. From the upper windows we could see
each discharge from the Bastille — I mean the smoke rising —
and also the flames and smoke from the Boulevard la Chapelle.
We were four ladies, and only Fleeming by way of a man, and
difficulty enough we had to keep him from joining the National
Guards — his pride and spirit were both fired. You cannot
picture to yourself the multitudes of soldiers, guards, and armed
men of all sorts we watched — -not close to the window, however,
for such havoc had been made among them by the firing from
the windows, that as the battalions marched by, they cried,
" Fermez vos fenetres ! " and it was very painful to watch their
looks of anxiety and suspicion as they marched by.'

'The Revolution,' writes Fleeming to Frank Scott, ' was
quite delightful : getting popped at and run at by horses, and
giving sous for the wounded into little boxes guarded by the
raggedest, picturesquest, delightful lest, sentinels ; but the in-
surrection ! ugh, I shudder to think at [sic] it.' He found it
1 not a bit of fun sitting boxed up in the house four days
almost. ... I was the only gentleman to four ladies, and didn't
they keep me in order ! I did not dare to show my face at
a window, for fear of catching a stray ball or being forced to
enter the National Guard ; [for] they would have it I was a man
full-grown, French, and every way fit to fight. And my mamma
was as bad as any of them ; she that told me I was a coward
last time if I stayed in the hou,se a quarter of an hour ! But I
drew, examined the pistols, of which I found lots with caps,
powder, and ball, while sometimes murderous intentions of
killing a dozen insurgents and dying violently overpowered by
numbers. . . .' We may drop this sentence here: under the
conduct of its boyish writer, it was to reach no legitimate end.

Four days of such a discipline had cured the family of Paris ; Flight to
the same year Fleeming was to write, in answer apparently to a

xl MEMOIR

question of Frank Scott's, f I could find no national game in France
but revolutions ; ' and the witticism was justified in their experi-
ence. On the first possible day, they applied for passports, and
were advised to take the road to Geneva. It appears it was scarce
safe to leave Paris for England. Charles Reade, with keen dra-
matic gusto, had just smuggled himself out of that city in the
bottom of a cab. English gold had been found on the insur-
gents, the name of England was in evil odour ; and it was thus
—for strategic reasons, so to speak — that Fleeming found him-
self on the way to that Italy where he was to complete his
education, and for which he cherished to the end a special
kindness.

Sympathy It was in Genoa they settled ; partly for the sake of the
with Italy. Captain5 Wh0 might there find naval comrades ; partly because
of the Ruffinis, who had been friends of Mrs. Jenkin in their
time of exile and were now considerable men at home ;
partly, in fine, with hopes that Fleeming might attend the Uni-
versity ; in preparation for which he was put at once to school.
It was the year of Novara ; Mazzini was in Rome ; the dry bones
of Italy were moving ; and for people of alert and liberal sympa-
thies the time was inspiriting. What with exiles turned Ministers
of State, universities thrown open to Protestants, Fleeming him-
self the first Protestant student in Genoa, and thus, as his
mother writes, ' a living instance of the progress of liberal
ideas ' — it was little wonder if the enthusiastic young woman
and the clever boy were heart and soul upon the side of Italy.
It should not be forgotten that they were both on their first
visit to that country ; the mother still ' child enough ' to be
delighted when she saw i real monks ; ' and both mother and
son thrilling with the first sight of snowy Alps, the blue Medi-
terranean, and the crowded port and the palaces of Genoa. Nor
was their zeal without knowledge. Ruffini, deputy for Genoa
and soon to be head of the University, was at their side ; and by
means of him the family appear to have had access to much
Italian society. To the end, Fleeming professed his admiration
of the Piedmontese and his unalterable confidence in the future
of Italy under their conduct ; for Victor Emanuel, Cavour, the

INSURRECTION OF GENOA xli

first La Marmora and Garibaldi, he had varying degrees of
sympathy and praise : perhaps highest for the King, whose good
sense and temper filled him with respect — perhaps least for
Garibaldi, whom he loved but yet mistrusted.

But this is to look forward : these were the days not of Victor
Emanuel but of Charles Albert ; and it was on Charles Albert
that mother and son had now fixed their eyes as on the sword-
bearer of Italy. On Fleeming's sixteenth birthday, they were,
the mother writes, ' in great anxiety for news from the army.
You can have no idea what it is to live in a country where such
a struggle is going on. The interest is one that absorbs all
others. We eat, drink, and sleep to the noise of drums and
musketry. You would enjoy and almost admire Fleeming's
enthusiasm and earnestness — and courage, I may say — for we
are among the small minority of English who side with the
Italians. The other day, at dinner at the Consul's, boy as he is,
and in spite of my admonitions, Fleeming defended the Italian
cause, and so well that he " tripped up the heels of his adversary "
simply from being well-informed on the subject and honest.
He is as true as steel, and for no one will he bend right or
left. . . . Do not fancy him a Bobadil,' she adds, ' he is only
a very true, candid boy. I am so glad he remains in all respects
but information a great child.'

If this letter is correctly dated, the cause was already lost Thelnsur-
and the King had already abdicated when these lines were written. Genoa.
No sooner did the news reach Genoa, than there began * tumul-
tuous movements ; ' and the Jenkins received hints it would be
wise to leave the city. But they had friends and interests ;
even the captain had English officers to keep him company, for
Lord Hardwicke's ship, the Vengeance, lay in port ; and suppos-
ing the danger to be real, I cannot but suspect the whole
family of a divided purpose, prudence being possibly weaker
than curiosity. Stay, at least, they did, and thus rounded
their experience of the revolutionary year. On Sunday, April 1,
Fleeming and the captain went for a ramble beyond the walls,
leaving Aunt Anna and Mrs. Jenkin to walk on the bastions
with some friends. On the way back, this party turned

xlii MEMOIR

aside to rest in the Church of the Madonna delle Grazie. f We
had remarked/ writes Mrs. Jenkin, ' the entire absence of
sentinels on the ramparts, and how the cannons were left in
solitary state ; and I had just remarked " How quiet everything
is ! " when suddenly we heard the drums begin to beat and
distant shouts. Accustomed as we are to revolutions, we never
thought of being frightened.' For all that, they resumed their
return home. On the way they saw men running and vociferat-
ing, but nothing to indicate a general disturbance, until, near
the Duke's palace, they came upon and passed a shouting mob
dragging along with it three cannon. It had scarcely passed
before they heard ' a rushing sound ' ; one of the gentlemen
thrust back the party of ladies under a shed, and the mob
passed again. A fine-looking young man was in their hands ;
and Mrs. Jenkin saw him with his mouth open as if he sought
to speak, saw him tossed from one to another like a ball, and
then saw him no more. ' He was dead a few instants after, but
the crowd hid that terror from us. My knees shook under me
and my sight left me.' With this street tragedy, the curtain
rose upon their second revolution.

The attack on Spirito Santo, and the capitulation and
departure of the troops speedily followed. Genoa was in the
hands of the Republicans, and now came a time when the English
residents were in a position to pay some return for hospitality
received. Nor were they backward. Our Consul (the same
who had the benefit of correction from Fleeming) carried the
Intendente on board the Vengeance, escorting him through the
streets, getting along with him on board a shore boat, and when
the insurgents levelled their muskets, standing up and naming
himself, ' Console Inglese.' A friend of the Jenkins, Captain
Glynne, had a more painful, if a less dramatic part. One
Colonel Nosozzo had been killed (I read) while trying to prevent
his own artillery from firing on the mob ; but in that hell's
cauldron of a distracted city, there were no distinctions made,
and the Colonel's widow was hunted for her life. In her grief
and peril, the Glynnes received and hid her ; Captain Glynne
sought and found her husband's body among the slain, saved it'

INSURRECTION OF GENOA xli

for two days, brought the widow a lock of the dead man's hair ;
but at last, the mob still strictly searching, seems to have
abandoned the body, and conveyed his guest on board the
Vengeance. The Jenkins also had their refugees, the family of
an employe threatened by a decree. ' You should have seen me
making a Union Jack to nail over our door,' writes Mrs. Jenkin.
' I never worked so fast in my life. Monday and Tuesday,' she
continues, ' were tolerably quiet, our hearts beating fast in the
hope of La Marmora's approach, the streets barricaded, and none
but foreigners and women allowed to leave the city.' On
Wednesday, La Marmora came indeed, but in the ugly form of
a bombardment ; and that evening the Jenkins sat without
lights about their drawing-room window, i watching the huge
red flashes of the cannon ' from the Brigato and La Specula
forts, and hearkening, not without some awful pleasure, to the
thunder of the cannonade.

Lord Hardwicke intervened between the rebels and La
Marmora ; and there followed a troubled armistice, filled with
the voice of panic. Now the Vengeance was known to be
cleared for action ; now it was rumoured that the galley slaves
were to be let loose upon the town, and now that the troops
would enter it by storm. Crowds, trusting in the Union Jack
over the Jenkins' door, came to beg them to receive their linen
and other valuables ; nor could their instances be refused ; and
in the midst of all this bustle and alarm, piles of goods must
be examined and long inventories made. At last the captain
decided things had gone too far. He himself apparently re-
mained to watch over the linen ; but at five o'clock on the Sunday
morning, Aunt Anna, Fleeming and his mother were rowed in
a pour of rain on board an English merchantman, to suffer ' nine
mortal hours of agonising suspense/ With the end of that
time, peace was restored. On Tuesday morning officers with
white flags appeared on the bastions ; then, regiment by regiment,
the troops marched in, two hundred men sleeping on the ground
floor of the Jenkins' house, thirty thousand in all entering the
city, but without disturbance, old La Marmora being a commander
of a Roman sternness.

VOL. i. c

xliv

MEMOIR

A student
in Genoa.

With the return of quiet, and the reopening of the uni-
versities, we behold a new character, Signor Flaminio : the
professors, it appears, made no attempt upon the Jenkin ; and
thus readily italianised the Fleeming. He came well recom-
mended ; for their friend Ruffini was then, or soon after, raised to
be the head of the University ; and the professors were very kind
and attentive, possibly to Ruffini's protege, perhaps also to the
first Protestant student. It was no joke for Signor Flaminio
at first ; * certificates had to be got from Paris and from Rector
Williams ; the classics must be furbished up at home that he
might follow Latin lectures ; examinations bristled in the path,
the entrance examination with Latin and English essay, and
oral trials (much softened for the foreigner) in Horace, Tacitus
and Cicero, and the first University examination only three
months later, in Italian eloquence, no less, and other wider
subjects. On one point the first Protestant student was moved
to thank his stars : that there was no Greek required for the
degree. Little did he think, as he set down his gratitude, how
much, in later life and among cribs and dictionaries, he was to
lament this circumstance ; nor how much of that later life he
was to spend acquiring, with infinite toil, a shadow of what he
might then have got with ease and fully. But if his Genoese
education was in this particular imperfect, he was fortunate in
the branches that more immediately touched on his career. The
physical laboratory was the best mounted in Italy. Bancalari,
the professor of natural philosophy, was famous in his day ;
by what seems even an odd coincidence, he went deeply into
electro-magnetism ; and it was principally in that subject that
Signor Flaminio, questioned in Latin and answering in Italian,
passed his Master of Arts degree with first-class honours.
That he had secured the notice of his teachers, one circumstance
sufficiently proves. A philosophical society was started under
ths presidency of Mamiani, ' one of the examiners and one of
the leaders of the Moderate party ; ' and out of five promising
students brought forward by the professors to attend the sittings
and present essays, Signor Flaminio was one. I cannot find that
he ever read an essay ; and indeed I think his hands were other-

AT GENOA xlv

wise too full. He found his fellow-students l not such a bad set of
chaps,' and preferred the Piedmontese before the Genoese ; but
I suspect he mixed not very freely with either. Not only were
his days filled with university work, but his spare hours were fully
dedicated to the arts under the eye of a beloved task-mistress.
He worked hard and well in the art school, where he obtained a
silver medal ' for a couple of legs the size of life drawn from one
of Raphael's cartoons.' His holidays were spent in sketching ;
his evenings, when they were free, at the theatre. Here at the
opera he discovered besides a taste for a new art, the art of
music ; and it was, he wrote, ' as if he had found out a heaven
on earth.' ' I am so anxious that whatever he professes to
know, he should really perfectly possess,' his mother wrote,
1 that I spare no pains ; ' neither to him nor to myself, she might
have added. And so when he begged to be allowed to learn
the piano, she started him with characteristic barbarity on the
scales ; and heard in consequence c heart-rending groans ' and
saw * anguished claspings of hands ' as he lost his way among
their arid intricacies.

In this picture of the lad at the piano, there is something, The lad
for the period, girlish. He was indeed his mother's boy ; and an<!jJ11rs
it was fortunate his mother was not altogether feminine. She
gave her son a womanly delicacy in morals, to a man's taste —
to his own taste in later life — too finely spun, and perhaps more
elegant than healthful. She encouraged him besides in drawing-
room interests. But in other points her influence was manlike.
Filled with the spirit of thoroughness, she taught him to make
of the least of these accomplishments a virile task ; and the
teaching lasted him through life. Immersed as she was in the
day's movements and buzzed about by leading Liberals, she
handed on to him her creed in politics : an enduring kindness
for Italy, and a loyalty, like that of many clever women, to the
Liberal party with but small regard to men or measures. This
attitude of mind used often to disappoint me in a man so fond
of logic ; but I see now how it was learned from the bright
eyes of his mother and to the sound of the cannonades of 1848.
To some of her defects, besides, she made him heir. Kind as

c 2

xlvi MEMOIR

was the bond that united her to her son, kind and even pretty,
she was scarce a woman to adorn a home ; loving as she did to
shine ; careless as she was of domestic, studious of public graces.
She probably rejoiced to see the boy grow up in somewhat of the
image of herself, generous, excessive, enthusiastic, external ;
catching at ideas, brandishing them when caught ; fiery for the
right, but always fiery ; ready at fifteen to correct a consul,
ready at fifty to explain to any artist his own art.

The defects and advantages of such a training were obvious
in Fleeming throughout life. His thoroughness was not that
of the patient scholar, but of an untrained woman with fits
of passionate study ; he had learned too much from dogma,
given indeed by cherished lips ; and precocious as he was in
the use of the tools of the mind, he was truly backward in
knowledge of life and of himself. Such as it was at least, his
home and school training was now complete ; and you are to
conceive the lad as being formed in a household of mengn?
revenue, among foreign surroundings, and under the influence
of an imperious drawing-room queen ; from whom he learned a
great refinement of morals, a strong sense of duty, much for-
wardness of bearing, all manner of studious and artistic interests,
and many ready-made opinions which he embraced with a son's
and a disciple's loyalty.

MRS. JENKIN

FROM A SKETCH TAKEN BY HER SON AT GENOA

xlvii

CHAPTER III.

1851-1858.

Return to England — Fleeming at Fairbairn's — Experience in a Strike — Dr.
Bell and Greek Architecture — The Gaskells — Fleeming at Greenwich—
The Austins — Fleeming and the Austins — His Engagement — Fleeming
and Sir W. Thomson.

IN 1851, the year of Aunt Anna's death, the family left Genoa Return to
and came to Manchester, where Fleeming was entered in Fair-
bairn's works as an apprentice. From the palaces and Alps,
the Mole, the blue Mediterranean, the humming lanes and the
bright theatres of Genoa, he fell — and he was sharply conscious
of the fall — to the dim skies and the foul ways of Manchester.
England he found on his return ' a horrid place,' and there is
no doubt the family found it a dear one. The story of the
Jenkin finances is not easy to follow. The family, I am told,
did not practise frugality, only lamented that it should be
needful ; and Mrs. Jenkin, who was always complaining of
' those dreadful bills,' was c always a good deal dressed.' But
at this time of the return to England, things must have gone
further. A holiday tour of a fortnight, Fleeming feared would
be beyond what he could afford, and he only projected it ' to
have a castle in the air.' And there were actual pinches. Fresh
from a warmer sun, he was obliged to go without a greatcoat,
and learned on railway journeys to supply the place of one with
wrappings of old newspaper.

From half-past eight till six, he must c file and chip vigorously Fleeming
in a moleskin suit and infernally dirty.' The work was not bairn>s>
new to him, for he had already passed some time in a Genoese
shop; and to Fleeming no work was without interest. What-
ever a man can do or know, he longed to know and do also.

xlviii MEMOIR

1 1 never learned anything/ he wrote, c not even standing on
my head, but I found a use for it.' In the spare hours of his
first telegraph voyage, to give an instance of his greed of
knowledge, he meant ' to learn the whole art of navigation,
every rope in the ship and how to handle her on any occasion ;
and once when he was shown a young lady's holiday collection
of seaweeds, he must cry out, ' It showed me my eyes had been
idle.' Nor was his the case of the mere literarv smatterer,

t/

content if he but learn the names of things. In him, to do and
to do well, was even a dearer ambition than to know. Any-
thing done well, any craft, despatch, or finish, delighted and
inspired him. I remember him with a twopenny Japanese box
of three drawers, so exactly fitted that, when one was driven
home, the others started from their places ; the whole spirit of
Japan, he told me, was pictured in that box ; that plain piece
of carpentry was as much inspired by the spirit of perfection as
the happiest drawing or the finest bronze and he who could
not enjoy it in the one was not fully able to enjoy it in the
others. Thus, too, he found in Leonardo's engineering and
anatomical drawings a perpetual feast ; and of the former he
spoke even with emotion. Nothing indeed annoyed Fleeming
more than the attempt to separate the fine arts from the arts of
handicraft ; any definition or theory that failed to bring these
two together, according to him, had missed the point ; and the
essence of the pleasure received lay in seeing things well done.
Other qualities must be added ; he was the last to deny that ;
but this, of perfect craft, was at the bottom of all. And on the
other hand, a nail ill-driven, a joint ill-fitted, a tracing clumsily
done, anything to which a man had set his hand and not set
it aptly, moved him to shame and anger. With such a
character, he would feel but little drudgery at Fairbairn's.
There would be something daily to be done, slovenliness to be
avoided, and a higher mark of skill to be attained ; he would
chip and file, as he had practised scales, impatient of his own
imperfection but resolute to learn.

And there was another spring of delight. For he was now
moving daily among those strange creations of man's brain, to

A T MA NCHES TER xlix

some so abhorrent, to him of an interest so inexhaustible : in
which iron, water and fire are made to serve as slaves, now
with a tread more powerful than an elephant's, and now with
a touch more precise and dainty than a pianist's. The taste
for machinery was one that I could never share with him, and
he had a certain bitter pity for my weakness. Once when I
had proved, for the hundredth time, the depth of this defect,
he looked at me askance : c And the best of the joke,' said he,
' is that he thinks himself quite a poet.' For to him the struggle
of the engineer against brute forces and with inert allies, was
nobly poetic. Habit never dulled in him the sense of the
greatness of the aims and obstacles of his profession. Habit
only sharpened his inventor's gusto in contrivance, in triumphant
artifice, in the Odyssean subtleties, by which wires are taught to
speak, and iron hands to weave, and the slender ship to brave
and to outstrip the tempest. To the ignorant the great results
alone are admirable ; to the knowing, and to Fleeming in
particular, rather the infinite device and sleight of mind that
made them possible.

A notion was current at the time that, in such a shop as
Fairbairn's. a pupil would never be popular unless he drank
with the workmen and imitated them in speech and manner.
Fleeming, who would do none of these things, they accepted as
a friend and companion ; and this was the subject of remark in
Manchester, where some memory of it lingers till to-day. He
thought it one of the advantages of his profession to be brought in
a close relation with the working classes ; and for the skilled arti-
san he had a great esteem, liking his company, his virtues and
his taste in some of the arts. But he knew the classes too well
to regard them, like a platform speaker, in a lump. He drew,
on the other hand, broad distinctions ; and it was his profound
sense of the difference between one working man and another
that led him to devote so much time, in later days, to the
furtherance of technical education. In 1852 he had occasion to Experi-
see both men and masters at their worst, in the excitement of a
strike ; and very foolishly (after their custom) both would seem to
have behaved. Beginning with a fair show of justice on either

1 MEMOIR

side, the masters stultified their cause by obstinate impolicy, and
the men disgraced their order by acts of outrage. ' On Wednes-
day last,' writes Fleeming, ' about three thousand banded round
Fairbairn's door at 6 o'clock : men, women, and children, factory
boys and girls, the lowest of the low in a very low place. Orders
came that no one was to leave the works ; but the men inside
(Knobsticks, as they are called) were precious hungry and
thought they would venture. Two of my companions and my-
self went out with the very first, and had the full benefit of every
possible groan and bad language,' But the police cleared a
lane through the crowd, the pupils were suffered to escape un-
hurt, and only the Knobsticks followed home and kicked with
clogs ; so that Fleeming enjoyed, as we may say, for nothing,
that fine thrill <of expectant valour with which he had sallied
forth into the mob, * I never before felt myself so decidedly
somebody, instead of nobody,' he wrote.

Dr. Bell Outside as inside the works, he was ' pretty merry and well

and Greek to do,' zealous in study, welcome to many friends, unwearied in
ture. loving- kindness to his mother. For some time he spent three

nights a week with Dr. Bell, ' working away at certain geo-
metrical methods of getting the Greek architectural proportions : '
a business after Fleeming's heart, for he was never so pleased
as when he could marry his two devotions, art and science. This
was besides, in all likelihood, the beginning of that love and
intimate appreciation of things Greek, from the least to the
greatest, from the Agamemnon (perhaps his favourite tragedy)
down to the details of Grecian tailoring, which he used to ex-
press in his familiar phrase : *' The Greeks were the boys.' Dr.
Bell — the son of George Joseph, the nephew of Sir Charles, and
though he made less use of it than some, a sharer in the dis-
tinguished talents of his race — had hit upon the singular fact
tfiat certain geometrical intersections gave the proportions of
the Doric order. Fleeming, under Dr. Bell's direction, applied
the same method to the other orders, and again found the pro-
portions accurately given. Numbers of diagrams were prepared ;
but the discovery was never given to the world, perhaps because
of the dissensions that arose between the authors. For Dr. Bell

AT MANCHESTER \\

believed that ' these intersections were in some way connected
with, or symbolical of, the antagonistic forces at work ; ' but his
pupil and helper, with characteristic trenchancy, brushed aside
this mysticism, and interpreted the discovery as c a geometrical
method of dividing the spaces or (as might be said) of setting
out the work, purely empirical and, in no way connected with
any laws of either force or beauty.' ' Many a hard and plea-
sant fight we had over it,' wrote Jenkin, in later years; ' and
impertinent as it may seem, the pupil is still unconvinced by
the arguments of the master.' I do not know about the anta-
gonistic forces in the Doric order ; in Fleeming they were plain
enough ; and the Bobadil of these affairs with Dr. Bell was still,
like the corrector of Italian consuls, ' a great child in everything
but information.' At the house of Colonel Cleather, he might be
seen with a family of children ; and with these, there was no word
of the Greek orders ; with these Fleeming was only an uproarious
boy and an entertaining draughtsman ; so that his coming was
the signal for the young people to troop into the playroom
where sometimes the roof rang with romping, and sometimes
they gathered quietly about him as he amused them with his
pencil.

In another Manchester family, whose name will be familiar ,

Gaskells.
to my readers — that of the Gaskells, Fleeming was a frequent

visitor. To Mrs. Gaskell, he would often bring his new ideas, a
process that many of his later friends will understand and, in
their own cases, remember. With the girls, he had ' constant
fierce wrangles,' forcing them to reason out their thoughts and
to explain their prepossessions; and I hear from Miss Gaskell
that they used to wonder how he could throw all the ardour of
his character into the smallest matters, andv to admire his un-
selfish devotion to his parents. Of one of these wrangles, I
have found a record most characteristic of the man. Fleeming
had been laying down his doctrine that the end justifies the
means, and that it is quite right ' to boast of your six men-
servants to a burglar or to steal a knife to prevent a murder ;
and the Miss Gaskells, with girlish loyalty to what is current,
had rejected the heresy with indignation. From such passages-

lii MEMOIR

at-arms, many retire mortified and ruffled ; but Fleeming had
no sooner left the house than he fell into delighted admiration
of the spirit of his adversaries. From that it was but a step to
ask himself ' what truth was sticking in their heads ; ' for even
the falsest form of words (in Fleeming's life-long opinion) re-
posed upon some truth, just as he could ' not even allow that
people admire ugly things, they admire what is pretty in the
ugly thing.' And before he sat down to write his letter, he
thought he had hit upon the explanation. ' I fancy the true
idea,' he wrote, l is that you must never do yourself or anyone
else a moral injury — make any man a thief or a liar — for any
end ; ' quite a different thing, as he would have loved to point
out, from never stealing or lying. But this perfervid disputant
was not always out of key with his audience. One whom he
met in the same house announced that she would never again
be happy. i What does that signify ? ' cried Fleeming. ' We
are not here to be happy but to be good.' And the words (as
his hearer writes to me) became to her a sort of motto during
life.

Fleeming From Fairbairn's and Manchester, Fleeming passed to a

at Green- raiiwav survey in Switzerland, and thence again to Mr. Penn's
at Greenwich, where he was engaged as draughtsman. There
in 1856, we find him in ' a terribly busy state, finishing up
engines for innumerable gun-boats and steam frigates for the
ensuing campaign.' From half-past eight in the morning till
nine or ten at night, he worked in a crowded office among un-
congenial comrades, ' saluted by chaff, generally low personal
and not witty,' pelted with oranges and apples, regaled with
dirty stories, and seeking to suit himself with his surroundings
or (as he writes it) trying to be as little like himself as possible.
His lodgings were hard by ' across a dirty green and through
some half-built streets of two storied houses ; ' he had Carlyle
and the poets, engineering and mathematics, to study by him-
self in such spare time as remained to him ; and there were
several ladies, young and not so young, with whom he liked to
correspond. But not all of these could compensate for the
absence of that mother, who had made herself so large a figure

AT GREENWICH liii

in his life, for sorry surroundings, unsuitable society, and work
that leaned to the mechanical. ' Sunday/ says he, ' I generally
visit some friends in town and seem to swim in clearer water,
but the dirty green seems all the dirtier when I get back.
Luckily I am fond of my profession, or I could not stand this
life.' It is a question in my mind, if he could have long con-
tinued to stand it without loss. ' We are not here to be happy,
but to be good,' quoth the young philosopher ; but no man had
a keener appetite for happiness than Fleeming Jenkin. There
is a time of life besides when, apart from circumstances, few
men are agreeable to their neighbours and still fewer to them-
selves ; and it was at this stage that Fleeming had arrived, later
than common and even worse provided. The letter from which
I have quoted is the last of his correspondence with Frank Scott,
and his last confidential letter to one of his own sex. ' If you
consider it rightly,' he wrote long after, ' you will find the want
of correspondence no such strange want in men's friendships.
There is, believe me, something noble in the metal which
does not rust though not burnished by daily use.' It is well
said ; but the last letter to Frank Scott is scarcely of a noble
metal. It is plain the writer has outgrown his old self, yet
not made acquaintance with the new. This letter from a busy
youth of three and twenty, breathes of seventeen : the sickening
alternations of conceit and shame, the expense of hope in
vacuo, the lack of friends, the longing after love ; the whole
world of egoism under which youth stands groaning, a voluntary
Atlas.

With Fleeming this disease was .never seemingly severe.
The very day before this (to me) distasteful letter, he had
written to Miss Bell of Manchester in a sweeter strain ; I do
not quote the one, I quote the other ; fair things are the best.
4 1 keep my own little lodgings,' he writes, ' but come up every
night to see mamma ' (who was then on a visit to London) ' if
not kept too late at the works ; and have singing lessons
once more, and sing " Donne I' amor e e scaltro pargoletto " ; and
think and talk about you ; and listen to mamma's projects de
Stowting. Everything turns to gold at her touch, she's a fairy

hv MEMOIR

and no mistake. We go on talking till I have a picture in my
head, and can hardly believe at the end that the original is
Stowting. Even you don't know half how good mamma is ;
in other things too, which I must not mention. She teaches
me how it is not necessary to be very rich to do much good. I
begin to understand that mamma would find useful occupation
and create beauty at the bottom of a volcano. She has little
weaknesses, but is a real generous-hearted woman, which I
suppose is the finest thing in the world.' Though neither mother
nor son could be called beautiful, they make a pretty picture ;
the ugly, generous, ardent woman weaving rainbow illusions;
the ugly, clear-sighted, loving son sitting at her side in one of
his rare hours of pleasure, half-beguiled, half-amused, wholly
admiring, as he listens. But as he goes home, and the fancy
pictures fade, and Stowting is once more burthened with debt,
and the noisy companions and the long hours of drudgery once
more approach, -no wonder if the dirty green seems all the
dirtier or if Atlas must resume his load.

But in healthy natures, this time of moral teething passes
quickly of itself, and is easily alleviated by fresh interests ; and
already, in the letter to Frank Scott, there are two words of
hope : his friends in London, his love for his profession. The
last might have saved him ; for he was erelong to pass into a
new sphere, where all his faculties were to be tried and exercised,
and his life to be filled with interest and effort. But it was not
left to engineering : another and more influential aim was to be
set before him. He must, in any case, have fallen in love ; in
any case, his love would have ruled his life ; and the ques-
tion -of choice was, for the descendant of two such families, a
thing of paramount importance. Innocent of the world, fiery,
generous, devoted as he was, the son of the wild Jacksons and
the facile Jenkins might have been led far astray. By one of
those partialities that fill men at once with gratitude and
wonder, his choosing was directed well. Or are we to say
that by a man's choice in marriage, as by a crucial merit, he
deserves his fortune ? One thing at least reason may discern :
that a man but partly chooses, he also partly forms, his help-

THE AUSTINS Iv

mate ; and he must in part deserve her, or the treasure is but
won for a moment to be lost. Fleeming chanced if you will (and
indeed all these opportunities are as ' random as blind man's
buff') upon a wife who was worthy of him; but he had the wit
to know it, the courage to wait and labour for his prize, and the
tenderness and chivalry that are required to keep such prizes
precious. Upon this point he has himself written well, as usual
with fervent optimism, but as usual (in his own phrase) with a
truth sticking in his head.

' Love,' he wrote, ' is not an intuition- of the person most
suitable to us, most required by us ; of the person with whom
life flowers and bears fruit. If this were so, the chances of our
meeting that person would be small indeed ; our intuition would
often fail ; the blindness of love would then be fatal as it is
proverbial. No, love works differently, and in its blindness lies
its strength. Man and woman, each strongly desires to be loved?
each opens to the other that heart of ideal aspirations which
they have often hid till then ; each, thus knowing the ideal of
the other, tries to fulfil that ideal, each partially succeeds. The
greater the love, the greater the success ; the nobler the idea
of each, the more durable, the more beautiful the effect. Mean-
while the blindness of each to the other's defects enables the
transformation to proceed [unobserved,] so that when the veil is
withdrawn (if it ever is, and this I do not know) neither knows
that any change has occurred in the person whom they loved.
Do not fear, therefore. I do not tell you that your friend will
not change, but as I am sure that her choice cannot be that of
a man with a base ideal, so I am sure the change will be a safe
and a good one. Do not fear that anything you love will vanish,
he must love it too.'

Among other introductions in London, Fleeming had pre- The
sented a letter from Mrs. Gaskell to the Alfred Austins. This Austms-
was a family certain to interest a thoughtful young man.
Alfred, the youngest and least known of the Austins, had been
a beautiful golden-haired child, petted and kept out of the way
of both sport and study by a partial mother. Bred an attorney,
he had (like both his brothers) changed his way of life, and

Ivi MEMOIR

was called to the bar when past thirty. A Commission of
Enquiry into the state of the poor in Dorsetshire gave him an
opportunity of proving his true talents ; and he was appointed
a Poor Law Inspector, first at Worcester, next at Manchester,
where he had to deal with the potato famine and the Irish im-
migration of the 'forties, and finally in London, where he again
distinguished himself during an epidemic of cholera. He was
then advanced to the Permanent Secretaryship of Her Majesty's
Office of Works and Public Buildings ; a position which he filled
with perfect competence, but with an extreme of modesty ; and on
his retirement, in 1868, he was made a Companion of the Bath.
While apprentice to a Norwich attorney, Alfred Austin was a
frequent visitor in the house of Mr. Barren, a rallying place in
those days of intellectual society. Edward Barron, the son of a
rich saddler or leather merchant in the Borough, was a man
typical of the time. When he was a child, he had once been
patted on the head in his father's shop by no less a man than
Samuel Johnson, as the Doctor went round the Borough can-
vassing for Mr. Thrale ; and the child was true to this early
consecration. 'A life of lettered ease spent in provincial retire-
ment,' it is thus that the biographer of that remarkable man,
William Taylor announces his subject ; and the phrase is equally
descriptive of the life of Edward Barron. The pair were close
friends : ' W. T. and a pipe render everything agreeable,' writes
Barron in his diary in 1828 ; and in 1833, after Barron had
moved to London and Taylor had tasted the first public failure
of his powers, the latter wrote : ' To my ever dearest Mr. Barron
say, if you please, that I miss him more than I regret him—
that I acquiesce in his retirement from Norwich, because I
could ill brook his observation of my increasing debility of mind.'
This chosen companion of William Taylor must himself have
been no ordinary man ; and he was the friend besides of Borrow,
whom I find him helping in his Latin. But he had no desire
for popular distinction, lived privately, married a daughter of
Dr. Enfield of Enfield's Speaker, and devoted his time to the
education of his family, in a deliberate and scholarly fashion,
and with certain traits of stoicism, that would surprise a mo-

THE AUSTINS Ivii

dern. From these children we must single out his youngest
daughter, Eliza, who learned under his care to be a sound Latin,
an elegant Grecian, and to suppress emotion without outward
sign after the manner of the Godwin school. This was the
more notable, as the girl really derived from the Enfields ;
whose high-flown romantic temper, I wish I could find space to
illustrate. She was but seven years old, when Alfred Austin re-
marked and fell in love with her ; and the union thus early
prepared was singularly full. Where the husband and wife
differed, and they did so on momentous subjects, they differed
with perfect temper and content ; and in the conduct of life,
and in depth and durability of love, they were at one. Each full
of high spirits, each practised something of the same repression :
no sharp word was uttered in their house. The same point of
honour ruled them : a guest was sacred and stood within the
pale from criticism. It was a house, besides, of unusual in-
tellectual tension. Mrs. Austin remembered, in the early days
of the marriage, the three brothers, John, Charles and Alfred,
marching to and fro, each with his hands behind his back, and
' reasoning high ' till morning ; and how, like Dr. Johnson, they
would cheer their speculations with as many as fifteen cups of
tea. And though, before the date of Fleeming's visit, the
brothers were separated, Charles long ago retired from the
world at Brandeston, and John already near his end in the
' rambling old house ' at Weybridge, Alfred Austin and his wife
were still a centre of much intellectual society, and still, as
indeed they remained until the last, youthfully alert in mind.
There was but one child of the marriage, Anne, and she was her-
self something new for the eyes of the young visitor ; brought
up, as she had been, like her mother before her, to the standard
of a man's acquirements. Only one art had she been denied,
she must not learn the violin — the thought was too monstrous
even for the Austins ; and indeed it would seem as if that tide
of reform which we may date from the days of Mary Wollstone-
craft had in some degree even receded; for though Miss Austin
was suffered to learn Greek, the accomplishment was kept secret
like a piece of guilt. But whether this stealth was caused by

Iviii MEMOIR

a backward movement in public thought since the time of Edward
Barron, or by the change from enlightened Norwich to barbarian
London, I have no means of judging.

Fleeming When Fleeming presented his letter, he fell in love afc first

and the sight with Mrs. Austin and the life and atmosphere of the house.
There was in the society of the Austins, outward, stoical con-
formers to the world, something gravely suggestive of essential
eccentricity, something unpretentiously breathing of intellectual
effort, that could not fail to hit the fancy of this hot-brained boy.
The unbroken enamel of courtesy, the self-restraint, the dignified
kindness of these married folk, had besides a particular attrac-
tion for their visitor. He could not but compare what he saw,
with what he knew of his mother and himself. Whatever
virtues Fleeming possessed, he could never count on being civil ;
whatever brave, true-hearted qualities he was able to admire in
Mrs, Jenkin, mildness of demeanour was not one of them. And
here he found persons who were the equals of his mother and
himself in intellect and width of interest, and the equals of his
father in mild urbanity of disposition. Show Fleeming an
active virtue, and he always loved it. He went away from that
house struck through with admiration, and vowing to himself
that his own married life should be upon that pattern, his
wife (whoever she might be) like Eliza Barron, himself such
another husband as Alfred Austin. What is more strange, he
not only brought away, but left behind him, golden opinions.
He must have been — he was, I am told — a trying lad ; but
there shone out of him such a light of innocent candour, enthu-
siasm, intelligence and appreciation,' that to persons already
some way forward in years, and thus able to enjoy indulgently
the perennial comedy of youth, the sight of him was delightful.
By a pleasant coincidence, there was one person in the house
whom he did not appreciate and who did not appreciate him :
Anne Austin, his future wife. His boyish vanity ruffled her ;
his appearance, never impressive, was then, by reason of ob-
trusive boyishness, still less so ; she found occasion to put him
in the wrong by correcting a false quantity ; and when Mr.
Austin, after doing his visitor the almost unheard-of honour

FLEEMING^S ENGAGEMENT lix

of accompanying him to the door, announced ' That was what Fleem
young men were like in my time ' — she could only reply, looking
on her handsome father, ' I thought they had been better
looking.'

This first visit to *the Austins took place in 1855; and it
seems it was some time before Fleeming began to know his mind ;
and yet longer ere he ventured to show it. The corrected
quantity, to those who knew him well, will seem to have
played its part ; he was the man always to reflect over a correc-
tion and to admire the castigator. And fall in love he did ;
not hurriedly but step by step, not blindly but with critical
discrimination ; not in the fashion of Romeo, but before he was
done, with all Romeo's ardour and more than Romeo's faith.
The high favour to which he presently rose in the esteem of
Alfred Austin and his wife, might well give him ambitious
notions ; but the poverty of the present and the obscurity of
the future were there to give him pause ; and when his aspi-
rations began to settle round Miss Austin, he tasted, perhaps
for the only time in his life, the pangs of diffidence. There
was indeed opening before him a wide door of hope. He had
changed into the service of Messrs. Liddell & Gordon ; these
gentlemen had begun to dabble in the new field of marine
telegraphy ; and Fleeming was already face to face with his
life's work. That impotent sense of his own value, as of a
ship aground, which makes one of the agonies of youth, began
to fall from him. New problems which he was endowed to solve,
vistas of new enquiry which he was fitted to explore, opened
before him continually. His gifts had found their avenue and
goal. And with this pleasure of effective exercise, there must
have sprung up at once the hope of what is called by the
world success. But from these low beginnings, it was a far look
upward to Miss Austin : the favour of the loved one seems
always more than problematical to any lover; the consent
of parents must be always more than doubtful to a young
man with a small salary and no capital except capacity and hope.
But Fleeming was not the lad to lose any good thing for the lack
of trial ; and at length, in the autumn of 1857, this boyish-sized,

VOL. i. d

Ix MEMOIR

boyish-mannered and superlatively ill-dressed young engineer,
entered the house of the Austins, with such sinkings as we may
fancy, and asked leave to pay his addresses to the daughter.
Mrs. Austin already loved him like a son, she was but too glad
to give him her consent; Mr. Austin reserved the right to
inquire into his character ; from neither was there a word about
his prospects, by neither was his income mentioned. ' Are
these people,' he wrote, struck with wonder at this dignified
disinterestedness, l are these people the same as other people ? '
It was not till he was armed with this permission, that Miss
Austin even suspected the nature of his hopes : so strong, in
this unmannerly boy, was the principle of true courtesy ; so
powerful, in this impetuous nature, the springs of self-repression.
And yet a boy he was ; a boy in heart and mind ; and it was
with a boy's chivalry and frankness that he won his wife. His
conduct was a model of honour, hardly of tact ; to conceal love
from the loved one, to court her parents, to be silent and dis-
creet till these are won, and then without preparation to ap-
proach the lady — these are not arts that I would recommend
for imitation. They lead to final refusal. Nothing saved
Fleeming from that fate, but one circumstance that cannot be
counted upon — the hearty favour of the mother, and one gift
that is inimitable and that never failed him throughout life, the
gift of a nature essentially noble and outspoken. A happy and
high-minded anger flashed through his despair : it won for him
his wife.

Nearly two years passed before it was possible to marry :
two years of activity, now in London ; now at Birkenhead,
fitting out ships, inventing new machinery for new purposes,
and dipping into electrical experiment ; now in the Elba on his
first telegraph cruise between Sardinia and Algiers : a busy
and delightful period of bounding ardour, incessant toil, grow-
ing hope and fresh interests, with behind and through all, the
image of his beloved. A few extracts, from his correspondence
with his betrothed will give the note of these truly joyous years.
1 My profession gives me all the excitement and interest I ever
hope for, but the sorry jade is obviously jealous of you/-

•SYff WILLIAM THOMSON Ixi

•' " Poor Fleeming," in spite of wet, cold and wind, clambering
over moist, tarry slips, wandering among pools of slush in
waste places inhabited by wandering locomotives, gi*ows visibly
stronger, has dismissed his office cough and cured his tooth-
ache.'— ' The whole of the paying out and lifting machinery
must be designed and ordered in two or three days, and I am
half crazy with work. I like it though : it's like a good ball,
the excitement carries you through.' — ' I was running to and
from the ships and warehouse through fierce gusts of rain and
wind till near eleven, and you cannot think what a pleasure it
was to be blown about and think of you in your pretty dress.' —
' I am at the works till ten and sometimes till eleven. But 1
have a nice office to sit in, with a fire to myself, and bright
brass scientific instruments all round me, and books to read,
and experiments to make, and enjoy myself amazingly. I find
the study of electricity so entertaining that I am apt to neglect
my other work.' And for a last taste, ' Yesterday I had some
charming electrical experiments. What shall I compare them
to — a new song ? a Greek play ? '

It was at this time besides that he made the acquaintance Fleeming
of Professor, now Sir William, Thomson. To describe the part Thomson
played by these two in each other's lives would lie out of my way.
They worked together on the Committee on Electrical Standards ;
they served together at the laying down or the repair of many
deep-sea cables ; and Sir William was regarded by Fleeming,
not only with the ' worship ' (the word is his own) due to great
scientific gifts, but with an ardour of personal friendship not
frequently excelled. To their association, Fleeming brought
the valuable element of a practical understanding ; but he never
thought or spoke of himself where Sir William was in question ;
and I recall quite in his last days, a singular instance of this
modest loyalty to one whom he admired and loved. He drew
up a paper, in a quite personal interest, of his own services ;
yet even here he must step out of his way, he must add, where
it had no claim to be added, his opinion that, in their joint work,
the contributions of Sir William had been always greatly the
most valuable. Again, I shall not readily forget with what

d2

Ixii MEMOIR

emotion lie once told me an incident of their associated travels.
On one of the mountain ledges of Madeira, Fleeming's pony bolted
between Sir William and the precipice above ; by strange good
fortune and thanks to the steadiness of Sir William's horse,
no harm was done ; but for the moment, Fleeming saw his
friend hurled into the sea, and almost by his own act : it was a
memory that haunted him.

Ixiii

CHAPTER IV.

1859-1868.

Fleeming's Marriage — His Married Life — Professional Difficulties — Life at
Claygate — Illness of Mrs. F. Jenkin — and of Fleeming — Appointment to
the Chair at Edinburgh.

ON Saturday, Feb. 26, 1859, profiting by a holiday of four days, Fleem-
Fleeming' was married to Miss Austin at Northiam : a place J

*- in tirr it*y c,

connected not only with his own family but with that of his
bride as well. By Tuesday morning, he was at work again,
fitting out cableships at Birkenhead. Of the walk from his
lodgings to the works, I find a graphic sketch in one of his
letters : ' Out over the railway bridge, along a wide road raised
to the level of a ground floor above the land, which, not being
built upon, harbours puddles, ponds, pigs, and Irish hovels ; — so
to the dock warehouses, four huge piles of building with no
windows, surrounded by a wall about twelve feet high ; — in
through the large gates, round which hang twenty or thirty
rusty Irish, playing pitch and toss and waiting for employment ;
— on along the railway, which came in at the same gates and
which branches down between each vast block — past a pilot-
engine butting refractory trucks into their places — on to the
last block, [and] down the branch, sniffing the guano-scented
air and detecting the old bones. The hartshorn flavour of the
guano becomes very strong, as I near the docks where, across
the Mbas decks, a huge vessel is discharging her cargo of the
brown dust, and where huge vessels have been discharging that
same cargo for the last five months.' This was the walk he
took his young wife on the morrow of his return. She had
been used to the society of lawyers and civil servants, moving
in that circle which seems to itself the pivot of the nation and

Ixiv MEMOIR

is in truth only a clique like another ; and Fleeming was to her
the nameless assistant of a nameless firm of engineers, doing
his inglorious business, as she now saw for herself, among
unsavoury surroundings. But when their walk brought them
within view of the river, she beheld a sight to her of the most
novel beauty : four great, sea-going ships dressed out with flags.
c How lovely ! ' she cried. ' What is it for ? ' — ' For you,' said
Fleeming. Her surprise was only equalled by her pleasure.
But perhaps, for what we may call private fame, there is no
life like that of the engineer ; who is a great man in out of the
way places, by the dockside or on the desert island or in populous
ships, and remains quite unheard of in the coteries of London
And Fleeming had already made his mark among the few who
had an opportunity of knowing him.

His His marriage was the one decisive incident of his career ; from

life that moment until the day of his death, he had one thought to

which all the rest were tributary, the thought of his wife.
No one could know him even slightly, and not remark the ab-
sorbing greatness of that sentiment ; nor can any picture of the
man be drawn that does not in proportion dwell upon it. This
is a delicate task ; but if we are to leave behind us (as we wish)
some presentment of the friend we have lost, it is a task that
must be undertaken.

For all his play of mind and fancy, for all his indulgence — and,
as time went on, he grew indulgent — Fleeming had views of duty
that were even stern. He was too shrewd a student of his
fellow men to remain long content with rigid formulge of con-
duct. Iron-bound, impersonal ethics, the procrustean bed of
rules, he soon saw at their true value as the deification of aver-
ages. i As to Miss (I declare I forget her name) being bad,' I
find him writing, ' people only mean that she has broken the
Decalogue — which is not at all the same thing. People who
have kept in the high road of Life really have less opportunity
for taking a comprehensive view of it than those who have leaped
over the hedges and strayed up the hills ; not but what the hedges
are very necessary, and our stray travellers often have a weary
time of it. So, you may say, have those in the dusty roads.

MARRIED LIFE Ixv

Yet he was himself a very stern respecter of the hedgerows ; sought
safety and found dignity in the obvious path of conduct ; and
would palter with no simple and recognised duty of his epoch.
Of marriage in particular, of the bond so formed, of the obliga-
tions incurred, of the debt men owe to their children, he con-
ceived in a truly antique spirit : not to blame others, but to
constrain himself. It was not to blame, I repeat, that he held
these views ; for others, he could make a large allowance ; and
yet he tacitly expected of his friends and his wife a high stan-
dard of behaviour. Nor was it always easy to wear the armour
of that ideal.

Acting upon these beliefs ; conceiving that he had indeed ' given
himself ' (in the full meaning of these words) for better, for worse ;
painfully alive to his defects of temper and deficiency in charm ;
resolute to make up for these ; thinking last of himself : Fleeming
was in some ways the very man to have made a noble, uphill
fight of an unfortunate marriage. In other ways, it is true he
was one of the most unfit for such a trial. And it was his
beautiful destiny to remain to the last hour the same absolute
and romantic lover, who had shown to his new bride the flag-
draped vessels in the Mersey. No fate is altogether easy ; but
trials are our touchstone, trials overcome our reward ; and it was
given to Fleeming to conquer. It was given to him to live for
another, not as a task, but till the end as an enchanting plea-
sure. ' People may write novels,' he wrote in 1869, i and other
people may write poems, but not a man or woman among them
can write to say how happy a man may be, who is desperately
in love with his wife after ten years of marriage.' And again
in 1885, after more than twenty-six years of marriage, and
within but five weeks of his death : ' Your first letter from
Bournemouth,' he wrote, c gives me heavenly pleasure — for which
I thank Heaven and you too — who are my heaven on earth.' The
mind hesitates whether to say that such a man has been more
good or more fortunate.

Any woman (it is the defect of her sex) comes sooner to the
stable mind of maturity than any man ; and Jenkin was to the
end of a most deliberate growth. In the next chapter, when I

Ixvi MEMOIR

come to deal with his telegraphic voyages and give some taste
of his correspondence, the reader will still find him at twenty-
five an arrant schoolboy. His wife besides was more thoroughly
educated than he. In many ways she was able to teach him,
and he proud to be taught ; in many ways she outshone
him, and he delighted to be outshone. All these superiori-
ties, and others that, after the manner of lovers, he no doubt
forged for himself, added as time went on to the humility of his
original love. Only once, in all I know of his career, did he
show a touch of smallness. He could not learn to sing correctly ;
his wife told him so and desisted from her lessons ; and the mor-
tification was so sharply felt that for years he could not be in-
duced to go to a concert, instanced himself as a typical man
without an ear, and never sang again. I tell it ; for the fact
that this stood singular in his behaviour, and really amazed all
who knew him, is the happiest way I can imagine to commend
the tenor of his simplicity ; and because it illustrates his feeling
for his wife. Others were always welcome to laugh at him ; if
it amused them, or if it amused him, he would proceed undis-
turbed with his occupation, his vanity invulnerable. With his
wife it was different : his wife had laughed at his singing ; and
for twenty years the fibre ached. Nothing, again, was more
notable than the formal chivalry of this unmannered man to the
person on earth with whom he was the most familiar. He was
conscious of his own innate and often rasping vivacity and
roughness ; and he was never forgetful of his first visit to the
Austins and the vow he had registered on his return. There
was thus an artificial element in his punctilio that at times
might almost raise a smile. But it stood on noble grounds ; for
this was how he sought to shelter from his own petulance the
woman who was to him the symbol of the household and to the
end the beloved of his youth.

Pro- I wish in this chapter to chronicle small beer ; taking a

fessional hasty glance at some ten years of married life and of professional

culties. struggle ; arid reserving till the next all the more interesting

matter of his cruises. Of his achievements and their worth, it

is not for me to speak : his friend and partner, Sir William

PROFESSIONAL DIFFICULTIES Ixvii

Thomson, has contributed a note on the subject, which will be
found in the Appendix and to which I must refer the reader. He
is to conceive in the meanwhile for himself Fleeming's manifold
engagements : his service on the Committee on Electrical Stan-
dards, his lectures on electricity at Chatham, his chair at the
London University, his partnership with Sir William Thomson
and Mr. Varley in many ingenious patents, his growing credit
with engineers and men of science ; and he is to bear in mind
that of all this activity and acquist of reputation, the immediate
profit was scanty. Soon after his marriage, Fleeming had left
the service of Messrs Liddell & Gordon, and entered into a
general engineering partnership with Mr. Forde, a gentleman
in a good way of business. It was a fortunate partnership in
this, that the parties retained their mutual respect unlessened
and separated with regret ; but men's affairs, like men, have
their times of sickness, and by one of these unaccountable
variations, for hard upon ten years the business was disap-
pointing and the profits meagre. ' Inditing drafts of German
railways which will never get made : ' it is thus I find Fleeming,
not without a touch of bitterness, describe his occupation. Even
the patents hung fire at first. There was no salary to rely on ;
children were coming and growing up ; the prospect was often
anxious. In the days of his courtship, Fleeming had written
to Miss Austin a dissuasive picture of the trials of poverty,
assuring her these were no figments but truly bitter to support ;
he told her this, he wrote, beforehand, so that when the pinch
came and she suffered, she should not be disappointed in her-
self nor tempted to doubt her own magnamimity : a letter of
admirable wisdom and solicitude. But now that the trouble
came, he bore it very lightly. It was his principle, as he once
prettily expressed it, ' to enjoy each day's happiness, as it arises,
like birds or children.' His optimism, if driven out at the door,
would come in again by the window ; if it found nothing but
blackness in the present, would hit upon some ground of con-
solation in the future or the past. And his courage and energy
were indefatigable. In the year 1863, soon after the birth of
their first son, they moved into a cottage at Claygate near

Ixviii MEMOIR

Esher ; and about this time, under manifold troubles both oi
money and health, I find him writing from abroad : ' The
country will give us, please God, health and strength. I will
love and cherish you more than ever, you shall go where you
wish, you shall receive whom you wish — and as for money you
shall have that too. I cannot be mistaken. I have now
measured myself with many men. I do not feel weak, I do not
feel that I shall fail. In many things I have succeeded, and I
will in this. And meanwhile the time of waiting, which, please
Heaven, shall not be long, shall also not be so bitter. Well,
well, I promise much, and do not know at this moment how
you and the dear child are. If he is but better, courage, my
girl, for I see light.'

Life at This cottage at Clay gate, stood just without the village, well

surrounded with trees and commanding a pleasant view. A
piece of the garden was turfed over to form a croquet green, and
Fleeming became (I need scarce say) a very ardent player.
He grew ardent, too, in gardening. This he took up at first to
please his wife, having no natural inclination ; but he had no
sooner set his hand to it, than like everything else he touched
it became with him a passion. He budded roses, he potted cut-
tings in the coach-house ; if there came a change of weather at
night, he would rise out of bed to protect his favourites ; when
he was thrown with a dull companion, it was enough for him to
discover in the man a fellow gardener ; on his travels, he would
go out of his way to visit nurseries and gather hints ; and to
the end of his life, after other occupations prevented him putting
his own hand to the spade, he drew up a yearly programme for
his gardener, in which all details were regulated. He had
begun by this time to write. His paper on Darwin, which had
the merit of convincing on one point the philosopher himself,
had indeed been written before this in London lodgings ; but
his pen was not idle at Claygate ; and it was here he wrote
(among other things) that review of ' Fecundity, Fertility, Ste-
rility, and Allied Topics,' which Dr. Matthews Duncan prefixed
by way of introduction to the second edition of the work. The
mere act of writing seems to cheer the vanity of the most

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FLEEMING JENKIN

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FROM A SKETCH BY HIMSELF

CLAYGATE Ixix

incompetent ; but a correction accepted by Darwin, and a whole
review borrowed and reprinted by Matthews Duncan, are com-
pliments of a rare strain, and to a man still unsuccessful must
have been precious indeed. There was yet a third of the same
kind in store for him ; and when Munro himself owned that
he had found instruction in the paper on Lucretius, ws may say
that Fleeming had been crowned in the oapitol of reviewing.

Croquet, charades, Christmas magic lanterns for the village
children, an amateur concert or a review article in the evening ;
plenty of hard work by day ; regular visits to meetings of the
British Association, from one of which I find him characteristi-
cally writing : ' I cannot say that I have had any amusement
yet, but I am enjoying the dulness and dry bustle of the whole
thing ' ; occasional visits abroad on business, when he would
find the time to glean (as I have said) gardening hints for him-
self, and old folksongs or new fashions of dress for his wife ;
and the continual study and care of his children : these were the
chief elements of his life. Nor were friends wanting. Captain
and Mrs. Jenkin, Mr. and Mrs. Austin, Clerk Maxwell, Miss Bell
of Manchester, and others came to them on visits. Mr. Hertslet
of the Foreign Office, his wife and his daughter, were neighbours
and proved kind friends; in 1867 the Howitts came to Clay gate
and sought the society of ' the two bright, clever young
people ' ; l and in a house close by Mr. Frederick Ricketts
came to live with his family. Mr. Ricketts was a valued friend
during his short life ; and when he was lost with every circum-
stance of heroism in the La Plata, Fleeming mourned him
sincerely.

I think I shall give the best idea of Fleeming in this time Letters
of his early married life, by a few sustained extracts from his ciaygate.
letters to his wife, while she was absent on a visit in 1864.

1 Nov. 11. — Sunday was too wet to walk to Isleworth, for
which I was sorry, so I staid and went to Church and thought
of you at Ardwick all through the Commandments, and heard

Dr. , expound in a remarkable way a prophecy of St.

Paul's about Roman Catholics, which mutatis mutandis would
1 Reminiscences of My Later Life:, by Mary Howitt, Good Words, May 1886.

Ixx MEMOIR

do very well for Protestants in some parts. Then I made a
little nursery of Borecole and Enfield market cabbage, grubbing
in wet earth with leggings and gray coat on. Then I tidied up
the coach-house to my own and Christine's admiration. Then
encouraged by bouts-rimes I wrote you a copy of verses ; high
time I think ; I shall just save my tenth year of knowing my
lady love without inditing poetry or rhymes to her.

' Then I rummaged over the box with my father's letters and
found interesting notes from myself. One I should say my first
letter, which little Austin I should say would rejoice to see and
shall see — with a drawing of a cottage and a spirited " cob."
What was more to the purpose, I found with it a paste-cutter
which Mary begged humbly for Christine and I generously gave
this morning,

' Then I read some of Congreve. There are admirable scenes
in the manner of Sheridan ; all wit and no character, or rather
one character in a great variety of situations and scenes. I
could show you some scenes, but others are too coarse even for
my stomach hardened by a course of French novels.

' All things look so happy for the rain.

1 Nov. 16. — Verbenas looking well. ... I am but a poor
creature without you ; I have naturally no spirit or fun or enter-
prise in me. Only a kind of mechanical capacity for ascertaining
whether two really is half four, etc. ; but when you are near me
I can fancy that I too shine, and vainly suppose it to be my
proper light ; whereas by my extreme darkness when you are
not by, it clearly can only be by a reflected brilliance that I
seem aught but dull. Then for the moral part of me : if it
were not for you and little Odden, I should feel by no means
sure that I had any affection power in me. . . . Even the
muscular me suffers a sad deterioration in your absence. I
don't get up when I ought to, I have snoozed in my chair after
dinner ; I do not go in at the garden with my wonted vigour, and
feel ten times as tired as usual with a walk in your absence ; so
you see, when you are not by, I am a person without ability,
affections or vigour, but droop dull, selfish and spiritless ; can
you wonder that I love you ?

CLAYGATE Ixxi

' Nov. 17. — . . . I am very glad we married young. I would
not have missed these five years, no, not for any hopes ; they
are my own.

' Nov. 30. — I got through my Chatham lecture very fairly
though almost all my apparatus went astray. I dined at the
mess, and got home to Isleworth the same evening ; your father
very kindly sitting up for me.

1 Dec. 1. — Back at dear Claygate. Many cuttings flourish,
especially those which do honour to your hand. Your Cali-
fornian annuals are up and about. Badger is fat, the grass
green. . . .

* Dec. 3. — Odden will not talk of you, while you are away,
having inherited, as I suspect, his father's way of declining to
consider a subject which is painful, as your absence is. ... I
certainly should like to learn Greek and I think it would be a
capital pastime for the long winter evenings. . . . How things
are misrated ! I declare croquet is a noble occupation compared
to the pursuits of business men. As for so-called idleness — that
is, one form of it — I vow it is the noblest aim of man. When
idle, one can love, one can be good, feel kindly to all, devote
oneself to others, be thankful for existence, educate one's mind,
one's heart, one's body. When busy, as I am busy now or have
been busy to-day, one feels just as you sometimes felt when
you were too busy, owing to want of servants.

' Dec. 5. — On Sunday I was at Isleworth, chiefly engaged
in playing with Odden. We had the most enchanting walk
together through the brickfields. It was very muddy, and, as
he remarked, not fit for Nanna, but fit for us men. The dreary
waste of bared earth, thatched sheds and standing water, was a
paradise to him ; and when we walked up planks to deserted
mixing and crushing mills, and actually saw where the clay
was stirred with long iron prongs, and chalk or lime ground
with ' a tind of a mill,' his expression of contentment and
triumphant heroism knew no limit to its beauty. Of course on
returning I found Mrs. Austin looking out at the door in an
anxious manner, and thinking we had been out quite long
enough. ... I am reading Don Quixote chiefly and am his

Ixxii

MEMOIR

Illness of

Mrs.

Jenkin.

And of
Fleeming.

fervent admirer, but I am so sorry he did not place his affections
on a Dulcinea of somewhat worthier stamp. In fact I think
there must be a mistake about it. Don Quixote might and
would serve his lady in most preposterous fashion, but I am
sure he would have chosen a lady of merit. He imagined her
to be such no doubt, and drew a charming picture of her
occupations by the banks of the river ; but in his other imagina-
tions, there was some kind of peg on which to hang the false
costumes he created ; windmills are big, and wave their arms
like giants ; sheep in the distance are somewhat like an army ;
a little boat on the river-side must look much the same whether
enchanted or belonging to millers ; but except that Dulcinea is
a woman, she bears no resemblance at all to the damsel of his
imagination.'

At the time of these letters, the oldest son only was born to
them. In September of the next year, with the birth of the
second, Charles Frewen, there befell Fleeming a terrible alarm
and what proved to be a lifelong misfortune. Mrs. Jenkin was
taken suddenly and alarmingly ill ; Fleeming ran a matter of
two miles to fetch the doctor, and drenched with sweat as he
was, returned with him at once in an open gig. On their arrival
at the house, Mrs. Jenkin half unconsciously took and kept
hold of her husband's hand. By the doctor's orders, windows
and doors were set open to create a thorough draught, and the
patient was on no account to be disturbed. Thus, then, did
Fleeming pass the whole of that night, crouching on the floor
in the draught, and not daring to move lest he should wake the
sleeper. He had never been strong; energy had stood him
instead of vigour ; and the result of that night's exposure was
flying rheumatism varied by settled sciatica. Sometimes it quite
disabled him, sometimes it was less acute ; but he was rarely
free from it until his death, I knew him for many years ;
for more than ten we were closely intimate ; I have lived with
him for weeks ; and during all this time, he only once referred
to his infirmity and then perforce, as an excuse for some trouble
he put me to, and so slightly worded that I paid no heed. This
is a good measure of his courage under sufferings of which none

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Jftc- ??• tfh

THE CHILDREN

FROM A LETTER WFviTTEN AT CLAYOATE

FAREWELL TO CLAYGATE Ixxiii

but the untried will think lightly. And I think it worth noting
how this optimist was acquainted with pain. It will seem
strange only to the superficial. The disease of pessimism springs
never from real troubles, which it braces men to bear, which it
delights men to bear well. Nor does it readily spring at all, in
minds that have conceived of life as a field of ordered duties,
not as a chase in which to hunt for gratifications. ' We are not
here to be happy but to be good ' ; I wish he had mended the
phrase : ' We are not here to be happy, but to try to be good,'
comes nearer the modesty of truth. With such old-fashioned
morality, it is possible to get through life, and see the worst of it,
and feel some of the worst of it, and still acquiesce piously and
even gladly in man's fate. Feel some of the worst of it, I say ;
for some of the rest of the worst is, by this simple faith, excluded.

It was in the year 1868, that the clouds finally rose. The Hi.s aP~

i • • i •» • -n i i -i-i i pomtment

business in partnership with Mr. ± orde began suddenly to pay to the

well ; about the same time the patents showed themselves a S?da.ir at
valuable property ; and but a little after, Fleeming was appointed burgh,
to the new chair of engineering in the University of Edinburgh.
Thus, almost at once, pecuniary embarrassments passed for ever
out of his life. Here is his own epilogue to the time at Clay-
gate, and his anticipations of the future in Edinburgh.

' . . . The dear old house at Claygate is not let and the
pretty garden a mass of weeds. I feel rather as if we had
behaved unkindly to them. We were very happy there, but
now that it is over I am conscious of the weight of anxiety as
to money which I bore all the time. With you in the garden,
with Austin in the coach-house, with pretty songs in the little
low white room, with the moonlight in the dear room upstairs,
ah, it was perfect ; but the long walk, wondering, pondering,
fearing, scheming, and the dusty jolting railway, and the horrid
fusty office with its endless disappointments, they are well gone.
It is well enough to fight and scheme and bustle about in the
eager crowd here [in London] for a while now and then, but not
for a lifetime. What I have now is just perfect. Study for
winter, action for summer, lovely country for recreation, a plea-
sant town for talk.

Ixxiv MEMOIR

CHAPTER V.

NOTES OF TELEGRAPH VOYAGES, 1858 TO 1873.

BUT it is now time to see Jenkin at his life's work. I have
before me certain imperfect series of letters written, as he says,
' at hazard, for one does not know at the time what is important
and what is not ' : the earlier addressed to Miss Austin, after the
betrothal ; the later to Mrs. Jenkin the young wife. I should pre-
mise that I have allowed myself certain editorial freedoms, leaving
out and splicing together, much as he himself did with the Bona
cable : thus edited the letters speak for themselves, and will
fail to interest none who love adventure or activity. Addressed
as they were to her whom he called his ( dear engineering pupil,'
they give a picture of his work so clear that a child may under-
stand, and so attractive that I am half afraid their publication
may prove harmful, and still further crowd the ranks of a pro-
fession already overcrowded. But their most engaging quality
is the picture of the writer ; with his indomitable self-confidence
and courage, his readiness in every pinch of circumstance or
change of plan, and his ever fresh enjoyment of the whole web
of human experience, nature, adventure, science, toil and rest,
society and solitude. It should be borne in mind that the writer
of these buoyant pages was, even while he wrote, harassed by re-
sponsibility, stinted in sleep and often struggling with the pros-
tration of sea-sickness. To this last enemy, which he never
overcame, I have omitted, in my search after condensation, a good
many references ; if they were all left, such was the man's temper,
they would not represent one hundredth part of what he suffered,
for he was never given to complaint. But indeed he had met this

THE AFRICAN CABLE Ixxv

ugly trifle, as he met every thwart circumstance of life, with a
certain pleasure of pugnacity ; and suffered it not to check him,
whether in the exercise of his profession or the pursuit of
amusement.

I.

•Birkenhead: April 18, 1858.

' Well, you should know, Mr. having a contract to lay

down a submarine telegraph from Sardinia to Africa failed three
times in the attempt. The distance from land to land is about
140 miles. On the first occasion, after proceeding some 70
miles, he had to cut the cable — the cause I forget ; he tried
again, same result ; then picked up about 20 miles of the lost
cable, spliced on a new piece, and very nearly got across that
time, but ran short of cable, and when but a few miles off Galita
in very deep water, had to telegraph to London for more cable
to be manufactured and sent out whilst he tried to stick to the
end : for five days, I think, he lay there sending and receiving
messages, but heavy weather coming on, the cable parted and
Mr. went home in despair — at least I should think so.

1 He then applied to those eminent engineers, B,. S. Newall
& Co., who made and laid down a cable for him last autumn—
Fleeming Jenkin (at the time in considerable mental agitation)
having the honour of fitting out the Elba for that purpose.'
[On this occasion, the Elba has no cable to lay ; but] ' is going
out in the beginning of May to endeavour to fish up the cables

Mr. lost. There are two ends at or near the shore : the

third will probably not be found within 20 miles from land.
One of these ends will be passed over a very big pulley or sheave
at the bows, passed six times round a big barrel or drum ; which
will be turned round by a steam engine on deck, and thus wind
up the cable, while the Elba slowly steams ahead. The cable is
not wound round and round the drum as your silk is wound on
its reel, but on the contrary never goes round more than six
times, going off at one side as it comes on at the other, and
going down into the hold of the Elba to be coiled along in a big
coil or skein.

VOL. I. e

Ixxvi MEMOIR

1 1 went down to Gateshead to discuss with Mr. Newall the
form which this tolerably simple idea should take, and have been
busy since I came here drawing, ordering and putting up the
machinery — uninterfered with, thank goodness, by anyone. I
own I like responsibility ; it natters one and then, your father
might say, I have more to gain than to lose. Moreover I do
like this bloodless, painless combat with wood and iron, forcing
the stubborn rascals to do my will, licking the clumsy cubs into
an active shape, seeing the child of to-day's thought working
to-morrow in full vigour at his appointed task.

• May 12.

c By dint of bribing, bullying, cajoling, and going day by
day to see the state of things ordered, all my work is very
nearly ready now ; but those who have neglected these pre-
cautions are of course disappointed. Five hundred fathoms of

chain [were] ordered by some three weeks since, to be

ready by the 10th without fail; he sends for it to-day — 150
fathoms all they can let us have by the 15th — and how the
rest is to be got, who knows ? He ordered a boat a month
since and yesterday we could see nothing of her but the keel
and about two planks. I could multiply instances without end.
At first one goes nearly mad with vexation at these things ;
but one finds so soon that they are the rule, that then it becomes
necessary to feign a rage one does not feel. I look upon it as
the natural order of things, that if I order a thing, it will not
be done — if by accident it gets done, it will certainly be done
wrong : the only remedy being to watch the performance at
every stage.

' To-day was a grand field day. I had steam up and tried
the engine against pressure or resistance. One part of the
machinery is driven by a belt or strap of leather. I always
had my doubts this might slip ; and so it did, wildly. I had
made provision for doubling it, putting on two belts instead of
one. No use — off they went, slipping round and off the pulleys
instead of driving the machinery. Tighten them — no use.
More strength there — down with the lever — smash something,
tear the belts, but get them tight — now then, stand clear, on

THE ELBA SAILS Ixxvii

with the steam ; — and the belts slip away as if nothing held
them. Men begin to look queer ; the circle of quidnuncs make
sage remarks. Once more — no use. I begin to know I ought
to feel sheepish and beat, but somehow I feel cocky instead. I
laugh and say " Well, I am bound to break something down " —
and suddenly see. " Oho, there's the place ; get weight on
there, and the belt won't slip." With much labour, on go the
belts again. " Now then, a spar thro' there and six men's
weight on ; mind you're not carried away." — " Ay, ay, sir."
But evidently no one believes in the plan. " Hurrah, round
she goes — stick to your spar. All right, shut off steam." And
the difficulty is vanquished.

1 This or such as this (not always quite so bad) occurs hour
after hour, while five hundred tons of coal are rattling down
into the holds and bunkers, riveters are making their infernal
row all round, and riggers bend the sails and fit the rigging : —
a sort of Pandemonium, it appeared to young Mrs. Newall, who
was here on Monday and half-choked with guano ; but it suits

the likes o' me.

• S.S. Elba, River Mersey : May 17.

' We are delayed in the river by some of the ship's papers
not being ready. Such a scene at the dock gates. Not a sailor
will join till the last moment ; and then, just as the ship forges
ahead through the narrow pass, beds and baggage fly on board,
the men half tipsy clutch at the rigging, the captain swears,
the women scream and sob, the crowd cheer and laugh, while
one or two pretty little girls stand still and cry outright, regard-
less of all eyes.

' These two days of comparative peace have quite set me on
my legs again. I was getting worn and weary with anxiety
and work. As usual I have been delighted with my shipwrights.
I gave them some beer on Saturday, making a short oration.
To-day when they went ashore and I came on board, they gave
three cheers, whether for me or the ship I hardly know, but I
had just bid them good-bye, and the ship was out of hail ; but
I was startled and hardly liked to claim the compliment by

acknowledging it.

e 2

Ixxviii MEMOIR

'S.S. Elba: May 25.

1 My first intentions of a long journal have been fairly frus-
trated by sea-sickness. On Tuesday last about noon we started
from the Mersey in very dirty weather, and were hardly out of
the river when we met a gale from the south-west and a heavy
sea, both right in our teeth ; and the poor Elba had a sad
shaking. Had I not been very sea-sick, the sight would have
been exciting enough, as I sat wrapped in my oilskins on the
bridge ; [but] in spite of all my efforts to talk, to eat and to
grin, I soon collapsed into imbecility ; and I was heartily thank-
ful towards evening to find myself in bed.

4 Next morning, I fancied it grew quieter and, as I listened,
heard, " Let go the anchor," whereon I concluded we had run
into Holyhead Harbour, as was indeed the case. All that day
we lay in Holyhead, but I could neither read nor write nor
draw. The captain of another steamer which had put in came
on board, and we all went for a walk on the hill ; and in the
evening there was an exchange of presents. We gave some
tobacco I think, and received a cat, two pounds of fresh butter,
a Cumberland ham, Westward Ho ! and Thackeray's English
Humourists. I was astonished at receiving two such fair
books from the captain of a little coasting screw. Our captain
said he [the captain of the screw] had plenty of money, five
or six hundred a year at least. — "What in the world makes him
go rolling about in such a craft, then ?"• — " Why, I fancy he's
reckless ; he's desperate in love with that girl I mentioned,
and she won't look at him." Our honest, fat, old captain says
this very grimly in his thick, broad voice.

' My head won't stand much writing yet, so I will run up
and take a look at the blue night sky off the coast of Portugal.

' May 26.

4 A nice lad of some two and twenty, A by name, goes

out in a nondescript capacity as part purser, part telegraph
clerk, part generally useful person. A was a great com-
fort during the miseries [of the gale] ; for when with a dead

THE VOYAGE Ixxix

head wind and a heavy sea, plates, books, papers, stomachs
were being rolled about in sad confusion, we generally managed
to lie on our backs, and grin, and try discordant staves of the
Flowers of the Forest and the Low-backed Car. We could sing

and laugh, when we could do nothing else ; though A was

ready to swear after each fit was past, that that was the first
time he had felt anything, and at this moment would declare in
broad Scotch that he'd never been sick at all, qualifying the oath
with " except for a minute now and then." He brought a cornet-
a-piston to practise on, having had three weeks' instructions
on that melodious instrument ; and if you could hear the horrid
sounds that come ! especially at heavy rolls. When I hint he
is not improving, there comes a confession : "I don't feel quite
right yet, you see ! " But he blows away manfully, and in self-
defence I try to roar the tune louder.

'11.30P.M.

c Long past Cape St. Vincent now. We went within about
400 yards of the cliffs and lighthouse in a calm moonlight, with
porpoises springing from the sea, the men crooning long
ballads as they lay idle on the forecastle and the sails flapping
uncertain on the yards. As we passed, there came a sudden
breeze from land, hot and heavy scented ; and now as I write
its warm rich flavour contrasts strongly with the salt air we
have been breathing.

' I paced the deck with H , the second mate, and in the

quiet night drew a confession that he was engaged to be married,
and gave him a world of good advice. He is a very nice, active,
little fellow, with a broad Scotch tongue and <c dirty, little rascal "
appearance. He had a sad disappointment at starting. Having
been second mate on the last voyage, when the first mate was
discharged, he took charge of the Elba all the time she was in
port, and of course looked forward to being chief mate this
trip. Liddell promised him the post. He had not authority to
do this ; and when Newall heard of it, he appointed another

man. Fancy poor H having told all the men and most of

all, his sweetheart ! But more remains behind ; for when it

Ixxx MEMOIR

came to signing articles, it turned out that 0 , the new first

mate, had not a certificate which allowed him to have a second
mate. Then came rather an affecting scene. For H- - pro-
posed to sign as chief (he having the necessary higher certificate)
but to act as second for the lower wages. At first 0— - would
not give in but offered to go as second. But our brave little

H said, no : " The owners wished Mr. 0 to be chief

mate, and chief mate he should be." So he carried the day,
signed as chief and acts as second. Shakespeare and Byron are
his favourite books. I walked into Byron a little, but can well
understand his stirring up a rough, young sailor's romance. I
lent him Westward Ho from the cabin ; but to my astonish-
ment he did not care much for it ; he said it smelt of the shilling
railway library ; perhaps I had praised it too highly. Scott is
his standard for novels. I am very happy to find good taste by
no means confined to gentlemen, H— - having no pretensions
to that title. He is a man after my own heart.

1 Then I came down to the cabin and heard young A 's

schemes for the future. His highest picture is a commission in
the Prince of Vizianagram's irregular horse. His eldest bro-
ther is tutor to his Highness's children, and grand vizier, and
magistrate, and on his Highness's household staff, and seems
to be one of those Scotch adventurers one meets with and hears
of in queer berths — raising cavalry, building palaces, and_ using
some petty Eastern king's long purse with their long Scotch
heads.

' Off Bona : June 4.

* I read your letter carefully, leaning back in a Maltese boat
to present the smallest surface of my body to a grilling sun, and
sailing from the Elba to Cape Hamrah about three miles distant.
How we fried and sighed ! At last, we reached land under
Fort Genova, and I was carried ashore pick-a-back, and plucked
the first flower I saw for Annie. It was a strange scene, far
more novel than I had imagined : the high, steep banks covered
with rich, spicy vegetation of which I hardly knew one plant.
The dwarf palm with fan-like leaves, growing about two feet
high, formed the staple of the verdure. As we brushed through

FORT GENOVA Ixxx

them, the gummy leaves of a cistus stuck to the clothes ; and with
its small white flower and yellow heart, stood for our English
dog-rose. In place of heather, we had myrtle and lentisque
with leaves somewhat similar. That large bulb with long flat
leaves ? Do not touch it if your hands are cut ; the Arabs use
it as blisters for their horses. Is that the same sort? No,
take that one up ; it is the bulb of a dwarf palm, each layer of
the onion peels off, brown and netted, like the outside of a cocoa-
nut. It is a clever plant that ; from the leaves we get a
vegetable horsehair ; — and eat the bottom of the centre spike.
All the leaves you pull have the same aromatic scent. But here
a little patch of cleared ground shows old friends, who seem to
cling by abused civilisation : — fine, hardy thistles, one of them
bright yellow, though ; — honest, Scotch-looking, large daisies or
gowans ; — potatoes here and there, looking but sickly ; and dark
sturdy fig-trees looking cool and at their ease in the burning
sun.

' Here we are at Fort Geneva, crowning the little point, a
small old building, due to my old Genoese acquaintance who
fought and traded bravely once upon a time. A broken
cannon of theirs forms the threshold ; and through a dark, low
arch, we enter upon broad terraces sloping to the centre, from
which rain water may collect and run into that well. Large-
breeched French troopers lounge about and are most civil ; and
the whole party sit down to breakfast in a little white-washed
room, from the door of which the long, mountain coastline and
the sparkling sea show of an impossible blue through the open-
ings of a white-washed rampart. I try a sea-egg, one of those
prickly fellows — sea-urchins, they are called sometimes; the
shell is of a lovely purple, and when opened, there are rays of
yellow adhering to the inside ; these I eat, but they are very
fishy.

' We are silent and shy of one another, and soon go out to
watch while turbaned, blue-breeched, bare-legged Arabs dig
holes for the land telegraph posts on the following principle :
one man takes a pick and bangs lazily at the hard earth ; when a
little is loosened, his mate with a small spade lifts it on one side ;

Ixxxii MEMOIR

and da capo. They have regular features and look quite in
place among the palms. Our English workmen screw the
earthenware insulators on the posts, strain the wire, and order
Arabs about by the generic term of Johnny. I find W- - has
nothing for me to do ; and that in fact no one has anything to
do. Some instruments for testing have stuck at Lyons, some
at Cagliari ; and nothing can be done — or at any rate, is done.
I wander about, thinking of you and staring at big, green grass-
hoppers— locusts, some people call them — and smelling the rich
brushwood. There was nothing for a pencil .to sketch, and I
soon got tired of this work, though I have paid willingly much
money for far less strange and lovely sights.

' Off Cape Spartivento: June 8.

( At two this morning, we left Oagliari ; at five cast anchor
here. I got up and began preparing for the final trial ; and
shortly afterwards everyone else of note on board went ashore
to make experiments on the state of the cable, leaving me with
the prospect of beginning to lift at 12 o'clock. I was not ready
by that time; but the experiments were not concluded and
moreover the cable was found to be imbedded some four or five
feet in sand, so that the boat could not bring off the end. At
three, Messrs. Liddell, &c., came on board in good spirits,
having found two wires good or in such a state as permitted
messages to be transmitted freely. The boat now went to
grapple for the cable some way from shore while the Elba
towed a small lateen craft which was to take back the consul to
Cagliari some distance on its way. On our return we found the
boat had been unsuccessful ; she was allowed to drop astern,
while we grappled for the cable in the Elba [without more
success]. The coast is a low mountain range covered with
brushwood or heather — pools of water and a sandy beach at their
feet. I have not yet been ashore, my hands having been very
full all day.

' June 9.

f Grappling for the cable outside the bank had been voted too
uncertain ; [and the day was spent in] efforts to pull the cable

THE CABLE HOOKED Ixxxiii

off through the sand which has accumulated over it. By getting
the cable tight on to the boat, and letting the swell pitch her
about till it got slack, and then tightening again with blocks and
pulleys, we managed to get out from the beach towards the ship
at the rate of about twenty yards an hour. When they had got
about 100 yards from shore, we ran round in the Elba to
try and help them, letting go the anchor in the shallowest
possible water, this was about sunset. Suddenly someone
calls out he sees the cable at the bottom : there it was sure
enough, apparently wriggling about as the waves rippled. Great
excitement ; still greater when we find our own anchor is foul
of it and has been the means of bringing it to light. We let
go a grapnel, get the cable clear of the anchor on to the grapnel
— the captain in an agony lest we should drift ashore meanwhile
— hand the grappling line into the big boat, steam out far
enough, and anchor again. A little more work and one end of
the cable is up over the bows round my drum. I go to my
engine and we start hauling in. All goes pretty well, but it is
quite dark. Lamps are got at last, and men arranged. We go
on for a quarter of a mile or so from shore and then stop at
about half-past nine with orders to be up at three. Grand
work at last ! A number of the Saturday Review here ; it reads
so hot and feverish, so tomblike and unhealthy, in the midst of
dear Nature's hills and sea, with good wholesome work to do.
Pray that all go well to-morrow.

'June 10.

4 Thank heaven for a most fortunate day. At three o'clock
this morning in a damp, chill mist all hands were roused to
work. With a small delay, for one or two improvements I
had seen to be necessary last night, the engine started and since
that time I do not think there has been half an hour's stoppage.
A rope to splice, a block to change, a wheel to oil, an old rusted
anchor to disengage from the cable which brought it up, these
have been our only obstructions. Sixty, seventy, eighty, a
hundred, a hundred and twenty revolutions at last, my little
engine tears away. The even black rope comes straight out of

Ixxxiv MEMOIR

the blue heaving water ; passes slowly round an open-hearted,
good-tempered looking pulley, five feet diameter ; aft past a
vicious nipper, to bring all up should anything go wrong ; through
a gentle guide ; on to a huge bluff drum, who wraps him round
his body and says " Come you must," as plain as drum can
speak : the chattering pauls say " I've got him, I've got him, he
can't get back " : whilst black cable, much slacker and easier in
mind and body, is taken by a slim V-pulley and passed down
into the huge hold, where half a dozen men put him comfortably
to bed after his exertion in rising from his long bath. In good
sooth, it is one of the strangest sights I know to see that black
fellow rising up so steadily in the midst of the blue sea. We
are more than half way to the place where we expect the fault ;
and already the one wire, supposed previously to be quite bad
near the African coast, can be spoken through. I am very glad
I am here, for my machines are my own children and I look on
their little failings with a parent's eye and lead them into the
path of duty with gentleness and firmness. I am naturally in
good spirits, but keep very quiet for misfortunes may arise
at any instant ; moreover to-morrow my paying-out apparatus
will be wanted should all go well, and that will be another
nervous operation. Fifteen miles are safely in ; but no one
knows better than I 'do that nothing is done till all is done.

'June 11.

1 9 A.M. — We have reached the splice supposed to be faulty,
and no fault has been found. The two men learned in electri-
city, L and W , squabble where the fault is.

1 Evening. — A weary day in a hot broiling sun ; no air. After

the experiments, L said the fault might be ten miles

ahead ; by that time, we should be according to a chart in about
a thousand fathoms of water — rather more than a mile. It was
most difficult to decide whether to go on or not. I made pre-
parations for a heavy pull, set small things to rights and went
to sleep. About four in the afternoon, Mr. Liddell decided to
proceed, and we are now (at seven) grinding it in at the rate of
a mile and three-quarters per hour, which appears a grand

OUT OF SIGHT OF LAND Ixxxv

speed to us. If the paying-out only works well ! I have just
thought of a great improvement in it ; I can't apply it this time
however. — The sea Ls of an oily calm, and a perfect fleet of
brigs and ships surrounds us, their sails hardly filling in the
lazy breeze. The sun sets behind the dim coast of the Isola
San Pietro, the coast of Sardinia high and rugged becomes
softer and softer in the distance, while to the westward still the
isolated rock of Toro springs from the horizon. — It would
amuse you to see how cool (in head) and jolly everybody is. A
testy word now and then shows the wires are strained a little,
but everyone laughs and makes his little jokes as if it were all
in fun : yet we are all as much in earnest as the most earnest
of the earnest bastard German school or demonstrative of
Frenchmen. I enjoy it very much.

'June 12.

' 5.30 A.M. — Out of sight of land : about thirty nautical miles
in the hold ; the wind rising a little ; experiments being made
for a fault, while the engine slowly revolves to keep us hang-
ing at the same spot : depth supposed about a mile. The
machinery has behaved admirably. Oh ! that the paying-out
were over ! The new machinery there is but rough, meant for
an experiment in shallow water, and here we are in a mile of
water.

( 6.30. — I have made my calculations and find the new paying-
out gear cannot possibly answer at this depth, some portion
would give way. Luckily, I have brought the old things with
me and am getting them rigged up as fast as may be. Bad
news from the cable. Number four has given in some portion
of the last ten miles : the fault in number three is still at the
bottom of the sea : number two is now the only good wire ; and the
hold is getting in such a mess, through keeping bad bits out and
cutting for splicing and testing, that there will be great risk in
paying out. The cable is somewhat strained in its ascent from
one mile below us ; what it will be when we get to two miles is
a problem we may have to determine.

1 9 P.M. — A most provoking unsatisfactory day. We have

Ixxxvi MEMOIR

done nothing. The wind and sea have both risen. Too little
notice has been given to the telegraphists who accompany this
expedition ; they had to leave all their instruments at Lyons in
order to arrive at Bona in time ; our tests are therefore of the
roughest, and no one really knows where the faults are. Mr.

L in the morning lost much time ; then he told us, after

we had been inactive for about eight hours, that the fault in
number three was within six miles ; and at six o'clock in the
evening, when all was ready for a start to pick up these six
miles, he comes and says there must be a fault about thirty
miles from Bona ! By this time it was too late to begin paying
out to-day, and we must lie here moored in a thousand fathoms
till light to-morrow morning. The ship pitches a good deal,

but the wind is going down.

' June 13, Sunday.

' The wind has not gone down however. It now (at 10.30)
blows a pretty stiff gale, the sea has also risen ; and the
Elba's bows rise and fall about 9 feet. We make twelve
pitches to the minute, and the poor cable must feel very sea-
sick by this time. We are quite unable to do anything, and
continue riding at anchor in one thousand fathoms, the
engines going constantly so as to keep the ship's bows up to
the cable, which by this means hangs nearly vertical and
sustains no strain but that caused by its own weight and the
pitching of the vessel. We were all up at four but the weather
entirely forbade work for to-day, so some went to bed and most
lay down, making up our leeway as we nautically term our loss
of sleep. I must say Liddell is a fine fellow and keeps his
patience and temper wonderfully ; and yet how he does fret and
fume about trifles at home ! This wind has blown now for
36 hours, and yet we have telegrams from Bona to say the
sea there is as calm as a mirror. It makes one laugh to
remember one is still tied to the shore. Click, click, click, the
pecker is at work : I wonder what Herr P— — says to Herr
L tests, tests, tests, nothing more. This will be a very

anxious day.

' June 14.

4 Another day of fatal inaction.

BACK TO SPARTIVENTO Ixxxvii

'June 15.

f 9.30. — The wind has gone down a deal ; but even now there
are doubts whether we shall start to-day. When shall I get
back to you ?

' 9 P.M. — Four miles from land. Our run has been successful
and eventless. Now the work is nearly over I feel a little out
of spirits — why, I should be puzzled to say — mere wantonness,
or reaction perhaps after suspense.

' June 1 6.

* Up this morning at three, coupled my self-acting gear to
the break and had the satisfaction of seeing it pay out the last
four miles in very good style. With one or two little improve-
ments, I hope to make it a capital thing. The end has just gone
ashore in two boats, three out of four wires good. Thus ends
our first expedition. By some odd chance a Times of June the 7th
has found its way on board through the agency of a wretched
old peasant who watches the end of the line here. A long account
of breakages in the Atlantic trial trip. To-night we grapple for
the heavy cable, eight tons to the mile. I long to have a tug
at him ; he may puzzle me, and though misfortunes or rather
difficulties are a bore at the time, life when working with cables
is tame without them.

1 2 P.M. — Hurrah, he is hooked, the big fellow, almost at the
first cast. He hangs under our bows looking so huge and
imposing that I could find it in my heart to be afraid of him.

'June 17.

' We went to a little bay called Chia, where a fresh-water
stream falls into the sea and took in water. This is rather a
long operation so I went a walk up the valley with Mr. Liddell.
The coast here consists of rocky mountains 800 to 1,000 feet
high covered with shrubs of a brilliant .green. On landing
our first amusement was watching the hundreds of large fish
who lazily swam in shoals about the river ; the big canes on the
further side hold numberless tortoises, we are told, but see none,
for just now they prefer taking a siesta. A little further on,

Ixxxviii MEMOIR

and what is this with large pink flowers in such abundance ?—
the oleander in full flower. At first I fear to pluck them,
thinking they must be cultivated and valuable ; but soon the
banks show a long line of thick tall shrubs, one mass of glorious
pink and green. Set these in a little valley, framed by
mountains whose rocks gleam out blue and purple colours such
as prae-Raphaelites only dare attempt, shining out hard and
weirdlike amongst the clumps of castor-oil plants, cistus, arbor
vitae and many other evergreens, whose names, alas ! I know
not ; the cistus is brown now, the rest all deep or brilliant
green. Large herds of cattle browse on the baked deposit at
the foot of these large crags. One or two half-savage herdsmen
in sheepskin kilts &c. ask for cigars ; partridges whirr up on
either side of us ; pigeons coo and nightingales sing amongst
the blooming oleander. We get six sheep and many fowls, too,
from the priest of the small village ; and then run back to
Spartivento and make preparations for the morning.

« June 18.

1 The big cable is stubborn and will not behave like his
smaller brother. The gear employed to take him off the drum is
not strong enough ; he gets slack on the drum and plays the
mischief. Luckily for my own conscience, the gear I had
wanted was negatived by Mr. Newall. Mr. Liddell does not
exactly blame me, but he says we might have had a silver
pulley cheaper than the cost of this delay. He has telegraphed
for more men to Cagliari, to try to pull the cable off the drum
into the hold, by hand. I look as comfortable as I can, but
feel as if people were blaming me. I am trying my best to get
something rigged which may help us ; I wanted a little diffi-
culty, and feel much better. — The short length we have picked
up was covered at places with beautiful sprays of coral, twisted
and twined with shells of those small, fairy animals we saw in
the aquarium at home ; poor little things, they died at once,
with their little bells and delicate bright tints.

'12 o^Clock. — Hurrah, victory! for the present anyhow.
Whilst in our first dejection, I thought I saw a place where a

THE BIG CABLE Ixxxix

flat roller would remedy the whole misfortune ; but a flat roller
at Cape Spartivento, hard, easily unshipped, running freely !
There was a grooved pulley used for the paying-out machinery
with a spindle wheel, which might suit me. I filled him up
with tarry spunyarn, nailed sheet copper round him, bent some
parts in the fire ; and we are paying-in without more trouble
now. You would think some one would praise me ; no, no
more praise than blame before ; perhaps now they think better
of me, though.

' 10 P.M. — We have gone on very comfortably for nearly six
miles. An hour and a half was spent washing down ; for along
with many coloured polypi, from corals, shells and insects, the
big cable brings up much mud and rust, and makes a fishy
smell by no means pleasant : the bottom seems to teem with
life. — But now we are startled by a most unpleasant, grinding
noise ; which appeared at first to come from the large low pulley,
but when the engines stopped, the noise continued ; and we
now imagine it is something slipping down the cable, and the
pulley but acts as sounding-board to the big fiddle. Whether
it is only an anchor or one of the two other cables, we know
not. We hope it is not the cable j ust laid down.

« June 19.

4 10 A.M. — All our alarm groundless, it would appear : the
odd noise ceased after a time, and there was no mark suffi-
ciently strong on the large cable to warrant the suspicion that we
had cut another line through. I stopped up on the look-out
till three in the morning, which made 23 hoars between sleep
and sleep. One goes dozing about, though, most of the day,
for it is only when something goes wrong that one has to look
alive. Hour after hour, I stand on the forecastle-head, picking
off little specimens of polypi and coral, or lie on the saloon deck
reading back n ambers of the Times — till something hitches, and
then all is hurly-burly once more. There are awnings all along
the ship, and a most ancient, fish-like smell beneath.

c 1 o'Clock. — Suddenly a great strain in only 95 fathoms
of water — belts surging and general dismay ; grapnels being
thrown out in the hope of finding what holds the cable. —

xc MEMOIR

Should it prove the young cable ! We are apparently crossing
its path — not the working one, but the lost child ; Mr. Lid dell
would start the big one first though it was laid first : he wanted
to see the job done, and meant to leave us to the small one
unaided by his presence.

1 3.30. — Grapnel caught something, lost it again ; it left
its marks on the prongs. Started lifting gear again ; and after
hauling in some 50 fathoms — grunt, grunt, grunt — we hear the
other cable slipping down our big one, playing the selfsame tune
we heard last night — louder however.

' 10 P.M. — The pull on the deck engines became harder and
harder. I got steam up in a boiler on deck, and another little
engine starts hauling at the grapnel. I wonder if there ever
was such a scene of confusion : Mr. Liddell and W — - and the
captain all giving orders contradictory &c. on the forecastle ;

D , the foreman of our men, the mates, &c. following the

example of our superiors; the ship's engine and boilers below,
a 50-horse engine on deck, a boiler 14 feet long on deck beside
it, a little steam winch tearing round ; a dozen Italians (20
have come to relieve our hands, the men we telegraphed for to
Cagliari) hauling at the rope ; wiremen, sailors, in the crevices
left by ropes and machinery ; everything that could swear
swearing — I found myself swearing like a trooper at last. We
got the unknown difficulty within ten fathoms of the surface ;
but then the forecastle got frightened that, if it was the small
cable which we had got hold of, we should certainly break it by
continuing the tremendous and increasing strain. So at last
Mr. Liddell, decided to stop ; cut the big cable, buoying its end ;
go back to our pleasant watering-place at Chia, take more
water and start lifting the small cable. The end of the large
one has even now regained its sandy bed ; and three buoys-
one to grapnel foul of the supposed small cable, two to the big
cable — are dipping about on the surface. One more — a flag-
buoy — will soon follow, and then straight for shore.

' June 20.

c It is an ill-wind &c. I have an unexpected opportunity of
forwarding this engineering letter ; for the craft which brought

THE CABLES CROSS xci

out our Italian sailors must return to Cagliari to-night, as the
little cable will take us nearly to Galita, and the Italian skipper
could hardly find his way from thence. To-day — Sunday— not
much rest. Mr. Liddell is at Spartivento telegraphing. We
are at Chia, and shall shortly go to help our boat's crew in
getting the small cable on board. We dropped them some
time since in order that they might dig it out of the sand as
far as possible.

' June 21.

c Yesterday — Sunday as it was — all hands were kept at work
all day, coaling, watering and making a futile attempt to pull
the cable from the shore on board through the sand. This
attempt was rather silly after the experience we had gained at
Cape Spartivento. This morning we grappled, hooked the cable
at once, and have made an excellent start. Though I have
called this the small cable, it is much larger than the Bona
one. — Here comes a break down and a bad one.

' June 22.

' We got over it however ; but it is a warning to me that my
future difficulties will arise from parts wearing out. Yesterday
the cable was often a lovely sight, coming out of the water one
large incrustation of delicate, net-like corals and long, white
curling shells. No portion of the dirty black wires was visible •
instead we had a garland of soft pink with little scarlet sprays
and white enamel intermixed. All was fragile however, and
could hardly be secured in safety ; and inexorable iron crushed
the tender leaves to atoms. — This morning at the end of my
watch, about 4 o'clock, we came to the buoys, proving our
anticipations right concerning the crossing of the cables. I went
to bed for four hours, and on getting up, found a sad mess. A
tangle of the six-wire cable hung to the grapnel which had
been left buoyed, and the small cable had parted and is lost for
the present. Our hauling of the other day must have done the
mischief.

' June 23.

' We contrived to get the two ends of the large cable and
to pick the short end up. The long end, leading us seaward,
VOL. i. f

xcii MEMOIR

was next put round the drum and a mile of it picked up ; but
then, fearing another tangle, the end was cut and buoyed, and
we returned to grapple for the three-wire cable. All this is
very tiresome for me. The buoying and dredging are managed

entirely by W , who has had much experience in this sort of

thing ; so I have not enough to do and get very homesick. At
noon the wind freshened and the sea rose so high that we had
to run for land and are once more this evening anchored at
Chia.

4 June 21.

1 The whole day spent in dredging without success. This
operation consists in allowing the ship to drift slowly across the
line where you expect the cable to be, while at the end of a long
rope, fast either to the bow or stern, a grapnel drags along the
ground. This grapnel is a small anchor, made like four pot-
hooks tied back to back. When the rope gets taut, the ship is
stopped and the grapnel hauled up to the surface in the hopes of
finding the cable on its prongs. — I am much discontented with
myself for idly lounging about and reading Westward Ho for
the second time, instead of taking to electricity or picking up
nautical information. I am uncommonly idle. The sea is not
quite so rough but the weather is squally and the rain comes
in frequent gusts.

< June 25.

1 To-day about 1 o'clock we hooked the three-wire cable,
buoyed the long sea end, and picked up the short [or shore]
end. Now it is dark and we must wait for morning before
lifting the buoy we lowered to-day and proceeding seawards.
-The depth of water here is about 600 feet, the height of a re-
spectable English hill ; our fishing line was about a quarter of a
mile long. It blows pretty fresh and there is a great deal
sea.

' 26th.

c This morning it came on to blow so heavily that it was im-
possible to take up our buoy. The Elba recommenced rolling
in true Baltic style and towards noon we ran for land.

KINKS xciii

1 27th, Sunday.

1 This morning was a beautiful calm. We reached the buoys
at about 4.30 and commenced picking up at 6.30. Shortly a
new cause of anxiety arose. Kinks came up in great quantities,
about thirty in the hour. To have a true conception of a kink,
you must see one : it is a loop drawn tight, all the wires get
twisted and the gutta-percha inside pushed out. These much
diminish the value of the cable, as they must all be cut out, the
gutta-percha made good, and the cable spliced. They arise
from the cable having been badly laid down so that it forms
folds and tails at the bottom of the sea. These kinks have
another disadvantage : they weaken the cable very much. — At
about six o'clock [P.M.] we had some twelve miles lifted, when
I went to the bows ; the kinks were exceedingly tight and were
giving way in a most alarming manner. I got a cage rigged
up to prevent the end (if it broke) from hurting anyone, and
sat down on the bowsprit, thinking I should describe kinks to
Aimie : — suddenly I saw a great many coils and kinks altogether
at the surface. I jumped to the gutta-percha pipe, by blowing
through which the signal is given to stop the engine. I blow,
but the engine does not stop ; again — no answer : the coils and
kinks jam in the bows and I rush aft shouting stop ! Too late :
the cable had parted and must lie in peace at the bottom.
Someone had pulled the gutta-percha tube across a bare part of
the steam pipe and melted it. It had been used hundreds of
times in the last few days and gave no symptoms of failing. I
believe the cable must have gone at any rate ; however, since it
went in my watch and since I might have secured the tubing
more strongly, I feel rather sad. . . .

« June 28.

' Since I could not go to Annie I took down Shakespeare, and
by the time I had finished Antony and Cleopatra, read the
second half of Troilus and got some way in Goriolanm, I felt
it was childish to regret the accident had happened in my watch,
and moreover I felt myself not much to blame in the tubing
matter — it had been torn down, it had not fallen down ; so I

f 2

xciv MEMOIR

went to bed, and slept without fretting, and woke this morni
in the same good mood — for which thank you and our friend
Shakespeare. I am happy to say Mr. Liddell said the loss of the
cable did not much matter ; though this would have been no
consolation had I felt myself to blame. — This morning we have
grappled for and found another length of small cable which

Mr. dropped in 100 fathoms of water. If this also gets full

of kinks, we shall probably have to cut it after 10 miles or so, or
more probably still it will part of its own free will or weight.

4 10 P.M. — This second length of three-wire cable soon got
into the same condition as its fellow — i.e. came up twenty kinks
an hour — and after seven miles were in, parted on the pulley over
the bows at one of the said kinks ; during my watch again, but
this time no earthly power could have saved it. I had taken
all manner of precautions to prevent the end doing any damage
when the smash came, for come I knew it must. We now
return to the six-wire cable. As I sat watching the cable to-
night, large phosphorescent globes kept rolling from it and
fading in the black water.

'29th.

f To-day we returned to the buoy we had left at the end of
the six-wire cable, and after much trouble from a series of
tangles, got a fair start at noon. You will easily believe a
tangle of iron rope inch and a half diameter is not easy to un-
ravel, especially with a ton or so hanging to the ends. It is
now eight o'clock and we have about six and a half miles safe :
it becomes very exciting however, for the kinks are coming fast
and furious.

* July 2.

1 Twenty-eight miles safe in the hold. The ship is now so
deep, that the men are to be turned out of their aft hold, and the
remainder coiled there ; so the good Elbas nose need not burrow
too far into the waves. There can only be about 10 or 12 miles
more, but these weigh 80 or 100 tons.

' July 5.

* Our first mate was much hurt in securing a buoy on the
evening of the 2nd. As interpreter [with the Italians] I am

xcv

useful in all these cases ; but for no fortune would I be a doctor
to witness these scenes continually. Pain is a terrible thing.—
Our work is done : the whole of the six-wire cable has been
recovered ; only a small part of the three-wire, but that wire was
bad and, owing to its twisted state, the value small. We may
therefore be said to have been very successful.'

II.

I have given this cruise nearly in full. From the notes,
unhappily imperfect, of two others, I will take only specimens ;
for in all there are features of similarity and it is possible to
have too much even of submarine telegraphy and the romance
of engineering. And first from the cruise of 1859 in the Greek
Islands and to Alexandria, take a few traits, incidents and
pictures.

' May 10, 1859.

' We had a fair wind and we did very well, seeing a little bit
of Cerig or Cythera, and lots of turtle-doves wandering about
over the sea and perching, tired and timid, in the rigging of our
little craft. Then Falconera, Antimilo and Milo, topped with
huge white clouds, barren, deserted, rising bold and mysterious
from the blue chafing sea ; — Argentiera, Siphano, Scapho, Paros,
Antiparos and late at night Syra itself. Adam Beds in one
hand, a sketch-book in the other, lying on rugs under an awning,
I enjoyed a very pleasant day.

'May 14.

' Syra is semi-eastern. The pavement, huge shapeless blocks
sloping to a central gutter ; from this bare two-storeyed houses,
sometimes plaster many coloured, sometimes rough-hewn
marble, rise, dirty and ill-finished to straight, plain, flat roofs ;
shops guiltless of windows, with signs in Greek letters ; dogs,
Greeks in blue, baggy, Zouave breeches and a fez, a fewjiarghi-
lehs and a sprinkling of the ordinary continental shopboys. — In

the evening I tried one more walk in Syra with A , but in

vain endeavoured to amuse myself or to spend money ; the first
effort resulting in singing Doodah to a passing Greek or two,

xcvi MEMOIR

the second in spending, no, in making A spend, threepence

on coffee for three.

* May 16.

c On coming on deck, I found we were at anchor in Canea
bay, and saw one of the most lovely sights man could witness.
Far on either hand stretch bold mountain capes, Spada and
Maleka, tender in colour, bold in outline ; rich sunny levels
lie beneath them, framed by the azure sea. Right in front, a
dark brown fortress girdles white mosques and minarets. Rich
and green, our mountain capes here join to form a setting for
the town, in whose dark walls — still darker — open a dozen high-
arched caves in which the huge Venetian galleys used to lie in
wait. High above all, higher and higher yet, up into the firma-
ment, range after range of blue and snow-capped mountains.
I was bewildered and amazed, having heard nothing of this
great beauty. The town when entered is quite eastern. The
streets are formed of open stalls under the first story, in which
squat tailors, cooks, sherbet vendors and the like, busy at their
work or smoking narghilehs. Cloths stretched from house to
house keep out the sun. Mules rattle through the crowd ; curs
yelp between your legs ; negroes are as hideous and bright
clothed as usual ; grave Turks with long chibouques continue to
march solemnly without breaking them ; a little Arab in one
dirty rag pokes fun at two splendid little Turks with brilliant
fezzes ; wiry mountaineers in dirty, full, white kilts, shouldering
long guns and one hand on their pistols, stalk untamed past a
dozen Turkish soldiers, who look sheepish and brutal in worn
cloth jacket and cotton trousers. A headless, wingless lion of
St. Mark still stands upon a gate, and has left the mark of his
strong clutch. Of ancient times when Crete was Crete, not a
trace remains ; save perhaps in the full, well-cut nostril and firm
tread of that mountaineer, and I suspect that even his sires were
Albanians, mere outer barbarians.

« May 17.

c I spent the day at the little station where the cable was
landed, which has apparently been first a Venetian monastery
and then a Turkish mosque. At any rate the big dome

THE ELBA AGROUND xcvii

is very cool, and the little ones hold [our electric] batteries
capitally. A handsome young Bashibazouk guards it, and a
still handsomer mountaineer is the servant ; so I draw them
and the monastery and the hill, till I'm black in the face
with heat and come on board to hear the Canea cable is still
bad.

« May 23.

{ We arrived in the morning at the east end of Candia, and
had a glorious scramble over the mountains which seem built of
adamant. Time has worn away the softer portions of the rock,
only leaving sharp jagged edges of steel. Sea eagles soaring
above our heads ; old tanks, ruins and desolation at our feet.
The ancient Arsinoe stood here ; a few blocks of marble with
the cross attest the presence of Venetian Christians ; but now—
the desolation of desolations. Mr. Liddell and I separated from
the rest, and when we had found a sure bay for the cable, had
a tremendous lively scramble back to the boat. These are the
bits of our life which I enjoy, which have some poetry, some
grandeur in them.

< May 29 (?).

' Yesterday we ran round to the new harbour [of Alexandria],
landed the shore end of the cable close to Cleopatra's bath, and
made a very satisfactory start about one in the afternoon. We
had scarcely gone 200 yards when I noticed that the cable
ceased to run out, and I wondered why the ship had stopped.
People ran aft to tell me not to put such a strain on the cable ;
I answered indignantly that there was no strain ; and suddenly
it broke on every one in the ship at once that we were aground.
Here was a nice mess. A violent scirocco blew from the land ;
making one's skin feel as if it belonged to some one else
and didn't fit, making the horizon dim and yellow with fine
sand, oppressing every sense and raising the thermometer 20
degrees in an hour, but making calm water round us which
enabled the ship to lie for the time in safety. The wind might
change at any moment, since the scirocco was only accidental ;
and at the first wave from seaward bump would go the poor
ship, and there would [might] be an end of our voyage. The

xcviii MEMOIR

captain, without waiting to sound, began to make an effort to
put the ship over what was supposed to be a sandbank ; but by
the time soundings were made, this was found to be impossible,
and he had only been jamming the poor Elba faster on a rock.
Now every effort was made to get her astern, an anchor taken
out, a rope brought to a winch I had for the cable, and the
engines backed ; but all in vain. A small Turkish Government
steamer, which is to be our consort, came to our assistance but
of course very slowly, and much time was occupied before we
could get a hawser to her. I could do no good after having
made a chart of the soundings round the ship, and went at
last on to the bridge to sketch the scene. But at that moment
the strain from the winch and a jerk from the Turkish steamer
got off the boat, after we had been some hours aground. The
carpenter reported that sh« had made only two inches of water
in one compartment ; the cable was still uninjured astern, and
our spirits rose ; when, will you believe it ? after going a short
distance astern, the pilot ran us once more fast aground on
what seemed to me nearly the same spot. The very same
scene was gone through as on the first occasion, and dark came
on whilst the wind shifted, and we were still aground. Dinner
was served up but poor Mr. Liddell could eat very little ; and
bump, bump, grind, grind, went the ship fifteen or sixteen
times as we sat at dinner. The slight sea however did enable
us to bump off. This morning we appear not to have suffered
in any way ; but a sea is rolling in, which a few hours ago would
have settled the poor old Elba.

' June — .

' The Alexandria cable has again failed ; after paying out
two thirds of the distance successfully, an unlucky touch in
deep water snapped the line. Luckily the accident occurred in
Mr. Liddell's watch. Though personally it may not really concern
me, the accident weighs like a personal misfortune. Still I am
glad I was present : a failure is probably more instructive than
a success ; and this experience may enable us to avoid misfortune
in still greater undertakings.

ANXIOUS WORK xcix

' June — .

' We left Syra the morning after our arrival on Saturday
the 4th. This we did (first) because we were in a hurry to do
something and (second) because, coming from Alexandria, we
had four days' quarantine to perform. We were all mustered
along the side while the doctor counted us ; the letters were
popped into a little tin box and taken away to be smoked ; the
guardians put on board to see that we held no communication
with the shore —without them we should still have had four
more days' quarantine ; and with twelve Greek sailors besides,
we started merrily enough picking up the Canea cable. . . .
To our utter dismay, the yarn covering began to come up quite
decayed, and the cable, which when laid should have borne
half a ton, was now in danger of snapping with a tenth part of
that strain. We went as slow as possible in fear of a break at
every instant. My watch was from eight to twelve in the
morning, and during that time we had barely secured three
miles of cable. Once it broke inside the ship, but I seized hold
of it in time —the weight being hardly anything — and the line
for the nonce was saved. Regular nooses were then planted in-
board with men to draw them taut, should the cable break in-
board. A , who should have relieved me, was unwell, so

I had to continue my look-out ; and about one o'clock the line
again parted but was again caught in the last noose, with about
four inches to spare. Five minutes afterwards it again parted
and was yet once more caught. Mr. Liddell (whom I had
called) could stand this no longer ; so we buoyed the line and
ran into a bay in Siphano, waiting for calm weather, though I
was by no means of opinion that the slight sea and wind had
been the cause of our failures. — All next day (Monday) we lay
off Siphano, amusing ourselves on shore with fowling pieces
and navy revolvers. I need not say we killed nothing ; and
luckily we did not wound any of ourselves. A guardiano accom-
panied us, his functions being limited to preventing actual contact
with the natives, for they might come as near and talk as much as
they pleased. These isles of Greece are sad, interesting places.

c MEMOIR

They are not really barren all over, but they are quite destitute
of verdure ; and tufts of thyme, wild mastic or mint, though
they sound well, are not nearly so pretty as grass. Many little
churches, glittering white, dot the islands ; most of them, I
believe, abandoned during the whole year with the exception of
one day sacred to their patron saint. The villages are mean,
but the inhabitants do not look wretched and the men are good
sailors. There is something in this Greek race yet ; they will
become a powerful Levantine nation in the course of time. — What
a lovely moonlight evening that was! the barren island cutting
the clear sky with fantastic outline, marble cliffs on either hand
fairly gleaming over the calm sea. Next day, the wind still

continuing, I proposed a boating excursion and decoyed A ,

L and S into accompanying me. We took the

little gig, and sailed away merrily enough round a point to a
beautiful white bay, flanked with two glistening little churches,
fronted by beautiful distant islands ; when suddenly, to my
horror, I discovered the Elba steaming full speed out from the
island. Of course we steered after her ; but the wind that instant
ceased, and we were left in a dead calm. There was nothing for it
but to unship the mast, get out the oars and pull. The ship
was nearly certain to stop at the buoy ; and I wanted to learn
how to take an oar, so here was a chance with a vengeance !

L steered, and we three pulled — a broiling pull it was about

half way across to Palikandro — still we did come in, pulling an
uncommon good stroke, and I had learned to hang on my oar.

L had pressed me to let him take my place ; but though I

was very tired at the end of the first quarter of an hour, and
then every successive half hour, I would not give in. I nearly
paid dear for my obstinacy however ; for in the evening I had
alternate fits of shivering and burning.'

III.

The next extracts, and I am sorry to say the last, are from
Fleeming's letters of 1860, when he was back at Bona and
Spartivento and for the first time at the head of an expedition.

Unhappily these letters are not only the last, but the series is
quite imperfect ; and this is the more to be lamented as he had
now begun to use a pen more skilfully, and in the following
notes there is at times a touch of real distinction in the
manner.

1 Cagliari : October 5, 1860.

' All Tuesday I spent examining what was on board the Elba,
and trying to start the repairs of the Spartivento land line,
which has been entirely neglected, and no wonder, for no one
has been paid for three months, no, not even the poor guards
who have to keep themselves, their horses and their families,
on their pay. Wednesday morning, I started for Spartivento
and got there in time to try a good many experiments. Sparti-
vento looks more wild and savage than ever, but is not without
a strange deadly beauty : the hills covered with bushes of a
metallic green with coppery patches of soil in between ; the
valleys filled with dry salt mud and a little stagnant water ;
where that very morning the deer had drunk, where herons,
curlews and other fowl abound, and where, alas ! malaria is
breeding with this rain. (No fear for those who do not sleep
on shore.) A little iron hut had been placed there since 1858 ;
but the windows had been carried off, the door broken down, the
roof pierced all over. In it, we sat to make experiments ; and
how it recalled Birkenhead ! There was Thomson, there was my

testing board, the strings of gufcta percha ; Harry P even,

battering with the batteries ; but where was my darling Annie ?
Whilst I sat feet in sand, with Harry alone inside the hut-
mats, coats and wood to darken the window — the others visited
the murderous old friar, who is of the order of Scaloppi and for
whom I brought a letter from his superior, ordering him to pay
us attention ; but he was away from home, gone to Cagliari in a
boat with the produce of the farm belonging to his convent.
Then they visited the tower of Chia, but could not get in
because the door is thirty feet off the ground ; so they came
back and pitched a magnificent tent which I brought from the
Bahiana a long time ago — and where they will live (if I mistake
not) in preference to the friar's, or the owl- and bat-haunted

cii MEMOIR

tower. MM. T and S will be left there: T an

intelligent, hard-working Frenchman with whom I am well
pleased ; he can speak English and Italian well, and has been

two years at Genoa. S is a French German with a face

like an ancient Gaul, who has been sergeant-major in the
French line and who is, I see, a great, big, muscular faineant.
We left the tent pitched and some stores in charge of a guide,
and ran back to Cagliari.

' Certainly, being at the head of things is pleasanter than
being subordinate. We all agree very well ; and I have made
the testing office into a kind of private room where I can come
and write to you undisturbed, surrounded by my dear, bright
brass things which all of them remind me of our nights at
Birkenhead. Then I can work here, too, and try lots of experi-
ments ; you know how I like that ! and now and then I read-
Shakespeare principally. Thank you so much for making me
bring him : I think I must get a pocket edition of Hamlet and
Henry the Fifth, so as never to be without them.

' Cagliari : October 7.

' [The town was full ?] . . . of red-shirted English Garibal-
dini. A very fine looking set of fellows they are, too : the officers
rather raffish, but with medals Crimean and Indian ; the men a
very sturdy set, with many lads of good birth I should say. They
still wait their consort the Emperor and will, I fear, be too late
to do anything. I meant to have called on them, but they are
all gone into barracks some way from the town, and I have been
much too busy to go far.

' The view from the ramparts was very strange and beautiful.
Cagliari rises on a very steep rock, at the mouth of a wide plain
circled by large hills and three-quarters filled with lagoons ; it
looks, therefore, like an old island citadel. Large heaps of salt
mark the border between the sea and the lagoons ; thousands of
flamingoes whiten the centre of the huge shallow marsh ; hawks
hover and scream among the trees under the high mouldering
battlements. — A little lower down, the band played. Men and
ladies bowed and pranced, the costumes posed, church bells

THE CAMP AT SPARTIVENTO ciii

tinkled, processions processed, the sun set behind thick clouds
capping the hills ; I pondered on you and enjoyed it all.

' Decidedly I prefer being master to being man : boats at all
hours, stewards flying for marmalade, captain enquiring when
ship is to sail, clerks to copy my writing, the boat to steer when
we go out — I have run her nose on several times ; decidedly, I
begin to feel quite a little king. Confound the cable, though !

I shall never be able to repair it.

* Bona: October 14.

' We left Cagliari at 4.30 on the 9th and soon got to Sparti-
vento. I repeated some of my experiments, but found Thomson,
who was to have been my grand stand-by, would not work on
that day in the wretched little hut. Even if the windows and
door had been put in, the wind which was very high made the
lamp flicker about and blew it out ; so I sent on board and got old
sails, and fairly wrapped the hut up in them ; and then we were
as snug as could be, and I left the hut in glorious condition
with a nice little stove in it. The tent which should have been
forthcoming from the cure's for the guards, had gone to Cagliari ;
but I found another, [a] green, Turkish tent, in the Elba and
soon had him up. The square tent left on the last occasion was
standing all right and tight in spite of wind and rain. We
landed provisions, two beds, plates, knives, forks, candles, cook-
ing utensils, and were ready for a start at 6 P.M. ; but the wind
meanwhile had come on to blow at such a rate that I thought

better of it, and we stopped. T and S slept ashore

however, to see how they liked it ; at least they tried to sleep,

for S the ancient sergeant-major had a toothache, and

T thought the tent was coming down every minute. Next

morning they could only complain of sand and a leaky coffee-
pot, so I leave them with a good conscience. The little en-
campment looked quite picturesque : the green round tent, the
square whibe tent and the hut all wrapped up in sail ;, on a
sand hill, looking on the sea and masking those confounded
marshes at the back. One would have thought the Cagliaritans
were in a conspiracy to frighten the two poor fellows, who (I
believe) will be safe enough if they do not go into the marshes

civ MEMOIR

after nightfall. S brought a little dog to amuse them,

such a jolly, ugly little cur without a tail, but full of fun ; he
will be better than quinine.

' The wind drove a barque which had anchored near us for
shelter, out to sea. We started, however, at 2 P.M., and had a
quick passage but a very rough one, getting to Bona by Day-
light [on the 11 th]. Such a place as this is for getting anything

done ! The health boat went away from us at 7.30 with W

on board ; and we heard nothing of them till 9.30, when

W came back with two fat Frenchmen who are to look on

on the part of the Government. They are exactly alike : only
one has four bands and the other three round his cap, and so I
know them. Then I sent a boat round to Fort Genois [Fort
Geneva of 1858] where the cable is landed, with all sorts of things
and directions, whilst I went ashore to see about coals and a
room at the fort. We hunted people in the little square in
their shops and offices, but only found them in cafes. One
amiable gentleman wasn't up at 9.30, was out at 10, and as soon
as he came back the servant said he would go to bed and not
get up till 3 : he came however to find us at a cafe, and said
that, on the contrary, two days in the week he did not do so !
Then my two fat friends must have their breakfast after their
" something " at a cafe ; and all the shops shut from 10 to 2 ;
and the post does not open till 12 ; and there was a road to
Fort Genois, only a bridge had been carried away, &c. At last
I got off, and we rowed round to Fort Genois, where my men had
put up a capital gipsy tent with sails, and there was my big board
and Thomson's number 5 in great glory. I soon came to the
conclusion there was a break. Two of my faithful Cagliaritans
slept all night in the little tent, to guard it and my precious in-
struments ; and the sea, which was rather rough, silenced my
Frenchmen.

' Next day I went on with my experiments, whilst a boat
grappled for the cable a little way from shore and buoyed it
where the Elba could get hold. I brought all back to the
Elba, tried my machinery and was all ready for a start next
morning. But the wretched coal had not come yet ; Government

CABLE FISHING cv

permission from Algiers to be got ; lighters, men, baskets, and
I know not what forms to be got or got through — and everybody
asleep ! Coals or no coals, I was determined to start next
morning ; and start we did at four in the morning, picked up
the buoy with our deck engine, popped the cable across a boat,
tested the wires to make sure the fault was not behind us, and
started picking up at 11. Everything worked admirably, and
about 2 P.M., in came the fault. There is no doubt the cable
was broken by coral fishers ; twice they have had it up to
their own knowledge.

' Many men have been ashore to-day and have come back
tipsy, and the whole ship is in a state of quarrel from top to
bottom, and they will gossip just within my hearing. And we
have had moreover three French gentlemen and a French lady
to dinner, and I had to act host and try to manage the mixtures
to their taste. The good-natured little Frenchwoman was most
amusing ; when I asked her if she would have some apple tart —
" Mon Dieu" with heroic resignation, " je veux bien ; " or a little
plombodding — " Mais ce que vous voudrez, Monsieur ! "

* S.S. Ella, somewhere not far from Bona : Oct. 19.

f Yesterday [after three previous days of useless grappling]
was destined to be very eventful. We began dredging at day-
break and hooked at once every time in rocks ; but by capital
luck, just as we were deciding it was no use to continue in that
place, we hooked the cable : up it came, was tested, and lo !
another complete break, a quarter of a mile off. I was amazed
at my own tranquillity under these disappointments, but I was
not really half so fussy as about getting a cab. Well, there was
nothing for it but grappling again and, as you may imagine,
we were getting about six miles from shore. But the water did
not deepen rapidly ; we seemed to be on the crest of a kind of
submarine mountain in prolongation of Cape de Gonde, and
pretty havoc we must have made with the crags. What rocks
we did hook ! No sooner was the grapnel down than the
ship was anchored ; and then came such a business : ship's
engines going, deck engine thundering, belt slipping, fear of

cvi MEMOIR

breaking ropes : actually breaking grapnels. It was always an
hour or more before we could get the grapnel down again. At
last we had to give up the place, though we knew we were close
to the cable, and go further to sea in much deeper water ; to my
great fear, as I knew the cable was much eaten away and would
stand but little strain. Well, we hooked the cable first dredge
this time, and pulled it slowly and gently to the top, with much
trepidation. Was it the cable ? was there any weight on ? it
was evidently too small. Imagine my dismay when the cable
did come up, but hanging loosely, thus

instead of taut, thus

showing certain signs of a break close by. For a moment I felt
provoked, as I thought (< Here we are in deep water, and the
cable will not stand lifting ! " I tested at once, and by the very
first wire found it had broken towards shore and was good
towards sea. This was of course very pleasant ; but from that
time to this, though the wires test very well, not a signal has
come from Spartivento. I got the cable into a boat, and a
gutta-percha line from the ship to the boat, and we signalled
away at a great rate — but no signs of life. The tests however
make me pretty sure one wire at least is good ; so I determined
to lay down cable from where we were to the shore, and go to
Spartivento to see what had happened there. I fear my men
are ill. The night was lovely, perfectly calm ; so we lay close
to the boat and signals were continually sent, but with no
result. This morning I laid the cable down to Fort Genois in
style ; and now we are picking up odds and ends of cable be-
tween the different breaks, and getting our buoys on board, &c.
To-morrow I expect to leave for Spartivento.'

THE NORDERNEY CABLE cvii

IV.

And now I am quite at an end of journal keeping ; diaries
and diary letters being things of youth which Fleeming had at
length outgrown. But one or two more fragments from his
correspondence may be taken, and first this brief sketch of the
laying of the Norderney cable ; mainly interesting as showing
under what defects of strength and in what extremities of pain,
this cheerful man must at times continue to go about his work.

' I slept on board 29th September having arranged every-
thing to start by daybreak from where we lay in the roads : but
at daybreak a heavy mist hung over us so that nothing of land
or water could be seen. At midday it lifted suddenly and
away we went with perfect weather, but could not find the buoys
Forde left, that evening. I saw the captain was not strong in
navigation, and took matters next day much more into my own
hands and before nine o'clock found the buoys ; (the weather
had been so fine we had anchored in the open sea near Texel).
Ifc took us till the evening to reach the buoys, get the cable on
board, test the first half, speak to Lowestofty make the splice,

and start. . H had not finished his work at Norderney,

so I was alone on board for Reuter. Moreover the buoys to
guide us in our course were not placed r and the captain had
very vague ideas about keeping his course ,* so I had to do a good
deal, and only lay down as I was for two hours in the night. I
managed to run the course perfectly. Everything went well,
and we found Norderney just where we wanted it next after-
noon, and if the shore end had been laid, could have finished
there and then, October 1st. But when we got to Norderney, we
found the Caroline with shore end lying apparently aground, and
could not understand her signals ; so we had to anchor suddenly
and I went off in a small boat with the captain to the Caroline.
It was cold by this time, and my arm was rather stiff and I was
tired ; I hauled myself up on board the Caroline by a rope and

found H and two men on board. All the rest were trying

to get the shore end on shore, but had failed and apparently
VOL. i. £

cviii MEMOIR

had stuck on shore, and the waves were getting up. We had
anchored in the right place and next morning we hoped the
shore end would be laid, so we had only to go back. It was of
course still colder and quite night. I went to bed and hoped
to sleep, but, alas, the rheumatism got into the joints and
caused me terrible pain so that I could not sleep. I bore it
as long as I could in order to disturb no one, for all were
tired ; but at last I could bear it no longer and managed to
wake the steward and got a mustard poultice which took the
pain from the shoulder ; but then the elbow got very bad, and I
had to call the second steward and get a second poultice, and
then it was daylight, and I felt very ill and feverish. The
sea was now rather rough — too rough rather for small boats,
but luckily a sort of thing called a scoot came out, and we
got on board her with some trouble, and got on shore after a
good tossing about which made us all sea-sick. The cable
sent from the Caroline was just 60 yards too short and did
not reach the shore, so although the Caroline did make the
splice late that night, we could neither test nor speak.
Reuter was at Norderney, and I had to do the best I could
which was not much, and went to bed early ; I thought I
should never sleep again, but in sheer desperation got up in
the middle of the night and gulped a lot of raw whiskey and

slept at last. But not long. A Mr. F washed my face

and hands and dressed me ; and we hauled the cable out of the
sea, and got it joined to the telegraph station, and on October 3rd
telegraphed to Lowestoft first and then to London. Miss Clara
Volkman a niece of Mr. Renter's sent the first message to Mrs.
Reuter who was waiting (Varley used Miss Clara's hand as a
kind of key) and I sent one of the first messages to Odden. I
thought a message addressed to him would not frighten you, and
that he would enjoy a message through Papa's cable. I hope
he did. They were all very merry, but I had been so lowered
by pain that I could not enjoy myself in spite of the success.'

THE GREAT EASTERN cix

V.

Of the 1869 cruise in the Great Eastern, I give what I am
able ; only sorry it is no more, for the sake of the ship itself,
already almost a legend even to the generation that saw it
launched.

1 June 17, 1 869. — Here are the names of our staff in whom I
expect you to be interested, as future Great Eastern stories may
be full of them : Theophilus Smith, a man of Latimer Clark's ;
Leslie C. Hill, my prizeman at University College ; Lord Sack-
ville Cecil ; King, one of the Thomsonian Kings ; Laws, goes for
Willoughby Smith, who will also be on board ; Varley, Clark,
and Sir James Anderson make up the sum of all you know any-
thing of. A Captain Halpin commands the big ship. There
are four smaller vessels. The Wm. Cory which laid the Norder-
ney cable has already gone to St. Pierre to lay the shore ends.
The Hawk and Chiltern have gone to Brest to lay shore ends.
The Hawk and Scanderia go with us across the Atlantic and
we shall at St. Pierre be transhipped into one or the other.

' June 18. Somewhere in London. — The shore end is laid, as
you may have seen and we are all under pressing orders to
march, so we start from London to-night at 5.10.

1 June 20. Off Ushant. — I am getting quite fond of the big
ship. Yesterday morning in the quiet sunlight, she turned so
slowly and lazily in the great harbour at Portland, and bye and
bye slipped out past the long pier with so little stir, that I could
hardly believe we were really off. No men drunk, no women
crying, no singing or swearing, no confusion or bustle on deck-
nobody apparently aware that they had anything to do. The
look of the thing was that the ship had been spoken to civilly
and had kindly undertaken to do everything that was necessary
without any further interference. I have a nice cabin with
plenty of room for my legs in my berth and have slept two
nights like a top. Then we have the ladies' cabin set apart as
an engineer's office, and I think this decidedly the nicest place
in the ship : 35 ft. x 20 ft. broad — four tables, three great

g 2

ex MEMOIR

mirrors, plenty of air and no heat from the funnels which spoil
the great dining-room. I saw a whole library of books on the
walls when here last, and this made me less anxious to provide
light literature ; but alas, to-day, I find that they are every
one bibles or prayer-books. Now one cannot read many hundred
bibles. . . . As for the motion of the ship it is not very much, but
'twill suffice. Thomson shook hands and wished me well. I do
like Thomson. . . . Tell Austin that the Great Eastern has six
masts and four funnels. When I get back I will make a little
model of her for all the chicks and pay out cotton reels. . . .
Here we are at 4.20 at Brest. We leave probably to-morrow
morning.

' July 12. Great Eastern.- — Here as I write we run our last
course for the buoy at the St. Pierre shore end. It blows and
lightens, and our good ship rolls, and buoys are hard to find ;
but we must soon now finish our work, and then this letter will
start for home. . . . Yesterday we were mournfully groping
our way through the wet grey fog, not at all sure where we
were, with one consort lost and the other faintly answering the
roar of our great whistle through the mist. As to the ship
which was to meet us, and pioneer us up the deep channel, we
did not know if we should come within twenty miles of her ;
when suddenly up went the fog, out came the sun and there,
straight ahead was the Win. Cory our pioneer, and a little
dancing boat, the Gulnare sending signals of welcome with
many-coloured flags. Since then we have been steaming in a
grand procession ; but now at 2 A.M. the fog has fallen, and the
great roaring whistle calls up the distant answering notes all
around us. Shall we, or shall we not find the buoy ?

1 July 1 3.— All yesterday we lay in the damp dripping fog,
with whistles all round and guns firing so that we might not
bump up against one another. This little delay has let us get
our reports into tolerable order. We are now at 7 o'clock getting
the cable end again, with the main cable buoy close to us.'

A telegram of July 20 : 'I have received your four welcome
letters. The Americans are charming people.'

•

R

\

SHIPMATES

FROM SKETCHES IN NCTE-BOOKS

THE BRAZILIAN CABLE cxi

VI.

And here to make an end are a few random bits about the
cruise to Pernambuco :—

' Plymouth, June 21, 1873. — I have been down to the seashore
and smelt the salt sea and like it ; and I have seen the Hooper
pointing her great bow sea-ward, while light smoke rises from
her funnels telling that the fires are being lighted ; and sorry as
I am to be without you, something inside me answers to the
call to be off and doing.

1 Lalla Rookh. Plymouth, June 22. — We have been a little
cruise in the yacht over to the Eddystone lighthouse, and my
sea-legs seem very well on. Strange how alike all these starts
are — first on shore, steaming hot days with a smell of bone-dust
and tar and salt water ; then the little puffing panting steam-
launch that bustles out across a port with green woody sides,
little yachts sliding about, men-of-war training-ships, and then
a great big black hulk of a thing with a mass of smaller vessels
sticking to it like parasites ; and that is one's home being coaled.
Then comes the Champagne lunch where every one says all that is
polite to everyone else, and then the uncertainty when to start.
So far as we know now, we are to start to-morrow morning at
daybreak ; letters that come later are to be sent to Pernambuco
by first mail. . . . My father has sent me the heartiest sort of
Jack Tar's cheer.

' 8.8. Hooper. Off Funchal, June 29. — Here we are off
Madeira at seven o'clock in the morning. Thomson has been
sounding with his special toy ever since half-past three (1087
fathoms of water). I have been watching the day break, and
long jagged islands start into being out of the dull night. We
are still some miles from land ; but the sea is calmer than Loch
Eil often was, and the big Hooper rests very contentedly after a
pleasant voyage and favourable breezes. I have not been able to
do any real work except the testing [of the cable] for though not
sea-sick, I get a little giddy when I try to think on board. . . .
The ducks have just had their daily souse and are quacking and

cxii MEMOIR

gabbling in a mighty way outside the door of the captain's deck
cabin where I write. The cocks are crowing, and new-laid eggs
are said to be found in the coops. Four mild oxen have been
untethered and allowed to walk along the broad iron decks — a
whole drove of sheep seem quite content while licking big lumps
of bay salt. Two exceedingly impertinent goats lead the cook
a perfect life of misery. They steal round the galley and //•/'//
nibble the carrots or turnips if his back is turned for one
minute ; and then he throws something at them and misses
them ; and they scuttle off laughing impudently, and flick one
ear at him from a safe distance. This is the most impudent
gesture I ever saw. Winking is nothing to it. The ear
normally hangs down behind ; the goat turns sideways to her
enemy — by a little knowing cock of the head flicks one ear
over one eye, and squints from behind it for half a minute-
tosses her head back, skips a pace or two further off, and
repeats the manoeuvre. The cook is very fat and cannot run
after that goat much.

' Pernambuco, Aug. 1. — We landed here yesterday, all well
and cable sound, after a good passage. ... I am on familiar
terms with cocoa-nuts, mangoes and bread-fruit trees, but I
think I like the negresses best of anything I have seen. In
turbans and loose sea-green robes, with beautiful black-brown
complexions and a stately carriage, they really are a satisfaction
to my eye. The weather has been windy and rainy ; the
Hooper has to lie about a mile from the town, in an open road-
stead, with the whole swell of the Atlantic driving straight on
shore. The little steam launch gives all who go in her a good
ducking, as she bobs about on the big rollers ; and my old gym-
nastic practice stands me in good stead on boarding and leaving
her. We clamber down a rope ladder hanging from the high
stern, and then taking a rope in one hand, swing into the launch
at the moment when she can contrive to steam up under us—
bobbing about like an apple thrown into a tub all the while.
The President of the province and his suite tried to come off to
a State luncheon on board on Sunday ; but the launch being
rather heavily laden, behaved worse than usual, and some

PERNAMBUCO cxiii

green seas stove in the President's hat and made him wetter
than he had probably ever been in his life ; so after one or
two rollers, he turned back ; and indeed he was wise to do
so, for I don't see how he could have got on board. . . .
Being fully convinced that the world will not continue to go
round unless I pay it personal attention, I must run away to
my work.'

cxiv MEMOIR

CHAPTER VI

1869-1885.

Edinburgh — Colleagues — Farrago Vita — I. The Family Circle — Fleeming and
his Sons — Highland Life — The Cruise of the Steain Launch — Summer in
Styria — Kustic Manners — II. The Drama — Private Theatricals — III. Sani-
tary Associations — The Phonograph — IV. Fleeming's Acquaintance with
a Student — His late Maturity of Mind — Religion and Morality — His Love
of Heroism — Taste in Literature — V. His Talk — His late Popularity-
Letter from M. Tr<§lat.

THE remaining external incidents of Fleeming's life, pleasures,
honours, fresh interests, new friends, are not such as will bear
to be told at any length or in the temporal order. And it is
now time to lay narration by, and to look at the man he was
and the life he lived, more largely.

Edin- Edinburgh, which was thenceforth to be his home, is a

metropolitan small town; where college professors and the
lawyers of the Parliament House give the tone, and persons of
leisure, attracted by educational advantages, make up much of
the bulk of society. Not, therefore, an unlettered place, yet
not pedantic, Edinburgh will compare favourably with much
larger cities. A hard and disputatious element has been com-
mented on by strangers : it would not touch Fleeming, who was
himself regarded, even in this metropolis of disputation, as a
thorny tablemate. To golf unhappily he did not take, and golf
is a cardinal virtue in the city of the winds. Nor did he become
an archer of the Queen's Body Guard, which is the Chiltern
Hundreds of the distasted golfer. He did not even frequent
the Evening Club, where his colleague Tait (in my day) was so
punctual and so genial. So that in some ways he stood outside
of the lighter and kindlier life of his new home. I should not
like to say that he was generally popular ; but there as else-

FARRAGO VIT& cxv

where, those who knew him well enough to love him, loved him
well. And he, upon his side, liked a place where a dinner
party was not of necessity unintellectual, and where men stood
up to him in argument.

The presence of his old classmate, Tait, was one of his early Col-
attractions to the chair; and now that Fleeming is gone again,
Tait still remains, ruling and really teaching his great classes.
Sir Robert Christison was an old friend of his mother's ; Sir
Alexander Grant, Kelland and Sellar, were new acquaintances
and highly valued ; and these too, all but the last, have been
taken from their friends and labours. Death has been busy in
the Senatus. I will speak elsewhere of Fleeming's demeanour
to his students ; and it will be enough to add here that his rela-
tions with his colleagues in general were pleasant to himself.

Edinburgh, then, with its society, its university work, its Farrago
delightful scenery and its skating in the winter, was thenceforth
his base of operations. But he shot meanwhile erratic in many
directions : twice to America, as we have seen, on telegraph
voyages ; continually to London on business ; often to Paris ;
year after year to the Highlands to shoot, to fish, to learn reels
and Gaelic, to make the acquaintance and fall in love with the
character of Highlanders ; and once to Styria, to hunt chamois
and dance with peasant maidens. All the while, he was pursu-
ing the course of his electrical studies, making fresh inventions,
taking up the phonograph, filled with theories of graphic repre-
sentation ; reading, writing, publishing, founding sanitary asso-
ciations, interested in technical education, investigating the laws
of metre, drawing, acting, directing private theatricals, going a
long way to see an actor — a long way to see a picture ; in the
very bubble of the tideway of contemporary interests. And all
the while he was busied about his father and mother, his wife,
and in particular his sons ; anxiously watching, anxiously
guiding these, and plunging with his whole fund of youthfulness
into their sports and interests. And all the while he was him-
self maturing — not in character or body, for these remained
young — but in the stocked mind, in the tolerant knowledge of
life and man, in pious acceptance of the universe. Here is a

cxvi MEMOIR

farrago for a chapter : here is a world of interests and activities,
human, artistic, social, scientific, at each of which he sprang
with impetuous pleasure, on each of which he squandered
energy, the arrow drawn to the head, the whole intensity of his
spirit bent, for the moment, on the momentary purpose. It was
this that lent such unusual interest to his society, so that no
friend of his can forget that figure of Fleeming coming charged
with some new discovery : it is this that makes his character so
difficult to represent. Our fathers, upon some difficult theme,
would invoke the Muse ; I can but appeal to the imagination of
the reader. When I dwell upon some one thing, he must bear
in mind it was only one of a score ; that the unweariable brain
was teeming at the very time with other thoughts ; that the
good heart had left no kind duty forgotten.

I.

The In Edinburgh, for a considerable time, Fleeming's family, to

iiMe three generations, was united : Mr. and Mrs. Austin at Hailes,
Captain and Mrs. Jenkin in the suburb of Merchiston, Fleeming
himself in the city. It is not every family that could risk with
safety such close interdomestic dealings ; but in this also
Fleeming was particularly favoured. Even the two extremes,
Mr. Austin and the Captain, drew together. It is pleasant
to find that each of the old gentlemen set a high value on the
good looks of the other, doubtless also on his own ; and a fine
picture they made as they walked the green terrace at Hailes,
conversing by the hour. What they talked of is still a mystery
to those who knew them ; but Mr. Austin always declared that
on these occasions he learned much. To both of these families
of elders, due service was paid of attention ; to both, Fleeming's
easy circumstances had brought joy ; and the eyes of all were on
the grandchildren. In Fleeming's scheme of duties, those of
the family stood first ; a man was first of all a child, nor did he
cease to be so, but only took on added obligations, when he
became in turn a father. The care of his parents was always
a first thought with him, and their gratification his delight.

FLEEMING AND HIS SONS cxvii

And the care of his sons, as it was always a grave subject of
study with him, and an affair never neglected, so it brought
him a thousand satisfactions. ' Hard work they are,' as he
once wrote, ' but what fit work ! ' And again : ' 0, it's a cold
house where a dog is the only representative of a child ! ' Not
that dogs were despised; we shall drop across the name of Jack,
the harum-scarum Irish terrier, ere we have done ; his own
dog Plato went up with him daily to his lectures, and still (like
other friends) feels the loss and looks visibly for the reappear-
ance of his master ; and Martin the cat Fleeming has himself
immortalised, to the delight of Mr. Swinburne, in the columns
of the Spectator. Indeed there was nothing in which men take
interest, in which he took not some ; and yet always most in the
strong human bonds, ancient as the race and woven of delights
and duties.

He was even an anxious father ; perhaps that is the part Fleeming

where optimism is hardest tested. He was eager for his sons ; and his

. ° sons,

eager for their health, whether of mind or body ; eager for their

education ; in that, I should have thought, too eager. But he
kept a pleasant face upon all things, believed in play, loved it
himself, shared boyishly in theirs, and knew how to put a face
of entertainment upon business and a spirit of education into
entertainment. If he was to test the progress of the three boys,
this advertisement would appear in their little manuscript
paper : — ' Notice : The Professor of Engineering in the Univer-
sity of Edinburgh intends at the close of the scholastic year to
hold examinations in the following subjects : (1) For boys in
the fourth class of the Academy — Geometry and Algebra; (2)
For boys at Mr. Henderson's school — Dictation and Recitation ;
(3) For boys taught exclusively by their mothers — Arithmetic
and Reading.' Prizes were given ; but what prize would be
so conciliatory as this boyish little joke ? It may read thin
here ; it would smack racily in the playroom. Whenever his
sons ' started a new fad ' (as one of them writes to me) they
' had only to tell him about it, and he was at once interested
and keen to help/ He would discourage them in nothing
unless it was hopelessly too hard for them ; only, if there was

cxviii MEMOIR

any principle of science involved, they must understand the
principle ; and whatever was attempted, that was to be done
thoroughly. If it was but play, if it was but a puppetshow
they were to build, he set them the example of being no slug-
gard in play. When Frewen the second son embarked on the
ambitious design to make an engine for a toy steamboat, Fleem-
ing made him begin with a proper drawing — doubtless to the
disgust of the young engineer ; but once that foundation laid,
helped in the work with unflagging gusto, ' tinkering away,' for
hours, and assisted at the final trial ' in the big bath ' with no
less excitement than the boy. c He would take any amount of
trouble to help us,' writes my correspondent. .' We never felt
an affair was complete till we had called him to see, and he
would come at any time, in the middle of any work/ There
was indeed one recognised playhour, immediately after the de-
spatch of the day's letters ; and the boys were to be seen waiting
on the stairs until the mail should be ready and the fun could
begin. But at no other time did this busy man suffer his work
to interfere with that first duty to his children ; and there is a
pleasant tale of the inventive Master Frewen, engaged at the
time upon a toy crane, bringing to the study where his father
sat at work a half- wound reel that formed some part of his
design, and observing, ' Papa, you might finiss windin' this for
me ; I am so very busy to-day.'

I put together here a few brief extracts from Fleeming's
letters, none very important in itself, but all together building
up a pleasant picture of the father with his sons.

i Jan. 15thy 1875. — Frewen contemplates suspending soap
bubbles by silk threads for experimental purposes. I don't
think he will manage that. Bernard ' [the youngest] ' volun-
teered to blow the bubbles with enthusiasm.'

c Jan. 17 th. — I am learning a great deal of electrostatics in
consequence of the perpetual cross-examination to which I am
subjected. I long for you on many grounds but one is that I
may not be obliged to deliver a running lecture on abstract
points of science, subject to cross-examination by two acute
students. Bernie does not cross-examine much ; but if anyone

FLEEMING AND HIS SONS cxix

gets discomfited, he laughs a sort of little silver- whistle giggle,
which is trying to the unhappy blunderer.'

' May 9th. — Frewen is deep in parachutes. I beg him not to
drop from the top landing in one of his own making.'

c June 6th, 1876. — Frewen 's crank axle is a failure just at
present — but he bears up.'

1 June 14th. — The boys enjoy their riding. It gets them
whole funds of adventures. One of their caps falling off is
matter for delightful reminiscences ; and when a horse breaks
his step, the occurrence becomes a rear, a shy or a plunge as
they talk it over. Austin, with quiet confidence, speaks of the
greater pleasure in riding a spirited horse, even if he does give
a little trouble. It is the stolid brute that he dislikes. (N.B.
You can still see six inches between him and the saddle when
his pony trots.) I listen and sympathise and throw out no hint
that their achievements are not really great.'

1 June 18th. — Bernard is much impressed by the fact that I
can be useful to Frewen about the steamboat ' [which the latter
irrepressible inventor was making]. * He says quite with awe,
" He would not have got on nearly so well if you had not helped
him." '

' June 27th. — I do not see what I could do without Austin.
He talks so pleasantly and is so truly good all through.'

' July 7th. — My chief difficulty with Austin is to get him
measured for a pair of trousers. Hitherto I have failed, but I
keep a stout heart and mean to succeed. Frewen the observer,
in describing the paces of two horses, says " Polly takes twenty-
seven steps to get round the school. I couldn't count Sophy,
bat she takes more than a hundred."

6 Feb. 18ta, 1877.— We all feel very lonely without you.
Frewen had to come up and sit in my room for company last
night and I actually kissed him, a thing that has not occurred
for years. Jack, poor fellow, bears it as well as he can, and
has taken the opportunity of having a fester on his foot, so he
is lame and has it bathed, and this occupies his thoughts a good
deal.'

' Feb. 19th. — As to Mill, Austin has not got the list yet. I

cxx MEMOIR

think it will prejudice him very much against Mill — but that
is not my affair. Education of that kind ! . . , I would as soon
cram my boys with food and boast of the pounds they had eaten,
as cram them with literature.'

But if Fleeming was an anxious father, he did not suffer his
anxiety to prevent the boys from any manly or even dangerous
pursuit. Whatever it might occur to them to try, he would
carefully show them how to do it, explain the risks, and then
either share the danger himself or, if that were not possible,
stand aside and wait the event with that unhappy courage of
the looker-on. He was a good swimmer, and taught them to
swim. He thoroughly loved all manly exercises ; and during
Highland their holidays, and principally in the Highlands, helped and
encouraged them to excel in as many as possible : to shoot, to
fish, to walk, to pull an oar, to hand, reef and steer, and to run
a steam launch. In all of these, and in all parts of Highland
life, he shared delightedly. He was well on to forty when he
took once more to shooting, he was forty-three when he killed
his first salmon, but no boy could have more single-mindedly
rejoiced in these pursuits. His growing love for the Highland
character, perhaps also a sense of the difficulty of the task, led
him to take up at forty-one the study of Gaelic ; in which he
made some shadow of progress, but not much : the fastnesses of
that elusive speech retaining to the last their independence.
At the house of his friend Mrs. Blackburn, who plays the part
of a Highland lady as to the manner born, he learned the
delightful custom of kitchen dances, which became the rule at
his own house and brought him into yet nearer contact with his
neighbours. And thus at forty-two, he began to learn the reel ;
a study, to which he brought his usual smiling earnestness ; and
the steps, diagramatically represented by his own hand, are
before me as I write.

The cruise It was in 1879 that a new feature was added to the High-

°.f the land life : a steam launch, called the Purgle, the Styrian corrup-

launch. tion of Walpurga, after a friend to be hereafter mentioned. ' The

steam launch goes,' Fleeming wrote. c I wish you had been

present to describe two scenes of which she has been the occasion

.

FRAU MOSER

FROM THE STYRIAN SKETCH BOOK

THE CRUISE OF THE STEAM LAUNCH cxxi

already : one during which the population of Ullapool, to a babv,
was harnessed to her hurrahing — and the other in which the
same population sat with its legs over a little pier, watching
Frewen and Bernie getting up steam for the first time.' The
Purgle was got with educational intent ; and it served its purpose
so well, and the boys knew their business so practically, that
when the summer was at an end, Fleeming, Mrs. Jenkin, Freweri
the engineer, Bernard the stoker, and Kenneth Robertson a
Highland seaman, set forth in her to make the passage south.
The first morning they got from Loch Broom into Gruinard bay.
where they lunched upon an island ; but the wind blowing up
in the afternoon, with sheets of rain, it was found impossible to
beat to sea ; and very much in the situation of castaways upon
an unknown coast, the party landed at the mouth of Gruinard
river. A shooting lodge was spied among the trees ; there
Fleeming went ; and though the master Mr. Murray was from
home, though the two Jenkin boys were of course as black as
colliers, and all the castaways 'so wetted through that, as they
stood in the passage, pools formed about their feet and ran
before them into the house, yet Mrs. Murray kindly entertained
them for the night. On the morrow, however, visitors were to
arrive ; there would be no room and, in so out of the way a
spot, most probably no food for the crew of the Purgle ; and on
the morrow about noon, with the bay white with spindrift and
the wind so strong that one could scarcely stand against it, they
got up steam and skulked under the land as far as Sanda Bay.
Here they crept into a seaside cave, and cooked some food ; but
the weather now freshening to a gale, it was plain they must
moor the launch where she was, and find their way overland to
some place of shelter. Even to get their baggage from on board
was no light business ; for the dingy was blown so far to leeward
every trip, that they must carry her back by hand along the
beach. But this once managed, and a cart procured in the
neighbourhood, they were able to spend the night in a pot-house
at Ault Bea. Next day, the sea was unapproachable ; but the
next they had a pleasant passage to Poolewe, hugging the cliffs,
the falling swell bursting close by them in the gullies, and the

CXX11

MEMOIR

Summer
in Styria.

black scarts that sat like ornaments on the top of every stack
and pinnacle, looking down into the Purgle as she passed. The
climate of Scotland had not done with them yet : for three days
they lay storm-stayed in Poolewe, and when they put to sea on
the morning of the fourth, the sailors prayed them for God's sake
not to attempt the passage. Their setting out was indeed merely
tentative ; but presently they had gone too far to return, and
found themselves committed to double Rhu Reay with a foul
wind and a cross sea. From half-past eleven in the morning
until half-past five at night, they were in immediate and un-
ceasing danger. Upon the least mishap, the Purgle must either
have been swamped by the seas or bulged upon the cliffs of that
rude headland. Fleeming and Robertson took turns baling
and steering ; Mrs. Jenkin, so violent was the commotion of the
boat, held 011 with both hands ; Frewen, by Robertson's direc-
tion, ran the engine, slacking and pressing her to meet the seas ;
and Bernard, only twelve years old, deadly sea-sick, and con-
tinually thrown against the boiler, so that he was found next day
to be covered with burns, yet kept an even fire. It was a very
thankful party that sat down that evening to meat in the Hotel at
Gairloch. And perhaps, although the thing was new in the family,
no one was much surprised when Fleeming said grace over that
meal. Thenceforward he continued to observe the form, so that
there was kept alive in his house a grateful memory of peril arid
deliverance. But there was nothing of the muff in Fleeming ;
he thought it a good thing to escape death, but a becoming and
a healthful thing to run the risk of it ; and what is rarer, that
which he thought for himself, he thought for his family also.
In spite of the terrors of Rhu Reay, the cruise was persevered
in and brought to an end under happier conditions.

One year, instead of the Highlands, Alt Aussee, in the Steier-
mark, was chosen for the holidays ; and the place, the people,
and the life delighted Fleeming. He worked hard at German,
which he had much forgotten since he was a boy ; and what is
highly characteristic, equally hard at the patois, in which he
learned to excel. He won a prize at a Schiitzen-fest ; and
though he hunted chamois without much success, brought down

WALPURGA

FROM TUT STYRIAN SKLTCH BOOK

STYRIAN PEASANTS cxxiii

more interesting game in the shape of the Styrian peasants,
and in particular of his gillie, Joseph. This Joseph was much
of a character ; and his appreciations of Fleeming have a fine
note of their own. The bringing up of the boys he deigned to
approve of: ''fast so gut wie ein Bauer,' was his trenchant criti-
cism. The attention and courtly respect with which Fleeming
surrounded his wife, was something of a puzzle to the philoso-
phic gillie ; he announced in the village that Mrs. Jenkin — die
sillerne Frau, as the folk had prettily named her from some
silver ornaments — was a ' geborene Grafin ' who had married
beneath her ; and when Fleeming explained what he called
the English theory (though indeed it was quite his own) of
married relations, Joseph, admiring but unconvinced, avowed
it was ' gar schonJ Joseph's cousin, Walpurga Moser, to an
orchestra of clarionet and zither, taught the family the country
dances, the Steierisch and the Landler, and gained their hearts
during the lessons. Her sister Loys, too, who was up at
the Alp with the cattle, came down to church on Sundays,
made acquaintance with the Jenkins, and must have them up
to see the sunrise from her house upon the Loser, where they
had supper and all slept in the loft among the hay. The Mosers
were not lost sight of; Walpurga still corresponds with Mrs.
Jenkin, and it was a late pleasure of Fleeming's to choose and
despatch a wedding present for his little mountain friend. This
visit was brought to an end by a ball in the big inn parlour ;
the refreshments chosen, the list of guests drawn up, by Joseph ;
the best music of the place in attendance ; and hosts and guests
in their best clothes. The ball was opened by Mrs. Jenkin
dancing Steierisch with a lordly Bauer, in gray and silver and
with a plumed hat ; and Fleeming followed with Walpurga
Moser.

There ran a principle through all these holiday pleasures,
In Styria as in the Highlands, the same course was followed :
Fleeming threw himself as fully as he could into the life and
occupations of the native people, studying everywhere their
dances and their language, and conforming, always with plea-
sure, to their rustic etiquette. Just as the ball at Alt Aussee

VOL. I. h

cxxiv MEMOIR

was designed for the taste of Joseph, the parting feast at Atta-
dale was ordered in every particular to the taste of Murdoch
the Keeper. Fleeming was not one of the common, so-called
gentlemen, who take the tricks of their own coterie to be eternal
principles of taste. He was aware, on the other hand, that
rustic people dwelling in their own places, follow ancient
rules with fastidious precision, and are easily shocked and
embarrassed by what (if they used the word) they would
have to call the vulgarity of visitors from town. And he, who
was so cavalier with men of his own class, was sedulous to
shield the more tender feelings of the peasant ; he, who could
be so trying in a drawing-room, was even punctilious in the
cottage. It was in all respects a happy virtue. It renewed his
life, during these holidays, in all particulars. It often enter-
tained him with the discovery of strange survivals ; as when, by
the orders of Murdoch, Mrs. Jenkin must publicly taste of every
dish before it was set before her guests. And thus to throw
himself into a fresh life and a new school of manners was a
grateful exercise of Fleeming's mimetic instinct; and to the
pleasures of the open air, of hardships supported, of dexterities
improved and displayed, and of plain and elegant society, added
a spice of drama.

II.

The Fleeming was all his life a lover of the play and all that

drama. belonged to it. Dramatic literature he knew fully. He was
one of the not very numerous people who can read a play : a
knack, the fruit of much knowledge and some imagination,
comparable to that of reading score. Few men better under-
stood the artificial principles on which a play is good or bad ;
few more unaffectedly enjoyed a piece of any merit of construc-
tion. His own play (which the reader will find reprinted farther
on) was conceived with a double design ; for he had long been
filled with his theory of the true story of Griselda ; used to gird
at Father Chaucer for his misconception ; and was, perhaps first
of all, moved by the desire to do justice to the Marquis of

THE DRAMA cxxv

Saluces, and perhaps only in the second place, by the wish to
treat a story (as he phrased it) like a sum in arithmetic. I do
not think he quite succeeded ; but I must own myself no fit
judge. Fleeming and I were teacher and taught as to the prin-
ciples, disputatious rivals in the practice, of dramatic writing.

Acting had always, ever since Rachel and the Marseillaise, a
particular power on him. ' If I do not cry at the play,' he
used to say, ( I want to have my money back.' Even from a
poor play with poor actors he could draw pleasure. ' Giaco-
metti's Misabetta* I find him writing, * fetched the house
vastly. Poor Queen Elizabeth ! And yet it was a little good.'
And again, after a night of Salvini : ' I do not suppose any
one with feelings could sit out Othello, if lago and Desdemona
were acted.' Salvini was, in his view, the greatest actor he
had seen. We were all indeed moved and bettered by the
visit of that wonderful man. — ' I declare I feel as if I could
pray ! ' cried one of us, on the return from Hamlet. — ( That is
prayer,' said Fleeming. W. B. Hole and I, in a fine enthu-
siasm of gratitude, determined to draw up an address to Salvini,
did so, and carried it to Fleeming ; and I shall never forget
with what coldness he heard and deleted the eloquence of our
draft, nor with what spirit (our vanities once properly mor-
tified) he threw himself into the business of collecting signa-
tures. It was his part, on the ground of his Italian, to see and
arrange with the actor ; it was mine to write in the Academy
a notice of the first performance of Macbeth. Fleeming opened
the paper, read so far, and flung it on the floor. ' No,' he cried,
' that won't do. You were thinking of yourself, not of Salvini ! '
The criticism was shrewd as usual, but it was unfair through
ignorance ; it was not of myself that I was thinking, but of the
difficulties of my trade which I had not well mastered. Another
unalloyed dramatic pleasure which Fleeming and I shared the
year of the Paris Exposition, was the Marquis de Villemer, that
blameless play, performed by Madeleine Brohan, Delaunay,
Worms, and Broisat — an actress, in such parts at least, to whom
I have never seen full justice rendered. He had his fill of
weeping on that occasion ; and when the piece was at an end,

h 2

cxxvi MEMOIR

in front of a cafe, in the mild, midnight air, we had our fill of
talk about the art of acting.
Private But what gave the stage so strong a hold on Fleeming was

theatri- inheritance from Norwich, from Edward Barron, and from

cals. '

Enfield of the Speaker. The theatre was one of Edward Barren's
elegant hobbies ; he read plays, as became Enfield's son-in-law,
with a good discretion ; he wrote plays for his family, in which
Eliza Barron used to shine in the chief parts ; and later in life,
after the Norwich home was broken up, his little granddaughter
would sit behind him in a great armchair, and be introduced,
with his stately elocution, to the world of dramatic literature.
From this, in a direct line, we can deduce the charades at Clay-
gate; and after money came, in the Edinburgh days, that
private theatre which took up so much of Fleeming's energy
and thought. The company — Mr. and Mrs. R. 0. Carter of
Colwall, W. B. Hole, Captain Charles Douglas, Mr. Kunz, Mr.
Burnett, Professor Lewis Campbell, Mr. Charles Baxter, and
many more — made a charming society for themselves and gave
pleasure to their audience. Mr. Carter in Sir Toby Belch it
would be hard to beat. Mr. Hole in broad farce, or as the
herald in the Trachinice showed true stage talent. As for Mrs.
Jenkin, it was for her the rest of us existed and were forgiven ;
her powers were an endless spring of pride and pleasure to her
husband ; he spent hours hearing and schooling her in private ;
and when it came to the performance, though there was perhaps
no one in the audience more critical, none was more moved than
Fleeming. The rest of us did not aspire so high. There were
always five performances and weeks of busy rehearsal ; and
whether we came to sit and stifle as the prompter, to be the
dumb (or rather the inarticulate) recipients of Carter's dog whip
in the Taming of tlie 8hrew, or having earned our spurs, to
lose one more illusion in a leading part, we were always sure at
least of a long and an exciting holiday in mirthful company.

In this laborious annual diversion, Fleeming's part was
large. I never thought him an actor, but he was something of
a mimic, which stood him in stead. Thus he had seen Got in
Poirier ; and his own Poirier, when he came to play it, breathed

STAGE MANAGING cxxvii

meritoriously of the model. The last part I saw him play was
Triplet, and at first I thought it promised well. But alas ! the
boys went for a holiday, missed a train, and were not heard of
at home till late at night. Poor Fleeming, the man who never
hesitated to give his sons a chisel or a gun, or to send them
abroad in a canoe or on a horse, toiled all day at his rehearsal,
growing hourly paler, Triplet growing hourly less meritorious.
And though the return of the children, none the worse for their
little adventure, brought the colour back into his face, it could
not restore him to his part. I remember finding him seated on
the stairs in some rare moment of quiet during the subsequent
performances. ' Hullo, Jenkin,' said I, c you look down in the
mouth.' — ' My dear boy,' said he, ' haven't you heard me ? I
have not one decent intonation from beginning to end.'

But indeed he never supposed himself an actor ; took a part,
when he took any, merely for convenience, as one takes a hand
at whist ; and found his true service and pleasure in the more
congenial business of the manager. Augier, Racine, Shake-
speare, Aristophanes in Hookham Frere's translation, Sophocles
and ^Eschylus in Lewis Campbell's, such were some of the
authors whom he introduced to his public. In putting these
upon the stage, he found a thousand exercises for his ingenuity
and taste, a thousand problems arising which he delighted to
study, a thousand opportunities to make those infinitesimal im-
provements which are so much in art and for the artist. Our first
Greek play had been costumed by the professional costumier,
with unforgettable results of comicality and indecorum : the
second, the Trachinice of Sophocles, he took in hand himself, and
a delightful task he made of it. His study was then in anti-
quarian books, where he found confusion, and on statues and
bas-reliefs, where he at last found clearness ; after an hour or
so at the British Museum, he was able to master * the chiton,
sleeves and all ; ' and before the time was ripe, he had a theory of
Greek tailoring at his fingers' ends, and had all the costumes
made under his eye as a Greek tailor would have made them.
f The Greeks made the best plays and the best statues, and were
the best architects ; of course, they were the best tailors, too,'

cxxviii MEMOIR

said he ; and was never weary, when he could find a tolerant
listener, of dwelling on the simplicity, the economy, the elegance
both of means and effect, which made their system so delightful.
But there is another side to the stage-manager's employ-
ment. The discipline of acting is detestable ; the failures and
triumphs of that business appeal too directly to the vanity ; and
even in the course of a careful amateur performance such as ours,
much of the smaller side of man will be displayed. Fleeming,
among conflicting vanities and levities, played his part to my
admiration. He had his own view ; he might be wrong ; but the
performances (he would remind us) were after all his, and he
must decide. He was, in this as in all other things, an iron
taskmaster, sparing not himself nor others. If you were going
to do it at all, he would see that it was done as well as you
were able. I have known him to keep two culprits (and one of
these his wife) repeating the same action and the same two or
three words for a whole weary afternoon. And yet he gained
and retained warm feelings from far the most of those who fell
under his domination, and particularly (it is pleasant to re-
member) from the girls. After the slipshod training and the
incomplete accomplishments of a girls' school, there was some-
thing at first annoying, at last exciting and bracing, in this
high standard of accomplishment and perseverance.

III.

Sanitary It did not matter why he entered upon any study or employ-

fl acr)C»1 Q

tions. ment, whether for amusement like the Greek tailoring or the
Highland reels, whether from a desire to serve the public as
with his sanitary work, or in the view of benefiting poorer men
as with his labours for technical education, he ' pitched into it '
(as he would have said himself) with the same headlong zest. I
give in the Appendix a letter from Colonel Fergusson, which
tells fully the nature of the sanitary work and of Fleeming's
part and success in it. It will be enough to say here that it
was a scheme of protection against the blundering of builders

SANITARY ASSOCIATIONS cxxix

and the dishonesty of plumbers. Started with an eye rather to
the houses of the rich, Fleeming hoped his Sanitary Associations
would soon extend their sphere of usefulness and improve the
dwellings of the poor. In this hope he was disappointed ; but
in all other ways the scheme exceedingly prospered, associations
sprang up and continue to spring up in many quarters, and
wherever tried they have been found of use.

Here, then, was a serious employment ; it has proved .highly
useful to mankind ; and it was begun besides, in a mood of bit-
terness, under the shock of what Fleeming would so sensitively
feel — the death of a whole family of children. Yet it was gone
upon like a holiday jaunt. I read in Colonel Fergusson's letter
that his schoolmates bantered him when he began to broach his
scheme ; so did I at first, and he took the banter as he always
did with enjoyment, until he suddenly posed me with the ques-
tion : ' And now do you see any other jokes to make ? Well,
then,' said he, ' that's all right. I wanted you to have your
fun out first ; now we can be serious.' And then with a glow-
ing heat of pleasure, he laid his plans before me, revelling in
the details, revelling in hope. It was as he wrote about the
joy of electrical experiment : ' What shall I compare them to ? —
A new song ? a Greek play ? ' Delight attended the exercise of all
his powers ; delight painted the future. Of these ideal visions,
some (as I have said) failed of their fruition. And the illusion
was characteristic. Fleeming believed we had only to make
a virtue cheap and easy, and then all would practise it ; that
for an end unquestionably good, men would not grudge a little
trouble and a little money, though they might stumble at
laborious pains and generous sacrifices. He could not believe
in any resolute badness. ( I cannot quite say,' he wrote in his
young manhood, ' that I think there is no sin or misery. This
I can say : I do not remember one single malicious act done to
myself. In fact it is rather awkward when I have to say the
Lord's Prayer. I have nobody's trespasses to forgive.' And to
the point, I remember one of our discussions. I said it was a
dangerous error not to admit there were bad people ; he, that it
was only a confession of blindness on our part, and that we

cxxx

MEMOIR

The pho-
nograph.

probably called others bad only so far as we were wrapped in
ourselves and lacking in the transmigratory forces of imagina-
tion. I undertook to describe to him three persons irredeemably
bad and whom he should admit to be so. In the first case, he
denied my evidence : ' You cannot judge a man upon such testi-
mony,' said he. For the second, he owned it made him sick to
hear the tale ; but then there was no spark of malice, it was
mere weakness I had described, and he had never denied nor
thought to set a limit to man's weakness. At my third gentle-
man, he struck his colours. ' Yes,' said he, ' I'm afraid that is a
bad man.' And then looking at me shrewdly : ' I wonder if it
isn't a very unfortunate thing for you to have met him.' I showed
him radiantly how it was the world we must know, the world as
it was, n©t a world expurgated and prettified with optimistic rain-
bows. ' Yes, yes,' said he ; ' but this badness is such an easy,
lazy explanation. Won't you be tempted to use it, instead of
trying to understand people ? '

In the year 1878, he took a passionate fancy for the phono-
graph : it was a toy after his heart, a toy that touched the skirts
of life, art and science, a toy prolific of problems and theories.
Something fell to be done for a University Cricket Ground
Bazaar. ' And the thought struck him,' Mr. Ewing writes to
me, ' to exhibit Edison's phonograph, then the very newest scien-
tific marvel. The instrument itself was not to be purchased
— I think no specimen had then crossed the Atlantic — but a
copy of the Times with an account of it was at hand, and by the
help of this we made a phonograph which to our great joy
talked, and talked, too, with the purest American accent. It was
so good that a second instrument was got ready forthwith. Both
were shown at the Bazaar : one by Mrs. Jenkin to people willing
to pay half a crown for a private view and the privilege of hear-
ing their own voices, while Jenkin, perfervid as usual, gave half-
hourly lectures on the other in an adjoining room — I, as his
lieutenant, taking turns. The thing was in its way a little
triumph. A few of the visitors were deaf, and hugged the
belief that they were the victims of a new kind of fancy-fair
swindle. Of the others, many who came to scoff remained to

THE PHONOGRAPH cxxxi

take raffle tickets ; and one of the phonographs was finally dis-
posed of in this way.' The other remained in Fleeming's hands,
and was a source of infinite occupation. Once it was sent to
London, ' to bring back on the tinfoil the tones of a lady dis-
tinguished for clear vocalisation ' ; at another time ' Sir Robert
Christison was brought in to contribute his powerful bass ' ;
and there scarcely came a visitor about the house, but he was
made the subject of experiment. The visitors, I am afraid,
took their parts lightly : Mr. Hole and I, with unscientific
laughter, commemorating various shades of Scotch accent, or
proposing to l teach the poor dumb animal to swear.' But
Fleeming and Mr. Ewing, when we butterflies were gone, were
laboriously ardent. Many thoughts that occupied the later years
of my friend were caught from the small utterance of that toy.
Thence came his inquiries into the roots of articulate language
and the foundations of literary art ; his papers on vowel sounds,
his papers in the Saturday Review upon the laws of verse, and
many a strange approximation, many a just note, thrown out
in talk and now forgotten. I pass over dozens of his interests,
and dwell on this trifling matter of the phonograph, because
it seems to me that it depicts the man. So, for Fleeming,
one thing joined into another, the greater with the less. He
cared not where it was he scratched the surface of the ultimate
mystery — in the child's toy, in the great tragedy, in the laws
of the tempest, or in the properties of energy or mass — certain
that whatever he touched, it was a part of life — and however
he touched it, there would flow for his happy constitution in-
terest and delight. ' All fables have their morals,' says Thoreau,
1 but the innocent enjoy the story.' There is a truth repre-
sented for the imagination in these lines of a noble poem, where
we are told, that in our highest hours of visionary clearness, we
can but

* see the children sport upon the shore
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.'

To this clearness Fleeming had attained ; and although he
heard the voice of the eternal seas and weighed its message,

CXXX11

MEMOIR

he was yet able, until the end of his life, to sport upon these
shores of death and mystery with the gaiety and innocence of
children.

IV.

It was as a student that I first knew Fleeming, as one
that modest number of young men who sat under his ministra-

Flee-
ming's

ance with tions in a soul-chilling class-room at the top of the University
a student. buildings. His presence was against him as a professor : no
one, least of all students, would have been moved to respect him
at first sight : rather short in stature, markedly plain, boyishly
young in manner, cocking his head like a terrier with every
mark of the most engaging vivacity and readiness to be pleased,
full of words, full of paradox, a stranger could scarcely fail to
look at him twice, a man thrown with him in a train could
scarcely fail to be engaged by him in talk, but a student would
never regard him as academical. Yet he had that fibre in him
that order always existed in his class-room. I do not remember
that he ever addressed me in language ; at the least sign
of unrest, his eye would fall on me and I was quelled. Such
a feat is comparatively easy in a small class ; but I have
misbehaved in smaller classes and under eyes more Olympian
than Fleeming Jenkin's. He was simply a man from whose
reproof one shrank; in manner the least buckrammed of
mankind, he had, in serious moments, an extreme dignity of
goodness. So it was that he obtained a power over the most
insubordinate of students, but a power of which I was myself
unconscious. I was inclined to regard any professor as a joke,
and Fleeming as a particularly good joke, perhaps the broadest
in the vast pleasantry of my curriculum. I was not able to
follow his lectures ; I somehow dared not misconduct myself,
as was my customary solace ; and I refrained from attending.
This brought me at the end of the session into a relation with
my contemned professor that completely opened my eyes.
During the year, bad student as I was, he had shown a certain
leaning to my society ; I had been to his house, he had asked

A STUDENTS CERTIFICATE cxxxiii

me to take a humble part in his theatricals ; I was a master in
the art of extracting a certificate even at the cannon's mouth ;
and I was under no apprehension. But when I approached
Fleeming, I found myself in another world ; he would have
naught of me. ' It is quite useless for you to come to me, Mr.
Stevenson. There may be doubtful cases, there is no doubt
about yours. You have simply not attended my class.' The
document was necessary to me for family considerations ; and
presently I stooped to such pleadings and rose to such adjura-
tions, as made my ears burn to remember. He was quite un-
moved ; he had no pity for me. — ' You are no fool,' said he,
' and you chose your course.' I showed him that he had miscon-
ceived his duty, that certificates were things of form, attendance
a matter of taste. Two things, he replied, had been required
for graduation, a certain competency proved in the final trials
and a certain period of genuine training proved by certificate ;
if he did as I desired, not less than if he gave me hints for an
examination, he was aiding me to steal a degree. ' You see,
Mr. Stevenson, these are the laws and I am here to apply
them,' said he. I could not say but that this view was tenable,
though it was new to me ; I changed my attack : it was only
for my father's eye that I required his signature, it need never
go to the Senatus, I had already certificates enough to justify
my year's attendance. ' Bring them to me ; I cannot take your
word for that,' said he. * Then I will consider.' The next day
I came charged with my certificates, a humble assortment. And
when he had satisfied himself, ' Remember,' said he, c that I can
promise nothing, but I will try to find a form of words.' He
did find one, and I am still ashamed when I think of his shame
in giving me that paper. He made no reproach in speech, but
his manner was the more eloquent ; it told me plainly what a
dirty business we were on ; and I went from his presence, with
my certificate indeed in my possession, but with no answerable
sense of triumph. That was the bitter beginning of my love
for Fleeming ; I never thought lightly of him afterwards.

Once, and once only, after our friendship was truly founded,
did we come to a considerable difference. It was, by the rules

cxxxiv MEMOIR

of poor humanity, my fault and liis. I had been led to dabble
in society journalism ; and this coming to his ears, he felt it like
a disgrace upon himself. So far he was exactly in the right ;
but he was scarce happily inspired when he broached the subject
at his own table and before guests who were strangers to me.
It was the sort of error he was always ready to repent, but
always certain to repeat ; and on this occasion he spoke so freely
that I soon made an excuse and left the house with the firm
purpose of returning no more. About a month later, I met him
at dinner at a common friend's. ' Now,' said he, on the stairs,
c I engage you — like a lady to dance — for the end of the evening.
You have no right to quarrel with me and not give me a chance/
I have often said and thought that Fleeming had no tact ; he
belied the opinion then. I remember perfectly how, so soon as
we could get together, he began his attack : t You may have
grounds of quarrel with me ; you have none against Mrs. Jenkin ;
and before I say another word, I want you to promise you will
come to her house as usual.' An interview thus begun could
have but one ending : if the quarrel were the fault of both, the
merit of the reconciliation was entirely Fleeming's.

3is late When our intimacy first began, coldly enough, accidentally

of mind, enough on his part, he had still something of the Puritan, some-
thing of the inhuman narrowness of the good youth. It fell
from him slowly, year by year, as he continued to ripen, and
grow milder, and understand more generously the mingled cha-
racters of men. In the early days he once read me a bitter
lecture ; and I remember leaving his house in a fine spring
afternoon, with the physical darkness of despair upon my eye-
sight. Long after he ma.de me a formal retractation of the
sermon and a formal apology for the pain he had inflicted ; add-
ing drolly, but truly, ' You see, at that time I was so much
younger than you ! ' And yet even in those days there was
much to learn from him ; and above all his fine spirit of piety,
bravely and trustfully accepting life, and his singular delight in
the heroic.

His piety was, indeed, a thing of chief importance. His views
(as they are called) upon religious matters varied much ; and he

RELIGION cxxxv

could never be induced to think them more or less than views. Eeligion
' All dogma is to me mere form,' he wrote ; ' dogmas are mere
blind struggles to express the inexpressible. I cannot conceive
that any single proposition whatever in religion is true in the
scientific sense ; and yet all the while I think the religious view
of the world is the most true view. Try to separate from the
mass of their statements that which is common to Socrates,
Isaiah, David, St. Bernard, the Jansenists, Luther, Mahomet,
Bunyan — yes, and George Eliot : of course you do not believe
that fcjiis something could be written down in a set of proposi-
tions like Euclid, neither will you deny that there is something
common and this something very valuable. ... I shall be sorry
if the boys ever give a moment's thought to the question of what
community they belong to — I hope they will belong to the great
community.' I should observe that as time went on his confor-
mity to the church in which he was born grew more complete, and
his views drew nearer the conventional. ' The longer I live, my
dear Louis,' he wrote but a few months before his death, ' the more
convinced I become of a direct care by God — which is reasonably
impossible — but there it is.' And in his last year he took the
communion.

But at the time when I fell under his influence, he stood
more aloof; and this made him the more impressive to a youth-
ful atheist. He had a keen sense of language and its imperial
influence on men ; language contained all the great and sound
metaphysics, he was wont to say ; and a word once made and
generally understood, he thought a real victory of man and
reason. But he never dreamed it could be accurate, knowing
that words stand symbol for the indefinable. I came to him
once with a problem which had puzzled me out of measure :
what is a cause ? why out of so many innumerable millions of
conditions, all necessary, should one be singled out and ticketed
' the cause ? ' l You do not understand,'' said he. ' A cause is
the answer to a question : it designates that condition which I
happen to know and you happen not to know.' It was thus,
with partial exception of the mathematical, that he thought of
all means of reasoning : they were in his eyes but means of

cxxxvi MEMOIR

communication, so to be understood, so to be judged, and only
so far to be credited. The mathematical he made, I say, excep-
tion of: number and measure he believed in to the extent of
their significance, but that significance, he was never weary of
reminding you, was slender to the verge of nonentity. Science
was true, because it told us almost nothing. With a few ab-
stractions it could deal, and deal correctly ; conveying honestly
faint truths. Apply its means to any concrete fact of life, and
this high dialect of the wise became a childish jargon.

Thus the atheistic youth was met at every turn by a scep-
ticism more complete than his own, so that the very weapons of
the fight were changed in his grasp to swords of paper. Cer-
tainly the church is not right, he would argue, but certainly not
the anti-church either. Men are not such fools as to be wholl3r
in the wrong, nor yet are they so placed as to be ever wholly in
the right. Somewhere, in mid air between the disputants, like
hovering Victory in some design of a Greek battle, the truth
hangs undiscerned. And in the meanwhile what matter these
uncertainties ? Right is very obvious ; a great consent of the
best of mankind, a loud voice within us (whether of God, or
whether by inheritance, and in that case still from God) guide
and command us in the path of duty. He saw life very simple ;
he did not love refinements ; he was a friend to much conformity
in unessentials. For (he would argue) it is in this life as it
stands about us, that we are given our problem ; the manners
of the day are the colours of our palette ; they condition, they
constrain us ; and a man must be very sure he is in the right,
must (in a favourite phrase of his) be ' either very wise or very
vain,' to break with any general consent in ethics. I remember
taking his advice upon some point of conduct. ' Now,' he. said,
' how do you suppose Christ would have advised you ? ' and
when I had answered that he would not have counselled me
anything unkind or cowardly, ' No,' he said, with one of his
shrewd strokes at the weakness of his hearer, ' nor anything
amusing.' Later in life, he made less certain in the field of
ethics. ' The old story of the knowledge of good and evil is a
very true one,' I find him writing ; only (he goes on) ' the effect

HEROISM cxxxvii

of the original dose is much worn out, leaving Adam's descend-
ants with the knowledge that there is such a thing — but uncer-
tain where/* His growing sense of this ambiguity made him
less swift to condemn but no less stimulating in counsel. ' You
grant yourself certain freedoms. Very well,' he would say, ' I
want to see you pay for them some other way. You positively
cannot do this : then there positively must be something else
that you can do, and I want to see you find that out and do it/
Fleeming would never suffer you to think that you were living,
if there were not, somewhere in your life, some touch of heroism,
to do or to endure.

This was his rarest quality. Far on in middle age, when His love
men begin to lie down with the bestial goddesses, Comfort and °ei
Respectability, the strings of his nature still sounded as high a
note as a young man's. He loved the harsh voice of duty like
a call to battle. He loved courage, enterprise, brave natures, a
brave word, an ugly virtue ; everything that lifts us above the
table where we eat or the bed we sleep upon. This with no
touch of the motive-monger or the ascetic. He loved his virtues
to be practical, his heroes to be great eaters of beef; he loved
the jovial Heracles, loved the astute Odysseus ; not the Robes-
pierres and Wesleys. A fine buoyant sense of life and of man's
unequal character ran through all his thoughts. He could not
tolerate the spirit of the pickthank ; being what we are, he
wished us to see others with a generous eye of admiration, not
with the smallness of the seeker after faults. If there shone
anywhere a virtue, no matter how incongruously set, it was
upon the virtue we must fix our eyes. I remember having
found much entertainment in Voltaire's Saul, and telling him
what seemed to me the drollest touches. He heard me out, as
usual when displeased, and then opened fire on me with red-hot
shot. To belittle a noble story was easy ; it was not literature,
it was not art, it was not morality ; there was no sustenance in
such a form of jesting, there was (in his favourite phrase) ' no
nitrogenous food ' in such literature. And then he proceeded to
show what a fine fellow David was ; and what a hard knot he was
in about Bathsheba, so that (the initial wrong committed) honour

CXXXV111

MEMOIR

Taste in
literature.

might well hesitate in the choice of conduct ; and what owls
those people were who marvelled because an Eastern tyrant
had killed Uriah, instead of marvelling that he had not killed
the prophet also. i Now if Voltaire had helped me to feel that,'
said he, ' I could have seen some fun in it.' He loved the
comedy which shows a hero human, and yet leaves him a hero ;
and the laughter which does not lessen love.

It was this taste for what is fine in humankind, that ruled
his choice in books. These should all strike a high note, whether
brave or tender, and smack of the open air. The noble and
simple presentation of things noble and simple, that was the
* nitrogenous food ' of which he spoke so much, which he sought
so eagerly, enjoyed so royally. He wrote to an author, the first
part of whose story he had seen with sympathy, hoping that it
might continue in the same vein. ' That this may be so,' he
wrote, ' I long with the longing of David for the water of
Bethlehem. But no man need die for the water a poet can give,
and all can drink it to the end of time, and their thirst be
quenched and the pool never dry — and the thirst and the water
are both blessed.' It was in the Greeks particularly that he
found this blessed water ; he loved ' a fresh air ' which he found
1 about the Greek things even in translations ; ' he loved their
freedom from the mawkish and the rancid. The tale of David in
the Bible, the Odyssey, Sophocles, ^Eschylus, Shakespeare, Scott ;
old Dumas in his chivalrous note ; Dickens rather than Thackeray,
and the Tale of Two Cities out of Dickens : such were some of
his preferences. To Ariosto and Boccaccio he was always faith-
ful ; Burnt Njal was a late favourite ; and he found at least a
passing entertainment in the Arcadia and the Grand Cyrus.
George Eliot he outgrew, finding her latterly only sawdust in
the mouth ; but her influence, while it lasted, was great, and
must have gone some way to form his mind. He was easily set
on edge, however, by didactic writing; and held that books
should teach no other lesson but what ' real life would teach,
were it as vividly presented.' Again, it was the thing made
that took him, the drama in the book ; to the book itself, to any
merit of the making, he was long strangely blind. He would

LITERATURE cxxxix

prefer the Agamemnon in the prose of Mr. Buckley, ay, to Keats.
But he was his mother's son, learning to the last. He told me
one day that literature was not a trade ; that it was no craft ;
that the professed author was merely an amateur with a door-
plate. ' Very well,' said I, ' the first time you get a proof, I will
demonstrate that it is as much a trade as bricklaying, and that
you do not know it.' By the very next post, a proof came. I
opened it with fear ; for he was indeed, as the reader will see
by these volumes, a formidable amateur ; always wrote brightly,
because he always thought trenchantly ; and sometimes wrote
brilliantly, as the worst of whistlers may sometimes stumble on
a perfect intonation. But it was all for the best in the interests
of his education ; and I was able, over that proof, to give him a
quarter of an hour such as Fleeming loved both to give and to
receive. His subsequent training passed out of my hands into
those of our common friend, W. E. Henley. ' Henley and I,'
he wrote, ' have fairly good times wigging one another for not
doing better. I wig him because he won't try to write a real
play, and he wigs me because I can't try to write English.' When
I next saw him, he was full of his new acquisitions. ' And yet I
have lost something too,' he said regretfully. ' Up to now Scott
seemed to me quite perfect, he was all I wanted. Since I have
been learning this confounded thing, I took up one of the novels,
and a great deal of it is both careless and clumsy.'

(
Y.

He spoke four languages with freedom, not even English His Talk,
with any marked propriety. What he uttered was not so much
well said, as excellently acted : so we may hear every day the
inexpressive language of a poorly-written drama assume cha-
racter and colour in the hands of a good player. No man had
more of the vis comica in private life ; he played no character on
the stage, as he could play himself among his friends. It was
one of his special charms ; now when the voice is silent and the
face still, it makes it impossible to do justice to his power in con-
versation. He was a delightful companion to such as can bear

VOL. i. i

cxl MEMOIR

bracing weather ; not to the very vain ; not to the owlishly wise,
who cannot have their dogmas canvassed ; not to the painfully
refined, whose sentiments become articles of faith. The spirit in
which he could write that he was ' much revived by having an
opportunity of abusing Whistler to a knot of his special admirers,'
is a spirit apt to be misconstrued. He was not a dogmatist,
even about Whistler. ' The house is full of pretty things,' he
wrote, when on a visit ; ' but Mrs. - 's taste in pretty things
has one very bad fault : it is not my taste.' And that was the
true attitude of his mind ; but these eternal differences it was
his joy to thresh out and wrangle over by the hour. It was no
wonder if he loved the Greeks ; he was in many ways a Greek
himself ; he should have been a sophist and met Socrates ; he
would have loved Socrates, and done battle with him staunchly
and manfully owned his defeat ; and the dialogue, arranged by
Plato, would have shone even in Plato's gallery. He seemed in
talk aggressive, petulant, full of a singular energy ; as vain you
would have said as a peacock, until you trod on his toes, and
then you saw that he was at least clear of all the sicklier
elements of vanity. Soundly rang his laugh at any jest against
himself. He wished to be taken, as he took others, for what
was good in him without dissimulation of the evil, for what
was wise in him without concealment of the childish. He
hated a draped virtue, and despised a wit on its own defence.
And he drew (if I may so express myself) a human and
humorous portrait of himself with all his defects and quali-
ties, as he thus enjoyed in talk the robust sports of the in-
telligence ; giving and taking manfully, always without pre-
tence, always with paradox, always with exuberant pleasure ;
speaking wisely of what he knew, foolishly of what he knew
not ; a teacher, a learner, but still combative ; picking holes in
what was said even to the length of captiousness, yet aware
of all that was said rightly; jubilant in victory, delighted by
defeat : a Greek sophist, a British schoolboy.
His late Among the legends of what was once a very pleasant spot,

popu- fjjg Q}^ gavile Club, not then divorced from Savile Row, there
lanty.

are many memories of Fleeming. He was not popular at first,

POPULARITY cxli

being known simply as ' the man who dines here and goes up to
Scotland'; but he grew at last, I think, the most generally
liked of all the members. To those who truly knew and loved
him, who had tasted the real sweetness of his nature, Fleeming's
porcupine ways had always been a matter of keen regret. They
introduced him to their own friends with fear ; sometimes
recalled the step with mortification. It was not possible to look
on with patience while a man so loveable thwarted love at every
step. But the course of time and the ripening of his nature
brought a cure. It was at the Savile that he first remarked a
change ; it soon spread beyond the walls of the club. Presently
I find him writing : ' Will you kindly explain what has happened
to me ? All my life I have talked a good deal, with the almost
unfailing result of making people sick of the sound of my tongue.
It appeared to me that I had various things to say, and I had
no malevolent feelings, but nevertheless the result was that ex-
pressed above. Well, lately some change has happened. If I
talk to a person one day, they must have me the next. Faces
light up when they see me. — " Ah, I say come here " — " come
and dine with me." It's the most preposterous thing I ever
experienced. It is curiously pleasant. You have enjoyed it
all your life, and therefore cannot conceive how bewildering a
burst of it is for the first time at forty-nine.' And this late
sunshine of popularity still further softened him. He was a bit
of a porcupine to the last, still shedding darts ; or rather he
was to the end a bit of a schoolboy, and must still throw stones ;
but the essential toleration that underlay his disputatiousness,
and the kindness that made of him a tender sicknurse and a
generous helper, shone more conspicuously through. A new
pleasure had come to him ; and as with all sound natures, he
was bettered by the pleasure.

I can best show Fleeming in this later stage by quoting Letter
from a vivid and interesting letter of M. Emile Trelat's.
Here, admirably expressed, is how he appeared to a friend of
another nation, whom he encountered only late in life. M.
Trelat will pardon me if I correct, even before I quote him ; but
what the Frenchman supposed to flow from some particular

i 2

cxlii MEMOIR

bitterness against France, was only Fleerniiig's usual address.
Had M. Trelat been Italian, Italy would have fared as ill ; and
yet Italy was Fleeming's favourite country.

Vous savez comment j'ai connu Fleeming Jenkin ! C 'etait en Mai
1878. Nous etions tous deux membres du jury de 1'Exposition Um-
verselle. On n'avait rien fait qui vaille a la premiere seance de notre
classe, qui avait eu lieu le matin. Tout le monde avait parle et re-
parle pour ne rien dire. Cela durait depuis huit heures : il etait midi.
Je demandai la parole pour une motion d'ordre, et je proposal que la
seance fut levee a la condition que chaque membre frangais emportdt
a dejeuner un jure etranger. Jenkin applaud it. ' Je vous emmene
dejeuner,' lui criai-je. ' Jeveux bien.' . . . Nouspartimes ; enchemin
nous vous rencontrions ; il vous pre'sente et nous allons dejeuner tous
trois aupres du Trocadero.

Et, depuis ce temps, nous avoiis ete de vieux amis. Non seule-
ment nous passions nos journdes au jury, ou nous etions toujours
ensemble, c6te-a-cote. Mais nos habitudes s'etaient faites telles que,
non contents de dejeuner en face 1'un de 1'autre, je le ramenais diner
presque tous les jours chez moi. Cela dura une quinzaine : puis il
fut rappele en Angleterre. Mais il revint, et nous fimes encore une
bonne etape de vie intellectuelle, morale et philosophique. Je crois
qu'il me rendait deja tout ce que j'eprouvais de sympathie et d'estime,
et que je ne fus pas pour rien dans son retour a Paris.

Chose singuliere ! nous nous etions attaches 1'un a 1'autre par les
sous-entendus bien plus que par la matiere de nos conversations. A
vrai dire, nous etions presque toujours eu discussion ; et il nous
arrivait de nous rire au nez 1'un et 1'autre pendant des heures, tant
nous nous etonnions reciproquement de la diversity de nos points de
vue. Je le trouvais si Anglais, et il me trouvait si Frangais ! II etait
si franchement revolte de certaines choses qu'il voyait chez nous, et
je comprenais si mal certaines choses qui se passaient chez vous ! Rien
de plus interessant que ces contacts qui etaient des contrastes, et que
ces rencontres d'ide'es qui etaient des choses ; rien de si attachant que
les echappees de cceur ou d'esprit auxquellesces petits conflits donnaient
a tout moment cours. C'est dans ces conditions que, pendant son sejour
a Paris en 1878, je conduisis un peu partout monnouvel ami. Nous
allames chez Madame Edmond Adam, ou il vit passer beaucoup
d'hommes politiques avec lesquels il causa. Mais c'est chez les minis-
tres qu'il fut interesse. Le moment etait, d'ailleurs, curieux en France.
Je me rappelle que, lorsque je le presentai au Ministre du Commerce,

M. TRELATS LETTER cxliii

il fit cette spirituelle repartie : ' C'est la seconde fois que je viens en
France sous la Republique. La premiere fois, c'e'tait en 1848, elle
s'etait coiffee de travers : je suis bien heureux de saluer aujourd'hui
votre excellence, quand elle a mis son chapeau droit.' Une fois je le
menai voir couronner la Rosiere de Nanterre. II y suivit les ce're'-
monies civiles et religieuses ; il y assista au banquet donne* par le
Maire ; il y vit notre de Lesseps, auquel il porta un toast. Le soir,
nous revinmes tard a Paris ; il faisait chaud ; nous etions un peu fati-
gue's ; nous entrames dans un des rares cafes encore ouverts. II
devint silencieux. — ' N'etes- vous. pas content de votre journe'e ?' lui
dis-je. — 'O, si ! mais je re'flechis, et je me dis que vous etes un peuple
gai — tous ces braves gens e'taient gais aujourd'hui. C'est une vertu,
la gaiet^, et vous 1'avez en France, cette vertu ! ' II me disait cela
melancoliquement ; et c'e'tait la premiere fois que je lui entendais
faire une louange adressee a la France. . . . Mais il ne faut pas que
vous voyiez la une plainte de ma part. Je serais un ingrat si je me
plaignais ; car il me disait souvent : ' Quel bon Frangais vous faites ! '
Et il m'aimait a cause de cela, quoiqu'il semblat n'aimer pas la France.
C'e'tait la un trait de son originalite. II est vrai qu'il s'en tirait en
disant que je ne ressemblai pas a mes compatriotes, ce a quoi il ne con-
naissait rien ! — Tout cela etait fort curieux ; car, moi-meme, je 1'aimais
quoiqu'il en eut a mon pays !

En 1879 il amena son fils Austin a Paris. J'attirai celui-ci. II
dejeunait avec moi deux fois par semaine. Je lui montrai ce
qu'etait 1'intimite frangaise en le tutoyant paternellement. Cela
reserra beaucoup nos liens d'intimite avec Jenkin. . . . Je fis in-
viter mon ami au congres de Y Association frangaise pour Vavance-
ment des sciences, qui se tenait a Rheims en 1880. II y vint.
J'eus le plaisir de lui donner la parole dans la section du ge'nie
civil et militaire, que je presidais. II y fit une tres interessaiite com-
munication, qui me montrait une fois de plus 1'originalite de ses
vues et la surete de sa science. C'est a Tissue de ce congres que je
passai lui faire visite a Rochefort, ou je le trouvai installe en famille
et ou je presentai pour la premiere fois mes hommages a son eminente
compagne. Je le vis la sous un jour nouveau et touchant pour moi.
Madame Jenkin, qu'il entourait si galamment, et ses deux jeunes
fils donnaient encore plus de relief a sa personne. J'emportai des
quelques heures que je passai a c6te de lui dans ce charmant paysage
un souvenir emu.

J'etais alle en Angleterre en 1882 sans pouvoir gagner Edimbourg,
J'y retournai en 1883 avec la commission d'assainissement de la ville
de Paris, dont je faisais partie. Jenkin me rejoignit. J le fis

cxliv MEMOIR

entendre par mes collegues ; car il etait fondateur d'une societe de
salubrite. II eut un grand succes parmi nous. Mais ce voyage me
restera toujours en me'moire parce que c'est la que se fixa definitive-
ment notre forte amitie. II m'invita un jour a diner a son club et
au moment de me faire asseoir a cote de lui, il me retint et me dit :
'Je voudrais vous demander de m'accorder quelque chose. C'est
mon sentiment que nos relations ne peuvent pas se bien continuer si
vous ne me donnez pas la permission de vous tutoyer. Voulez-vous
que nous nous tutoyions ? ' Je lui pris les mains et je lui dis qu'une
pareille proposition venant d'un. Anglais, et d'un Anglais de sa haute
distinction, c'etait une victoire, dont je serais fier toute ma vie. Et
nous commencions a user de cette nouvelle forme dans nos rapports.
Yous savez avec quelle finesse il parlait le fran^ais : comme il en
connaissait tous les tours, comme iljouait avec ses difncultes, et meme
avec ses petites gamineries. Je crois qu'il a ete heureux de pratiquer
avec moi ce tutoiement, qui ne s'adapte pas a 1'anglais, et qui est si
frangais. Je ne puis vous peindre 1'etendue et la variete de nos
conversations de la soire'e. Mais ce que je puis vous dire, c'est que,
sous la caresse du tu, nos idees se sont eleve'es. Nous avions toujours
beaucoup ri ensemble ; mais nous n 'avions jamais laisse des banalites
s'introduire dans nos echanges de pensees. Ce soir-la, notre horizon
intellectuel s'est elargie, et nous y avons pousse des reconnaissances
profondes et lointaines. Apres avoir vivement cause a table, nous
avons longuement cause au salon ; et nous nous se'parions le soir a
Trafalgar Square, apres avoir longe les trottoirs, stationn^ aux coins
des rues et deux fois rebrousse chemin en nous reconduisant Fun
1'autre. II e'tait pres d'une heure du matin ! Mais quelle belle passe
d'argumentation, quels beaux ^changes de sentiments, quelles fortes
confidences patriotiques nous avions fournies ! J'ai compris ce soir-
la que Jenkin ne detestait pas la France, et je lui serrai fort les mains
en 1'embrassant. Nous nous quittions aussi amis qu'on puisse 1'etre;
et notre affection s'etait par lui etendue et comprise dans un tu
frangais.

cxlv

CHAPTER VII.

1876-1886.

Mrs. Jenkin's Illness — Captain Jenkin — The Golden Wedding — Death of Uncle
John — Death of Mr. and Mrs. Austin — Illness and Death of the Captain —
Death of Mrs. Jenkin — Effect on Fleeming — Telpherage — The End.

AND now I must resume my narrative for that melancholy
business that concludes all human histories. In January of the
year 1875, while Fleeming's sky was still unclouded, he was
reading Smiles. £ I read my engineers' lives steadily,' he writes,
* but find biographies depressing. I suspect one reason to be
that misfortunes and trials can be graphically described, but
happiness and the causes of happiness either cannot be or are
not. A grand new branch of literature opens to my view : a
drama in which people begin in a poor way and end, after
getting gradually happier, in an ecstasy of enjoyment. The
common novel is not the thing at all. It gives struggle followed
by relief. I want each act to close on a new and triumphant
happiness, which has been steadily growing all the while. This
is the real antithesis of tragedy, where things get blacker and
blacker and end in hopeless woe. Smiles has not grasped rny
grand idea, and only shows a bitter struggle followed by a little
respite before death. Some feeble critic might say my new
idea was not true to nature. I'm sick of this old-fashioned
notion of art. Hold a mirror up, indeed ! Let's paint a picture
of how things ought to be and hold that up to nature, and
perhaps the poor old woman may repent and mend her ways.'
The ' grand idea ' might be possible in art ; not even the in-
genuity of nature could so round in the actual life of any man.
And yet it might almost seem to fancy that she had read the
letter and taken the hint ; for to Fleeming the cruelties of fate

cxlvi MEMOIR

were strangely blended with tenderness, and when death came,
it came harshly to others, to him not unkindly.

In the autumn of that same year 1875, Fleeming's father

Jenkm's an(j mother were walking in the garden of their house at Mer-
illness.

chiston, when the latter fell to the ground. It was thought at

the time to be a stumble ; it was in all likelihood a premonitory
stroke of palsy. From that day, there fell upon her an abiding
panic fear ; that glib, superficial part of us that speaks and
reasons could alle^ge no cause, science itself could find no mark
of danger, a son's solicitude was laid at rest ; but the eyes of the
body saw the approach of a blow, and the consciousness of the
body trembled at its coming. It came in a moment; the
brilliant, spirited old lady leapt from her bed, raving. For
about six months, this stage of her disease continued with
many painful and many pathetic circumstances ; her husband
who tended her, her son who was unwearied in his visits, looked
for no change in her condition but the change that comes to
all. ' Poor mother,' I find Fleeming writing, e I cannot get
the tones of her voice out of my head. ... I may have to
bear this pain for a long time ; and so I am bearing it and
sparing myself whatever pain seems useless. Mercifully I do
sleep, I am so weary that I must sleep.' And again later : ' I
could do very well, if my mind did not revert to my poor mother's
state whenever I stop attending to matters immediately before
me.' And the next day : ' I can never feel a moment's pleasure
without having my mother's suffering recalled by the very feel-
ing of happiness. A pretty, young face recalls hers by contrast
— a careworn face recalls it by association. I tell you, for I can
speak to no one else ; but do not suppose that I wilfully let my
mind dwell on sorrow.'

In the summer of the next year, the frenzy left her ; it left
her stone deaf and almost entirely aphasic, but with some re-
mains of her old sense and courage. Stoutly she set to work
with dictionaries, to recover her lost tongues ; and had already
made notable progress, when a third stroke scattered her acqui-
sitions. Thenceforth, for nearly ten years, stroke followed upon
stroke, each still further jumbling the threads of her intelligence,

MRS. JENKIN'S ILLNESS cxlvii

but by degrees so gradual and with such partiality of loss and of
survival, that her precise state was always and to the end a
matter of dispute. She still remembered her friends ; she still
loved to learn news of them upon the slate ; she still read and
marked the list of the subscription library ; she still took an
interest in the choice of a play for the theatricals, and could
remember and find parallel passages ; but alongside of these
surviving powers, were lapses as remarkable, she misbehaved like
a child, and a servant had to sit with her at table. To see her
so sitting, speaking with the tones of a deaf mute not always to
the purpose, and to remember what she had been, was a moving
appeal to all who knew her. Such was the pathos of these two old
people in their affliction, that even the reserve of cities was melted
and the neighbours vied in sympathy and kindness. Where so
many were more than usually helpful, it is hard to draw distinc-
tions ; but I am directed and I delight to mention in particular the
good Dr. Joseph Bell. Mr. Thomas and Mr. Archibald Constable
with both their wives, the Rev. Mr. Belcombe (of whose good
heart and taste I do not hear for the first time — the news had
come to me by way of the Infirmary) and their next-door neigh-
bour, unwearied in service, Miss Hannah Mayne. Nor should I
omit to mention that John Ruffini continued to write to Mrs.
Jenkin till his own death, and the clever lady known to the
world as Vernon Lee until the end : a touching, a becoming
attention to what was only the wreck and survival of their bril-
liant friend.

But he to whom this affliction brought the greatest change Captain
was the Captain himself. What was bitter in his lot, he bore *
with unshaken courage ; only once, in these ten years of trial,
has Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin seen him weep ; for the rest of
the time his wife — his commanding officer, now become his
trying child — was served not with patience alone, but with a
lovely happiness of temper. He had belonged all his life
to the ancient, formal, speech-making compliment-presenting
school of courtesy ; the dictates of this code partook in his eyes
of the nature of a duty ; and he must now be courteous for two.
Partly from a happy illusion, partly in a tender fraud, he kept

cxlviii MEMOIR

his wife before the world as a still active partner. When he
paid a call, he would have her write c with love ' upon a card ; or
if that (at the moment) was too much, he would go armed with a
bouquet and present it in her name. He even wrote letters for her
to copy and sign : an innocent substitution, which may have caused
surprise to Ruffini or to Vernon Lee, if they ever received, in the
hand of Mrs. Jenkin. the very obvious reflections of her husband.
He had always adored this wife whom he now tended and sought
to represent in correspondence : it was now, if not before, her turn
to repay the compliment ; mind enough was left her to perceive his
unwearied kindness; and as her moral qualities seemed to survive
quite unimpaired, a childish love and gratitude were his reward.
She would interrupt a conversation to cross the room and kiss
him. If she grew excited (as she did too often) it was his habit
to come behind her chair and pat her shoulder ; and then she
would turn round, and clasp his hand in hers, and look from him
to her visitor with a face of pride and love ; and it was at such
moments only that the light of humanity revived in her eyes.
It was hard for any stranger, it was impossible for any that loved
them, to behold these mute scenes, to recall the past, and not to
weep. But to the Captain, I think it was all happiness. After
these so long years, he had found his wife again ; perhaps kinder
than ever before ; perhaps now on a more equal footing ; certainly,
to his eyes, still beautiful. And the call made on his intelligence
had not been made in vain. The merchants of Aux Cayes, who
had seen him tried in some c counter-revolution' in 1845, wrote
to the consul of his ' able and decided measures,' ' his cool, steady
judgment and discernment ' with admiration ; and of himself, as
' a credit and an ornament to H.M. Naval Service.' It is plain
he must have sunk in all his powers, during the years when he
was only a figure, and often a dumb figure, in his wife's drawing-
room ; but with this new term of service, he brightened visibly.
He showed tact and even invention in managing his wife, guid-
ing or restraining her by the touch, holding family worship so
arranged that she could follow and take part in it. He took (to
the world's surprise) to reading — voyages, biographies, Blair's
Sermons, even (for her letters' sake) a work of Vernon Lee's,

CAPTAIN JENK1N cxlix

which proved however more than he was quite prepared for.
He shone more, in his remarkable way, in society ; and twice he
had a little holiday to Glenmorven, where, as may be fancied, he
was the delight of the Highlanders. One of his last pleasures
was to arrange his dining-room. Many and many a room (in
their wandering and thriftless existence) had he seen his wife
furnish ' with exquisite taste ' and perhaps with ' considerable
luxury ' : now it was his turn to be the decorator. On the wall
he had an engraving of Lord Rodney's action, showing the
Prothee, his father's ship, if the reader recollects ; on either side
of this on brackets, his father's sword, and his father's telescope,
a gift from Admiral Buckner who had used it himself during
the engagement ; higher yet, the head of his grandson's first
stag, portraits of his son and his son's wife, and a couple of old
Windsor jugs from Mrs. Buckner's. But his simple trophy was
not yet complete ; a device had to be worked and framed and
hung below the engraving ; and for this he applied to his daugh-
ter-in-law : c I want you to work me something, Annie. An
anchor at each side — an anchor — stands for an old sailor, you
know — stands for hope, you know — an anchor at each side, and
in the middle THANKFUL.' It is not easy, on any system of
punctuation, to represent the Captain's speech. Yet I hope
there may shine out of these facts, even as there shone through
his own troubled utterance, some of the charm of that delightful
spirit.

In 1881, the time of the golden wedding came round for The
that sad and pretty household. It fell on a Good Friday, and Bedding,
its celebration can scarcely be recalled without both smiles and
tears. The drawing-room was filled with presents and beautiful
bouquets ; these, to Fleeming and his family, the golden bride
and bridegroom displayed with unspeakable pride, she so pain-
fully excited that the guests feared every moment to see her
stricken afresh, he guiding and moderating her with his custom-
ary tact and understanding, and doing the honours of the day
with more than his usual delight. Thence they were brought
to the dining-room, where the Captain's idea of a feast awaited
them : tea and champagne, fruit and toast and childish little

cl MEMOIR

luxuries, set forth pell-mell and pressed at random on the guests.
And here he must make a speech for himself and his wife, prais-
ing their destiny, their marriage, their son, their daughter-in-
law, their grandchildren, their manifold causes of gratitude :
surely the most innocent speech, the old, sharp contemner of
his innocence now watching him with eyes of admiration. Then
it was time for the guests to depart ; and they went awTay, bathed,
even to the youngest child, in tears of inseparable sorrow and
gladness, and leaving the golden bride and bridegroom to their
own society and that of the hired nurse.

It was a great thing for Fleeming to make, even thus late,
the acquaintance of his father; but the harrowing pathos of such
scenes consumed him. In a life of tense intellectual effort, a
certain smoothness of emotional tenor were to be desired ; or we
burn the candle at both ends. Dr. Bell perceived the evil that
was being done ; he pressed Mrs. Jenkin to restrain her husband
from too frequent visits ; but here was one of those clear-cut,
indubitable duties for which Fleeming lived, and he could not
pardon even the suggestion of neglect.

Death of And now, after death had so long visibly but still innocuously

John? hovered above the family, it began at last to strike and its blows
fell thick and heavy. The first to go was uncle John Jenkin,
taken at last from his Mexican dwelling and the lost tribes of
Israel; and nothing in this remarkable old gentleman's life,
became him like the leaving of it. His sterling, jovial acquies-
cence in man's destiny was a delight to Fleeming. ' My visit
to Stowting has been a very strange but not at all a painful
one,' he wrote. ' In case you ever wish to make a person die as
he ought to die in a novel,' he said to me, ' I must tell you all
about my old uncle.' He was to see a nearer instance before
long ; for this family of Jenkin, if they were not very aptly fitted
to live, had the art of manly dying. Uncle John was but an
outsider after all ; he had dropped out of hail of his nephew's
way of life and station in society, and was more like some shrewd,
old, humble friend who should have kept a lodge ; yet he led the
procession of becoming deaths, and began in the mind of Fleem-
ing that train of tender and grateful thought, which was like

DEATHS cli

a preparation for his own. Already I find him writing in the
plural of ' these impending deaths ' ; already I find him in quest
of consolation. ' There is little pain in store for these wayfarers,'
he wrote, £ and we have hope — more than hope, trust.'

On May 19, 1884, Mr. Austin was taken. He was seventy- Death of
eight years of age, suffered sharply with all his old firmness, Mr's.
and died happy in the knowledge that he had left his wife well Austin.
cared for. This had always been a bosom concern ; for the
Barrens were long-lived and he believed that she would long
survive him. But their union had been so full and quiet that
Mrs. Austin languished under the separation. In their last
years, they would sit all evening in their own drawing-room
hand in hand : two old people who, for all their fundamental
differences, had yet grown together and become all the world
in each other's eyes and hearts ; and it was felt to be a kind
release, when, eight months after, on January 14, 1885, Eliza
Barron followed Alfred Austin. ' I wish I could save you from
all pain,' wrote Fleeming six days later to his sorrowing wife,
' I would if I could — but my way is not God's way ; and of this
be assured, — God's way is best.'

In the end of the same month, Captain Jenkin caught cold Illness and
and was confined to bed. He was so unchanged in spirit that Jhe*Cap-
at first there seemed no ground of fear ; but his great age began tain.
to tell, and presently it was plain he had a summons. The
charm of his sailor's cheerfulness and ancient courtesy, as he lay
dying, is not to be described. There he lay, singing his old sea
songs ; watching the poultry from the window with a child's
delight; scribbling on the slate little messages to his wife, who
lay bed-ridden in another room ; glad to have Psalms read aloud
to him, if they were of a pious strain — checking, with an ' I
don't think we need read that, my dear,' any that were gloomy
or bloody. Fleeming's wife coming to the house and asking
one of the nurses for news of Mrs. Jenkin, ' Madam, I do not
know,' said the nurse ; ' for I am really so carried away by the
Captain that I can think of nothing else.' One of the last
messages scribbled to his wife and sent her with a glass of the
champagne that had been ordered for himself, ran, in his most

clii

MEMOIR

Death of

Mrs.

Jenkin.

Effect on
Fleeming.

finished vein of childish madrigal : c The Captain bows to you,
my love, across the table.' When the end was near and it was
thought best that Fleeming should no longer go home but sleep
at Merchiston, he broke his news to the Captain with some tre-
pidation, knowing that it carried sentence of death. ' Charming,
charming — charming arrangement,' was the Captain's only com-
mentary. It was the proper thing for a dying man, of Captain
Jenkin's school of manners, to make some expression of his
spiritual state ; nor did he neglect the observance. With his
usual abruptness, c Fleeming,' said he, * I suppose you and I
feel about all this as two Christian gentlemen should.' A last
pleasure was secured for him. He had been waiting with pain-
ful interest for news of Gordon and Khartoum ; and by great
good fortune, a false report reached him that the city was relieved,
and the men of Sussex (his old neighbours) had been the first
to enter. He sat up in bed and gave three cheers for the Sussex
regiment. The subsequent correction, if it came in time, was
prudently withheld from the dying man. An hour before mid-
night on the fifth of February, he passed away : aged eighty-four.

Word of his death was kept from Mrs. Jenkin ; and she
survived him no more than nine and forty hours. On the day
before her death, she received a letter from her old friend Miss
Bell of Manchester, knew the hand, kissed the envelope and
laid it on her heart ; so that she too died upon a pleasure.
Half an hour after midnight, on the eighth of February, she fell
asleep : it is supposed in her seventy-eighth year.

Thus, in the space of less than ten months, the four seniors
of this family were taken away ; but taken with such features
of opportunity in time or pleasant courage in the sufferer, that
grief was tempered with a kind of admiration. The effect on
Fleeming was profound. His pious optimism increased and
became touched with something mystic and filial. ' The grave
is not good, the approaches to it are terrible,' he had written
in the beginning of his mother's illness : he thought so no more,
when he had laid father and mother side by side at Stowting.
He had always loved life ; in the brief time that now remained
to him, he seemed to be half in love with death. ' Grief is no

TELPHERAGE cliii

duty,' lie wrote to Miss Bell ; ' it was all too beautiful for grief,'
he said to me ; but the emotion, call it by what name we please,
shook him to his depths, his wife thought he would have broken
his heart when he must demolish the Captain's trophy in the
dining-room, and he seemed thenceforth scarcely the same
man.

These last years were indeed years of an excessive demand Telpher-
upon his vitality ; he was not only worn out with sorrow, he a8e"
was worn out by hope. The singular invention to which he
gave the name of telpherage, had of late consumed his time,
overtaxed his strength and overheated his imagination. The
words in which he first mentioned his discovery to me — ' I am
simply Alnaschar ' — were not only descriptive of his state of
mind, they were in a sense prophetic ; since whatever fortune
may await his idea in the future, it was not his to see it bring forth
fruit. Alnaschar he was indeed ; beholding about him a world
all changed, a world filled with telpherage wires ; and seeing
not only himself and family but all his friends enriched. It was
his pleasure, when the company was floated, to endow those
whom he liked with stock ; one, at least, never knew that he
was a possible rich man until the grave had closed over his
stealthy benefactor. And however Fleeming chafed among ma-
terial and business difficulties, this rainbow vision never faded ;
and he, like his father and his mother, may be said to have died
upon a pleasure. But the strain told, and he knew that it was
telling. c I am becoming a fossil,' he had written five years
before, as a kind of plea for a holiday visit to his beloved Italy.
' Take care ! If I am Mr. Fossil, you will be Mrs. Fossil, and
Jack will be Jack Fossil, and all the boys will be little fossils,
and then we shall be a collection.' There was no fear more
chimerical for Fleeming ; years brought him no repose ; he was as
packed with energy, as fiery in hope, as at the first ; weariness,
to which he began to be no stranger, distressed, it did not quiet
him. He feared for himself, not without ground, the fate which
had overtaken his mother ; others shared the fear. In the
changed life now made for his family, the elders dead, the sons
going from home upon their education, even their tried domestic

cliv MEMOIR

(Mrs. Alice Dunns) leaving the house after twenty-two years of
service, it was not unnatural that he should return to dreams
of Italy. He and his wife were to go (as he told me) on ' a real
honeymoon tour.' He had not been alone with his wife ' to
speak of/ he added, since the birth of his children. But now
he was to enjoy the society of her to whom he wrote, in these
last days, that she was his ' Heaven on earth.' Now he was to
revisit Italy, and see all the pictures and the buildings and the
scenes that he admired so warmly, and lay aside for a time the
irritations of his strenuous activity. Nor was this all. A
trifling operation was to restore his former lightness of foot ;
and it was a renovated youth that was to set forth upon this
reenacted honeymoon.

The end. The operation was performed ; it was of a trifling character,

it seemed to go well, no fear was entertained ; and his wife was
reading aloud to him as he lay in bed, when she perceived him
to wander in his mind. It is doubtful if he ever recovered a
sure grasp upon the things of life ; and he was still unconscious
when he passed away, June the twelfth, 1885, in the fifty-third
year of his age. He passed ; but something in his gallant
vitality had impressed itself upon his friends, and still impresses.
Not from one or two only, but from many, I hear the same tale
of how the imagination refuses to accept our loss and instinctively
looks for his reappearing, and how memory retains his voice
and image like things of yesterday. Others, the well-beloved
too, die and are progressively forgotten : two years have passed
since Fleeming was laid to rest beside his father, his mother and
his Uncle John ; and the thought and the look of our friend
still haunts us.

I.

NOTE ON THE CONTRIBUTIONS OF FLEEMING JENKIN
TO ELECTRICAL AND ENGINEERING SCIENCE.

By Sir WILLIAM THOMSON, F.R.S., LL.D.

IN the beginning of the year 1859 my former colleague (the first
British University Professor of Engineering), Lewis Gordon, at that
time deeply engaged in the then new work of cable making and
cable laying, came to Glasgow to see apparatus for testing submarine
cables and signalling through them, which I had been preparing for
practical use on the first Atlantic cable, and which had actually
done service upon it, during the six weeks of its successful working
between Valencia and Newfoundland. As soon as he had seen
something of what I had in hand, he said to me, * I would like to
show this to a young man of remarkable ability, at present engaged
in our works at Birkenhead.' Fleeming Jenkin was accordingly
telegraphed for, and appeared next morning in Glasgow. He re-
mained for a week, spending the whole day in my class room and
laboratory, and thus pleasantly began our lifelong acquaintance. I
was much struck, not only with his brightness and ability, but with
his resolution to understand everything spoken of, to see if possible
thoroughly through every difficult question, and (no if about this !)
to slur over nothing. I soon found that thoroughness of honesty
was as strongly engrained in the scientific as in the moral side of
his character.

In the first week of our acquaintance, the electric telegraph
and, particularly, submarine cables, and the methods, machines, and
instruments for laying, testing, and using them, formed naturally

VOL. I. k

clvi MEMOIR

the chief subject of our conversations and discussions ; as it was in
fact the practical object of Jenkin's visit to me in Glasgow ; but not
much of the week had passed before I found him remarkably inter-
ested in science generally, and full of intelligent eagerness on many
particular questions of dynamics and physics. When he returned
from Glasgow to Birkenhead a correspondence commenced between
us, which was continued without intermission up to the last days of
his life. It commenced with a well-sustained fire of letters on each
side about the physical qualities of submarine cables, and the prac-
tical results attainable in the way of rapid signalling through them.
Jenkin used excellently the valuable opportunities for experiment
allowed him by Newall, and his partner Lewis Gordon, at their
Birkenhead factory. Thus he began definite scientific investigation
of the copper resistance of the conductor, and the insulating resist-
ance and specific inductive capacity of its gutta-percha coating, in
the factory, in various stages of manufacture ; and he was the very
first to introduce systematically into practice the grand system of
absolute measurement founded in Germany by Gauss and Weber.
The immense value of this step, if only in respect to the electric
telegraph, is amply appreciated by all who remember or who have
read something of the history of submarine telegraphy ; but it can
scarcely be known generally how much it is due to Jenkin.

Looking to the article ' Telegraph (Electric) ' in the last volume
of the old edition of the ' Encyclopaedia Britannica,' which was pub-
lished about the year 1861, we find on record that Jenkin's measure-
ments in absolute units of the specific resistance of pure gutta-percha,
and of the gutta-percha with Chatterton's compound constituting
the insulation of the Red Sea cable of 1859, are given as the only
results in the way of absolute measurements of the electric resistance
of an insulating material which had then been made. These remarks
are prefaced in the ' Encyclopaedia ' article by the following state-
ment : ' No telegraphic testing ought in future to be accepted in
any department of telegraphic business which has not this definite
character ; although it is only within the last year that convenient
instruments for working, in absolute measure, have been introduced
at all, and the whole system of absolute measure is still almost
unknown to practical electricians.'

A particular result of great importance in respect to testing is
referred to as follows in the 'Encyclopaedia' article: 'The im-
portance of having results thus stated in absolute measure is illus-
trated by the circumstance, that the writer has been able at once to

APPENDIX I. clvii

compare them, in the manner stated in a preceding paragraph, with
his own previous deductions from the testings of the Atlantic cable
during its manufacture in 1857, and with Weber's measurements of
the specific resistance of copper.' It has now become universally
adopted — first of all in England ; twenty-two years later by Germany,
the country of its birth ; and by France and Italy, and all the other
countries of Europe and America — practically the whole scientific
world — at the Electrical Congress in Paris in the years 1882 and
1884.

An important paper of thirty quarto pages published in the
' Transactions of the Royal Society ' for June 19, 1862, under the
title ' Experimental Researches on the Transmission of Electric
Signals through submarine cables, Part I. Laws of Transmission
through various lengths of one cable, by Fleeming Jenkin, Esq.,
communicated by C. Wheatstone, Esq., F.R.S.,' contains an account
of a large part of Jenkin's experimental work in the Birkenhead
factory during the years 1859 and 1860. This paper is called Part I.
Part II. alas never appeared, but something that it would have
included we can see from the following ominous statement which I
find near the end of Part I. ' From this value, the electrostatical
capacity per unit of length and the specific inductive capacity
of the dielectric, could be determined. These points will, how-
ever, be more fully treated of in the second part of this paper.'
Jenkin had in fact made a determination at Birkenhead of the
specific inductive capacity o£ gutta-percha, or of the gutta-percha
and Chatterton's compound constituting the insulation of the cable,
on which he experimented. This was the very first true measure-
ment of the specific inductive capacity of a dielectric which had
been made after the discovery by Faraday of the existence of the
property, and his primitive measurement of it for the three sub-
stances, glass, shellac, and sulphur ; and at the time when Jenkin
made his measurements the existence of specific inductive capacity
was either unknown, or ignored, or denied, by almost all the scientific
authorities of the day.

The original determination of the microfarad, brought out under
the auspices of the British Association Committee on Electrical
Standards, is due to experimental work by Jenkin, described in a
paper, ' Experiments on Capacity/ constituting No. IY. of the ap-
pendix to the Report presented by the Committee to the Dundee
Meeting of 1867. No other determination, so far as I know, of this
important element of electric measurement has hitherto been made ;

k2

clviii MEMOIR

and it is no small thing to be proud of in respect to Jenkiii's fame
as a scientific and practical electrician that the microfarad which
we now all use is his.

The British Association unit of electrical resistance, on which was
founded the first practical approximation to absolute measurement
on the system of Gauss and Weber, was largely due to Jenkin's zeal as
one of the originators, and persevering energy as a working member,
of the first Electrical Standards Committee. The experimental
work of first making practical standards, founded on the absolute
system, which led to the unit now known as the British Association
ohm, was chiefly performed by Clerk Maxwell and Jenkin. The
realisation of the great practical benefit which has resulted from
the experimental and scientific work of the Committee is certainly
in a large measure due to Jenkin's zeal and perseverance as secretary,
and as editor of the volume of Collected Reports of the work of the
Committee, which extended over eight years, from 1861 till 1869.
The volume of Reports included Jenkin's Cantor Lectures of January
1866, 'On Submarine Telegraphy,' through which the practical ap-
plications of the scientific principles for which he had worked so
devotedly for eight years became part of general knowledge in the
engineering profession.

Jenkin's scientific activity continued without abatement to the
end, as will be seen by the detailed account of his published papers
contained in the present volume. For the last two years of his life
he was much occupied with a new mode of electric locomotion, a
very remarkable invention of his own, to which he gave the name of
' Telpherage.' He persevered with endless ingenuity in carrying
out the numerous and difficult mechanical arrangements essential
to the project, up to the very last days of his work in life. He had
completed almost every detail of the realisation of the system which
was recently opened for practical working at Glynde, in Sussex, four
months after his death.

His book on ' Magnetism and Electricity,' published as one of
Longman's elementary series in 1873, marked a new departure in
the exposition of electricity, as the first text-book containing a
systematic application of the quantitative methods inaugurated by
the British Association Committee on Electrical Standards. In
1883 the seventh edition was published, after there had already
appeared two foreign editions, one in Italian and the other in
German.

His papers on purely engineering subjects, though not numerous,

APPENDIX II. clix

are interesting and valuable. Amongst these may be mentioned
the article ' Bridges/ written by him for the ninth edition of the
' Encyclopaedia Britannica,' and afterwards republished as a separate
treatise in 1876; and a paper 'On the Practical Application of
Reciprocal Figures to the Calculation of Strains in Framework,'
read before the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and published in the
'Transactions' of that Society in 1869. But perhaps the most
important of all is his paper ' On the Application of Graphic Methods
to the Determination of the Efficiency of Machinery,' read before
the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and published in the 'Transactions,'
vol. xxviii. (1876-78), for which he was awarded the Keith Gold
Medal. This paper was a continuation of the subject treated in
* Reulaux's Mechanism,' and, recognising the value of that work,
supplied the elements required to constitute from Reulaux's kine-
matic system a full machine receiving energy and doing work.

II.

NOTE ON THE WORK OF FLEEMING JENK1N IN CON-
NECTION WITH SANITARY REFORM.

By Lieutenant- Colonel ALEXANDER FERGUSSON.

It was, I believe, during the autumn of 1877 that there came to
Fleeming Jenkin the first inkling of an idea, not the least in import-
ance of the many that emanated from that fertile brain, which, with
singular rapidity, took root, and under his careful fostering expanded
into a scheme the fruits of which have been of the utmost value to his
fellow- citizens and others.

The phrase which afterwards suggested itself, and came into use,
' Healthy houses,' expresses very happily the drift of this scheme, and
the ultimate object that Jenkin had in view.

In the summer of that year there had been much talk, and some
newspaper correspondence, on the subject of the unsatisfactory condi-
tion of many of the best houses in Edinburgh as regards their sanitary
state. One gentleman, for example, drew an appalling picture of a
large and expensive house he had bought in the West-end of Edin-
burgh, fresh from the builder's hands. To ascertain precisely what
was wrong, and the steps to be taken to remedy the evils, the effects

clx MEMOIR

of which were but too apparent, obviously demanded the expendi-
ture of much time and careful study on the part of the intelligent
proprietor himself and the professional experts he had to call in,
and, it is needless to add, much money. There came also, from the
poorer parts of the town, the cry that in many cases the houses of
our working people were built anyhow that the dictates of a narrow
economy suggested to the speculative and irresponsible builder. The
horrors of what was called the ' Sandwich system/ amongst other
evils, were brought to light. It is sufficient to say, generally, that
this particular practice of the builder consists in placing in a block
of workmen's houses, to save space and money, the water cisterns of
one flat, directly under the sanitary appliances of the other, and so
on to the top of a house of several storeys. It is easy to conceive the
abominations that must ensue when the leakage of the upper floors
begins to penetrate to the drinking water below. The picture was
a hideous one, apart from the well-known fact that a whole class of
diseases is habitually spread by contaminated water.

In October 1876, a brisk and interesting discussion had been
carried on in the columns of the Times at intervals during the
greater part of that month, in which the same subject, that of the
health and sewage of towns, had been dealt with by several writers
well informed in such matters. Amongst others, Professor Jenkiri
himself took part, as did Professor G. F. Armstrong, who now occupies
the chair of Civil Engineering in Edinburgh. Many of the truths
then advanced had been recently discussed at a meeting of the British
Association.

It was while such topics were attracting attention that Fleem-
ing Jenkin's family were shocked by the sad intelligence of the loss
that friends of theirs had sustained in the deaths of several of their
children from causes that could be traced up to the insanitary con-
dition of their house. Sympathy took the practical form of an
intense desire that something might be done to mitigate the chance
of such calamities ; and, I am permitted to say, the result of a home-
talk on this subject was an earnest appeal to the head of the house
to turn his scientific knowledge to account in some way that should
make people's homes more healthy, and their children's lives more
safe. In answer to the call Jenkin turned his thoughts in this
direction. And the scheme which I shall endeavour briefly to
sketch out was the result.

The obvious remedy for a faulty house is to call in a skilful
expert, architect or engineer, who will doubtless point out by means

APPENDIX II. clxi

of reports and plans what is wrong, and suggest a remedy ; but, as
remarked by Professor Jenkin, 'it has not been the practice for
leading engineers to advise individuals about their house arrange-
ments, except where large outlay is in contemplation.' A point of
very considerable importance in such a case as that now supposed.

The problem was to ensure to the great body of the citizens sound
professional advice concerning their houses, such as had hitherto
been only obtainable at great cost — but ' with due regard to econo-
mical considerations.'

The advantages of co-operation are patent to all. Everyone
can understand how, if a sufficient number of persons combine, there
are few luxuries or advantages that are not within their reach, for a
moderate payment. The advice of a first-rate engineer regarding
a dwelling-house was a palpable advantage ; but within the reach
of comparatively few. One has heard of a winter in Madeira being
prescribed as the cure for a poor Infirmary sufferer.

Like most good plans Jenkin 's scheme was simple in the extreme,
and consisted in combination and a small subscription.

' Just,' he says ' as the leading physician of the day may give his
services to great numbers of poor patients when these are gathered
in a hospital, although he could not practically visit them in their
own houses, so the simple fact of a number of clients gathered into
a group will enable the leading engineer to give them the benefit
of his advice.'

But it was his opinion that only ' continual supervision could
secure the householder from danger due to defects in sanitary -
appliances.' He had in his eye a case precisely similar. The fol-
lowing passage in one of his first lectures, afterwards repeated fre-
quently, conveys the essence of Professor Jenkin's theory, as well as a
graceful acknowledgment of the source from which this happy idea
was derived : —

'An analogous case occurred to him,' he said, 'in the "Steam Users'
Association," in Lancashire. So many boilers burst in that district
for want of inspection that an association was formed for having
the boilers under a continual course of inspection. Let a perfect
boiler be bought from a first-rate maker, the owner has then an
apparatus as perfect as it is now sought to make the sanitary appli-
ances in his house. But in the course of time the boiler must decay.
The prudent proprietor, therefore, joins the Steam-boiler Association,
which, from time to time, examines his boiler, and by the tests they
apply are able to give an absolute guarantee against accident. This

clxii MEMOIR

idea of an inspection by an association was due,' the lecturer con-
tinued, ' to Sir William Fairbairn, under whom he had the honour of
serving his apprenticeship.' l The steam users were thus absolutely
protected from danger ; and the same idea it was sought to apply to
the sanitary system of a house.

To bring together a sufficient number of persons, to form such a
1 group ' as had been contemplated, was the first step to be taken. No
time was lost in taking it. The idea hitherto roughly blocked out was
now given a more definite form. The original sketch, as dictated by
Jenkiii himself, is before me, and I cannot do better than transcribe
it, seeing it is short and simple. Several important alterations
were afterwards made by himself in consultation with one or two
of his Provisional Council ; and as experience suggested :—

' The objects of this Association are twofold.

' 1. By taking advantage of the principle of co-operation, to
provide its members at moderate cost with such advice and super-
vision as shall ensure the proper sanitary condition of their own
dwellings.

' 2. By making use of specially qualified officers to support the
inhabitants and local authorities in enforcing obedience to the pro-
visions of those laws and by-laws which affect the sanitary condition
of the community.

' It is proposed that an Association with these objects be formed ;
and that all residents within the municipal boundaries of Edinburgh
be eligible as members. That each member of the Association shall
subscribe one guinea annually. That in return for the annual sub-
scription each member shall be entitled to the following advan-
tages : —

' 1, A report by the Engineer of the Association on the sanitary
condition of his dwelling, with specific recommendations as to
the improvement of drainage, ventilation, &c., should this be found
necessary.

' 2. The supervision of any alterations in the sanitary fittings of
his dwelling which may be carried out by the advice, or with the
approval, of the officers of the Association.

' 3. An annual inspection of his premises by the Engineer of the
Association, with a report as to their sanitary condition.

* 4. The right, in consideration of a payment of five shillings, of

1 See paper read at the Congress of the Social Science Association, Edin-
burgh, October 8, 1880.

APPENDIX //. clxii

calling on the Engineer, and legal adviser 1 of the Association to
inspect and report on the existence of any infraction or supposed
infraction of any law affecting the sanitary condition of the com-
munity.

' It is proposed that the Association should be managed by an
unpaid Council, to be selected by ballot from among its members.

' That the following salaried officers be engaged by the Association.

' 1. One or more acting engineers, who should give their services
exclusively to the Association.

' 2. A consulting engineer, who should exercise a general super-
vision, and advise both on the general principles to be followed, and
on difficult cases.

' 3. A legal agent, to be engaged on such terms as the Council
shall hereafter think fit.

* 4. A permanent secretary.

'It is also proposed that the officers of the Association should,
with the sanction of the Council, have power to take legal proceed-
ings against persons who shall, in their opinion, be guilty of any
infraction of sanitary regulations in force throughout the district ;
and generally it is intended that the Association shall further and
promote all undertakings which, in their opinion, are calculated to
improve the sanitary condition of Edinburgh and its immediate
neighbourhood.

' In one aspect this association will be analogous to the Steam
Boiler Users' Association, who co-operate in the employment of
skilled inspectors. In a second aspect it will be analogous to the
Association for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which assists
the community in enforcing obedience to existing laws.'

Towards the end of November 1877 this paper was handed
about among those who were thought most likely, from their posi-
tion and public spirit, to forward such a scheme, so clearly for the
good of the community. Nay more, a systematic c canvass ' was set
on foot ; personal application the most direct was made use of. The
thing was new, and its advantages not perfectly obvious to all, at a
glance. Every one who knows with what enthusiastic earnestness
Jenkin would take hold of, and insist upon, what he felt to be whole-
some and right will understand how he persisted, how he patiently
explained, and swept away objections that were raised. One could
not choose but listen, and understand, and agree.

1 It was ultimately agreed not to appoint an officer of this kind till occa-
sion should arise for his services none has been appointed.

clxiv MEMOIR

On the evening of 2nd January 1878, or, to be more correct, the
morning of the 3rd, two old school-fellows of his at the Edinburgh
Academy walked home with him from an annual dinner of their
' Class.' All the way in glowing language he expounded his views
of house inspection, and the protection of health, asking for sympathy.
It was most readily given, and they parted from him with pleasant
words of banter regarding this vision of his of grafting ' cleanliness'
upon another quality said to be a growth, in some sort, of this
northern land of ours.

But they reckoned hardly sufficiently on the fact that when
Jenkin took a thing of this kind in hand it must be ; if it lay within
the scope of a clear head and boundless energy.

Having secured a nucleus of well-wishers, the next step was to
enlist the sympathies of the general public. It was sought to effect
this by a series of public lectures. The first of these (one of two)
was given on 22nd January under the auspices of the Edinburgli
Philosophical Institution. It was apparent to the shrewd lecturer
that in bringing before the people a scheme like this, where there was
much that was novel, it was necessary first of all that his audience
should be aware of the evils to which they were exposed in their own
houses, before unfolding a plan for a remedy. The correspondence
already referred to as having been carried on in the summer of the
previous year had shown how crude were the ideas of many persons
well informed, or considered to be so, on this subject. For example,
there are few now-a-days who are not aware that a drain, to be safe,
must have at intervals along its course openings to the upper air, or
that it must be ' ventilated ' as the phrase goes. But at the time
spoken of there were some who went so far as to question this prin-
ciple ; even to argue against it ; calling forth this forcible reply—
' Here is a pretty farce. You pour out a poison and send it off on its
way to the sea, and forget that on its way there its very essence will
take wings and fly back into your house up the very pipes it but re-
cently ran down.' A properly ' trapped ' and ventilated drain was
the cure for this.

And the lecturer proceeded to show that in Edinburgh, where
for the most part house construction is good and solid, but, as in
other towns, the bulk of the houses were built when the arrangements
for internal sewerage and water supply were very little understood,
many serious errors were made. ' But,' the lecturer went on to
say, ' Sanitary Science was now established on a fairly sound basis,
and the germ theory, or theory of septic ferments, had explained

APPENDIX II. clxv

much which used to be obscure. This theory explained how it
was that families might in certain cases live with fair health for
many years in the midst of great filth, while the dwellers in large
and apparently clean mansions were struck down by fever and diph-
theria. The filth which was found compatible with health was
always isolated filth, and until the germs of some specific disease were
introduced, this dirt was merely injurious, not poisonous. The
mansions which were apparently clean and yet fever- visited were
found to be those in which arrangements had been made for the re-
moval of offensive matter, which arrangements served also to distri-
bute poison germs from one house to another, from one room to another.
These mansions had long suckers extended from one to another
through the common sewer. Through these suckers, commonly
called " house drains," they imbibed every taint which any one house
in the system could supply. In fact, arrangements were too often
made which simply " laid on " poison to bedrooms just as gas or water
was laid on. He had known an intelligent person declare that no
harm could come up a certain pipe which ended in a bed-room, because
nothing offensive went down. That person had never realised the
fact that his pipe joined another pipe, which again joined a sewer,
which again, whenever there was an epidemic in the neighbourhood,
received innumerable poison germs ; and that, although nothing more
serious than scented soap and water went down, the germs of typhoid
fever might any day come up.'

Professor Jenkin then proceeded to show how a house might be
absolutely cut off from all contamination from these sources of evil.
Then by means of large diagrams he showed the several systems of
pipes within a house. One system coloured red showed the pipes
that received foul matter. A system marked in blue showed pipes
used to ventilate this red system. The essential conditions of safety
in the internal fittings of a house — it was inculcated — were that no
air to be breathed, no water to be drunk, should ever be contaminated
by connection with red or blue systems. Then in yellow were shown
the pipes which received dirty water, which was not necessarily foul.
Lastly a white system, which under no circumstances must ever touch
the ' red,' * blue ' or ' yellow ' systems. Such a diagram recalled the
complicated anatomical drawings which illustrate the system of ar-
teries and veins in the human frame. Little wonder, then, that one
gentleman remarked, in perplexity, that he had not room in his house
for such a mass of pipes ; but they were already there, with other
pipes besides, all carefully hidden away, as in the human tenement

clxvi MEMOIR

with the inevitable result — as the preacher of cleanliness and health
declared — * out of sight, out of mind.'

In plain and forcible language were demonstrated the ills this
product of modern life is heir to ; and the drastic measures that
most of them demand to secure the reputation of a healthy house.
Lastly the formation of an Association to carry out the idea (already
sketched) cheaply, was briefly introduced.

Next morning, January 23rd, was the moment chosen to lay the
scheme formally before the public. In all the Edinburgh newspapers,
along with lengthy reports of the lecture, appeared, in form of an
advertisement, a statement ! of the scheme and its objects, supported
by an imposing array of ' Provisional Council.' In due course sevor.il
of the Scots newspapers and others, such as the Building News, gavn
leading articles, all of them directing attention to this new thing, as
'an interesting experiment about to be tried in Edinburgh,' *wl»;it
promises to be a very useful sanitary movement, now being orga-
nised, and an example set that may be worthy of imitation elsewhere,'
and so on.

Several of the writers waxed eloquent on the singular ingenuity
of the scheme ; the cheap professional advice to its adherents, A:c. ;
and the rare advantages to be gained by means of co-operation and
the traditional ' one pound one.'

The Provisional Council was absolutely representative of the
community, and included names more than sufficient to inspire con-
fidence. It included the Lord-Lieutenant of the county, Lord Rose-
bery ; the Lord Justice Clerk, LordMoncrieff; the Lord Advocate ;
Sir Robert Christison ; several of the Judges of the Court of Session ;

1 Briefly stated the points submitted in this prospectus were these : —

1. That the proposed Association was a Society for the benefit of its
members and the community that cannot be used for any purposes of profit.

2. The privileges of members include the annual inspection of their
premises, as well as a preliminary report on their condition, with an estima'e
of the cost of any alterations recommended.

3. The skilled inspection from time to time of drains and all sanitary
arrangements.

4. No obligation on the part of members to carry out any of the suggestions
made by the engineers of the Association, who merely give skilled advice when
such is desired.

5. The officers of the Association to have no interest in any outlay recom-
mended.

6. The Association might be of great seivice to the poorer members of the
community.

APPENDIX II. clxvii

the Presidents of the Colleges of Physicians, and of Surgeons ; many
of the Professors of the University ; the Bishop of Edinburgh, and
the Dean ; several of the best known of the Clergy of the Church of
Scotland, Established, Free, and of other branches ; one or two mem-
bers of Parliament ; more than one lady (who should have been perhaps
mentioned earlier on this list) well known for large views and public
spirit ; several well-known country gentlemen ; one or two distin-
guished civil engineers and architects ; and many gentlemen of
repute for intelligence and business qualities.

Yery soon after the second of the promised lectures, the members
of the new Society began to be numbered by hundreds. By the 28th
of February, 500 subscribers having been enrolled, they were in a
position to hold their first regular meeting under the presidency of
Sir Robert Christison, when a permanent Council composed of many
of those who had from the first shown an interest in the movement —
for example, Professor (now Sir Douglas) Maclagan and Lord Dean of
Guild (now Sir James) Gowans, Professor Jenkin himself undertaking
the duties of Consulting Engineer —were appointed. And Jenkin
was singularly fortunate in securing as Secretary the late Captain
Charles Douglas, a worker as earnest as himself. It was the theory
of the originator that the Council, composed of leading men not
necessarily possessed of engineering knowledge, should 'give a
guarantee to the members that the officials employed should have
been carefully selected, and themselves work under supervision.
Every householder in this town,' he adds, ' knows the names of the
gentlemen composing our Council.'

The new Association was a success alike in town and country.
Without going far into statistics it will be evident what scope
there was, and is, for such operations when it is stated that last year
(1885) 60 per cent, of the houses inspected in London and its neigh-
bourhood were found to have foul air escaping direct into them, and
81 per cent, had their sanitary appliances in an unsatisfactory state.
Here in Edinburgh things were little, if any, better ; as for the
country houses, the descriptions of some were simply appalling. As
the new Association continued its operations it became the role of
the Consulting Engineer to note such objections, hypothetical or real,
as were raised against the working of his scheme. Some of these
were ingenious enough : but all were replied to in order, and satis-
factorily resolved. It was shown for example, that ' you might
have a dinner party in your house on the day of your inspection ; '
that the Association worked in the utmost harmony with the city

clxviii MEMOIR

authorities, and with the tradesmen usually employed in such busi
ness ; and that the officials were as ' confidential ' as regards the in-
firmities of a house as any physician consulted by a patient. The
strength of the engineering staff has been varied from time to time
as occasion required ; at the moment of writing employment is found
in Edinburgh and country districts in various parts of Scotland for
five engineers temporarily or permanently engaged.

The position Jenkin claimed for the Engineers was a high one,
but not too high : thus he well defined it : —

' In respect of Domestic Sanitation the business of the Engineer
and that of the medical man overlap ; for while it is the duty of the
engineer to learn from the doctor what conditions are necessary to
secure health, the engineer may, nevertheless, claim in his turn the
privilege of assisting in the warfare against disease by using his
professional skill to determine what mechanical and constructive
arrangements are best adapted to secure these conditions.' I

Flattery in the form of imitation followed in due course. A
branch was established at St. Andrews, and one of the earliest of
similar institutions was founded at Newport in the United States.
Another sprang up at Wolverhampton. In 1881 two such societies
were announced as having been set on foot in London. And the
Times of April 14th, in a leading article of some length, drew at-
tention to the special features of the plan which it was stated had
followed close upon a paper read by Professor Fleeming Jenkin before
the Society of Arts in the preceding month of January. The adher-
ents included such names as those of Sir William Gull, Professor
Huxley, Professor Burdon Sanderson, and Sir Joseph Fayrer. The
Saturday Revieio, in January, had already in a characteristic article
enforced the principles of the scheme, and shown how, for a small
annual payment, ' the helpless and hopeless condition of the house-
holder at the mercy of the plumber ' might be for ever changed.

The London Association, established on the lines of the parent
society, has been followed by many others year by year ; amongst
these are Bradford, Cheltenham, Glasgow, and Liverpool in 1882 ;
Bedford, Brighton, and Newcastle in 1883 ; Bath, Cambridge, Cardiff,
Dublin, and Dundee in 1884 ; and Swansea in 1885 ; and while we
write the first steps are being taken, with help from Edinburgh, to
establish an association at Montreal ; sixteen Associations.

Almost, it may be said, a bibliography has been achieved for
Fleeming Jeiikin's movement.

1 Healthy Houses, by Professor Fleeming Jenkin, p. 54.

APPENDIX II. clxix

In 1878 was published Healthy Houses (Edin., David Douglas),
being the substance of the two lectures already mentioned as having
been delivered in Edinburgh with the intention of laying open the
idea of the scheme then in contemplation, with a third addressed to
the Medico-Chirurgical Society. This book has been long out of
print, and, such has been the demand for it that the American edi-
tion 1 is understood to be also out of print, and unobtainable.

In 1880 was printed (London, Spottiswoode and Co.) a pamphlet
entitled What is the Best Mode of Amending the Present Laws with
Reference to Existing Buildings, and also of Improving their Sanitary
Condition with due Regard to Economical Considerations 1 the sub-
stance of a paper read by Professor Jenkin at the Congress of the
Social Science Association at Edinburgh in October of that year.

The first item of Health Lectures for the People (Edin. 1881)
consists of a discourse on the * Care of the Body ' delivered by Pro-
fessor Jenkin in the Watt Institution at Edinburgh, in which the
theories of house sanitation are dwelt, on.

House Inspection, reprinted from the Sanitary Record, was issued
in pamphlet form in 1882. And another small tract, Houses of the .
Poor ; their Sanitary Arrangement, in 1885.

In this connection it may be said that while the idea formulated
by Jenkin has been carried out with a measure of success that could
hardly have been foreseen, in one point only, it may be noted, has
expectation been somewhat disappointed as regards the good that
these Associations should have effected — and the fact was constantly
deplored by the founder — namely, the comparative failure as a means
of improving the condition of the dwellings of the poorer classes. It
was ' hoped that charity and public spirit would have used the Asso-
ciation to obtain reports on poor tenements, and to remedy the most
glaring evils.' l

The good that these associations have effected is not to be esti-
mated by the numbers of their membership. They have educated the
public on certain points. The fact that they exist has become gene-
rally known, and, by consequence, persons of all classes are induced to
satisfy themselves of the reasons for the existence of such institutions,
and thus they learn of the evils that have called them into being.
Builders, burgh engineers, and private individuals in any way

1 It is perhaps worth mentioning as a curiosity of literature that the
American publishers who produced this book in the States, without consulting
the author, afterwards sent him a handsome cheque, of course unsolicited by
him.

clxx MEMOIR

connected with the construction of dwellings in town or country have
been put upon their mettle, and constrained to keep themselves
abreast with the wholesome truths which the engineering staff of all
these Sanitary Associations are the means of disseminating.

In this way, doubtless, some good may indirectly have been done
to poorer tenements, though not exactly in the manner contemplated
by the founder.1

Now, if it be true that Providence helps those who help themselves,
surely a debt of gratitude is due to him who has placed (as has been
attempted to be shown in this brief narrative) the means of self-help
and the attainment of a palpable benefit within the reach of all
through the working of a simple plan, whose motto well may be,
* Healthy Houses ' ; and device a strangled snake.

A. F.

1 It is true, handsome tenements for working people have been built, such
as the picturesque group of houses erected with this object by a member of
the Council of the Edinburgh Sanitary Association, at Bell's Mills, so well seen
from the Dean Bridge, where every appliance that science can suggest has been
made use of. But for the ordinary houses of the poor the advice of the Associa-
tion's engineers has been but rarely taken advantage of.

PAPEES

BY

FLEEMING JENKIN

VOL. I.

PREFATORY NOTE.
BY SIDNEY COLVIN, M.A.

MOST of the papers which follow in this Volume, and in the first
section of Volume II., are republished, by the kind permission of
the proprietors, from one or other of the following periodicals : —
the Edinburgh Review, the North British Review, the Nineteenth
Century, Macmillan's Magazine, the Saturday Review, the Art
Journal.

The reader will not fail to bear in mind that the contents
of these sections do not represent their author's main occupa-
tions, but are the Trdpspja or by-labours of a life busily occu-
pied in scientific and professional pursuits. They touch on
many matters ; but such were the keenness and loyalty of the
writer's intelligence that on whatever subject engaged his at-
tention he was almost sure to find something to say that was
well worth hearing. When masters in such divers fields as
Darwin and Munro have acknowledged the value of his argu-
ments, weaker testimony is needless. Neither does it seem
necessary, in a memorial collection such as this, to apologise for
including some pieces in which farther reflection might have
modified our friend's conclusions, or others (e.g. the paper on
' Greek Dress ' ) in which his observations have lost some of
their freshness through lapse of time or the labours of others.
The essay ' On Rhythm ' I have put together out of three sepa-
rate articles, and in this instance alone have ventured on some
slight abridgment and correction of the text. The fragments

clxxiv PREFATORY NOTE

' On the Life of George Eliot ' and ' On Truth ' in the section
Literature and Drama, and those on the * Time Labour System '
and ' Is one Man's Gain another Man's Loss ? ' in the Political
Economy section, are now printed for the first time. The play
of ' Griselda,' in which the writer essayed to bring to the test
of practice his own principles of dramatic composition, was
printed during his life, but not published.

LITERATURE AND DRAMA

VOL. 1. B

THE 'AGAMEMNON' AND

No one, without comparing some portion of Mr. Browning's
rendering of the ' Agamemnon ' with the text of ^Eschylus, can
have any idea of the closeness with which the original has been
followed. The translator has not been content with the ordinary
Liddell and Scott version, but has endeavoured, often with success,
to give even the etymological force of the original words. Careful
toil marks every line, and to some few this transcript will be a
source of real enjoyment, but these few must possess the rare
power of putting life and poetry into such literal translations as
are published in Bohn's series. This is said not as a sneer, for
we have known men of true poetic temperament who, ignorant
of Greek, read the dramatists by preference in Bohn's series,
wishing to feel certain that ' where they were gaping for
-^Eschylus they did not get Theognis.' Well, such men as
these may read Mr. Browning's ' Agamemnon ' with more im-
plicit faith than they could give to many prose literal transla-
tions, but they must also possess the qualification, happily not
rare nowadays, of being able to understand Mr. Browning's
manner of expressing himself. Moreover, it would be well that
they should have at their elbow some fairly literal translation
such as Mr. Conington's to help them when, after reading a
passage two or three times, they quite fail to see what the poet
means to say.

To the general British public Mr. Browning's version will
be almost as completely a sealed book as the original of

1 A review of The Agamemnon, a transcript by Robert Browning: The
Agamemnon of ^Eschylus, translated into English verse by E. O. A. Morshead,
M.A. : and Three Plays of Sophocles, translated into English verse by Lewis
Campbell, M.A., LL.D. From the Edinburgh Review, April, 1878.

B 2

LITERATURE AND DRAMA

; a fact much to be deplored, for a version of a great
poet by a true poet should have been a boon to the mass ol
readers, not merely to a select few. In ' Balaustion's Adven-
ture ' Mr. Browning gave this boon. The translation of the
1 Alcestis ' can be read aloud, so as in most places to be fol-
lowed by the hearer, which cannot be done with the present
play.

We do not ask Mr. Browning to write in such perspicuous
sort that he who runs may read, but we think it not unreason-
able to ask him to write so that a man who has mastered the
meaning of any passage may be able when reading aloud to
convey that meaning to his hearers, with the aid of due emphasis
and inflection. The translator obviously felt that his version
was obscure, and therefore himself qualifies his effort as perhaps
a fruitless adventure. He argues that ^Eschylus is hard read-
ing, and therefore that, to resemble ^Eschylus, the translation
must be hard reading also. But surely ^Eschylus must have
been intelligible, the phrases if not the thoughts of the man, to
the thirty thousand hearers in the theatre at Athens. Can a
dramatist be popular on the stage if unintelligible to the
masses ? Surely we must think that the obscurity of ^Eschylus
arises chiefly from our ignorance of the language, of popular
well-understood allusions and customs, and from corruptions in
the text. Mr. Browning, in his version of passages usually
accepted as corrupt, has maintained an obscurity that cor-
responds with the original in a way which is almost humorous.
This he may justify, but it is difficult to excuse him when the
obscurity is really due to his own style and not to ^Eschylus at
all. But let his version speak for itself. After the prologue by
the Warder, the chorus enters and speaks as follows :

The tenth year this, since Priamos' great match,
King Menelaos, Agamemnon King,
— The strenuous yoke-pair of the Atreidai's honor,
Two-throned, two-sceptred, whereof Zeus was donor-
Did from this land the aid, the armament dispatch,
The thousand-sailored force of Argives clamouring
* Ares ' from out the indignant breast, as fling
Passion forth vultures which, because of grief
Away, — as are their young ones, — with the thief,

THE 'AGAMEMNON* AND *TRACHINIJB* 5

Lofty above their brood-nests wheel in ring,
Now round and round with oar of either wing,
Lament the bedded chicks, lost labour that was love
Which hearing, one above
-Whether Apollon, Pan or Zeus — that wail,
Sharp-piercing bird-shriek of the guests who fare
Housemates with gods in air —
Suchanone sends, against who these assail,
What, late-sent, shall not fail
Of punishing — Erinus.

The man who tries to read this aloud must first master the fact
that l match ' means ' antagonist ; ' he must also secure an
audience able to understand the expression 'clamouring Ares/
and he will then with some difficulty make the first eight lines
intelligible. ( This is the tenth year since Menelaus and Aga-
memnon started with an army shouting a warlike cry.' Then
comes the simile of the vultures, which, in both Greek and
English, is hard to construe, the passage being possibly corrupt,
the English as much so as the Greek ; but the passage which
begins ' Which hearing, one above,' &c., and ends with ' Erinus/
could not be made intelligible to any hearer, and it owes its
obscurity to Mr. Browning. The words of ^Eschylus may be
construed as follows : ' Some one above, whether Apollo, Pan,
or Zeus, hearing the sharp-piercing bird-shriek of those who
are his guests, sends against the transgressors the sure but
tardy Erinus.' The construction is even more straightforward
than this English version, because a single Greek word expresses
what requires several in English. The involution of this broken
sentence is Browning, not ^Eschylus, and is a defect, not a
beauty. The Greek has no double construction answering to
the ' which hearing that wail ; ' the Greek says plainly and
simply that some one sends Erinus. The long phrase, i what,
late-sent, shall not fail of punishing,' is an obscure way of
rendering a single adjective, and is as remote from the Greek
construction as Johnsonian magniloquence would be. ' Who
these assail ' represents a single noun, so that in fine the whole
passage sins against the simplicity of the Greek as much as
Potter's old version, although in quite a different way. Those
who know the Greek will recognise a close adherence to the

6 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

original, and will readily admit that l the guests who fare
housemates with gods in air ' renders the true meaning of r&vSs

/jUSTOLKCOV.

We much wish that Mr. Browning had set a different aim
before him, for in truth we do not give the best idea of a foreign
author by using in English the very turn of each foreign phrase.
On the contrary, this practice is a cheap and common method
of raising a laugh. Thackeray began it or practised it with
French, making his Frenchmen speak a literal translation of
French phrases. The thing was droll, and is now copied in every
comic publication, but we should not get a good translation of
Racine by following this method. His graceful lines would
become grotesque, and the matter would not be much mended
if for each noun or adjective we substituted a periphrasis giving
the force of the word as indicated by its etymology.

Perfect, or even nearly perfect, translation is of course
impossible, but good work has been done from time to time
when a poet has felt the beauty of some foreign poem strongly,
and has written in his own language another poem giving the
beauty which he saw. It almost seems as if Mr. Browning did
not very much admire the ' Agamemnon.' Now and then his
version suggests the almost incredible suspicion that he wished
to show his friends how inferior ^Eschylus was as a writer to
Euripides. Surely he must have had a sense of fun when he
made the chorus (of reputed sonority and magniloquence) speak
as follows :

For there!s no bulwark in man's wealth to him
Who, through a surfeit,, kicks — into the dim
And disappearing — Bight's great altar.

Could a more ludicrous image be presented to us than that of
a man who, in consequence of overeating, kicks a great altar
into the dim ? Hermann, who is followed by many scholars,
connects sis afydveiav with gVaXfts-, and so obtains the rational
meaning that wealth affords no bulwark behind which the guilty
man can hide.

Our author has given us no setting to the play such as the
adventure of Balaustion, a story which enabled him by the
comments of the lyric girl to show us what he himself saw in

THE 'AGAMEMNON' AND < TRACHINI&* ^

the { Alcestis.' Mr. Browning acted that play for us, creating,
as the French would say, the part of Heracles. And the
creation has been very successful. Some may think that
Euripides never intended his Heracles to be acted in that
fashion, but no one will deny that Mr. Browning's Heracles
is a fine conception. Mr. Browning often writes as if he were
acting. He generally receives the title of dramatic from the
public, but he is not a dramatic author in the old-fashioned
sense. The words he puts into the mouths of his characters are
not such as actors would like to use, but he is dramatic in the
sense that he seems himself to act each part in succession, so
that every character appears as if acted by Browning, and he
has a large range of characters which he can act well. Of
course we all recognise the actor and his mannerisms in every
dress, but so it must be with all actors. Now, Mr. Browning
has not acted Agamemnon, nor Clytemnestra, nor Cassandra,
more's the pity, and therefore we say with some fear and
trembling perhaps he did not see how these parts should be
acted. If he had ever thought of acting Cassandra himself, he
could never have made her say, speaking of Apollo,

He was athlete to me — huge grace breathing ;

nor would he have liked in the part of Clytemnestra to an-
nounce the capture of Troy in these words :

I think a noise — no mixture — reigns i' the city.

4 No mixture' is a simple adjective in the original, and Miss
Swanwick translates the two words /Borjv ajjiiKTov by ' ill-
blending clamour.'

The following is a sample of Mr. Browning's work where he
seems to have been more in sympathy with ^Eschylus :

For Ares, gold-exchanger for the dead,

And balance-holder in the fight o' the spear,

Due-weight from Ilion sends —

What moves the tear on tear —

A charred scrap to the friends :

Filling with well-packed ashes every urn,

For man that was the sole return.

8 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

And they groan — praising much, the while,
Now this man as experienced in the strife,
Now that, fallen nobly on a slaughtered pile
Because of — not his own — another's wife.

The absence of tawdry additions to the original is certainly
a great comfort, going far to counterbalance the oddity of some
expressions. One cannot help regretting, however, that a
natural reaction against smooth commonplace should lately in
all branches of art have led to affected harshness. After all, to
be quaint is a small merit, while to be queer is, sooner or later,
to be damned. We will not quarrel with the new style of
spelling. There is really no right or wrong in the matter ; the
effect of a word as seen or pronounced is a matter of asso-
ciation ; to those for whom more and nobler associations gather
round Klutaimnestra and Kikero than round Clytemnestra and
Cicero, the modern antiques are best. Heracles shall at once
displace Hercules, since even now he is the stronger. When we
turn to other translators, we see well enough why Mr. Browning
was tempted to sacrifice everything to fidelity. Mr. Morshead,
the latest adventurer, gives us a flowing version made with
care, but, not being a poet, he worries his reader by a frequent
use of stock expressions, such as ' rapine fell ' and ' presage
fair,' often reducing ^Eschylus to the level of Scott's lays. We
think he has been most successful in rendering the difficult
scene with Cassandra, and he shows everywhere a keen and just
appreciation of the beauty of the original work. Mr. Fitz-
gerald has more poetical verve than Mr. Morshead, and here and
there rises to a high level, but he misses out all that does not
come home to him, and it is not a little amusing to find the
translator or writer of the ' Kubaiyat ' omitting all the simple
straightforward religion preached by the chorus. A plain man
reading the ' Agamemnon ' of ^Eschylus would come to the
conclusion that the old men of the chorus believed in a supreme
God, Zeus, by no means unlike Jehovah, that they regarded
moral conduct as pleasing to God and the punishment of crime
as inflicted by God soon or late. The reader of Mr. Fitz-
gerald's chorus would imagine that ^schylus had forestalled the
nineteenth century in mild pessimistic mooning, and that Mene-
laus was a Scandinavian sentimentalist such as Mr. Morris loves

THE 'AGAMEMNON' AND ' TRACHINI&* 9

to paint. We shall not on this account quarrel with Mr. Fitz-
gerald, who frankly warns us in his preface that he has poured
away some of the wine of ^Eschylus and mixed some water with
what is left. On the contrary, we are grateful to him for some
well-turned phrases, and for the part of Clytemnestra, which is
well translated. We do quarrel with him because his work is
unequal and slovenly even in respect of grammar.

An amusing comparison of the various translations may be
made by the help of two words. There is a refrain in the hymn
concerning Iphigenia,

atXtvoi/ atA.«>ov eiTre, TO 8' «v

of which the first three words may be baldly translated as £ say
alas, alas.'

Potter paraphrases the whole thus :

Sound high the strain, the according notes prolong,
Till conquest listens to the raptured song.

The proportion of Potter to ^Eschylus here is really over-
whelming.
Milman :

King out the dolorous hymn, yet triumph still the good.

We see that the translator felt bound to elevate the style of
^Eschylus.
Conington :

Sing Sorrow ! sing Sorrow ! but triumph the good —

conscientious, but not poetical.
Swanwick :

Chant the dirge, uplift the wail, but may the right prevail —

a fair paraphrase.
Morshead :

Ah, woe and well-a-day ! but be the issue fair.

A scrap of old ballad is here made to do new duty.
Fitzgerald : Leaves out the refrain.
Browning :

Ah, Linos say — Ah, Linos, song of wail,
But may the good prevail.

io LITERATURE AND DRAMA

The reader who does not know the passage would in this last
version be puzzled by what seems to be an invocation to some
one called Linos, but a peep at the Greek will show him that
' Ah, Linos ' is merely an exclamation, while Liddell and Scott
will prove that the received etymology of aiKivov is correctly
indicated by Mr. Browning. Who Linos was does not much
matter, but the first syllable of the name was short. Once all
these facts have been mastered, we may perhaps think that
Mr. Browning has made the best transcript ; it is certain that
any one knowing the Greek will, after trying other versions,
come back to this one with a sense of relief.

By the way, no translator of the above refrain has adopted
the rendering taught by the late James Eiddell, that the old
men wished the note of rejoicing in the song to prevail over
the note of woe, not that good generally should prevail over
evil. Perhaps the words really have the double meaning, and
to get their full force we ought to imagine dispirited trebles
piping their wail in a minor key, followed by a burst of san-
guine baritones with a grand swell in the major, closing on the
triumphant viKaTco.

A very slight acquaintance with ancient mythology and
ancient customs would be required to enable a spectator to
enjoy a great part of the ' Agamemnon ' and many other Greek
plays if he saw them acted, but unfortunately a drama when
simply read, not seen, makes such large demands on the imagina-
tion and intelligence of the reader, that great plays even in our
own language remain unread and unknown. For this very rea-
son we should have valued highly comments such as those of
Balaustion on the demeanour and thoughts of the personages
in the ' Agamemnon,' which, however, is hardly a play in the
sense in which we use the word now. It is not a realistic
representation of a series of incidents. By far the greater part
consists either of poems recited by the chorus — who are not,
properly speaking, actors at all, and were not on the stage — or
of long speeches addressed by a single personage from the stage
to the crowd below who formed the chorus. Even when two
people happen to be on the stage, dialogue is almost wholly
avoided, and it may well be that part of the popularity of the
play is owing to this undramatic form which makes it almost a

THE ' AGAMEMNON* AND ' TRACHINIJE* 11

poem, although it is also true that this poem contains dramatic
scenes of extraordinary power.

The ' Agamemnon ' may be analysed into three parts, each
of which is extremely beautiful, even if considered separately
from the rest. We have a complete poem recited by the chorus
describing the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and ending with her death ;
another complete poem describing the flight of Helen, and end-
ing with her reception in Troy, seemingly a blessing, really a
curse ; and lastly we have a drama showing the arrival and
murder of Agamemnon. The three parts are all harmonious,
conspiring to produce one general effect, but the mere written
copy without stage directions often leaves us in doubt as to how
these parts were blended together. It is highly probable that
by change of attitude, position, and demeanour, the chorus
marked in the clearest possible way the separation between
those periods during which they were the singers of a sacred
hymn, and those in which they represented, with some approach
to realism, personages taking part in the action of the drama.
When these stage directions are wholly omitted, as in Mr.
Browning's transcript, the reader will often be startled by a
sudden descent from passages of great lyrical grandeur to others
spoken by the same men, but so worded as to indicate plainly
that the speakers were commonplace people, incapable of invent-
ing the words they had previously delivered. The sacred hymns
are appropriate to the old men who sing them, being such as
they would love ; but the old people who prattle about tottering
along on three legs could not in their proper characters have
used the language describing the sacrifice of Iphigenia or the
flight of Helen. It would be a mistake to suppose that the
portion headed KOMMATIKA included all those parts which
are spoken or sung by the choreutai in character.

The poem of Iphigenia begins with the entrance of the
chorus after a prologue has been spoken by the Warder, and
ends before the first dramatic interlude. The course of this
poem is interrupted by a passage in which the old men describe
themselves, and ask Clytemnestra the meaning of the sacrificial
fires ; the Queen does not seem to be on the stage, and they
wait for no answer, but abruptly resume the story of Iphigenia.
When the play is simply read, no reason appears why the poem

12 . LITERATURE AND DRAMA

should be interrupted by a passage which is almost humorous ;
but if we think of the necessary action accompanying the words
we see that the first verses were chanted as the chorus marched
in ; that the passage spoken in character was probably delivered
with a complete change of demeanour while the crowd was
taking up its place round the central altar ; and that when their
final solemn station had been reached on or round this thymele,
it would be quite appropriate that they should resume the
solemn hymn with dignity. It is strange, however, that they
should address Clytemnestra and get no response. Another
break in the poem is formed by a passage expressing a kind of
protest against the conduct of Artemis, to the effect that, if
men would simply trust to the supreme god and his divine laws,
all would be well. This protest might be so acted on the stage
as to be no interruption. A change of melody, even a change
of attitude on the part of the chorus, would suffice. The hymn
closes by a strophe in which the chorus give their own reflec-
tions on the story, which are rather commonplace. A similar
return from the past to the present, from the elevated hymn to
the customary reflections of respectable people, will be found on
examination to precede each dramatic interlude in the play.
The name dramatic interlude is given advisedly ; for while the
plays of Sophocles are dramas with choral interludes, the
( Agamemnon ' is a lyrical performance with dramatic interludes.

When the poem was ended and the old men had moralised
thereon, Clytemnestra entered, and standing on a raised plat-
form, our modern stage, was addressed by the chorus, grouped
below in front, where the pit of a modern theatre is. She
answers their questions as a modern orator answers questions
from the hustings, tells them Troy is taken, and describes how
the signal came from Ida by beacons successively fired ; in
another speech she draws a picture of the sack of Troy. These
speeches serve the dramatic purpose of introducing Clytem-
nestra to us with great splendour.

The first interlude is now over, Clytemnestra retires, and
the chorus, after a few words of farewell, ' prepare to address
the gods rightly.' They cease to be mere commonplace elders
of the city, and with an invocation to Zeus begin the second
solemn hymn, which describes the flight of Helen. This poem

THE ' AGAMEMNON* AND <TRACHINI&* 13

is interrupted by the scene in which a Herald brings confirma-
tion of the news that Troy had fallen. In preparation for this
scene the old men at line 440 revert from the past to the
present, from the flight of Helen to their own position and
feelings, which are described in two strophes.

Mr. Browning has followed the usual arrangement in giving
Clytemnestra the speech announcing the Herald's approach,
but it would be more consistent with the general scheme if, as.
Scaliger thought, this speech were allotted to the chorus; we'
should then, as usual, have some lines spoken by them after the
conclusion of their ode, and telling the spectators the name
of the coming actor. This is no work for a queen, and the
Herald, when he comes, addresses himself exclusively to the
chorus, which he could hardly have done if Clytemnestra had
been present. He greets his country and his countrymen,
expresses his own joy, tells the great news, and describes the
sufferings of the army before Troy. Clytemnestra certainly
hears some part of the Herald's speech, for when he ends she
speaks, boasting of the accuracy of the news she had long
before announced. She then despatches the Herald to Aga-
memnon with a message, and leaves the stage. There is
nothing realistic in the dialogue ; her short appearance seems
designed simply to give the Herald breathing space. He pro-
ceeds to describe the tempest which separated Menelaus from
Agamemnon while they were returning to Greece, and then
this interlude ends abruptly. He takes no farewell, nor do the
chorus bid him godspeed. Without a line of preparation they
return to the story of Helen, taking it up at line 662, exactly
where they left off at line 440. The description of Helen's
flight and her reception in Troy closes at line 724, with the
declaration that this lovely bride was really an avenging fury
sent by Jove. The chorus now become mere old men full of
ancient saws; as usual the concluding strophes are full of
moralising, and, when the poem ends, the chorus as usual
announce the approach of the personage who is to open the
next dramatic scene. Agamemnon arrives, and the main action
of the play begins.

We are probably justified in regarding this earlier part of
the ' Agamemnon ' as an example of the old-fashioned Thespian

i4 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

drama, which never attempted to represent any other incident
than such as could be indicated by the coming or going of one
actor. Unity of time and place has nothing to do with such a
performance as this. Of course, the old men did not stand
singing from the time Troy was taken until Agamemnon
arrived. Whether Clytemnestra was or was not present when
the Herald told his news would not matter. The form of the
art was familiar to the spectators, and they knew what they
were to take for granted as well as the audience listening to
the Italian 'Maggi' know this to-day. The chorus took care to
tell them what personage the actor was going to represent as
he came upon the stage, and this was quite sufficient. They
gave the actor a little rest from time to time by addressing
him, and he gave them a long rest as he recited his speeches.
When he went off, the chorus reverted to the main business of
the day, the lyric song, and might take it up exactly at the
place where they left off.

Extraordinary art is shown throughout the ( Agamemnon '
in so arranging the incidents that each actor may speak at the
full pitch of his voice with truth to nature. The presence of
the chorus forming a crowd who might be addressed collectively
enabled this to be done, and this use of the chorus had an im-
portant influence on the earlier forms of Greek tragedy.

When Agamemnon entered, the performance became much
more like our own stage play, but even then ^Eschylus seems
to have avoided dialogue between two actors on the stage,
feeling, perhaps, that the shouting necessary to make the spec-
tators hear would seem unnatural in a mere conversation.
Agamemnon arrived in a chariot, with Cassandra beside him
or following him in another car, and was probably accompanied
by a retinue of soldiers. He did not dismount at once, but
remained standing in his chariot in the orchestra before the
stage, as if at the front door of his palace. Clytemnestra and
he did not converse. He harangued his people from the chariot,
and then she harangued them also ; some lines in her speech are
addressed to Agamemnon, but in the main her speech, though
in honour of the king, was directed to the chorus. She was
surrounded by mute attendants, who, at her command, laid
down splendid garments for Agamemnon to tread on as he left

THE 'AGAMEMNON' AND ' TRACHINI&* 15

the chariot to ascend the stage by the central steps. He did
not quite like being kept standing so long, and compared the
length of Clytemnestra's speech to the length of his own
absence. He was averse to exhibit pride by treading on these
purple trappings, but was over-persuaded, taking his boots off
first, so as not to spoil the robes. No sooner had Agamemnon
reached the stage than he was silent, and apparently passed
with Clytemnestra into the palace. The chorus, knowing the
queen's real character, were awe-struck, not triumphant. Cas-
sandra meanwhile stood motionless in her chariot. Agamem-
non's attendants, and the slaves, who laid the trappings down,
went off while the chorus were singing their prophetic fears,
so as to prepare the audience for what was to come. When the
stage and orchestra were ready, the queen returned to tell
Cassandra she must enter the palace. Observe that she spoke
to her at a distance. Cassandra was mute, and Clytemnestra left
her with some show of contempt. The chorus expressed pity
for the captive, who probably left the chariot and ascended the
stage while she cried on Apollo to tell her to what roof she was
come. Here begins a scene worthy of the greatest actress the
world ever saw. In a dialogue with the chorus Cassandra
gives her own story, the fall of Troy, the legend of Thyestes,
and a description of the murder of Agamemnon, instantly
about to happen. Sometimes she speaks in her own mind, and
sometimes possessed by the prophetic frenzy. We have no
more long set speeches suitable simply for declamation, but an
unparalleled dramatic scene. The words of the prophetess of
truth, cursed in the fated unbelief of all who hear her, would
rouse the spectators almost to the frenzy of the seer herself.
What ? Agamemnon is in there. The woman, beautiful,
miserable, wise, warns you — screams to you — tells you the
whole story, which will even now be irrevocable fact ; and you,
crowd of old wiseacres, stand, and listen, and admire, and ask
questions, and all the while the fatal net is closing round the
king, and Clytemnestra, unseen within, grasps the fatal axe.
Would that Mr. Browning had given us one phrase that Cas-
sandra might use ! If ever inspired poet wrote, ^Eschylus was
inspired when he wrote this scene. The old Thespian mummery
was gone — gone for ever. Warm flesh and blood had spoken

16 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

on the stage — spoken with beauty and with power — and in the
whirl of emotion which the audience felt they hailed the birth
of a new art.

Mr. Browning lets Cassandra quit the scene using these
words :

But I will go — even in the household wailing
My fate and Agamemnon's. Life suffice me !
Ah, strangers !

I cry not ' ah ' — as bird at bush — through terror
Idly ! To me, the dead, bear witness this much :
When, for me — woman, there shall die a woman,
And, for a man ill-wived, a man shall perish !
This hospitality I ask as dying.

CHOROS.
O sufferer, thee — thy foretold fate I pity.

KASSANDRA.

Yet once for all, to speak a speech, I fain am :
No dirge, mine for myself ! The sun I pray to,
Fronting his last light ! — to my own avengers —
That from my hateful slayers they exact too
Pay for the dead slave — easy-managed hand's work \

A poet should have felt what Cassandra felt, and put such
words into her mouth as would have enabled an actress to show
those feelings and carry her audience with her. This is what
^Eschylus did. Mr. Browning has preferred to give us a mosaic
copy where every beautiful tint in the original is represented by
half a dozen coarse broken bits ill patched together. He is
faithful to word arrangement and etymology, false to art and
feeling. He is clearly right in giving the next four lines to the
chorus, who maunder about the frail state of mortals in a style
which Cassandra at this supreme moment could never adopt.

Mr. Symonds, whose description of the ' Agamemnon ' is
very beautiful, mentions as especially dramatic the moment of
suspense which follows, filled by this moralising of the old men
and ended by the cry of the king as he is murdered. There is
no doubt that the audience has been by this time roused into
intense excitement, and that the cry adds to the feeling, but

THE 'AGAMEMNON* AND 'TRACHINI^* 17

the climax can hardly come when the stage is empty. Mere
incident will not affect an audience to the utmost ; for this the
presence of a great actor is required. After the cry the hearers
would be in a state of horror and suspense, very well represented
by the trembling, undecided crowd of old men. The real climax
comes when, doors thrown wide, Clytemnestra advances, defiant,
axe in hand, and glories in her deed.

Here again is a situation which might make a Rachel or a
Siddons rise from the dead if they could have a stage to act
it on :

Every word strong, every word capable of receiving a true and
forcible intonation. Browning puts it :

Much having been before to purpose spoken,
The opposite to say I shall not shamed be.

From this the reader can gather that ^Eschylus put into Cly-
temnestra's lips words by which she defiantly defends herself
against the charge of cowardly deceit. She anticipates accu-
sation, and answers not the charge of murder, but the charge of
lying. What the reader cannot gather is the forcible and
splendid burst of language in which this is expressed. In
English the suspended sense of the first clause is a fault which
in a schoolboy's exercise would be corrected by his master.
' Having been spoken,' with its weak little words all scattered,
is no representative of the Greek slpTj/jisvcov. ( To purpose ' is
obscure and affected where icaiplws is clear. 1 1 shall not shamed
be ' is neither English nor Greek. The Greek future is a single
word corresponding in no way to the awkward inversion and
unusual use of ' shamed.' No actress could produce her effect
with such a speech, and yet Mr. Browning is called a dramatic
poet. Assuredly he could have done much better had he not
deliberately chosen to do the wrong thing.

Clytemnestra and the chorus wrangle. ^Egisthus comes on
and bullies, and finally the play subsides without solution. The
old men are cowed, and Clytemnestra in a grand way forgives
them. The play is a prologue to the great act of the Oresteia
related in the * Choephoroi.'

VOL. i. C

1 8 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

In the scenes with Cassandra before the murder, and with
Clytemnestra afterwards, the poet was swept away by his dra-
matic feelings, and in writing these scenes he invented the real
Greek drama, not by plan aforethought, but by the inspiration
of his subject. In form he adheres to an address from one actor
to the chorus, but the spirit is changed. The arrival of Aga-
memnon, the prophecy of Cassandra, the murder of the king,
and the boast of Clytemnestra form a real dramatic representation
of a fact happening then and there. The chorus changed its
character, and the words assigned to it might have been spoken
by a few persons on the stage. They became actors, whereas
before they had been alternately singers of a sacred hymn and
listeners to set speeches.

The proposition that ^Eschylus invented a new art while
writing the 'Agamemnon' is not a mere figure of speech. The
1 Choephoroi ' which follows is a complete drama from beginning
to end. The chorus takes part in the action throughout, and,
when the stage was empty, recited only such short poems as
might serve to divide acts. In its arrangement the ' Choephoroi '
might have been planned by Sophocles. As usual when we pass
from one artistic form to that next evolved, something was
gained, something lost. As a dramatic entertainment far
more was gained than lost ; and if even now the ' Agamemnon '
and ' Choephoroi ' were successively acted, the spectators would,
we venture to say, prefer the later play. The long hymns of the
' Agamemnon,' so beautiful to read, would be a trifle dull recited
by bands of performers. The declamation of the single actor
about the taking of Troy or the shipwreck of Menelaus, magni-
ficent poetry as it is, would be somewhat like a reading of
Milton : we should admire but remain cold. The play would
not begin until Agamemnon arrived, and it would be over by the
time Clytemnestra had finished her great speech after Agamem-
non's death. In the ' Choephoroi,' on the contrary, the interest
is dramatic from first to last. The return of Orestes, the present
woe of Electra, the recognition of the brother and sister, the in-
vocation of Agamemnon, whose hidden shade listens to son and
daughter, the meeting of Clytemnestra and her son, the death
of ^Egisthus, the pleading for life or death between mother and
son, with the final frenzy of Orestes, form one unbroken chain

THE 'AGAMEMNON' AND < TRACHINI^ 19

of dramatic scenes of the most perfect kind, ending in a climax
far finer than that of the l Agamemnon.' Yet the translations
of the ' Agamemnon ' outnumber those of the * Choephoroi '
perhaps by ten to one, precisely because the ' Agamemnon ' is
as much a poem as a drama, while the ' Choephoroi ' is above all
things a play.

One of Sophocles' great plays, ' The Trachinian Virgins,' has
met with injustice owing to the same cause. F. W. Schlegel
treats this tragedy, recounting the death of Deianira and
Heracles, with positive contempt, and the general impression
seems to be that as a work of art it is inferior to the other
plays of Sophocles. A translation by Professor Lewis Camp-
bell is obviously intended to enable the English reader to
compare the three great heroines of Sophocles, and it may
be said that no previous translator has shown so keen a sym-
pathy with the womanly qualities of Antigone, Electra, and
Deianira. It may be granted that many readers will find the
story of Deianira and Heracles somewhat dull, whereas the
histories of Antigone and Electra cannot fail to move all who
are not insensible. If, however, the three tragedies were put
upon the stage, the verdict as to their relative merits might not
improbably be reversed ; it would certainly be much modified.
The noble figure of Antigone would, as was proved by Helen
Faucit, command our deepest reverence and admiration ; the
devotion of Electra to her father, and, above all, her love for
Orestes, would perhaps touch the spectator even more than the
heroism of Antigone ; but seen on the stage the gentle and
noble Deianira, wrecked by her very love and simplicity, would
sway our hearts with sweeter and surer touch than either the
stern devotee or the vengeful daughter plotting her mother's
murder. Antigone is almost above the earth, and the object for
which she sacrifices her life and her love is one which to us
nowadays savours of superstition. Ulectra, if she loved her
father and brother dearly, yet hated her mother with a rancour
which seen on the stage would repel — not only would her en-
trance, squalid and full of hate as of grief, be unprepossessing,
but her final appearance would be most horrible as she listened
to the murder of her mother, and urged the striking of another
blow. Yet almost every educated English man or woman has

c 2

20 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

some acquaintance with Antigone and Electra, while very few
know anything of Deianira or the death of Heracles as Sophocles
conceived it. For this very reason the attempt shall be made to
give, with Mr. Campbell's help, such comment on this play as
may in some feeble way supply the elements which actual re-
presentation affords.

The story of Iphitus is the background from which the
action of the play stands out. Heracles, upon a trifling quarrel,
killed both Iphitus and his father Eurytus, king of GEchalia,
sacked the unoffending town, and sent the dead chiefs daughter,
lole, home to supplant his own true wife. What wonder if the
ancient oradles, promising him rest at this very hour, mean not
happy rest, but swift death ? Deianira, in mere simplicity of
guileless love, sends him a poisoned robe, and, learning the
result of her action, takes her own life before the hero is brought
in agony by his son Hyllus to their home in Trachis. Heracles
and Deianira do not meet. Dialogue between them would have
distracted our mind from greater tragic issues. If they met
after the poison began to work, we should for a while be chiefly
interested in watching whether the woman would or would not
be able to exculpate herself, whether the man would or would
not believe her. 'This situation belongs to melodrama, being
pathetic, not tragic. Whether this woman does or does not win
credence is a mere accident, and after all does not much concern
the world at large. Pain, failure, hate where love should be,
our crimes, our follies, and their bitter fruits, the irony of the
gods — these are the tragic points which pierce men's souls for
ever, and from these Sophocles allows no distraction. Our
author here, as in the ' Philoctetes,' accepts physical pain as
thoroughly tragic, and, we think, rightly. Surely those who
call pain a small thing can never have felt it, and it lies with
the actor to prevent the ugliness of all suffering from alienating
our sympathy. When we meet with the written Greek cries
arranged so as not to break the metre, we must remember that
in Greek every sob is indicated. In our freer form of art the
actor puts in exclamations where he feels they are required. If
all Mr. Irving's cries were found in Shakespeare's text, unthink-
ing readers might call Hamlet chicken-hearted. Heracles
would have met simple death with defiance ; but in the fangs

THE ' AGAMEMNON^ AND ' TRACHINI^' 21

of pain, in the grip of disease, even the mightiest are crushed.
Pain then we have, not continuous, for this would exclude all
other emotions, but, with truth to nature, in mighty spasms,
with intervals of rest.

When the tragedy of Deianira — to which we will presently
return — has wrought the audience to such a point that they are
prepared for any scene, however terrible, Heracles is brought
upon the stage in fevered sleep. Hyllus, who now knows that
his mother had wrought innocently, stands near his father, and
by heedless speech wakes him to conscious pain.

Heracles' first impulse is to complain of the ingratitude and
injustice of the gods. For a moment the hope that even yet
Zeus may send a healer deludes him, only to cause a bitterer
agony. The attendants would fain help him, as in the eagerness
of prayer and hope he strives to raise himself; but their touch
brings on a paroxysm. Then comes the thought of failure,
of how much he had done for men ; and this was the end of
all:

Where are ye, men, whom over Hellas wide

This arm hath freed, and o'er the ocean tide,

And through rough brakes, from every monstrous thing ?

But now in my misfortune none will bring

A sword to aid, a fire to quell this fire.

The attendants flinch in terror, and the son takes their place,
when, in an agony of still more terrible pain, the hero calls
upon his son to kill him, and then thinks upon the cause of all
— the mother. Observe with what perfect nature Deianira is
brought to his mind. Looking on the son he thinks of the
mother, and to think and to curse are one. The boy is taken
too much unawares to be ready with exculpation, and Heracles
continues wildly :

Many hot toils and hard beyond report

With hands and struggling shoulders have I borne,

But no such labour has the Thunderer's wife

Or sour Eurystheus ever given, as this,

Which CEneus' daughter of the treacherous eye

Hath fastened on my back, this amply woven

Net of the Furies that is breaking me.

22 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

He describes his agony in words too terrible to be quoted on
cold paper :

Yet me nor Lapiths, nor Earth's giant brood,
Nor Centaur's monstrous violence could subdue,
Nor Hellas, nor the stranger, nor all lands
Where I have gone, cleansing the world from harms ;
But a soft woman, without manhood's strain,
Alone and weaponless hath conquered me.

And so it still is. Our mighty ones fall before a little grain, a
poison-germ. Our hearts are broken when our wives betray us.
All this is true now in England as then in Attica. But no more
curses ; bring out the woman, says the hero, and I will slay her
righteously. The son shrinks at the mention of his mother,
dead even now, but Heracles supposes that he shrinks through
simple pity, and claims that pity for himself, not her. Then
suddenly he shudders at the thought that he, Heracles, has
asked for pity; but he will justify even this. He bares his
breast.

O see !

Ye people, gaze on this poor quivering flesh,

Look with compassion on my misery.

Another spasm follows, when, looking on his bare body, he thus

addresses it :

O breast and back,

0 hands and arms of mine, ye are the same
That crushed the dweller of the Nemean wild.

And then a little comforted, even in death, to think of all that
he has done, his mind runs over those great triumphs.

But now

Jointless and riven to tatters, I am wrecked
Thus utterly by imperceptible woe ;

one thing only is left. Bring Deianira hither. Then Hyllus
tells her fatal error and her death. The hero's mind is dull
with pain and sickness, but at last he understands. No word
of pity comes from him for Deianira. It is easy to explain this
by saying that hero and author were mere pagans, but if

THE l AGAMEMNON^ AND <TRACH1NI&> 23

Sophocles had thought the sentiment artistically right we
should have found it here. The revulsion of feeling in favour
of Deianira would give rise to a sort of attendrissement wholly
out of keeping with the situation. To make this softening
effective, much love must have been shown by Heracles to
Deianira previously, whereas the hero fell by his ungoverned
passions, and we have no hint that he was romantically attached
to his wife. Hyllus, in giving his explanation, names Nessus
as author of the charm ; then a great awe falls on Heracles, he
remembers the oracle and accepts his fate. Now we see the
hero once more noble and strong, resolved to face death with
dignity. On the summit of Mount (Eta, on a funeral pyre, he
will depart, while the flames which take his life quench the
worst agony of the poison. Hyllus is made to promise that this
shall be so, and the pangs abate ; the moment pain no longer
heightens the situation the artist lets the fire die out. And here
follows an incident which a little relieves our hearts. The dying
hero cannot forget the maiden lole, the love for whom has been
his ruin ; she at least shall be well cared for, and shall raise him
seed. He commands Hyllus to marry her. The poor boy
says :

How can I do it, when my mother's death
And thy sad state sprang solely from this girl ?

Mark the art with which Sophocles lets the audience see what
really killed Heracles. Not Nessus, not Deianira, not Zeus,
but lole ! Hyllus saw it quite well ; but his great father
will be obeyed. Heracles' last hope is that he may reach the
funeral pyre undaunted —

Seeming to do gladly still.

Hyllus, as Heracles is borne off, rebels against heaven, as
any son would do in like case. As a representation of the ex-
tremity of a hero's suffering, this scene stands pre-eminent
among all tragedies. Let Salvini act the hero, and its power
would instantly be recognised; not only the power of the
actor, but the fact that it gave him greater scope than any
other part. There is no such sequence of long-drawn agony,
which is yet the agony of a demigod, in the c Agamemnon/

24 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

the ' Choephoroi,' or the ' Eumenides.' There is nothing to
compare with it in the ' Antigone ' or ' Electra.' Even the
suffering of the blind CEdipus falls short of it. He lived years
after the climax of his tragedy had come and gone. In the
1 Prometheus Bound ' the hero is too much of a god. His
sufferings are too unlike our own to touch us much. The
misery of Philoctetes is less ; his pain was not fatal, and his
grief was chiefly due to his abandonment by the army. The
grief of Ajax is great, and with good cause ; madness is a
heavy curse, yet his suffering under a sense of disgrace is a
small thing compared with this prostration of the mighty He-
racles. Some may think the situation in ' CEdipus King '
equally tragic, but many of the incidents which fill the mind
of the son of Laius with horror leave our minds untouched,
whereas we feel every suffering of Heracles to be pain now.
Modern tragedies are purposely omitted from comparison, not
because they are too strong.

It is clear that before Heracles can be brought on the stage,
dying, the audience must be strongly moved. The play could
not begin with this scene. Sophocles does not as a preparation
show us Heracles putting on the poisoned vest ; this would
look like a juggling trick. Heracles' actions immediately before
meeting his fate are not such as to awaken sympathy or any
tragic emotion, so that our author is well advised in not pre-
senting his hero until he is an object of compassion. Deianira's
death is made to serve as a fit prelude, and, with the scenes
leading to it, constitutes a great tragedy, ending where the
other begins. As Heracles' tragedy is that of the great men of
the world, a typical tragedy, so Deianira's fate shows one of
the typical tragedies of women — one which, when seen, will
move all women till humanity ends.

The hero's wife is a true woman and true wile, commanding
all our sympathy from first to last. She perishes through her
simplicity and love ; yet her simplicity is queenly, and her
love nobly placed. Some might say she fell through jealousy ;
but this feeling as shown by Sophocles is so refined, so free
from all anger, so just, that her jealousy is almost sweeter
than the love of other women. Heracles sends lole, a young
and beautiful captive, to his home, proposing to make her

THE 'AGAMEMNON* AND ^TRACHINI&> 25

a second and more loved wife, displacing Deianira, the mother
of his children. It would not be noble in any woman to sub-
mit to this. No special misfortunes these of Deianira. The
great man's work gives him no leisure for home life. The woman
in middle age finds herself supplanted. Yet such is the charm
of sweet heroic simplicity in Deianira, that she actually wins
our sympathy for Heracles, since we derive our first impression
of this demigod from the woman he had loved, and who loved
him ever.

The play begins when Deianira is alone at Trachis musing
over her past life. Musing in the porch, white-robed, fair-
armed, she tells us how her hero freed her long years ago from
peril worse than death, and won her as his bride, how she has
lived much alone, and ever anxious, and how even now she
has most cause of all for fear ; and the very prophecy which
lends a bitter irony to Heracles' fate strikes the key-note of
Deianira's present dread; otherwise unreasonable, he her lord
being so mighty. In this way we learn quite simply the spot
where the tragedy takes place, the names of the principal per-
sons of the drama, the absence of Heracles, his wife's charac-
ter, and the impending doom. A short scene follows, in which
Deianira, at the suggestion of an aged matron, sends Hyllus,
her son, to seek for Heracles. There is here a touch of the
skilful playwright. Hyllus and the nurse are required later,
reappearing at the very crisis of Deianira's fate. If they had
not been previously introduced, the audience would have spent
some time in wondering who these were, and thus their atten-
tion would have been distracted. Sophocles, however, makes
skilful use of this little piece of scaffolding to confirm our
opinion of Deianira's character by showing the mutual love of
son and mother and her gentleness to the old nurse. When
Hyllus leaves, the chorus enters, a band of pleasant girls,
very sorry for their noble guest, and anxious to comfort her.
How ? First by pointing out that Heracles has never come
to any harm yet, then by observing that things cannot always
remain at the worst, and lastly by that exhortation to trust in
Providence so natural to the young girl. The queen listens
very kindly, and thinks of quite other things as they speak —
thinks how young they are :

26 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

I see you have been told of my distress,

And that hath brought you. But my inward woe

Be it ever as unknown to you as now !

So free the garden of unruffled ease

Where the young life grows safely ; no fierce heat,

No rain, no wind, disturbs it ; but unharmed

It rises amid airs of peaceful joy,

Till maiden turns to matron, and a day

Brings years of care for husband or for child.

Then, imaged through her own calamity,

Some one may guess the burden of my life.1

Then she tells her feelings, hopes, and fears, so that by the end
of her speech the audience knows the whole situation, and
knows, too, that Deianira can still call Heracles

The best husband in the world of men.

How much better is this straightforward method than the plan
of introducing an underplot with secondary characters, whose
chief business is to tell us where the action takes place, and
what the main characters are ! The audience always sees
through the shallow artifice. Sophocles' method, too, has the
great advantage of putting the explanation — exposition the
French call it — into the best actor's mouth.

To the gentle Deianira telling her fears arrives a breathless
messenger, garlanded, and laden with good news. Heracles is
living and returning. Another moment and Heracles' own
herald will be here. When Deianira comes to believe this true,
with glorious sweep of outstretched arms and smooth strength
of voice, she turns to heaven :

O Zeus that rulest (Eta's virgin wold,

At last, though late, thou hast vouchsafed us joy.

And so she calls on her friends and her whole household to
rejoice, and a sweet rapture seizes the maidens, who break into
innocent song and dance of womanly triumph, while as they
sing enters the herald Lichas with the captives of Heracles'
spear. What more pathetic can be seen than the swift turn of
the eager wife, joy in every feature, on every limb, with just

1 These lines will not be found in Mr. Campbell's published translation.

THE 'AGAMEMNON* AND « TRA CHINI& ' 27

that trembling eagerness for certainty which yet shows no
doubt ? Noble and queenly, she omits no greeting : .

Herald, I bid thee hail, although so late
Appearing, if thou bringest health with thee.

And then, gathering courage from Lichas' confident bearing
and cheerful salutation, with eyes in which the new-born joy
is beaming, she asks :

Kind friend, first tell me what I first would know,
Shall I receive my Heracles alive ?

The herald had not the courage all at once to destroy this
beautiful happiness. He was a Greek to whom a lie was a small
thing, and so he lied with good intent, not telling that which
was false, but suppressing the main truth ; and thus the
measure of Deianira's cup is full — full of joy to overflowing.
Terrible irony this. The audience know that she is doomed,
and yet listen to her sweet rejoicing :

Yea, now I learn this triumph of my lord,
Joy reigns without a rival in my breast.

But the mild womanliness of her checks all pride. The very
excess of joy humbles her great nature.

Yet wise consideration even of good

Is flecked with fear of what reverse may come ;

And I, dear friends, when I behold these maids,

Am visited with sadness deep and strange.

Poor helpless beings, in a foreign land

Wandering forlorn in homeless orphanhood ;

Once sure of gentle parentage and free,

Now snared in strong captivity for life.

O Zeus of battles, breaker of the war,

Ne'er may I see thee turn against my seed

So cruelly ; or if thou meanest so,

Let me be spared that sorrow by my death.

How can we but love this gentle wife, too noble to rejoice
loudly in the presence of others' grief? Surely this picture
of the perfect matron should take place in the heart of mankind
beside the portrait of the perfect girl Nausicaa.

28 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Sophocles does not allow lole to speak. Had she spoken
we must have been led into the sorrows of a new group of people
in whom we have no interest. So Deianira with kind words
ushers the silent captive across the threshold, and as she follows
pauses at a word from that same garlanded messenger, his
garland tossed aside now. Cunningly, being a poor creature,
he had brought the good news, leaving Lichas to tell the
evil truth ; but now that he has seen the sweet queen deceived
by another, even his heart goes out to her in pity, and he
blurts out all the facts. lole is no slave, nor unregarded, but
sent by Heracles to reign at home, for all his heart is kindled
with desire. The full measure of her misery cannot break oil
Deianira in an instant. Stunned, she sinks into her chair,
bewildered, turns even to the band of inexperienced girls for
counsel. What counsel can there be but to question Lichas,
who returns, hastening to quit the palace before the in-
evitable blow falls? Unable to rise, she sits and questions,
and he who reads the words must try to hear the hardened
voice as it comes from the tightened throat — must try to see the
rhythmic spasms of pain that shake the body as Deianira sits
striving to be as she had been, but will never be again. Lichas
can but lie and lie again, till the old messenger fiercely taxes
him with treachery to his queen. The two men wrangle, and
she listens, and as she listens learns that there is hardly room
for doubt; yet, knowing that Lichas lies, she still hopes against
hope, rises, comes to the unhappy man, and questions him her-
self, no longer striving to conceal her misery, but with terrible
appeal begging for the truth, even though the truth be a very
sword that slays. Solemnly, almost calmly, she first adjures the
man in the name of the highest god to speak the truth. She
is no weak woman, but one who knows the ways of man ; she
too knows love. She will not blame her lord — no, nor the
woman. Only not a lie — a lie can be no kindness ; and as
the herald, all unmanned, trembles in his grief and doubt, she
towers for a moment in fierce indignation and contempt :

To one free born
The name of liar is a hateful lot,
And thou canst not be hid.

THE 'AGAMEMNON* AND *TRACHINIjE* 29

But quickly catching herself she bids him not to fear, for — Ah,
me ! the truth, she says, will not hurt her.

For doubtfulness is pain,
But to know all what hurts it 1

She almost believes this as she says it. But the man is
silent still. Then she thinks he fears for lole, and says with
voice of utter nobleness :

Many a love

Hath fettered him ere now, and none hath borne
Reproach or evil word from me. She shall not,
Though he be drowned in affection's spell ;
Since most mine eye hath pitied her, because
Her beauty was the ruin of her life.

The man falters, and she concludes :

Well, this must pass, as Heaven hath willed, but thou,
If false to others, still be true to me.

All her argument issues at last in the direct illogical appeal
of nature. She throws herself upon his mercy, and he yields,
telling her all the fatal truth, and giving the counsel, little
needed, of submission ; and lole must take no harm :

For he whose might is in all else supreme,
Is solely overmastered by her love.

Deianira bends; she will enter on no bootless strife with Heaven.
But the gentle voice sounds bitterly now, as, turning to the
herald, she says :

Come, go we in, that thou mayest bear from me,
Such message as is meet ; and also carry
Gifts, such as are befitting to return
For gifts new given. Thou ought'st not to depart
Unladen, having brought so much with thee.

Here an act ends, for, with the exception of the first ode, the
singing of the chorus in this play fills the interval between
separate acts. The art with which the antecedents of the story
are told is altogether admirable. In the course of the play we
learn Deianira's present situation, her wooing, the nature of her

30 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

married life, the recent acts of Heracles, the quarrel with Iphitus,
his slaying, the slavery of Heracles under Omphale and the
terrible revenge he took on GEchalia, and finally the story of
Heracles' love for lole, the love which is the cause of all his
woe. Yet these facts are so cunningly interwoven that we
learn them unconsciously, and seem merely to have been watch-
ing the development of the action which, now and here, brings
Deianira to this misery. We may analyse and admire this art.
What passes analysis is the gentleness and nobility of Deianira's
character, the truth and pathos in her appeal to Lichas. We
see the art with which the situation is chosen, but the art with
which the situation is used is too like nature to be fathomed.

The chorus take up their song. What strikes these maidens
is the terrible, wonderful power of love. They recur to the day
when young Heracles saved the maiden Deianira from her
monster suitor, the river god and bull Achelous — saved her and
bore her off far from her mother's care. Now this which we
have just seen is her lot. Terrible subject of contemplation
truly for these maidens, the power of Aphrodite !

By Deianira's sad mention of gifts, the spectator has been
prepared a little for what is next to happen. Perhaps the
thought of what she would do had already occurred to her.

See ! no longer with mere misery in her face, but with
trembling, eager, excited step, she comes, and in her hand a
casket. Her friends are there, and she is come in part to tell
the craft her hand had mastered, and in part to crave their
sympathy. The fatal casket is set down, while Deianira tells
her thoughts. Probably lole, even when welcomed, was no
maiden any more, but married. It was ungenerous in her lord,
and yet, often as he has sinned, she knows not how to harbour
indignation against him.

But who that is a woman could endure

To dwell with her, both married to one man ?

One bloom is still advancing, one doth fade ;

The budding flower is plucked ; the full-blown head

Is left to wither, while love passeth by

On the other side.

With tight throat, swimming eyes, and sadly shaken head, the
fatal truth is spoken — no remedy in her own youth and beauty

THE 'AGAMEMNON' AND < TRACHINI&* 31

any longer, but possibly in this. When she went forth with
Heracles a new-made bride, the centaur Nessus had laid wanton
touch on her, and as she speaks the spirit of the scene comes
back. Once more with glorious reminiscence of the power in
that bow and archer, she, for the last time, triumphs in the
thought of her hero :

And I cried out ; and he,
Zeus' son, turned suddenly, and from his bow
Sent a winged shaft that whizzed into his chest
To the lungs.

Then Nessus, dying, told her that his blood was a charm, a
charm of soul for Heracles — that never through the eye he
should receive another love than hers. And she, guileless
woman, too fondly had treasured up this fatal gift, had learned
by heart most carefully each treacherous word of the dying
monster, and now she has applied the charm ; the robe is ready.
Some doubt appears in her friends' faces, and the pride of
Deianira's virtue is infinitely touching when, with some slight
trace of haughtiness, she says :

No criminal attempts

Could e'er be mine. Far be they from my thought,
As I abhor the woman who conceives them.
But if by any means through gentle spells . . .

(here all her face lightens, and the casket is in her hand again,
advanced almost with joy)

And bonds on Heracles' affection, we
May triumph o'er this maiden in his heart,
My scheme is perfected.

Alas ! the eagerness, the faith of the queenly woman are all to
bring such utter woe. The girls are not swept away by the
torrent of hope ; for an instant their faces check her.

Unless you deem
My action wild. If so, I will desist.

The girls timidly say they think she has no proof that the charm
will succeed. The check makes even this gracious queen a little
angry. True woman, she says :

My confidence is grounded on belief.

32 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

the maidens speak their doiilit, Imf when Lirlms enters
her one idea is to put the charm to proof instantly, and lie re-
reives I lie casket \\illi her instructions, anxious, poor DIMM,
in all his best to undo the sad work done. Take her last speech
to him, and think of the mingled woe and hope that blend

in it.

What more is there to tell ? But rash I fear
Were thy report of loii-in^ on my part-,
Till we can learn if we are longed for there.

Another act is over, and another lyrical interlude gives the
audience time to breathe before the end. For end it is of the
woman's tragedy. The youn^ things wing of Heracles' triumph,
(Muling with a .doubtful hymn of hope. Then Deianira ivturns.

Oh, what a change ! No more beauty now — no more youth
—no more hope. Fever-stricken, death-marked, yet queenly,
^raeeful, noble still, even as she totters, seeing but dimly. A
little flock of wool, with which the fatal robe had been mois-
tened, when the sun tell upon it, shrivelled away out of sight
before Deianira's eyes, and a clot of blood came where it lay.

She 1ms seen this, ami now conies partly to tell and partly to

clear her swimming thoughts. Conviction is really burnt in
upon her ; you see with the first glance that the woman's life
is at an end. Yet in this last agony she writhes against con-
viction, though every thought, every fact, turns upon her and
convicts her.

For wherefore should the Centaur, for what end,

Show kindness to the cause for whom he died ?

This cannot be. But seeking to destroy

His slayer, he cajoled me. This I learn

Too late by sad experience, for no good.

And if I err not now, my hapless fate

Is all alone to be his murderess.

Some of our readers may have heard Rachel tell the dream in
the fourth act of Ponsard's ' Lucrece.' These may know how
Deianira looks when telling of this simple bit of wool plucked

from the household lloek.

The iron proofs brand Deianira as a murderess, and she has
but one word. Her life must ' follow at a bound/ Hearing

THE 'AGAMEMNON* AND < TRACHINI&* 33

this, the awed women mutter something of hope, but the dying
queen scorns all hope now. Then they urge that she has acted
all unwittingly. If any think that they will comfort themselves
with good intentions when the fruits of folly come to harvest
let them hear how Deianira's voice sounds as she says :

So speaks not he who hath a share of sin,
But who is clear of all offence at home.

We touch the goal ; for the full tragedy nothing remains but to
let her know the fatal issue of her credulity. Her son brings
the tidings — her son, who saw his father in agony, and who
believes his mother to be a murderess. She has to listen to all
the terrible details : to hear how great the hero looked, during
his mighty festival of triumph, when Lichas came, to hear that
her lord knows her guilt and thinks her wholly guilty ; to hear
that the murder of the innocent Lichas, killed in her hero's
fury, lies at her door ; to hear that her husband cursed her, that
he is coming, and will be here anon ; and last to hear a solemn
curse from her son's own lips. What can she answer ? Nothing.
How much more terrible than any speech is her silence as she
slowly passes through the door! The poor shaken, terror-
stricken women make one feeble call to her — ' justify yourself
— plead,' they say ; and she turns round and looks — what a
look ! — and sees her son, and then — silence all, she sinks into
the night.

The wretched youth begins to feel what he has done, but
repents not yet. Why should he repent ? l Her acts are all
unmotherly.' And so he goes, leaving the maidens to fall
back on Fate and Doom for some little comfort. So it was to
be, and so it is, the feeble things say. The oracles promised
rest, but it is the rest of the grave. And now a cry is heard
within — not the cry of Deianira, but the wailing of her maids—
and on the trembling girls bursts out the aged nurse to tell
them that the queen is even now departed. Tender to the last,
' taking in her touch each household thing she formerly had
used, she wept o'er all ; ' then, having prayed and taken
leave, she cast upon her bridal bed the finest sheets, undid her
robe where the brooch lay before her heart, and pierced her side.
To this household comes the dying Heracles*.

VOL. I. D

34 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Mark with what skill our interest is conciliated for him
before he comes. His misdeeds lie in the background, although
the very cause of the tragedy. We hear of him as a young man
winning Deianira, as her protector against the centaur and for
many years her kind husband. The chorus sings of him as the
mighty conqueror. In their youthful minds his exploits are
all glorious. Even if in this matter of GEchalia and lole he be
to blame, the power of that unmatched deity, Cypris, excuses
him both to the herald and to the bevy of girls. Now, when
he comes he is in agony, and we feel that he is more sinned
against than sinning. It is left to Heracles himself io make the
claim that his labours had the conscious end of freeing Hellas
from every monstrous thing, that living he ' gave punishment to
wrong,' that he had ' cleansed the world from harms.'

Assuredly this is one of the greatest tragedies of the world.
If this be not universally acknowledged, the cause lies in the
fact that it is more a play and less a poem than such works as
the ' Agamemnon ' or the l QEdipus at Colonus.' In reading a
play we are all apt to miss the proper point of view. If we
read the speech of Hyllus as intended to exhibit his suffering in
consequence of his father's death, we shall perhaps think it
frigid. If, as we read it, we think of Deianira listening, we
shall see that no more terrible torture could be inflicted than
this slow speech, missing no detail of fact. Sophocles cares
little what we think of Hyllus, but through Hyllus' speech he
wrings our soul for Deianira, the most lovable woman of Greece.

One object of this article has been to draw attention to the
extraordinary merits of some Greek plays as dramas fit for
representation on the stage, and to insist that while read they
should be conceived as actions occurring before us. Surely
the object of a translator should be the same as that of his
author. ./Eschylus and Sophocles meant, above all, to write good
plays fit to be heard and understood by multitudes. Style and
philosophy, religious teaching and lyric art were all means to
this one end. Their object was to depict by these means
heroic men and women, so as to move a large audience.
We think that no English translator of zEschylus has as yet
given a version fit for this purpose, also that the task is a
worthy one and not impossible.

35

ON THE ANTIQUE GREEK DRE8S FOR
WOMEN.1

SOME ladies about to take part in private theatricals, required
antique Greek dresses, and the task of providing these, which
seemed easy at first, grew in difficulty as the ambition arose
among us to produce a dress which should not be a mere piece
of theatrical millinery, but should represent, as nearly as
possible, the actual dress worn two thousand years ago by women
in Athens.

Smith's Dictionary gives little more than the names %i,T(0v,
SwrAofo, and TreVAos1, applied to the tunic or under-garment,
the mantle covering the shoulders,
and the loose shawl or scarf arranged
as suited the taste of the wearer.
1 Hope's Costumes ' offers some infor-
mation as to the mantle, which he
calls a bib, but none as to the make
of the tunic. The limited circle of
scholars, artists, critics, and costu-
miers known to me had little accu-
rate knowledge to impart ; but every
difficulty met with in getting accu-
rate information turned the hunt for a real Greek tunic into
a hobby. Experiments with sheets and lay-figures, at first,
and, later, with shawls and real women, led at last to so
satisfactory a result that the whole party thought it would be
well worth while to write down what we had discovered with
some labour. No doubt the facts must be known to some
artists and sculptors, but they are not readily accessible, and

1 From the Art Journal, January 1874.

36 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

many artists are either ignorant of how Greek drapery is to be
produced, or do not care to produce it. This was shown by more
than one picture in the last exhibition of the Royal Academy.

No one who saw the ladies, as finally dressed, hesitated to
affirm that the dress really was the dress they were familiar
with in statues, and no one denied that it was eminently
becoming. The sketches by which I shall illustrate my descrip-
tion must be judged leniently, as the work of a mere amateur,
and they give little idea of the beauty of the real soft folds
hanging on a graceful woman ; they have only the merit of
having been carefully drawn from the dress itself, as it actually
hung in each case, so that each fold shown had its counterpart
in reality : by doing them myself I could best illustrate the
points which I wished to bring prominently forward. The fol-
lowing is a description of the dress, as finally made and shown
in the drawings. The tunic is simply a folded white Indian
shawl (called a Chudder, in the language of the shopman), four
yards long and two yards wide. This does not require to be
cut anywhere ; and, indeed, the result of the experiments was
to convince us that the dress was invented before scissors came
into use. The shawl is folded in half, lengthways, so as to form
a square, the ends being sewn together, with the little fringe
turned in.

The shawl thus doubled is shown in Fig. 1, hanging from a
clothes-horse. Let us call the half of the shawl next us the
front, and the other half next the clothes-horse the back ; d is
at the centre of the front. At two points, a a, equidistant from
d, the shawl in the front is gathered together in a kind of bunch
of folds and a large gold button sewn on ; the distance between
a and a must be somewhat less than the width of the shoulders
of the person who is to wear the dress. Opposite a and a, but
on the back, two loops are sewn, intended to slip over the
buttons and hold the dress round the throat. The distance
between the two loops must be considerably less than that
between the buttons, otherwise the dress will not hang prettily,
with that peculiar fulness always observed in statues : moreover,
the loops should not be sewn to the edge of the stuff, but a
little piece should be turned in, so as to give a double hold to
the loop (capital engineers those old Greek tire-women) ; this

ON THE ANTIQUE GREEK DRESS FOR WOMEN 37

gives an appearance to the dress at the back of being double.
The dress is now complete, if no sleeves are wanted; but if
sleeves are desirable — and in private life ladies seem to prefer
them — sew two or more buttons of smaller size on the front at
6, on each side of a ; observe the same rules in sewing on these
and the corresponding loops which have been given for the chief
buttons at a — that is to say, turn in the edge and gather a
little handful of stuff, on to which the button is to be secured.
The dress is now finished, with the exception of such trimming
or embroidery as may be put along the bottom — the only place
where embroidery or any pattern (except stars and spots) was
allowed.

The make of the dress is a trifle ; how to put it on is the
difficulty. Button the left-hand button at a and leave the
other loose ; slip the gown over the head,
and, in the attitude- so commonly repre-
sented, button the second button over the
right shoulder; a petticoat and another
garment or two may be allowed under the
tunic, but no stays. If the sleeves are not
buttoned, the garment will hang from the
bust, as shown in Fig. 2 ; the gathered
folds at a will spread as they fall and join
in front, so as to make a series of curves FlG 2

which fall over the bosom somewhat like
a series of chains, each longer than the preceding one. There
is ample fulness over the bust, but this fulness all comes
from the two points at the shoulders. In nine out of ten
statues this will be found to be the case ; in nine out of ten
modern pictures the fulness will be found produced in modern
millinery fashion, either by the expedient of a tape run-
ning in a seam (true millinery terms are not known to the
writer) or by a series of plaits sewn on to a stiff flat border — in
both cases the folds run straight up and down, like the plaits
in a night-gown, and are to my eye intolerably ungraceful.
Examples could easily be given from modern pictures and pho-
tographs where the stuff is thin, the faces and figures pretty,
but in which the busts are not in the least Greek, because the
artist has not studied how the Greeks arranged the fulness of

LITERATURE AND DRAMA

the dress. They had one plan, distinct from that described — of
which more anon, when treating of the mantle, for which this
second plan was more generally used than for the tunic.

Next fasten the buttons, b b, taking care to turn in the edge
between c and a (Fig. 1). The dress will now hang as shown
in Fig. 3, with a kind of pocket at c ; this pocket is formed inde-
pendently of any buttons at b b, and might have been shown in
Fig. 2. The pocket, as it shall be called hereafter, plays an

important part in the dress. It is
easily recognised in several statues.
The Greek ladies wore both loose
hanging sleeves and short close
sleeves. If hanging sleeves are
wanted, the zone alone is required
to complete the dress. This zone
should be a stiff metal band, fulfil-
ling some of the functions of stays ;
the pocket should be lifted up a
little and the zone put on under-
neath it, and as high up on the.
figure as possible. The clasping of
the zone is a very delicate matter,
because the dress is gathered to-
gether by it, and on the neatness
of the folds at the zone depends
the elegance of the dress. The folds
are, in Greek examples, symmetri-
cally arranged, of nearly equal size,
turning outward towards the arms, as shown in Fig. 4. When
the zone has been put on and the folds neatly made under it,
the dress must be pulled up, without disturbing the folds, so far
through the zone as to hang of even length all round the feet.
Now observe that to do this it must be much more pulled up at
the sides than in the front, the length from a to e (Fig. 1) being
considerably greater than the mere width of the shawl measured
vertically from a to the feet. The sleeve is quite complete when
the zone has been clasped. The commonest statue of Diana
affords an example of this sleeve, and Mr. Leslie has shown it
in his picture of ' The Fountain.' Pretty as it is, this sleeve is

FIG. 3.

ON THE ANTIQUE GREEK DRESS FOR WOMEN 39

not very suitable for common wear, not so much because the
body can occasionally be seen through it from one side (a defect
easily remedied by a stitch or two out of sight) as because the
whole figure looks rather topheavy when the dress is not kilted
up to the knee. This kilting, through a second zone or rope
over the hips, by enlarging the hips takes off the topheavy
appearance, and the hanging sleeve is most commonly found in
statues and pictures of Diana, who wanted to get superfluous
drapery out of the way of her legs. The close sleeve is
differently formed, and is more suited for indoor life, with long
skirts ; it is made by passing a cord round the front of each

FIG. 4.

FIG. 5.

shoulder, crossing at the back, and is shown in Figs. 5 and 7.
The set of the sleeve on the arm, when pulled slightly through
this cord, is excellent ; scissors seldom succeed as well. Figs.
5 and 7 show this sleeve, made before the lady is zoned, and
Fig. 8 shows the same sleeve when the zone has been applied
and the dress pulled up through the zone so as to hang evenly
round the feet at the front and sides. The series of folds or
bags hanging low on the hips and barely covering the zone in
front, form an arch which will be found more or less pronounced
in every Greek statue or Greek drawing when the dress is at all
drawn up through the zone. This arch is graceful, and no
doubt was adhered to by the Greeks on account of its beauty,

LITERATURE AND DRAMA

adding as it does to the width of the hips ; but it must have
been produced, in the first instance, from the necessity of getting
the dress off the ground equally at the front and sides ; because,

FIG. 6.

ON THE ANTIQUE GREEK DRESS FOR WOMEN 41

as has been already explained, the length from a to e (Fig. 1)
is greater than the width of the shawl at the centre, where the
folds barely cover the zone. Mr. Leslie, in his graceful figures
at the Fountain, has failed to seize this peculiarity, and each
figure has a large bag over the stomach which, if seen in real
life, would be grotesque. The folds in Fig. 8 are hardly
sufficiently numerous, and this is especially visible when the
arm is raised. This arises partly from the fact that even an
Indian Chudder is thicker than the stuff used by the high-born
Greeks, and partly from the difficulty of folding the dress by
male fingers ; the Greek tire-women folded materials to perfec-
tion, having practised the art all their lives ; the writer never

FIG. 7.

FIG. 8.

could fold anything until practice taught him to fold this tunic.
After a few attempts at folding, the ladies found that they could
stitch the plaits where the stitching was concealed under the
zone. This little row of plaits is parallel to the bottom of the
gown, although the result in the overhanging folds is the arch
drawn.

Let us recapitulate the results arrived at :

1. The Chudder shawls made now in India are exactly of
the right size to make a Greek tunic, and fold very much as
Greek drapery does. It is not impossible that the material and
size of loom may have remained in the East unaltered for the
last two or three thousand years.

42 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

2. The dress can be made without being cut from the simple
woven parallelogram.

3. The set over the bust of most statues is exactly
reproduced with the series of curved folds converging at the
shoulders.

4. The mass of drapery at the hips, forming the arch as
viewed from the front, results, not from design, but from the
necessity of having the dress of equal length at the sides and in
front.

5. Both varieties of sleeve can be produced at will by the
cord or zone.

These are the arguments which induce me to believe
that the dress produced is really made as Greek women made
theirs.

Hitherto nothing has been said of the back. The backs of
statues are much less perfectly finished than the fronts ; more-
over, it is awkward to arouse the suspicions of the guardians of
galleries by creeping behind statues too much. Speaking from
experience of the living model, I may say that the back view
looks best to modern eyes when the dress is, at the back, not
drawn up through the zone ; this results in giving a small train.
A few notes will complete what is to be said of the tunic. The
pocket c may be shortened by folding in, or cutting off, the
shawl along the dotted lines in Fig. 1 : I suspect that this was
done in some examples of very full drapery, which might be
produced by putting two shorter shawls together, instead of
folding one longer shawl. For dancing girls and Spartan virgins
the ends of the shawl were not sewn together, and so showed the
leg from one side. In modern pictures I observe a cord crossed
over the breast ; this, no doubt, is founded on some examples
with which I have not happened to meet.

Let us pass to the diplots, or mantle. Hope has correctly,
though incompletely, described this : it is a mere scarf, twelve
or fourteen feet long, and of different widths in different examples.
It is folded in exactly the same way as the tunic, but the ends
are not sewn together. The result is shown in Fig. 9. The
pocket hangs down at one side, and balances the two ends
hanging from the other shoulder. The zigzag folds are pro-
duced by the bunch gathered at the clasp on the shoulders ; the

ON THE ANTIQUE GREEK DRESS FOR WOMEN 43

same arched effect is produced as is given by the tunic drawn
through the zone ; but there is a straight line crossing the body
in a way not altogether graceful. Numerous examples of this
may be seen in Hope's book. In the later dresses the bib was
artificially arched, the width in the centre of the body being
considerably reduced. In earlier examples the scarf was often
doubled in front, as Hope suggests, probably to make it narrow
enough ; but I think the scarf was always spread to its full width
behind, otherwise I have by experiment found that the narrow
diplots produced an awkward hunchbacked appearance. There
are many drawings in which the
diplots is really single, though
it looks double ; this effect being
produced merely by the habit of
turning in the edge to give firm
hold for the clasps.

In the diplots the folds over
the bosom are generally vertical,
and in the simpler examples
there is just one fold in the
centre ; this is produced by
catching the stuff" together some
three or four inches below the
top edge, and more than one
fold can be produced in this
way if desired. The abomina-
tion of a tape running in a seam
produces nothing like it, nor
does simple looseness, the effect
of which is quite correctly given in Mr. Leslie's dark green
diplots, folded double according to Hope ; and singularly awk-
ward it is, forming a kind of cup projecting under the chin.
For simplicity's sake, Fig. 9 shows the diplots alone, when the
dress is not gathered up through the zone ; but the Greeks
generally wear it so narrow as to show the folds of the tunic
hanging below the zone. Let any one buy a photograph of
Mrs. Kendal as Galatea, and compare this description with the
millinery mantle cut low at the back with a stiff top and vertical
plaits all along, and then, whichever he prefers, he will allow

FIG. 9.

44 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

that the difference is as great as between a Greek and a Gothic
column.

The peplos was a mere shawl, exactly like the one of which
the tunic was formed. In Fig. 9 we have an outline from life of
the tunic and peplos ; the tunic has slipped a little aside off one
shoulder, as we see it frequently represented.

Now my hobby has been ridden, and I must dismount : I
would fain persuade myself that it is a good useful hobby — that
it may serve to robe many graceful figures in a singularly
becoming dress — that it may amuse modern ladies to see how a
Greek lady, merely by undoing a button here, or tying a cord
there, could have a low gown or one tight round the throat ; a
gown with hanging sleeves or close sleeves ; a gown with long
sweeping folds, suited to indoor lounging on a couch, or a gown
kilted to the knee suited to the muddiest roads or thickest
heather ; a gown too that would wash and wear for years ; a
gown that would fit all figures and required no trying on ; a
gown in which there was no hem and only one seam, which
could be omitted if the habits of the country allowed it. I
should like to fancy, moreover, that an artist here and there
might be tempted to draw the folds which to my eye have a
peculiar grace. But, relinquishing such aspirations, I will
beg the reader to pardon this lengthy dissertation on the
ground that some pains really were taken to ascertain the facts
concerning Greek dress, however unimportant these facts may
now be.

45

MBS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH.1

WHEN any great work of art perishes from among us, we not
only grieve, but we rebel against the decree of fate. The wars,
the traffic, the mechanical arts of old, nay even the men and
women, wither into an oblivion which is not painful but kindly.
We sigh and smile and acquiesce — better so, for here was
nothing fitted to endure for ever. They had their time, as we
have ours, and who would wish that the strife, the bustle, the
men of to-day should last for ever ? But the destruction of any
beautiful thing, whether it be the work of art or nature, fills us, on
the contrary, with sickening regret. The temple, statue, picture
gone imply a loss of joy to uncounted generations. We suffer real
pain when we think of lost tragedies by Sophocles, and our whole
classical system of education is a protest that though kingdoms,
peoples, tongues may die, their works of beauty shall endure.

If this be our feeling as to the more durable works of art,
what shall we say of those triumphs which by their very nature
last no longer than the action which creates them — the triumphs
of the orator, the singer, or the actor ? There is an anodyne in
the words ' must be so,' ' inevitable,' and there is even some
absurdity in longing for the impossible. This anodyne and our
sense of humour temper the unhappiness we feel when, after
hearing some great performance, we leave the theatre and think,
' Well, this great thing has been, and all that is now left of it is
the feeble print upon my brain, the little thrill which memory will
send along my nerves, mine and my neighbours' ; as we live longer
the print and thrill must grow feebler, and when we pass away
the impress of the great artist will vanish from the world.' The
regret that a great art should in its nature be transitory explains
the lively interest which many feel in reading anecdotes or de-

1 From the Nineteenth Century, 1878.

46 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

scriptions of a great actor, and it is this feeling which prompts
the publication of the following notes on Mrs. Siddons' acting
made by an eye-witness of ability and true artistic feeling.

The public of to-day are perhaps hardly aware of the height
to which the art of acting may rise. Yet those who have been
familiar with the creations of Rachel and Salvini will not only
credit the assertion that the genius of Mrs. Siddons in repre-
senting the characters of Murphy, Lillo, Southerne, and Otway,
was greatly superior to that of the writers, but that, even when
representing Shakespeare, she supplied much which enriched the
conceptions of the poet. To-day we often speak of an actor as
the mere interpreter of Shakespeare. We are apt to imagine
that there is some one Hamlet or Lady Macbeth, a creature of
Shakespeare's brain, an eidolon which the actor must of necessity
endeavour to represent, his success being measured by the ap-
proach which he makes to this unattainable ideal. Those, how-
ever, who have seen the acting of the last thirty years in Paris
will know that this view of the actor's province is far from true
when he interprets even the best modern authors. They know
that an actor, when he receives the manuscript, has to create
his part in the sense of conceiving a complete human being
who, under the given circumstances, employs the words which
the author has supplied. They know that no critic could, by
reading a play, evolve a portrait of the man whom an original
actor will represent as the embodiment of some new part. They
know that each new actor of real merit recreates the persons
of the older drama, sending traditions to the winds and pro-
ducing a new person on the stage using the old words, but with
marvellous differences of manner, voice, gesture, and intention.
They know that there is not merely one good way of representing
a great part, but as many ways as there are great actors. Each
actor is bound so to fashion his conception that his own physical
attributes and mental powers will lend themselves to its execu-
tion, and thus the great parts on the French stage have bound
up with them a long series of portraits each representing the
creation of a separate actor — all the creations good and to be
judged of on their own merits, not by reference simply to the
rnind of the author.

In small parts, and in the lower walks of the art, the English

MRS SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH 47

public will admit this truth readily. No one can suppose that
the writer of l Rip van Winkle ' conceived his man with the tones
and gestures which we find so admirable in Mr. Jefferson ; but
the majesty of Shakespeare's name overawes us when we hear
that a Mrs. Siddons created a part which Shakespeare wrote —
when we are told that an actor's first business is not to think
how Shakespeare conceived his character as standing or looking,
but how he, the actor, can make a real human being stand and
look while speaking Shakespeare's words. Yet the words of the
part do not by themselves supply the actor with one-hundredth
part of the actions he has to perform. Every single word has
to be spoken with just intonation and emphasis, while not a
single intonation or emphasis is indicated by the printed copy.
The actor must find the expression of face, the attitude of body,
the action of the limbs, the pauses, the hurries — the life, in
fact. There is no logical process by which all these things can
be evolved out of the mere words of a part. The actor must go
direct to nature and his own heart for the tones and action by
which he is to move his audience ; these his author cannot give
him, and in creating these, if he be a great actor, his art may be
supremely great.

The distinction between the mechanical arts and what are
commonly called the fine arts lies in the creation or invention
required by the artist as compared with the skill or dexterity
which are alone required by the craftsman. The one copies or
executes ; the other creates, invents, or finds the treasure which
he gives to the world. Arts are great or small as the thing
created is noble or petty ; the artist is true or false as he
possesses more or less of this creative power, for the exercise of
which he in all cases requires skill more or less mechanical,
which technical skill is often called c art ' as if there were no
other. This technical skill can be taught and must be learned by
every artist. The poetic creative power can never be taught,
though in a sense it is learned from every sight, sound, and feeling ;
but this greater art is learned unconsciously, and few have the
power to learn the lesson.

Judged by this canon, the art of the actor may claim high
rank whenever its scope is the presentment of the highest
human types. To truly great actors, the words they have to

48 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

speak are but opportunities of creating these types — o]
in the sense that a beautiful model, a fine landscape, are opportu-
nities to the painter. In these he finds his picture, in those the
actor finds his person ; but the dramatist does less for the actor
than nature for the painter. It is the involuntary unconscious
perception of this truth which makes men accord a generous re-
cognition to artists such as Mrs. Siddons while treating, not
without justice, the rank and file of the profession as mere
skilled workmen.

It is probable, nay certain, that in writing the words to be
uttered by each character, a great author has vividly present to
his mind an ideal man or woman speaking these with natural
and effective tones and gestures — perhaps in Shakespeare's case,
though not in others, the best tones and gestures possible; per-
haps, however, with tones and gestures so old-fashioned that
they would not move us now ; what is certain is that we have
.no means of discovering these ; indeed, he could not himself
have imparted them to a fellow-actor. Moreover, when writing
the words of Macbeth, he cannot have had present to his mind
all the gestures and expressions of Lady Macbeth as she listened.
Yet this by-play of the great actress was such that the audience,
looking at her, forgot to listen to Macbeth. Corneille never
thought of how Camille would listen to the account of the death
of her lover in ' Les Horaces,' or, if he thought of it, his conception
must have been a mere sketch as compared with the long and
marvellous scene which Rachel, playing the part, showed to the
astonished audience.

In truth, the spectators do not know the marvellous study
which a great actor applies to every word of a speech. Some
think that the study consists in finding out what the author
meant the hero to say or express by given words. Sometimes
this demands study ; more often with great writers it is as plain
as can be, requiring no study. When the meaning is under-
stood, next comes the consideration of the feeling which the
speech implies or requires in the speaker. The conception ot
this is far more difficult than the simple interpretation of the
words, and will alter with each new actor ; not differing toto
coelo, but differing in shade, colour, and intensity. Any one of
us can understand the reasoning in ' To be or not to be.' Very

MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH 49

few of us can form any vivid conception of the state of Hamlet's
mind, sentence by sentence, word by word, as he utters them.
Of the few who can form any conception beyond a mere colour-
less, shadeless, pointless impression of gloom or bitterness, each
one must of necessity form a distinct and new conception. In
order that such a speech may sway a house, it must represent a
series of emotions, each intense, natural, and noble — each suc-
ceeding the other in a natural sequence. After the speech has
been understood and the feelings to which it corresponds con-
ceived, comes a task of ineffable difficulty — that of finding tones,
look, and action, which shall represent those feelings. The
author gives an outline, which the actor must fill up with
colour, light, and shade, so as to show a concrete fact ; and no
two actors can or ought to do this in one and the same way.
Let any reader who doubts this — who thinks, for instance, that
there is some one Hamlet, Shakespeare's Hamlet, who could only
speak the speech in one attitude, with one set of tones — open
the book, and in the solitude of his chamber try first to find out
the emotions which Shakespeare meant his Hamlet to feel, and
then try to express those emotions in tones which would indi-
cate them to others. If honest and clever, he will find out after
half an hour's study how little the author has done for the
actor, how much the actor is called upon to do for the author.

These views will find their illustration in the remarkable
notes by Professor G. J. Bell on Mrs. Siddons' acting, which are
now published for the first time, having been kindly placed at
the disposal of the writer by his surviving son, Mr. John Bell,
of the Calcutta bar. Written apparently on the spot, and
during the red-hot glow of appreciation, they bring the great
actress before us in a way which no laboured criticism or de-
scription could do. They show how noble an art she practised,
and might almost inspire some young and generous mind with
the power once more to create heroic men and women on the
stage.

Professor G. J. Bell, brother of the great surgeon Sir Charles
Bell, was Professor of Scottish Law in the University of Edin-
burgh, and author of ' Commentaries on the Law of Scotland,' a
standard work still in high repute. He was well known by his
friends to be a man of fine taste and keen sensibility, as is

VOL. i. E

5o LITERATURE AND DRAMA

indeed proved by these notes. They were made in 1809, or
about that time, and are contained in three volumes, lettered
* Siddons,' which of themselves prove the great interest taken
in Mrs. Siddons' acting. They contain acting editions of
the plays in which she appeared, edited by Mrs. Inchbald.
Professor Bell was himself in the habit of reading aloud, and,
besides critical remarks, he has noted in many places the rise or
fall of Mrs. Siddons' voice, putting a mark / for a rise, and \
for a falL The words on which the emphasis fell are underlined.
The following is an introductory note on ' Macbeth : '

Of Lady Macbeth there is not a great deal in this play, but the
wonderful genius of Mrs. Siddons makes it the whole. She makes
it tell the whole story of the ambitious project, the disappointment,
the remorse, the sickness and despair of guilty ambition, the attain-
ment of whose object is no cure for the wounds of the spirit. Mac-
beth in Kemble's hand is only a co-operating part. I can conceive
Oarrick to have sunk Lady Macbeth as much as Mrs. Siddons does
Macbeth, yet when you see Mrs. Siddons play this part you scarcely
<ean believe that any acting could make her part subordinate. Her
turbulent and inhuman strength of spirit does alL She turns Mac-
beth to her purpose, makes him her mere instrument, guides, directs,
and inspires the whole plot. Like Macbeth's evil genius she hurries
him on in the mad career of ambition and cruelty from which his
nature would have shrunk. The nagging of her spirit, the melan-
choly and dismal blank beginning to steal upon her, is one of the
finest lessons of the drama. The moral is complete in the despair
of Macbeth, the fond regret of both for that state of innocence from
which their wild ambition has hurried them to their undoing.

The writer of this note obviously, like Milton, considered a
tragedy the moralest of poems, as indeed it is; but special
attention may be paid to two points. First, Mrs. Siddons did
not herself conceive Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth as turbulent
and with inhuman strength ; she represented her as a woman
of this type because this conception suited her physical powers
and appearance. But in her own memoranda, published in her
life by Campbell, she speaks thus of Lady Macbeth's beauty :

According to my notion it is of that character which I believe
is generally allowed to be most captivating to the other sex — fair,
feminine, nay perhaps even fragile —

MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH 51

Fair as the forms that, wove in fancy's loom,
Float in light visions round the poet's head.

Such a combination only, respectable in energy and strength of
mind, and captivating in feminine loveliness, could have composed a
charm of such potency as to fascinate the mind of a hero so dauntless,
a character so amiable, so honourable as Macbeth.

There is something to be said for Mrs. Siddons' argument that
an overbearing woman could never have guided Macbeth ; but
this point is for the moment of secondary interest, compared
with the light which her remark throws on the statement made
above, that there is not one conception which alone the actor
must form of a given part. Here we have a great actress form-
ing two distinct conceptions : for no one can believe that if
Mrs. Siddons had been able to appear the fair and fragile beauty
she conceived, she would have used a single gesture or one
inflection similar to those employed when she was representing
turbulent inhuman strength.

The second point of interest in Professor Bell's note is, that
the melancholy and dismal blank beginning to steal on Lady
Macbeth is more the creation of Siddons than of Shakespeare.
There is nothing in the text to contradict it, but little to indi-
cate it. This will become more apparent when we reach the
detailed notes.

A second notice in another copy of l Macbeth ' appears as
follows :

Mrs. Siddons is not before an audience. Her mind wrought up
in high conception of her part, her eye never wandering, never for a
moment idle, passion and sentiment continually betraying them-
selves. Her words are the accompaniments of her thoughts, scarcely
necessary, you would imagine, to the expression, but highly raising
it, and giving the full force of poetical effect.

What a tribute ! Shakespeare's words hardly necessary ! And
this was written by a man who idolised Shakespeare.
Professor Bell elsewhere remarks :

A just observation that it is unhappy when the part of Lady
Macbeth is in the hands of a Siddons, and Macbeth (with ?) an
inferior actor. She then becomes not the affectionate aider of her

E 2

52 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

husband's ambition, but the fell monster who tempts him to trans-
gress, making him the mere instrument of her wild and uncontrollable
ambition.

The notes on this play will now be given, only so much of
each scene being quoted as is necessary to render the notes
intelligible. The text of Shakespeare is given as found in the
edition annotated by Professor Bell.

ACT I.

SCENE 5. — Macbeth' s Castle at Inverness.

Enter LADY MACBETH,2 reading a letter.

Lady. ' They met me in the day of success : and I have learned
by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal know-
ledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they
made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood
rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed
me " Thane of Cawdor ; " by which title, before, these weird sisters
saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time/ with " Hail,
king that shalt be ! " This have I thought good to deliver thee, my
dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightest not lose the dues
of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee.
Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.'

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and sJialt be 3

What thou art promised : 4 yet do I fear thy nature ;

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness

To catch the nearest way : thou wouldst be great :

Art not without ambition, but without

The illness should attend it : 5 what thou wouldst highly,

That wouldst thou holilyx ; wouldst not play false,

And yet wouldst wrongly win : thou'd'st have, great Glamis,

That which cries * Thus thou must do, if thou have it ; '

And that which rather thou dost fear to do

Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,

That I may pour my 6 spirits in thine ear ;

And chastise with the valour of my tongue

2 Mrs. Siddons.

3 Exalted prophetic tone, as if the whole future were present to her soul.

4 A slight tincture of contempt throughout.

4 Here and in the night scenes it is plain that he had imparted to her his
ambitious thoughts and wishes.
6 Starts into higher animation.

MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH 53

All that impedes thee from the golden round
Which fate7 and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal.

Enter SEYTON.

What is your tidings ?

Seyton. The king comes here to-night.

Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it ; 8

9 Is not thy master with him ? who, were't so,
Would have inform'd for preparation.9

Seyton. So please you, it is true : our thane is coming :
One of my fellows had the speed of him,
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would make up his message.

Lady. Give him tending ;

He brings great news. [Exit SEYTON.

1° The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. H Come, all you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top- full
Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood ;
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep pace between
The effect and it ! H 12 Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief ! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,

7 The whole of this following scene a picture of this highest working of
the soul. Kemble plays it not well, yet some things good. Much of the
effect depends on the fire which she strikes into him, and which the player
must make out.

8 Loud.

9 Soft, as if correcting herself, and under the tone of reasoning concealing
sentiments almost disclosed.

10 After a long pause when the messenger has retired. Indicates her fell
purpose settled and about to be accomplished.

11 In a low voice — a whisper of horrid determination.

12 Voice quite supernatural, as in a horrible dream. Chilled with horror by
the slow hollow whisper of this wonderful creature.

54 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry < Hold, hold ! ' 12

Enter MACBETH.

13 Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor !
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter !
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant.

Macbeth. My dearest love,

Duncan comes here to-night.

Lady.H And when goes hence ?

Macbeth. To-morrow, as he purposes.

Lady. O, never N -

(never) Shall sun that morrow seeN ! 15

16 Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters. To beguile the time,
Look like the time ; 16 bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower,

17 But be the serpent under '£. He that's coming
Must be provided for : and you shall put

This night's great business into my dispatch ;

18 Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.18

Macbeth. We will speak further.

Lady. Only look up clear ;

19 To alter favour ever is to fear :

Leave all the rest to me.19 [Exeunt.

13 Loud, triumphant and wild in her air.

14 High purpose working in her mind.

15 0, nevers . A long pause, turned from him, her eye steadfast. Strong
dwelling emphasis on ' never,' with deep downward inflection, ' never shall sun
that morrow see 1 ' Low, very slow sustained voice, her eye and her mind
occupied steadfastly in the contemplation of her horrible purpose, pronuncia-
tion almost syllabic, note unvaried. Her self-collected solemn energy, her
fixed posture, her determined eye and full deep voice of fixed resolve never
should be forgot, cannot be conceived nor described.

16 Observing the effect of what she has said on him, now first turning her
eye upon his face.

17 Very slow, severe and cruel expression, her gesture impressive.

18 Voice changes to assurance and gratulation.

19 Leading him out, cajoling him, her hand on his shoulder clapping him.
This vulgar — gives a mean conception of Macbeth, unlike the high mental
working by which he is turned to her ambitious purpose.

MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH 55

Does not the reader feel that in these close personal observa-
tions is to be found a far better conception of what the genius
of Siddons could do than is given in the long lives by Campbell
and Boaden ? Mrs. Siddons appears to have repeated the word
1 never ' before i shall sun that morrow see.' This appears not
only from note (15), but from a manuscript insertion of a second
f never ' after the pause indicated above. The next notes are on
the sixth scene, where Lady Macbeth addresses Duncan.

Lady. 20 All our service

In every point twice done and then done double
Were poor and single business, to contend
Against those honours deep and broad, wherewith
Your majesty loads our house : for those of old,
And the late dignities heap'd up to them,
We rest your hermits.20

At her exit comes this note :

Bows gracefully to the king, when she gives him the pas in
entering. Then graciously and sweetly to the nobles before she
follows the king.

On Macbeth's speech, Scene 7, beginning

If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly,

there is the following :

Kemble speaks this, as if he had never seen his sister, like a
speech to be recited. None of that hesitation and working of the
mind which in Mrs. Siddons seems to inspire the words as the natural
expression of the emotion.

After the entrance of Lady Macbeth the notes continue :

Lady. He has almost supp'd : why have you left the chamber 1 21
Macbeth. Hath he ask'd for me ?

Lady. Know you not he has ?

Macbeth. We will proceed no further in this business :
22 He hath honour'd me of late ; and I have bought

20 Dignified and simple. Beautifully spoken ; quite musical in her tones
and in the pronunciation, soothing and satisfying the ear.

21 Eager whisper of anger and surprise.

22 Here again Mrs. Siddons appears with all her inimitable expression of
emotion. The sudden change from animated hope and surprise to disappoint-

56 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Golden opinions from all sorts of people,22
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,
Not cast aside so soon.

Lady. 23 Was the hope drunk

Wherein you dressed yourself ? hath it slept since ?
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely ? 24 From this time
Such I account thy love.^ Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valour
As thou art in desire ? Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting * I dare not ' wait upon * I would/
Like the poor cat i' the adage 1

Macbeth. 25 Prithee, peace :

I dare do all that may become a man ;
Who dares do more is none.2^

Lady. What beast was it then

That made you break this enterprise to me 1
When you durst do it, then you were a man ;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more than man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both :
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you.26 2? I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me :
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums
And dashed the brains out, had I but so sworn as you
Have done to this.

Macbeth. If we should fail 1

Lady. 28 We fail !

ment, depression, contempt, and rekindling resentment, is beyond any powers
but hers.

28 Very cold, distant, and contemptuous.

24 Determined air and voice. Then a tone of cold contemptuous reasoning.

25 Kemble speaks this well.

26 Cold, still, and distant ; slow with remarkable distinctness and great
earnestness.

27 She has been at a distant part of the stage. She now comes close to
him — an entire change of manner, looks for some time in his face, then
speaks.

28 We faiV. Not surprise, strong downward inflection, bowing with her
hands down, the palms upward. Then voice of strong assurance, ' When

MRS. SWDONS AS LADY MACBETH 57

But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we'll not fail. 28 When Duncan is asleep —
Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him — his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassail so convince
That memory, the warder of the brain,
Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason
A limbec only ; 29 when in swinish sleep
Their drenched natures lie as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
The unguarded Duncan ' ? what not put upon
His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell ?

Macbeth. Bring forth men-children only ;

For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males. Will it not be received,
When we have marked with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber and used their very daggers,
That they have done't ?

Lady. Who dares receive it other,30

As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar
Upon his death ?

Macbeth. I am settled, and bend up

Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show :
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

[Exeunt.

The next note refers to Macbeth's dagger scene, and is very
interesting, although referring more immediately to Kemble
than to his sister. Professor Bell says :

There is much stage trick and very cold in this scene of Kemble
— walks across the stage, his eyes on the ground, starts at the sight

Duncan,' &c. This spoken near to him, and in a low earnest whisper of dis-
covery she discloses her plan.

29 Pauses as if trying the effect on him. Then renews her plan more
earnestly, low still, but with increasing confidence. Throughout this scene
she feels her way, observes the wavering of his mind ; suits her earnestness
and whole manner to it. With contempt, affection, reason, the conviction of
her well- concerted plan, the assurance of success which her wonderful tones
inspire, she turns him to her purpose with an art in which the player shares
largely in the poet's praise.

30 Pause. Look of great confidence, much dignity of mien. In ' dares '
great and imperial dignity.

58 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

of the servant, whom he forgets for the purpose, renews his walk,
throws up his face, sick, sighs, then a start theatric and then the
dagger. Why can't he learn from his sister ?

Charles Bell thinks (and justly) that he should stand or sit mus-
ing, his eye fixed on vacancy, then a more piercing look to seem to
see what still is in the mind's eye only, characterised by the be-
wildered look which accompanies the want of a fixed object of vision ;
yet the eye should not roll or start. N.B. : Mrs. Siddons in reading
'Hamlet ' showed how inimitably she could by a mere look, while sit-
ting in a chair, paint to the spectators a horrible shadow in her
mind.

At the point where Macbeth says ' there's no such thing,'
Professor Bell continues :

Kemble here hides his eyes with his hand, then fearfully looks
up, and peeping first over then under his hand, as if for an insect whose
buzzing had disturbed him, he removes his hand, looks more abroad,
and then recovers — very poor — the recovery should be by an effort
of the mind. It is not the absence of a physical corporeal dagger,
but the returning tone of a disordered fancy. A change in the look,
the clearing of a bewildered imagination, a more steadfast and natu-
ral aspect, the hand drawn across the eyes or forehead, with some-
thing of a bitter smile.

These remarks illustrate well what was said before as to the
nature of an actor's study. Professor Bell had reached the
second stage, and knew well what the actor should feel. The
third stage, how to show it, can only be acted, not described.
With the entrance of Lady Macbeth the notes become detailed.

SCENE 2.
Enter LADY MACBETH.

Lady. ,31 That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold ;
What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark ! Peace 1 32
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it : 33
The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores : I have drugg'd their possets,

31 With a ghastly horrid smile.

3* Hsh ! Hsh ! Whisper.

33 Breathes with difficulty, hearkens towards the door. WLisper horrible.

MRS. SWDONS AS LADY MACBETH 59

That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.

Macbeth. [ Within.'] Who's there ? what, ho !

Lady. 34 Alack, I am afraid they have awaked,
And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed
Confounds us. Hark ! I laid their daggers ready ;
He could not miss them. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept r I had done't.35 — My husband !

Enter MACBETH.

Macbeth. 36 1 have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise ?

Lady. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak ? 35

Macbeth. When? 36

Lady. Now.

Macbeth. As I descended ? 37

Lady. Ay.

Macbeth. Hark !
Who lies i' the second chamber ?

Lady. Donalbain.

Macbeth. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.

Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

Macbeth. 38 There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cried

' Murder ! '

That they did wake each other : I stood and heard them :
But they did say their prayers, and address'd them
Again to sleep.

Lady. There are two lodged together.

Macbeth. One cried ' God bless us ! ' and * Amen ' the other ;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands :
Listening their fear, I could not say ' Amen,'
When they did say ' God bless us ! '

Lady. Consider it not so deeply.

Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce ' Amen ' ?
I had most need of blessing, and ' Amen '
Stuck in my throat.

34 The finest agony ; tossing of the arms.

35 Agonised suspense, as if speechless with uncertainty whether discovered.

36 Macbeth speaks all this like some horrid secret — a whisper in the dark.

37 Very well spoken ; horrid whisper.

38 Mrs. Siddons here displays her wonderful power and knowledge of nature.
As if her inhuman strength of spirit overcome by the contagion of his remorse
and terror. Her arms about her neck and bosom, shuddering.

60 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Lady. These deeds must not be thought

After these ways ; so, it will make us mad '.38

Macbeth. 39 Methought I heard a voice cry ' Sleep no more ! '

... to all the house

* Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more ; Macbeth shall sleep no more.' 39

Lady. Who was it that thus cried ? Why, worthy thane,

40 You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things. Go get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.40

41 Why did you bring these daggers from the place ?
They must lie there : go carry them, and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

Macbeth. I'll go no more :

I am afraid to think what I have done ;
Look on't again I dare not.

Lady. Infirm of purpose !

42 Give me the daggers : the sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures : 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil.42 If he do bleed^
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal ;

For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within

Macbeth. Whence is that knocking ?

How is't with me, when every noise appals me 1
What hands are here ? ha ! they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.

Re-enter LADY MACBETH.

Lady. 44 My hands are of your colour ; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [Knocking withinJ] I hear a knocking

39 Her horror changes to agony and alarm at his derangement, uncertain
what to do ; calling up the resources of her spirit.

40 She comes near him, attempts to call back his wandering thoughts to
ideas of common life. Strong emphasis on who. Speaks forcibly into his
ear, looks at him steadfastly. ' Why, worthy thane,' &c. : fine remonstrance,
tone fit to work on his mind.

41 Now only at leisure to observe the daggers.

42 Seizing the daggers very contemptuously.

43 As stealing out she turns towards him stooping, and with the finger
pointed to him with malignant energy says, ' If he do bleed,' &c.

44 Contempt. Kemble plays well here; stands motionless ; his bloody hands

MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH 61

At the south entry : retire we to our chamber :

A little water clears us of this deed :

How easy is it, then ! Your constancy

Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking,

Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us

And show us to be watchers. Be not lost

So poorly in your thoughts.

Macbeth. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself.

[Knocking within.
Wake Duncan with this knocking ! Oh, would thou couldst ! 44

[Exeunt.

The notes are resumed where Lady Macbeth enters as queen.

ACT III.
SCENE 2. — The Palace.

Enter LADY MACBETH, as Queen, and SEYTON.

Lady. 45 Is Banquo gone from court ?

Seyton. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night.

Lady. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure
For a few words.

Seyton. Madam, I will. \_Exit.

Lady. 46 Nought's had, all's spent,

Where our desire is got without content :
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.46

Enter MACBETH.

47 How now, my lord ! why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making ;
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on ? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard : what's done is done.47

near his face ; his eye fixed, agony in his brow ; quite rooted to the spot. She
at first directs him with an assured and confident air. Then alarm steals
on her, increasing to agony lest his reason be quite gone and discovery be
inevitable. Strikes him on the shoulder, pulls him from his fixed posture,
forces him away, he talking as he goes.

45 Great dignity and solemnity of voice ; nothing of the joy of gratified
ambition. 46 Very mournful.

47 Still her accents ve>y plaintive. This is one of the passages in which her

62 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Macbeth. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it :
She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly ; better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our place, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave ;
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well ;
Treason has done his worst : nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.

Lady. Come on ;

Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks ;
Be bright and jovial 48 among your guests to-night.

Macbeth. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife !
Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Eleance, live.

Lady. 49 But in them nature's copy's not eterne.

There are no further remarks on this scene.

In Scene 4, where at the banquet Macbeth speaks to the
murderers, the remark is written : ' During all this a growing
uneasiness in her ; at last she rises and speaks.' Full notes are
resumed towards the end of the scene, as follows :

\The Ghost of BANQUO enters, and sits in MACBETH'S place.

Macbeth. Here had we now our country's honour roof'd,
Were the graced person of our Banquo present ;
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness
Than pity for mischance !

Ross. His absence, sir,

Lays blame upon his promise. Please ;t your highness
To grace us with your royal company.

Macbeth. 50 The table's full.

Lennox. Here is a place reserved, sir.

intense love of her husband should animate every word. It should not be
contemptuous reproach, but deep sorrow and sympathy with his melancholy.
4S Mournful : a forced cheerfulness breaking through it.

49 A flash of her former spirit and energy.

50 Her secret uneasiness very fine. Suppressed, but agitating her whole
frame.

MRS. SWDONS AS LADY MACBETH 63

Macbeth. Where ?

Lennox. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your high-
ness ? 5°

Macbeth. Which of you have done this ?

Lennox. What, my good lord ?

Macbeth. Thou canst not say, I did it : never shake
Thy gory locks at me.

Ross. Gentlemen, rise : his highness is not well.

Lady. 51 Sit, worthy friends : — my lord is often thus,
And hath been from his youth : pray you, keep seat ;
The fit is momentary ; upon a thought
He will again be well : if you much note him,
You shall offend him, and extend his passion ;
Feed, and regard him not. Are you a 'man ? 52

Macbeth. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.

Lady. 53 O, proper stuff !
This is the very painting of your fear :
This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said,
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts
(Impostors to true fear) would well become
A woman's story, at a winter's fire,53
Authorised by her grandam. Shame itself !
5 1 Why do you make such faces 1 When all's done,
You look but on a stool.54

Macbeth. Prithee, see there ! behold ! look ! lo ! how say you 1
Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak too.
If charnel-houses and our graves must send
Those that we bury back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost vanishes.

Lady. What, quite unmann'd in folly ?

Macbeth. If I stand here, I saw him.

Lady. Fie, for shame ! 55

Re-enter Ghost.

Macbeth. 56 Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! let the earth hide thee !
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ;

51 Descends. 5Z Comes up to him and catches his hand. Voice suppressed.

53 Peevish and scornful.

54 In his ear, as if to bring him back to objects of common life. Her
anxiety makes you creep with apprehension : uncertain how to act. Her emotion
keeps you breathless. 55 Returns to her seat ; this whispered.

56 Her secret agony again agitates her.

64 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.

LadyW Think of this, good peers,

But as a thing of custom : 'tis no other ;
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.

Macbeth. 58 What man dare, I dare :
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger ;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble : or be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword ;
If trembling I inhibit, then protest me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow !
Unreal mockery, hence ! 58 [Ghost vanis,

Why, so : being gone,
I am a man again.

Lady. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,
With most admired disorder.

Macbeth. Can such things be,

And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder ? You make me strange
Even to the disposition that I owe,
When now I think you can behold such sights,
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,
When mine is blanch'd with fear.

JRoss. What sights, my lord ?

Lady. 59 1 pray you, speak not ; he grows worse and worse ;
Question enrages him. At once, good night :
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.

Lennox. Good night ; and better health

Attend his majesty !

87 Rises and speaks sweetly to the company.

58 Macready plays this well. Even Kemble chid and scolded the ghost out !
and rose in vehemence and courage as he went on. Macready began in the
vehemence of despair, but, overcome by terror as he continued 1 o gaze on the
apparition, dropped his voice lower and lower till he became tremulous and
inarticulate, and at last uttering a subdued cry of mortal agony and horror,
he suddenly cast his mantle over his face, and sank back almost lifeless on his
seat.

59 Descends in great eagerness ; voice almost choked with anxiety to pre-
vent their questioning ; alarm, hurry, rapid and convulsive as if afraid he
should tell of the murder of Duncan.

MRS. S1DDONS AS LADY MACBETH 65

Lady. A kind good night to all !

[Exeunt all but MACBETH and LADY MACBETH.

Macbeth. It will have blood : they say blood will have blood :
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak ;
Augurs and understood relations have
By maggot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret'st man of blood. What is the night ?

Lady. 60 Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

Macbeth. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person
At our great bidding ?

Lady. Did you send to him, sir ?

Macbeth. I hear it by the way, but I will send :
There's not a one of them but in his house
I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow,
And betimes I will, unto the weird sisters :
More shall they speak, for now I am bent to know,
By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good
All causes shall give way : I am in blood
Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

LadySl You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

Macbeth. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse
Is the initiate fear that wants hard use :
We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.

It is curious to see by these last two notes, as by the intro-
ductory remarks, that Mrs. Siddons conveyed by her demeanour
the impression of being already almost broken down, and quite as
much in need of sleep as Macbeth.- This preparation for the sleep-
ing scene is a very fine idea, and hardly seems to be suggested in
the insignificant remarks given by Shakespeare to Lady Macbeth
at the close of this scene. We now come to the fifth act.

Gentlewoman. Lo you, here she comes ! This is her very guise ;
and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her ; stand close.

Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper ,62
Physician. How came she by that light ?

60 Very sorrowful. Quite exhausted.

61 Feeble now, and as if preparing for her last sickness and final doom.

62 I should like her to enter less suddenly. A slower and more interrupted
step more natural. She advances rapidly to the table, sets down the light
and rubs her hand, making the action of lifting up water in one hand at
intervals.

VOL. I. F

ner con-

66 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Gentlewoman. Why, it stood by her : she has light by her con-
tinually ; 'tis her command.

Physician. You see, her eyes are open.

Gentlewoman. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Physician. What is it she does now ? Look, how she rubs her
hands.

Gentlewoman. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands : I have known her continue in this a quarter
of an hour.

Lady. Yet here's a spot.

Physician. Hark ! she speaks.

Lady. Out, damned spot ! out, I say ! — One :63 two : why, then
'tis time to do't.64 — Hell is murky ! — Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, and
afeard ? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
power to account ? — Yet who would have thought the old man to
have had so much blood in him ?

Physician. Do you mark that ?

Lady. The thane of Fife had a wife : 65 where is she now ? — What,
will these hands ne'er 66 be clean ? — No more o' that, my lord, no more
o' that : 67 you mar all with this starting.

Physician. Go to, go to ; you have known what you should not.

Gentlewoman. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of
that : heaven knows what she has known.

Lady. Here's the smell of the blood still : all the perfumes of
Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, ohf^

Physician. What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely charged.

This is the last of these notes by which we have been able to
follow the great actress from the exalted prophetic tone of her
entrance to the sigh of imbecility at the end.

63 Listening eagerly. 64 A strange unnatural whisper.

65 Very melancholy tone. 66 Melancholy peevishness.

67 Eager whisper.

68 This not a sigh. A convulsive shudder —very horrible. A tone of imbe-
cility audible in the sigh.

MRS. 8IDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE,
MRS. BEVERLEY, AND LADY RANDOLPH.1

THE late Professor Bell's notes on Mrs. Siddons as Lady Mac-
beth were received with an interest which more than justifies
the publication of his remarks on the part of Katharine, as
played by the great actress. No other part played by Mrs.
Siddons was annotated by Professor Bell in the thorough man-
ner adopted by him when witnessing her Lady Macbeth and
Queen Katharine. He left, however, some notes on her Mrs.
Beverley and Lady Randolph, concerning which a few words may
be said before speaking of Shakespeare's play.

Home's ' Douglas,' though known to all by name, is so little
read that a sketch of the plot is necessary to make Professor
Bell's remarks intelligible to the general reader. Lady Ran-
dolph was secretly married in early youth to one of a family at
feud with her own, a Douglas, who was killed in battle three
weeks after the marriage. The widow bore a son, but this
infant, whose birth had been concealed, disappeared with his
nurse, and his mother believes him to be dead. He, young
Norval of the Grampian Hills, was however saved, and has been
brought up in ignorance of his birth. Lady Randolph did not
inform her second husband, Lord Randolph, of her first marriage,
and explained her continual melancholy by attributing it to
grief for the death of a brother. At the period when the play
begins, young Norval is fortunate enough to save the life of his
stepfather, Lord Randolph, who introduces him to his unknown
mother and promotes him to an honourable command. In the
course of the play the mother recognises her son, and makes
herself known to him. The intimacy which results enables

1 From Macmillan's Magazine, April 1882.

F 2

68 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

a villain, Glenalvon, so to poison the mind of Lord Randolph
with jealousy as to cause him to attempt the youth's life.
Young Norval or Douglas, while defending himself against
Lord Randolph, is wounded to death by the villain, and dies in
his mother's presence. She in despair commits suicide. In ac-
cordance with the taste of the day, neither combat nor suicide
takes place before the audience.

Although much of the sentiment in this play is expressed in
language which nowadays provokes a smile, an actress may find
great scope for her art in presenting the feelings of the mother,
who gradually acquires the certainty that her child still lives, and
is the gallant youth who has already shown himself worthy of her
love.

Professor Bell's notes, while sufficient to convince us that
Mrs. Siddons could express great tenderness and strong affec-
tion, no less than the sterner emotions with which her name is
more commonly connected, lack the precision by which, in
writing of Shakespeare's plays, he enables us in some measure
to understand the means she employed. Referring to the wish
expressed by the lady that every soldier of the two opposing
armies might return in ' peace and safety to his pleasant home,'
he writes :

The most musical sound I ever heard, and on the conclusion a
melancholy recollection seemed to fill her whole soul of the strength
of that wish in former times, and of its first disappointment.

Again, where Lady Randolph addresses Sincerity as the first
of virtues, the note says :

Fine apostrophe. Her fine eyes raised in tears to heaven, her
hands stretched out and elevated.

At the close of the well-known speech beginning, ' My name
is Norval,' the following remark is appended :

The idea of her own child seems to have been growing, and at

o o'

this point overwhelms her and fills her eyes with tears. Beautiful
acting of this sweet feeling throughout these speeches. The interest
she takes in the youth — her manifest retrospection.

The by-play of Lady Randolph throughout the long speeches
of her husband and son was obviously the centre of interest to
the spectator, and ended in what is called—

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 69

A great and affecting burst of affection and interest, as if she had
already almost identified him with her son, or adopted him to supply
the loss.

Answering Norval, who assures her that he will never be
unworthy of the favour shown him, Lady Randolph says :

/ will be sworn thou wilt not. Thou shalt be my knight.

The words printed in italics were underlined by Professor
Bell.

Lady Randolph explains to her confidante that while Norval
spoke she thought that, had the son of Douglas lived, he might
have resembled this young gallant stranger.

Professor Bell writes :

It is this she has been acting during the preceding scene.

There are no further notes on this play, nothing to guide us
as to the manner in which Mrs. Siddons said the famous c Was
he alive ? ' when a certain old man describes the finding of her
infant son, who turns out to be Norval.

When we read Home's ' Douglas ' we may feel a certain
interest in our ancestors who liked it, but Moore's ' Gamester '
awakens a feeling of loathing which extends even to the
audience which can endure the degrading spectacle. The
character of Lady Randolph is far from noble : this woman, who
deceives her parents and husband, who lost her child and held
her tongue, who has maundered through life for twenty years
nursing her melancholy and despising all good things present,
because they are not better things past, belongs to no heroic
type.

We cannot admire her indifference to the excellent husband
who after twenty years of married life still sues in vain for

Decent affection and complacent kindness.

But Lady Randolph's well-bred coldness is preferable to Mrs.
Beverley's form of love. Says Mrs. Beverley : c All may be
well yet. When he has nothing to lose, I shall fetter him in
these arms again ; and then what is it to be poor ? ' Professor
Bell adds :

Such a speech as this the wonderful voice of Mrs. Siddons and
her speaking eye make very affecting.

70 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Surely no one but a Mrs. Siddons could do so.

An old servant offers to sacrifice his little fortune to tl
much-loved gamester who has been out all night for the first
time : he proposes to go to him and if possible to bring him
home. Mrs. Beverley says, * Do so, then ; but take care how
you upbraid him — I have never upbraided him.' There is a
note here :

Follows him to the door ; then laying her hand on his arm
detains him with an earnest look, and then speaks solemnly.

The lady uses much the same language to her husband's
sister Charlotte, and Professor Bell notes :

She repeats an injunction she had given to Jarvis, more famili-
arly but with equal earnestness, with more sorrow and less of dignity ;
then crossing the stage to go out, she bows kindly to Charlotte ;
then, with her finger up and a fine look of determination, leaves
her.

In a subsequent scene the husband has come home, and his
honest friend Jewson tries to open his eyes to the machinations
of the villain Stukeley by telling what a bad boy he had been at
school. Mrs. Siddons, who listens, is described thus :

She stands with riveted attention. She is behind at a little
distance. The earnest and piercing look of her eyes, the simplicity
of her attitude, is perfect nature.

The gamester replies to his honest friend : ' You are too
busy, sir.' Mrs. Beverley rejoins : i No, not too busy ; mis-
taken, perhaps — that had been milder.' The note on this
runs :

Comes up to Beverley with a hasty anxiety and hurried voice,
alarm and kind reproach in her look and manner.

The notes on the ' Gamester ' end here.

We are nowadays happily delivered from the false sentiment
which required the ideal woman to love the more, the more she
was ill-treated. We are rather in danger of shutting our eyes
to the real beauty of patient Grisyld, the original of many
copies, mostly, like Mrs. Beverley, caricatures. Chaucer's
Grisyld fawns unpleasantly, but in the story of Griselda as

MRS. SWDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 71

Boccaccio tells it, we find a very noble woman who thought her-
self of so small account in this great world, that she claimed
nothing, while she held herself bound in all things to do her
best. Her goodness is above all strong, whereas Mrs. Beverley
is above all weak ; her husband ruins, cheats, insults her, and
she simply dotes on him all the time with slavish animal affec-
tion. No play can, however, be successful which has not some
merit, and it is easy to recognise that in the conduct of the plot
Moore shows skill, in so far that each scene reveals a deeper and
deeper misery.

In Queen Katharine, Shakespeare has shown to what extent
a woman of heroic mould might continue to love a husband who
had mortally wronged her, and how fully the same woman could
be just to a fallen enemy. Katharine, unlike Mrs. Beverley, is
both good and strong.

Professor Bell wrote as follows on the fly-leaf of ' King Henry
the Eighth : '

Mrs. Siddons's Queen Katharine is a perfect picture of a great,
dignified, somewhat impatient spirit, conscious of rectitude, and
adorned with every generous and every domestic virtue.

Her dignified contempt of Wolsey when comparing her own royal
descent, her place and title as queen, her spotless honour, with the
mean arts and machinations by which this man was driving her into
the toils and breaking in upon her happiness ; her high spirit and
impatient temper ; the energies of a strong and virtuous mind
guarding the King at all hazards from popular discontent and de-
fending her own fame with eloquence and dignity ; her energy sub-
dued, but her queen-like dignity unimpaired by sickness ; and the
candour and goodness of her heart in her dying conversation con-
cerning her great enemy — -all this, beautifully painted by Mrs, Sid-
dons, making this one of the finest female characters in the English
drama.

Our notes begin with the entrance of the Queen. The text,
as before, is that of Mrs. Inchbald. The words on which the
emphasis fell are underlined in the notes and are here printed
in italics. An acute accent marks a word on which the voice
was raised in pitch ; a grave accent marks a word on which the
voice fell.

72 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

ACT I. SCENE 2.

Enter the QUEEN, ushered by GUILDFORD, who places a cushion on
which she kneels. The KING rises, takes her up, and places her
by him.

King. Rise.

Queen. Nay, we must longer kneel ; I am a suitor.

King. Arise, and take place by us : — half your suit
Never name to us ; you have half our power ;
The other moiety, ere you ask, is given ;
Repeat your will, and take it.2

Queen. Thank your Majesty.

That you would love yourself, and, in that love,
Not unconsider'd leave your honour, nor
The dignity of your office, is the point
Of my petition.

King. Lady mine, proceed.

Queen. I am solicited, not by a few,
And those of true condition, that your subjects
Are in great grievance : there have been commissions
Sent down among them, which have flaw'd the heart
Of all their loyalties : — wherein, although,
My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches
Most bitterly x on you/ as putter-on
Of these exactions, yet the king our master
( Whose honour heaven shield from soil / 3 ) even he escapes not
Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks
The sides of loyalty, and almost appears
In loud rebellion.

Nor. Not almost appears —

It doth appear : for, upon these taxations,
The clothiers all, not able to maintain
The many to them longing, have put off
The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,
Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger,
And lack of other means, in desperate manner
Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar,
And danger serves among them.

King. Taxation !

2 Eises and sits by him. Then, in a composed and dignified tone, addresses
him, very articulate and very earnest.

3 Tenderly and religiously.

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 73

Wherein 1 and what taxation ? — My lord cardinal,
You that are blam'd for it alike with us,
Know you of this taxation ?

Wol. Please you, sir,

I know but of a single part in aught
Pertains to the state ; and front but in that file
Where others tell steps with me.

Queen. No, my lord,

You know no more than others : 4 but you frame
Things that are known alike, which are not wholesome
To those which would not know them, and yet must
Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions
Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are-
Most pestilent to the hearing ; and to bear them
The back is sacrifice to the load. They say
They are devis'd by you ; or else you suffer
Too hard an exclamation.

King. Still exaction !

The nature of it ? In what kind, let's know,
Is this exaction 1

Queen. 5 1 am much too venturous

In tempting of your patience ; but am bolden'd
Under your promis'd pardon.5 6 The subjects' grief
Comes through commissions, which compel from each
The sixth part of his substance, to be levied
Without delay ; and the pretence for this
Is nam'd, your wars in France : 6 this makes bold mouths :
Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze
Allegiance in them ; their curses now
Live where their prayers did ; and it's come to pass,
This tractable obedience is a slave
To each incensed will. 7 1 would your highness
Would give it quick consideration.

King. By my life,

This is against our pleasure.

The notes cease until the surveyor of the Duke of Bucking-
ham enters, to whom Wolsey speaks :

Wol. Stand forth ; and with bold spirit relate what you,

4 Mildly, but very decidedly, accusing him.

5 Gracious apology. 6 Very articulate and clear.
7 Very earnest.

74 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Most like a careful subject, have collected
Out of the Duke of Buckingham. .

King. Speak freely.

Surv. First, it was usual with him — every day
It would infect his speech — that if the king
Should without issue die, he'd carry it so
To make the sceptre his : these very words
I have heard him utter to his son-in-law,
Lord Aberga'ny ; to whom by oath he menac'd
Revenge upon the cardinal.8

Wol. Please your highness, note

This dangerous conception in this point.
Not friended by his wish, to your high person
His will is most malignant ; and it stretches
Beyond you, to your friends.

Queen. 9 My learn'd lord cardinal,

Deliver all with charity. $

King. Speak on :

How grounded he his title to the crown,
Upon our fail ? to this point hast thou heard him
At any time speak aught ?

The Surveyor continues to give his evidence, stating that a
Chartreux friar had prophesied to the Duke that he should
govern England. Then the Queen intervenes :

If I know you well,
You were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office
On the complaint o' the tenants ; H take good heed
You charge not in your spleen a noble person,
And spoil your nobler soul : I say, take heed.H
King. Go forward.

The Surveyor continues his evidence, and states that
Buckingham had said that if he had been committed to the
Tower he would have put a knife into the King ; on which the
King exclaims :

8 She hears all this with a dignified, judge-like aspect, often darting a keen
look of inquiry at the witness and the Cardinal.

9 A grand sustained voice. The emphasis on ' charity ' strong.

10 A very penetrating look. Looks very steadfastly and seriously in his face
for some time, then speaks.

11 The second part of this speech very severe tone of remonstrance. Grand
swell on ' and sjwil your nobler soul? ' I say,' &c., very emphatic.

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 75

King. A giant traitor !

Wol. Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom,
And this man out of prison ?

Queen. God niend all \ 12

The scene shortly ends. Mrs. Siddons in this scene evi-
dently brought into strong relief the intellect and power of the
Queen as well as her rectitude. In the fourth scene of the
second act the Queen enters, called into the court at Blackfriars.
The clerk of the court says, ' Katharine, queen of England, come
into the court.' Again Guildford precedes the Queen with a
cushion, and again she kneels.

ACT II. SCENE 4.

Queen. 13 Sir, I desire you do me right and justice,
And to bestow your pity on me ; for
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,
Born out of your dominions ; having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceeding. 13 [She risesJ\ I4 Alas, sir,
In what have I offended you ? what cause
Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure,
That thus you should proceed to put me off,
And take your good grace from me ? 14 15 Heaven witness,
I have been to you a true and humble wife,
At all times to your will conformable. 15

16 Sir, call to mind

That I have been your wife, in this obedience,
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest
With many children by you : if, in the course
And process of this time, you can report,
And prove it too, against mine honour aught,
My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty,
Against your sacred person/ in God's name,
Turn me away ; v and let the f oul'st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up

12 A long emphasis, intimating that the Cardinal and his designs were
known to her.

13 A most sweet and gracious prelude, yet no departure from her dignity.

14 Remonstrance, dignified, without any bitterness.

15 Earnest protestation.

18 Dignified confidence in her own innocence.

76 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

To the sharpest kind of justice.16 17 Please you, sir,

The king, your father, was reputed for

A prince7 most prudent, s of an excellent

And unmatched wit and judgment x : Ferdinand,

My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one

The wisest prince, that there had reign'd by many

A year before : it is not to be question'd

That they had gather'd a wise council to them

Of every realm, that did debate this business,

Who deem'd our marriage lawful : wherefore I humbly

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may

Be by my friends in Spain advis'd ; whose counsel

I will implore ; if not, i' the name of God,

Your pleasure be fulfill'd !

Wol. 18 You have here, lady

(And of your choice), these reverend fathers \ men
Of singular integrity and learning,
Yea, the elect of the land, who are assembled
To plead your cause : it shall be therefore bootless,
That longer you desire the court ; as well
For your own quiet, as to rectify
What is unsettled in the king.

Cam. 19 His grace

Hath spoken well and justly : therefore, madam,
It's fit this royal session do proceed ;
And that, without delay, their arguments
Be now produc'd and heard. [20 CAMPEIUS rises.]

Queen. Lord Cardinal,

To you I speak.

Wol. Your pleasure, madam ?

Queen. Sir,

I am about to weep ; but, thinking that
We are a queen 21 (or long have dream'd so),21 certain

17 Pause. A new division of the discourse. The argument beautifully
spoken, very distinct.

18 This response taken by her with great impatience, very indignant at his
interference.

19 Surprise and grief when the legate speaks thus.

20 When Campeius conies to her she turns from him impatiently; then makes
a sweet bow of apology, but dignified. Then to Wolsey, turned and looking
from him, with her hand pointing back to him, in a voice of thunder, ' to you
I speak.' This too loud perhaps ; you must recollect her insulted dignity and
impatience of spirit before fully sympathising with it.

21 Great contempt in this parenthesis.

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 77

The daughter of a king, 11 my drops of tears
I'll turn to sparks of fire.

Wol. Be patient yet.

Queen. 23 / will, when you are humble ; nay, before,
Or God will punish me. 23 24 1 do believe,
Induc'd by potent circumstances, that
You are mine enemy; and make my challenge \
You shall not be my judge : for it is you
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me,
Which God's dew quench ! 24 — 25 Therefore, I say again,
/ utterly abhor, yea, from my soul
Refuse you for my judge : 26 whom, yet once more,
26 1 hold my most malicious foe, and think not
At all a friend to truth.^

Wol. >27 I do profess

You speak not like yourself ; who ever yet
Have stood to charity, and display'd the effects
Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom

O'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me wrong :
I have no spleen against you ; nor injustice
For you or any : how far I have proceeded,
Or how far further shall, is warranted
By a commission from the consistory,
Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me
That I have blown this coal : I do deny it :
The king is present : if it be known to him
That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,
And worthily, my falsehood ! yea, as much
As you have done my truth. If he know
That I am free of your report, he knows
I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him
It lies to cure me : and the cure is, to
Remove these thoughts from you ; the which before
His highness shall speak in, I do beseech
You, gracious madam, to unthiiik your speaking,
And to say so no more.

22 Very dignified.

23 Great contempt. Her voice swelled, but monotonous.

24 Very distinct articulate charge against him.

25 Great swell.

26 ' I hold,' &c., very pointed. ' Not at all,' &c., syllabic and most impres-
sive.

27 Great impatience and contempt during this speech of Wolsey.

78 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Queen.%8 My lord, my lord,

I am a single woman, much too weak
To oppose your cunning. 29 You're meek and humble-wow^ W ;
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming
With meekness and humility ; but your heart
Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.29
You have, by fortune and his highness' favours,
Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted
Where powers are your retainers ; and your words,
Domestics to you, serve your will, as 't please
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,
You tender more your person's honour than
Your high profession spiritual : that again
I do refuse you for my judge ; and here,
Before you all, appeal unto the pope,
To bring my whole cause 'fore his holiness,
And to be judg'd by him.

[She curtsies to the KING, and offers to depart.

Cam. The queen is obstinate,

Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and
Disdainful to be tried by 't ; 'tis not well
She's going away.

King. Call her again.

Crier. Katharine, queen of England, come into the court.

Grief. Madam, you are called back.

Queen. 30 What need you note it 1 pray you, keep your way :
When you are call'd, return.30 — 31 Now the Lord help,
They vex me past my patience ! 31 — Pray you, pass on :
32 I will not tarry : 32 no, nor ever more,
Upon this business, my appearance make
In any of their courts. [Exeunt GUILDFORD and the QUEEN.

Professor Bell was as good a hearer as actor or actress need
hope for.

The scene in the fourth act where Katharine is discovered
sick unto death is prefaced with these remarks :

Mrs. Siddons in this scene admirable in simplicity and pathos.
JsTo affectation, not a more complete deception in dramatic art than

28 Breaking impatiently through his speech.

29 Contempt. Contrast strong between ' mouthed ' and ' heart.'

30 Very impatient, angry, and loud.

31 Peevish expression. 32 Strong determination.

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 79

this of the sickness of Katharine. The voice subdued to softness,
humility, and sweet calmness. The soul too much exhausted to
endure or risk great emotion. The flash of indignation of her former
spirit very fine at Guildford's interruption.

Unfortunately there is only one more remark ; it is appended
to Katharine's verdict on Wolsey, which in Mrs. Inchbald's
edition runs as follows :

Queen. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him !
Yet thus far, Cromwell, give me leave to speak him,
And yet with charity. — He was a man
Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking
Himself with princes.

His promises were, as he then was, mighty ;
But his performance, as he is now, nothing.
Of his own body he was ill, and gave
The clergy ill example.

Professor Bell says of this :

Beautifully spoken, with some mixture of energy ; but the
subdued voice throughout.

Probably the writer was too much affected by this scene to
be able to make minute critical observations.

Of Mrs. Siddons' readings, Professor Bell says :

Mrs. Siddons in her readings was like the tragic muse. She
sat on a chair raised on a small platform, and the look and posture
which always presents itself to me is that with which she contem-
plates the figure of Hamlet's ghost. Her eyes elevated, her head
a little drawn back and inclined upwards, her fine countenance filled
with reverential awe and horror, and the chilling whisper scarcely
audible but horrific. Sir Joshua Reynolds's picture of Mrs. Siddons
as the tragic muse gives a perfect conception of the general effect of
her look and figure in these readings.

In her readings the under parts, which in acting are given
offensively by some vile player, were read with a beauty and grace
of utterance which was like the effect of very fine musical recitation,
while the higher parts were the grand and moving airs. It was like
a fine composition in painting : the general groundwork simple, the
parts for effect raised and touched by a master's hand.

In the higher parts it was like the finest acting. The looks,
the tones, the rapid hurry of the tumultuous emotions, the chilling

8o LITERATURE AND DRAMA

whisper of horror, the scream of high-wrought passion, were given
less strongly, but as affecting as on the stage.

The comic touches were light and pretty, but she has no comic
power.

The graceful and sweet parts were quite enchanting. The
mellow subdued voice of sorrow, to give variety, she kept much
in whisper — very audible notwithstanding. Her whisper is more
audible and intelligible than the loudest ranting of an ordinary
player.

She read ' Hamlet ' and the ' Merchant of Venice.' ' Lear/ I
think, should be read by her, not acted.

There is special mention of her manner when reading
Hamlet's speech beginning

Angels and ministers of grace defend us.

Mrs. Siddons in reading gave, by her look of reverential awe and
chilling whisper of horror, more fully the idea of a ghost's presence
than any spectral illusion on the stage.

This was a whispered speech throughout, growing in energy and
confidence as other ideas took the place of the first startle of horror
and dismay. Kean speaks too loudly and boldly, not enough as in
the withering presence of a supernatural being. The first line should
be a whisper of horror, with a long pause before venturing to address
the phantom.

It is believed that Sir Charles Bell made notes similar in
character to those now published ; but if so the books have
been mislaid. There is a curious passage in a letter from
him to his brother, dated the 10th of June, 1809, in which he

says :

Jeffrey saw my ' Shakespeare ' and liked it much, and talked to
Mrs. Siddons about it. I said I intended some time to take a good
play and make it so infancy. He said he should like to do so too.
He saw your pencillings in the margin : not knowing whether you
would like it, and not knowing what they were, I told him they
were all mine ; so perhaps his liking this kind of thing was owing
to you. Do not forget to pursue it.

This appropriation by one man of another's work, reads
oddly, though it is an indication of the absolute confidence of
one brother in the other. We may all feel glad that Professor

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 81

G. J. Bell did pursue the plan, and wish he had pursued it
further.

In reading of Mrs. Siddons one cannot but regret that her
genius should have been employed in representing a Mrs.
Beverley or even a Lady Randolph. It is a standing reproach
to our literature that outside the roll of Shakespeare's characters
a great actor can hardly find a great part. When we reflect
that West and Haydon have been followed at no distant time
by Millais, Leigh ton, Burne- Jones, and Watts, we cannot but
hope that in a sister art a similar revival may occur. The time
seems ripe, for the novel is in decadence, and coming writers
must win distinction in a new field. A man who has sufficient
talent to make a good novel would probably succeed in writing
a good play if he went to work in the right way ; but the art
of the playwright has not been studied by our leading authors
for many generations. This art is that of selecting proper
subjects for stage representation and giving them such a form
as will enable the actors to move their audience. The success
of a play in stirring an audience depends less than is usually
supposed on style, on the delineation of character, or even on
the invention of an ingenious and probable plot. Plays succeed
which are glaringly defective in all these respects ; for instance,
the ' Lady of Lyons.' The one necessary condition for success
is that the scene represented shall move the audience; the
emotion may be sad or merry, noble or ignoble, but emotion
there must be. If this element be wanting, no depth of
thought, no beauty of language, no variety of incidents will
save the play. The skilled playwright knows what scenes will
stir the hearers, and how best to frame each scene and the whole
play with this purpose. If with this knowledge he possesses
originality of conception and beauty of style, his plays become
part of the literature of his country ; without these higher
qualities he remains a mere playwright, but we go to see his
plays, built up as they are of old worn-out materials. The
playwright is familiar with the materials used in his art ; he
knows the stage well on both sides of the footlights ; he mixes
with actors, managers, stage-managers, scene-painters, and
stage-carpenters. From ^schylus downwards, all great drama-
tists have had this practical knowledge of the instruments at

VOL. I. G

82 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

their command. A drama should be written for the stage, as a
song should be written to be sung. The author must sub-
consciously— if such a word may be used — have the stage
always in mind : the exits, the entrances, the time required to
cross the stage, the positions of the actors, their very attitudes
and dress. No author provides more admirably for all these
stage exigencies than Shakespeare, as any one may see who will
consider his inimitable contrivances for removing dead bodies
from the stage. There is no doubt a danger that those who
become familiar with stage-machinery may content themselves
with remodelling the old puppets, rearranging stock incidents,
and repatching old rags to produce good guaranteed old stage
effects ; but a man of real talent would not be misled by the
Mr. Worldly Wiseman of the stage.

We may learn much from French practice as to the frame-
work of a drama. A great part of the success which is certainly
achieved by modern French plays depends on the art shown in
their construction. M. F. Legouve, who is a skilful playwright,
tells us frankly how a Frenchman proceeds. First, he chooses
or conceives the situation which is to be the crisis of the play :
from this he works backwards, considering how that situation is
to be brought about, and what characters will be necessary for
the purpose. His first act is devoted wholly to informing the
audience of the relations between the characters at the begin-
ning of the piece; his second act develops the plot ; in his third
act the plot thickens ; his fourth act contains the crisis for which
the play is written, and his fifth act gives the solution of the
knot which has been tied in the fourth act.

These rules seem rather barren, but we shall see their signi-
ficance if we consider what other courses may be followed.

A writer may begin by inventing an ingenious or interest-
ing plot, or by choosing some historical period which he will
dramatise, or by conceiving some marked characters whose feel-
ings and thoughts he will expound. M. Legouve tells us that
none of these is the French method; that for the French author
the motive of the play is essentially one situation ; that his
characters are chosen so as to make this situation tell, and that
his plot is a matter for after-consideration, devised so as to
reveal the characters of the persons and lead up to the crisis.

MRS. SIDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 83

Shakespeare did not work in this way, but in this one matter
of construction it may be worth while to listen to maxims de-
rived from the study of plays which in all other respects are
greatly inferior to his. Moreover, these maxims are ultimately
derived from the practice of Sophocles, no mean master.

The French, following the Greeks in this, look on a play as
a representation of feelings rather than of actions. The inci-
dents which occasion the feelings, and the actions they lead to,
are alike kept in the background in French as in Greek plays.
Kapid action in a play does not, in France, mean a rapid succes-
sion of events, but a rapid development of feeling in the persons
of the drama. A scene in which the emotion represented is
monotonous will be dull even if crammed with incidents.

The author who is penetrated with the belief that the aim of
the drama is to produce emotion will be indifferent to beauty
of language or of metaphor, to profound philosophy and to
brilliant sayings, except when these help to move the audience.
He will know that obscurity of language or of thought is fatal
to his purpose. The knot, crisis, or motive of his play will be
chosen by him to exhibit, not a striking event, but strong
feelings. He will so contrive the story leading to the crisis as
to exhibit a gradually culminating series of emotions, produced
by incidents arranged so as powerfully to affect the personages
of the drama, and through them the audience. The direct
action of incidents on the audience is of importance only in that
low form of art which aims at stirring the vulgar feeling of
curiosity and the vulgar love of gaping.

The most telling play is that in which the feelings naturally
exhibited by the persons of the drama are strongest. The
greatest play is that which shows the feelings of the noblest
men and women. This, in the opinion of Plato and Aristotle,
is the object of the drama in its higher form.

Plato, in ' The Laws,' after saying that no freeborn man or
woman should learn comic songs, grotesque dances, or bur-
lesques, but that it might be well to have these things presented
by slaves and hired strangers, in order better to understand by
contrast that which is truly beautiful, speaks thus, referring to
his ideal city : ' If any serious poets, such as write tragedies,
should ask us, " Shall we, 0 strangers, come to your city and

o 2

84 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

bring our poetry and act it ? How stand your laws
respect ? " what answer ought we to give to these divine men ?
For myself I should reply thus : " Oh, most excellent of strangers,
we are ourselves, to the utmost of our power, poets of a tragedy
the most beautiful and the best ; for the whole of our polity
consists in an imitation of a life the most beautiful and best,
which we may say is in reality the truest tragedy." We here
see that Plato thought the object of tragedy was to represent
the noblest kind of life, and only rejected the imitation as un-
necessary where this life itself was to be seen.

Aristotle defined what he meant by a tragedy with greater
fulness. He points out that a certain magnitude is necessary
in the event represented ; that the spectator as he follows the
action feels pity and a kind of awe which may be termed fear or
terror, and that he comes away from the spectacle chastened
and purified. The first part of his definition requires that the
action shall be heroic, or such as represents the thoughts, deeds,
and feelings of great men. By the last part of his definition
he, like Plato, required that the action should have moral beauty.
This does not imply that a play should be didactic, or deal only
with the actions of well-behaved persons. The teaching of the
dramatist is as the teaching of nature. See these heroes in
their strength and their weakness, live with them, and you will
learn from them. The function of the tragic poet, from
^Bschylus to Shakespeare, has been to show us the intense life
of heroic men and women at the moment of their trial.

But not all heroic or beautiful actions can be made the sub-
jects of a tragedy. Aristotle points out that the action must be
such as will stir certain moral emotions — pity and fear he calls
them ; but the English words very imperfectly describe the
feelings roused by a great tragedy ; those feelings give keen
pleasure, whereas pity and fear are painful. Sympathy may be
a better word ; the pleasure is to live a little while greatly with
the great ones of the world, to feel their feelings, to experience
their passions, to dare, to love, to hate with them, so that for a
little while we too are great ; but words fail to describe emo-
tions to those who have not felt them. If it be suggested that
the sensation experienced while watching a tragedy is rather a
feeling with the persons of the drama than a feeling for them ;

MRS. SJDDONS AS QUEEN KATHARINE, ETC. 85

that when Othello cries out, ' O the pity of it ! ' we feel as he
feels and what he feels, and are very far indeed from entertaining
a pleasant and comfortable pity for him ; that the strange pleasure
depends on our recognition in ourselves of the power to feel as
Othello feels, to suffer as he suffers, even to sin as he sins ; this
suggestion may awaken a memory of what the emotion was in
those who have known it but can explain nothing to others.

The higher and lower forms of the drama differ simply in
respect of the character of the feelings awakened. The highest
may be our highest moral emotions; the lowest, the lowest
animal passions. Either moral or immoral the stage must be,
and always has been, for its very existence depends on its action
upon this part of our nature.

The morality of a play depends on no exclusion of crime, no
enumeration of maxims, no system of rewards or punishments ;
it flows from the heart of the author and is tested by its action
on the audience.

It is in moral grandeur that Shakespeare, ^Eschylus, and
Sophocles stand absolutely pre-eminent. It is to this that
Racine and Corneille owe their hold on men. It is by this that
the ' Misanthrope ' claims high rank. It is in this that the
modern French stage chiefly fails.

The French dramatic authors of the Second Empire have
succeeded in producing living plays, because, besides being
skilled playwrights, they do in their works appeal to real and
strong feelings. A certain moral poverty alone prevents the
school from taking a very high rank. The authors have usually
meant well ; and if the verdict must be that their moral ideal is
always poor and often false, this conclusion is forced upon us by
the words and actions rather of their good than of their bad
people. Even Victor Hugo's verse cannot make us believe that
Ruy Bias is not a poor creature.

Our own writers show no similar moral ineptitude, and
since they have created scores of types which in freshness, truth,
power and interest surpass the men and women of French
authors, we are driven to the conclusion that if the English do
not write great plays it is rather because they do not know
how, than that they lack power. Our best authors, when they
attempt the drama, seem to be misled by a desire to appeal

86 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

rather to the intellect or to the aesthetic sense of their hearers
than to their moral emotions. If they were to mix with actors
on familiar terms they would soon learn the playwright's art ;
for the actor knows what will succeed upon the stage. An actor
calls a part well written when the words and situations are such
as enable him powerfully to express strong feelings. He will,
if permitted, cut out every line which does not help him in this,
his art, and for stage purposes he is right. Charm of style,
beauty of metre, wisdom of thought, novelty of character, in-
genuity of plot, poetry of conception, all these things may be
added to a play with much advantage ; but they will not insure
success either singly or all together. A play which does not
move an audience, as neither intellectual nor artistic pleasure
ever can move them, must fail upon the stage.

Professor Bell's notes show what he felt when a Siddons
acted a Katharine. He was a man of hard intellect, whose diy
legal labours still guide shrewd lawyers. He was a man of
learning and taste ; but when seeing a great actress in a great
play, no ingenious theories, no verbal emendations, no philo-
sophical reflections, no analytical remarks occur to him. He
records his emotion, and, as far as he can, how that emotion was
produced. He may be taken as representing an ideal audience
— that which does not comment, but responds to author and to
actor.

TALMA ON THE ACTOR'S ART.1

MR. IRVING, in his preface to this remarkable essay, calls it * a
kind of vade-mecum of the actor's calling, written by one of
themselves, and by an artist universally recognised as a competent
expositor ; ' ' a permanent embodiment of the principles of our
art.' We may then start with every confidence that we have
here a true explanation of the manner in which a great actor
works. Let us listen to his words. i Every actor,' says Talma,
' ought to be his own tutor. If he has not in himself the
necessary faculties for expressing the passions and painting
characters, all the lessons in the world cannot give them to him.
The faculty of creating is born with us ; but if the actor possesses
it the counsel of persons of taste may then guide him ; and as
there is in the art of reciting verse a part in some degree
mechanical, the lessons of an actor profoundly versed in his art
may save him much study and time.' Here, we take it, is the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as to dramatic
teaching. A man may be taught to speak and move well and
suitably ; then, if he has genius, he may in twenty years teach
himself to act, and during the process he may be much helped
by the counsel of persons of taste. And how is he to know
whether he has the necessary genius ? Talma answers, ' sensi-
bility ' and ; intelligence ' are the two faculties pre-eminently
required, but under the general heading of sensibility he includes
much. He puts almost contemptuously on one side * the faculty
which an actor possesses of being moved himself and of affecting
his being so far as to imprint on his features, and especially on
his voice, that expression and those accents of sorrow which
awake sympathy and extort tears.' No doubt the actor must

1 Review of Talma on tlie Actor's Art : with preface by Henry Irving.
From the Saturday Review.

88 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

have this kind of sensibility ; but to this extent sensibility is n(
rare. It may sometimes be recognised in amateurs acting for
the first time ; and we take it that no moderately successful
actor, even on a second-rate provincial stage, ever wanted sensi-
bility to this extent. Let us call it, for the purposes of future
reference, sensibility in the first degree, and then pass to what
Talma further requires and still calls sensibility — namely, ' that
imagination which enables the actor to look on at the lives of
historical personages, or the impassioned figures created by genius ,
which reveals to him as though by magic their physiognomy,
their heroic stature, their language, their habits, all the shades of
their character, all the movements of their soul, and even their
singularities.' We begin to feel that sensibility in the second
degree is more difficult of attainment, and here it is well to
remark that Talma does not place this faculty under the heading
of ' intelligence.' He does not tell the actor that he must
understand his author. This insight which he so justly acquires
is to be a matter of feeling. The revelation comes by magic, not
logic. Fanny Kemble says, in perfect accord with Talma, per-
ception rather than reflection reaches the aim proposed. It is
the absence of this sensibility to the second degree that makes
many ordinary fairly good actors so insufferably bad in great
parts. Probably they understand the words they speak, and
have a vague notion of what the person they represent may be
supposed to feel, but they have no insight into heroic thought
or feeling ; and, says Talma, i if the actor is not endowed with
a sensibility at least equal to that of any of his audience, he can
move them but very little.' Too often our actors have less of
this sensibility than many of those who hear them. Why then,
it may be asked, do not audience and actors change places ?
Because the sensitive hearers lack sensibility in the third degree
— for Talma has not done with this word yet. He includes in
this term e the faculty of exaltation which agitates an actor,
takes possession of his senses, shakes even his very soul, and
enables him to enter into the most tragic situations and the
most terrible of the passions as if they were his own.'

Now not one of the audience which condemn the second-rate
actor in a great part because they have more sensibility than he has
will be found capable of the kind of exaltation here described. We

TALMA ON THE ACTORS ART 89

think that here Talma has confused or blended two very different
faculties under one name. To feel and to express were one to
the great actor, but the vast majority of mankind is, we think,
denied the gift of expressing emotion. And here it seems to us
that Talma misses the very point which distinguishes the actor
from other artists. All artists must have this sensibility he
demands, but the form which each naturally employs to express
his emotion determines whether he shall be author, painter,
musician, or actor. Under the influence of this i exaltation ' the
actor finds the tone, the look, the gesture required to express
the feeling with which he is inspired, and this gift is, to some
extent, possessed by all actors who can earn their bread. This
is the faculty which is trained by stage practice. And here we
may again refer for support to ' Notes on some of Shakespeare's
Plays,' by F. A. Kemble. Speaking with the authority of
tradition in a great family, she says, ' There is a specific compre-
hension of effect and the means of producing it, which in some
persons is a distinct capacity, and this forms what actors call
the study of their profession.' And although Talma mixed up
expression and feeling when endeavouring in a brief way to write
an analytical account of his own art, he takes precisely this view
of study. Here is his method. ' The actor who possesses this
double gift ' (sensibility and intelligence) ' adopts a course of
study peculiar to himself. In the first place, by repeated exer-
cises he enters deeply into the emotions, and his speech acquires
the accent proper to the situation of the personage he has to
represent. This done, he goes to the theatre not only to give
theatrical effect to his studies, but also to yield himself to the
spontaneous flashes of his sensibility and all the emotions which
it voluntarily produces in him. What does he then do ? In
order that his inspirations may not be lost, his memory, in the
silence of repose, recalls the accent of his voice, the expression
of his features, his action — in a word, the spontaneous workings
of his mind which he had supposed to have free course, and, in
effect, everything which in the moments of his exaltation con-
tributed to the effect he had produced. His intelligence thus
passes all these means in review, connecting them and fixing
them in his memory, to re-employ them at pleasure in succeeding
representations.' This passage expresses better than anything

90 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

we have ever read what the actor's study really should be.
After a certain amount of preparation, he yields in a state of
exaltation to impulse ; suggestions crowd upon him ; tones,
cries, gestures, expressions, actions, are created. The exaltation
is extreme, and these moments when he is alone, and the god
works in him, may be those of keenest pleasure. But this state
is succeeded by a calm and critical mood, in which the true
artist chooses, rejects, and groups the partial effects obtained so
as to produce one great and consistent whole. In this work, he
will be greatly aided if he has a sympathetic friend of sound
judgment — Talma's ' person of taste ' — whose counsel he may
take. Those who know what this study means are driven almost
to distraction when they hear an actor — perhaps a great actor-
complimented on being able to remember the words of his part:.
But, on the other hand, it must be almost as galling when a
great actor is told that he really understands his author's mean-
ing. One great charm in this essay by Talma lies in the total
absence of this contemptible worship of the human understand-
ing— a very good thing in its way, though one of but small im-
portance in mere art. To Talma intelligence meant a sound
critical faculty, not logical, but perceptive, enabling its possessor
to keep what was good in art and reject that which was less
good. We find in this essay a clear solution of the question
continually asked, whether the actor really feels what he is
acting. Talma, as we understand him, only felt the emotion
once in its full intensity — that is to say, at the moment of
creation during the solitary rehearsal. Subsequently the effect
was produced by the aid of memory ; but the body is so consti-
tuted that if by the aid of memory we perfectly reproduce a tone
or cry, that tone or cry brings back simultaneously a close
reproduction of the feeling by which it was first created. Thus
to act a great part a man must be capable of real greatness. As
Talma says : ' He will never rise to excellence as an actor whose
soul is not susceptible of the extremes of passion.' And yet the
representation night after night of these great feelings may
come to be almost mechanical, or, rather, the feelings of the
actor can be almost mechanically reawakened by the excellence
of his own art. Thus in describing Le Kain at his best period,
when his art was ripe, he says :

TALMA ON THE ACTORS ART 91

Accent, inflections, action, attitudes, looks, all were reproduced
at every representation with the same exactness, the same vigour ;
and if there was any difference between one representation and
another, it was always in favour of the last.

Spontaneity is an admirable gift, but you cannot be spontaneous
a second time. Spontaneous movements are right and necessary
at the moment of creation, but are wholly out of place before an
audience.

Talma liked good scenery and correct dresses, but one feels
that if he were alive now, he might say, ' Faut de la vertu, pas
trop n'en faut.' His remarks on truth and nature are true and
natural. He points out, taught by the scenes he had witnessed
during the Reign of Terror, that ' the man of the world and the
man of the people, so opposite in their language, frequently
express the great agitations of the mind in the same way,' and
that ( the great movements of the soul elevate man to an
ideal nature in whatever rank fate may have placed him.'
While, however, he recommends the observation of passion in
others, it is clear that he never condescended to mimicry. Some
talent for mimicry is very common among actors, and is indeed
a useful accomplishment, especially in the lower walks of the
profession ; but no man can ever hope to play Coriolanus by
mimicking some statesman.

Talma's chief observations were made upon himself. He
attended to his own tones, his own face, when in real grief; he
is half ashamed and half proud of having done so. We imagine
that all artists are alike on this point, and that in this fact lies
a certain compensation for the extra keenness of their feelings.
They suffer more than other men, and get more good from
suffering. Talma observed that an emotion truly expressed
moved an audience which did not understand the words. Most
people would attribute this to gesture ; but he, rightly as we
think, considered the effect as due to the voice, and as an instance
he speaks of Miss O'Neil moving Frenchmen who did not
understand her to tears. The point is a curious one, for we have
observed that a foreigner can judge artistic truth in acting with
fair success when he is wholly incapable of appreciating any
little niceties of accent or elocution. Thus too we allow
foreigners to act on our stage who cannot speak one word so as

92 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

to be acceptable in our ears as English. Yet their tones will
bring tears almost as readily as if they spoke with English
tongues. We believe that this admits of explanation ; but the
theory would demand too much space to be developed here. Let
all who are interested in acting read Talma's essay ; and then,
if they wish for a little amusement, they may turn to the £ Actor's
Art,' by Mr. Gustave Garcia. Talma tells his readers what a
great actor must learn, Mr. Garcia explains what small actors
can be taught and do learn.

93

ARTIST AND CRITIC.1

ARTISTS — whether they be painters, actors, writers, musicians,
or what not — are usually dissatisfied with their critics ; and we
will not deny that they have reasons for their discontent. Good
criticism is at least as rare as good art of any other kind. But
the artist when grumbling at his critics often asserts what we
hold to be untrue — namely, that criticism to be valuable must
proceed from a man who is himself skilled in the art of which he
speaks. He says that the judgment of the ignorant should be
disregarded, and he counts all men ignorant who cannot execute
a masterpiece at least equal to his own best work. The artist,
in fact, claims to be judged by his peers. The claim seems so
reasonable that, if we dare to challenge it, we must do so with
many reservations. In the mechanical arts, such as the forging
of horseshoes or in arts of mere skill, such as cricket, the judg-
ment of the laity, a.s we may call the unskilled public, is really
worthless. To be a judge in these matters a man must have
forged iron or played cricket, and in respect of the finer arts also
we take it that as regards mere skill of workmanship, deftness
of execution, the artist has such great advantages over the lay-
man, that his verdict in respect of skill must be received without
appeal. We here grant the artist a clear supremacy, and admit
that a very bad sculptor will be a better judge of the skill shown
in carving marble than the most learned connoisseur. He will
recognise distinctions of touch, style, and method which are
invisible to the multitude, and seen but dimly by unskilled
lovers of the art. In painting, in music, in writing, in all fine
arts, the same answer holds good. The skilful are the sole
judges of skill; but in the fine arts skill is not all in all. The

1 From the Saturday Review, October 11, 1884.

94 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

layman may say to the artist, your knowledge of technique is a
snare. In judging a work of art you examine the workmanship,
and forget to look at the work produced. Are you a writer ?
You allow the merit or demerit of word arrangements to distract
your attention from the idea they should suggest. Are you a
painter ? You see paint, and not a picture. Are you a musi-
cian ? You hear combinations, not music. The layman who
says such things is guilty of gross exaggeration, and yet his
words indicate a real danger to which an artist is liable when he
plays the critic.

In mechanical arts the craftsman uses his skill to produce
something useful, but (except in the rare case when he is at
liberty to choose what he shall produce) his sole merit lies in
skill. In the fine arts the student uses skill to produce some-
thing beautiful ; he is free to choose what that something shall
be, and the layman claims that he may and must judge the
artist chiefly by the value in beauty of the thing done. Artistic
skill contributes to beauty, or it would not be skill ; but beauty
is the result of many elements, and the nobler the art the lower
is the rank which skill takes among them. The intense enjoy-
ment which the artist takes in the exercise of his own skill, and
from the generous and sympathetic perception of skill in others,
tempts him to overvalue this element of beauty, whereas most
laymen are apt to undervalue the skill which they only half
perceive. Passing to higher walks of criticism it is often said,
and with some truth, that our judgment of artistic work should
not depend on our mere personal perception, but should be based
on some acknowledged principles or canons of art. Now the
word principle is here used by the critic and artist in a very
different sense from that attached to it by his scientific brethren ;
and a very pretty, but uninstructive, wrangle ensues when the
man of science challenges the artist to put his principles into
clear language. Nevertheless, it may be granted that the so-
called principles of art current in each school at a given moment,
though vaguely defined, imperfectly apprehended, illogical, and
variable with the development of the art, do nevertheless exercise
a healthy influence, especially on the great mass of ordinary
men who get their living by that art ; nay, it must be allowed
that many statements about art made by Aristotle and Plato

ARTIST AND CRITIC 95

still seem true, but the sources from which a knowledge of these
eternal canons can be gained are open to the layman as to the
artist. Many men who have no practical skill in any art take
great pleasure in studying the laws of art, and of these some
are far more competent than most artists to collect experience,
to analyse emotions, and to arrange in logical sequence the
facts observed. The artist is seldom a man of clear thought,
though instances to the contrary may be found. Nevertheless,
here we think that the seeming advantages of the layman tend
really to his disadvantage. In the mind of the artist the
vaguely apprehended principle may really live and guide his
work ; as religious faith may guide a man who could neither
defend a dogma by logic nor even apprehend its meaning with
accuracy. The layman, precisely because he formulates his
principles more clearly, is in greater danger of using them like
formulae. He then obtains his judgment by a sort of calcula-
tion and can no longer trust his senses. In other words, he be-
comes a pedant. No form of criticism, not even the dogmatic, is
so barren as that which endeavours to test the merit of a composi-
tion by a series of comparisons with a series of assumed standards.
The elements of beauty cannot be weighed in a balance like
chemical ingredients. We are not aware that any dramatic
critic (with the possible exception of Mr. William Winter) has
spoken of a play as containing fifteen measures of variety, ten
of repose, six of style, and so forth, though we suspect that
professorial examiners in literature have before now endeavoured
to estimate the comparative excellence of essays by some such
simple numerical process ; but even when numbers are eschewed,
the critic who systematically considers a work of art under a
series of heads, and endeavours to appraise its value by ascer-
taining how far it squares with each successive rule, is trying to
measure beauty with a tape line. A man's judgment of a work
of art, be he artist or layman, should come to him as a direct
perception, although when he desires to understand his sensation
or to explain it to others, he may have recourse to analysis and
comparison. The artist is in less danger than the layman of
inverting the proper order.

Yet this is rather a dangerous argument to use in favour of
the artist — that he is less likely to go wrong because he trusts

96 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

less to his intellect. If we leave the mere principles of art am
consider other kinds of knowledge, such as the history of art, the
literature of art, the lives of artists, and so forth, the average artist
certainly stands at no advantage over the connoisseur.

Besides skill and knowledge there is a third qualification
which a man must have who would judge soundly of any art. He
must be capable of deriving intense pleasure from what the art
produces. He must really enjoy that particular kind of beauty
— the delight a man feels in looking at a picture, in hearing
music, in seeing acting, is a proof that he possesses at least the
rudiments of that sense which, when duly cultivated, may enable
him to be a good critic of the given art. Here, again, the artist
seems at first to stand at great advantage. The mere choice of
his profession proves that, far from being indifferent to the con-
templation of the works in question, he so loves them that he is
willing to spend his life in trying to acquire the power to produce
these good things. Yet other men can show that they love
beauty. The professed critic may say that he, no less than the
artist, gives his life to the contemplation of art. Many buyers
of pictures buy them because they enjoy them. And the price
they give is evidence, so far as it goes, that the enjoyment must
be considerable. And, indeed, there are fortunately thousands
of men and women, neither artists nor critics, who find a con-
siderable portion of their happiness in the enjoyment of some
form of art. The first impulse which made the artist choose his
profession was probably due to an enjoyment keener than that
of any among this crowd ; but, as life wears on, the use of this
fine art-sense of his to make bread numbs the nerves. Praise,
blame, hope, fear, rivalry, habit, the influence of his set — all
these things warp his art-sense, and many of them lessen the
pleasure he derives from art. Whereas the layman keeps his
art-sense fresh. The pettiness of life cannot taint the pleasure
he takes in beauty. It is, indeed, true that the regular and
wise use of any faculty tends to its improvement. This is that
cultivation by which taste becomes good taste. But here, again,
the layman has some advantage. The artist almost invariably
becomes a specialist. And his taste, no less than his execution,
is thereby specialised. He attaches overwhelming importance
to some few qualities of which he is an unrivalled judge. To

ARTIST AND CRITIC 97

other beauties he is blind, deaf, and callous. If you hear a man
who is clearly interested in pictures, plays, or music openly
proclaim that Raffaelle could not paint, that Shakespeare was a
poor dramatist, or that Beethoven was grossly ignorant of music,
you may guess that man to be an artist. His thesis is all the
more amusing because usually he is right so far as he goes —
that is to say, the qualities he admires are in all probability
good qualities enough, and are more or less absent from the
work which he rejects. He is only wrong in attributing over-
whelming value to minor merits.

The question we are discussing is of far more practical
importance to artists than to laymen. The many will have their
way whatever artists may think of the value of their judgment.
The public holds the purse-strings, and so commands a hearing ;
we commonly hear artists lament this. The painter, for instance,
speaks contemptuously of pot-boilers, and grieves over the sad
necessity which binds him to give, not that which he knows to
be best, but that which the ignorant public will buy. To these
men we would say there is an ignorant public for whom you
may at your choice write or paint, and so make large sums of
money ; but there is also a cultivated public whom your very
best work cannot satisfy. This cultivated public is now so large
that no really good work ever fails to produce a livelihood for
the artist. If, then, you produce pot-boilers knowing you can
do better, this is not the fault of the public, but your own fault.
This, however, is a mere side issue to the general question
raised, whether the artist should work mainly with a view to
satisfy other artists, or to satisfy that portion of the public
which is interested in his art and has a cultivated taste.

We have no doubt which solution to prefer. The great
artist must, indeed, satisfy the priesthood of his art, but he must
work for mankind, not merely for his fellow-craftsmen. He
must not be content with a neat garden-plot, he must reign
over a great world. Yet we know how difficult it is for him to
believe in the existence of an artist's world outside his little
ring of friends. The painter hears the world speak of his
pictures, dismissing the work of months with some curt and
pert remark. The great actor sees the world neglect him for
some pretty girl — some noisy fool ; musicians see the world

VOL. I. H

98 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

enjoying barrel-organs and brass bands. What wonder if the
artist is tempted to despise the world ! But among his friends
the artist finds knowledge, taste, and courtesy combined, with
some appreciation of the effect required to produce even a pass-
able result. He and his friends loathe the poor vulgar work
which deceives the great mass of men, and they despise a public
which is cheated so easily. The artist has tangible proofs that
real criticism exists in his own circle, and it is hard indeed for
him to believe that in that vague, unknown, incoherent mass of
creatures outside live his real masters, his true judges. Yefc
this is so. Every priesthood is similarly tempted to believe that
the priest is not to be judged by the people ; but all forms
of religion, including that of art, are in the end judged by the
religious laity, and surely this is well. Why should religion be,
if not for the people ? The relation of the artist to the public
is that of the priest to mankind.

But here some artist might say, i I agree that I shall work
for mankind. I desire strongly that a large part of mankind
shall be so cultivated as to be able to judge and appreciate my
work. I admit that among the laity there are men whose judg-
ment I value very highly, and who are therefore in one sense
my critics; but these men should not seek to impose their
opinions on others. They have a right to their private judg-
ment, which is often excellent ; but they have no right to preach.
I court private criticism ; but these laics must not hold forth in
books and journals professing to act as accredited guides. For
this purpose, at least, it is wise to have a priesthood, so that
the really ignorant may not be led away by strange doctrines.'

It is, indeed, highly convenient that there should exist some
recognised critical body in each art, and this body should, we
take it, consist wholly of artists. In the Royal Academy, with
its power of selection and rejection, we have one body of this
kind. The French Academy is another instance ; the Comedie
Fran9aise is a third ; but, except in the case in which the artists
are writers, it would seem desirable that the expression of
opinion given by the artist judges should be mute. If painters
or musicians tried to formulate a corporate judgment they would
meet with much difficulty. Even the writers cannot accomplish
this. They have to delegate the duty of writing an authoritative

ARTIST AND CRITIC 99

criticism to each member of their body in turn, and this plan
could hardly be adopted in other arts. In fact, the right to
print one's judgment depends in great measure on the power of
expressing it, and the power of doing this belongs to the writer
caste alone. Hence we find that of necessity the professed
critics are literary men. Painters, musicians, actors, are all
judged by journalists; not because journalists know more of
these things by nature than other people, but because they can
write what they feel in such a way that people will read it, and
whether this be right or wrong it is inevitable. There are
indeed some writers who treat criticism itself as a fine art, or
rather as one branch of literary art. Taking a book, a picture,
or a song as text, they write a graceful essay. Whether the
opinions of such a critic as this are right or wrong matters little
— the essay is ingenious, learned, suggestive. It contains
something for the artist, something for the connoisseur, some-
thing for the public. It has a beginning, a middle, and an
end. Yet the painter or musician who reads the essay must
often writhe with indignation at the judgments given. They
may find comfort in the thought of the larger public who can-
not write neat essays, but who answer to the magic call of art
whenever the piping is true. This public reads the neat essays
because in their way they, too, are artistic ; but when a great
play, a great book, or a great picture shines out through the
daily fog of life, not all the little literary essays of all the
little literary men on earth can hide the new sun.

Beyond and above the journalist, the essayist, the prophet,
and the artist there is a wiser judge — not any one man living
now or in the past or future, but that section of mankind which,
by an extension of the analogy we have used in contrasting
artist and layman, we may call the Art Church. All true art
believers of all times are members of this church. Each honest
art lover in his day brings some little atom of his soul to nourish
this great judge, and each little element building the spiritual
whole coheres in virtue of its fitness.

The Art Church has its schisms, offshoots, heresies, reforma-
tions. Even in her bosom there is no abiding rest ; but poor
fallible mankind can provide no better champion for beauty.

H 2

joo LITERATURE AND DRAMA

GRISELDA.

A STAGE PL A. Y IN THREE ACTS.1

PERSONAGES OF THE DRAMA.

WALTER, styled Marquis of Saluce, an absolute prince.

TANCRED, son to tlie Marquis of Saluce, styled in the third Act Count Roland

of Saluce.

GlAN, a peasant, father to Griselda.
SERGEANT, a trusted soldier of the Marquis of Saluce.
JOHN, the Majordomo of the Palace.

RICHARD )

GRISELDA, wife to the Marquis of Saluce, separated from her hmband.
FILOMENE, daughter to the Marquis ; styled in the last Act the Countess Dora
of Saluce.

Lords, Ladies^ Courtiers, Soldiers, and Servants.

ACT I.— A Cottage in the Abruzzi.

ACT II. — Scene I. — A Chamber in the Palace of the Marquis of Saluce.
Scene II. — A Bedchamber in the same Palace.

ACT III. — Banqueting Hall in the Palace of the Marquis of Saluce.
Time. — That of Boccaccio's Story on the same subject.

ACT I.

SCENE. — Interior of GIAN'S Cottage.

GIAN and GRISELDA discovered.

Gian. You work too hard, Griselda. I have worked hard
all my life, and I can work hard still, because I have always
taken proper rest, food, and wine. Not too much, but enough.
Best is what you want most ; but a cup of wine would do you
good.

1 Privately performed in Professor Jenkin's house at Edinburgh, January

1882.

GRISELDA 101

•«.
Gris. What good would it do me, father ?

Gian. It would cheer you, child. A sad heart makes a sour
face.

Gris. Is mine sour, father ?

Gian. It might well be sour. Certainly no woman ever had
a better right to be miserable ; and so, I think, a cup of wine
would do you good. No ? (Drinks wine.) I admit this is
poor tipple after such liquor as you drank at your husband's
court. He must have a princely cellar ! What growths does
the Marquis of Saluce favour most ?

Gris. He prefers Tuscan wine.

Gian. A marquis should know good wine. I think this
good, but he would not swallow a drop of it. He would call it
poor country stuff. My talk, too, is poor stuff for you ; you
have lived with ladies, and conferred about State affairs with
great lords. I like to hear their names. Tell me the styles
and titles of the ladies who have waited on you.

Gris. Father, you know the roll by heart. Forgive me —
words which tell of that old time come unwillingly, even when,
called to do you pleasure.

Gian. True ! true ! A grief once stilled should not be
stirred. I am dull and blundering — quite unworthy to be
father to a queen. For my part, I never understood why a
reigning prince should have married you, but I understand still
less why he unmarried you years after. Men say, too, you were
a good queen. Well, great folk do strange things ; but small
folk, such as you and I, do just what we must.

Gris. True, father ; and now our cows must have their
fodder, and I must give it them. Where is the stable key ?

Gian. You have an angel's patience. I never could have
borne half what you have borne.

Gris. The key.

Gian. Nay ; I shall keep the key. A stable is no place for
a gentlewoman.

Gris. Gentlewomen, father, have good care of all who serve
them. Pray give me the key.

Gian. Gentle or simple, women must have their way. I
warrant that in obstinacy you could match the best of them,
Grisyld.

102 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Oris. Ah ! you have soon forgot my angelic patience.
Oian. No whit, Grisyld. You are obstinately patient. (A
knock is heard at the door.) Come in.

TANCRED comes in hastily, c, looks round, and sees GRISELDA.

Tanc. Lady, if your name be Griselda, as the fairness of
your presence teaches me to believe, honour me, I pray you,
with your quick attention, and pardon the absence of that full
courtesy which your worth deserves, but which danger, both
rude and imminent, forbids.

Oris. In this house, sir, courtesy is chiefly due to my father.
He will, no doubt, give you such aid as his power allows and your
need may justify.

Tanc. Old sir, I crave your pardon for that which seemed
discourtesy, but which was truly haste to do you service. I ask
no help, but bring your daughter a warning and the means of
safety. Have I your leave to speak with her ?

Gian. A humble house can give a hearty welcome. Pray be
seated, sir. I see that you are hot, and, as I think, tired.
Before telling us your story, you might relish a cup of our thin
country wine.

Tanc. Sir, present delay is dangerous, even that which lets
me thank you for your kind welcome. I beseech you, give me
leave to tell your daughter my errand.

Gian. Nay — speak — your speech is fair, and I will stay no
man's speech so long as he speaks fair. Your court language
will tickle my daughter's ear. She has been used to it. I like
it too. You are noble, sir ?

Tanc. Truly I know not. At daybreak, lady, I took the
best horse owned by the Marquis of Saluce

Gris. You come from him ?

Tanc. Although I bring no message from your husband,
noble lady

Gris. I have no husband, sir. I am a peasant woman.

Tanc. For me you are still a queen. The decree by which
the marquis put you from him weighs no more with me than
so much paper.

Gris. Such paper can do much. Who are you, sir ?

Tanc. One who brings you news and help.

GRISELDA 103-

Gris. I need no help. You bring me pain. Father, may
I go?

Gian. By no means, Grisyld.

Tanc. Let your anger visit me hereafter for those faults
which my youthful inexperience has put upon me ; but in the
present moment grant me that faith which a loyal intention
merits. Believe me, lady, I come with true reverence to serve
you.

Gris. Young sir, I believe you, but I need no service. Until
you came all was well with me.

Tanc. Yet hear me. I left Saluce before dawn, and I have
spurred hard all day, for behind me I heard the rattle of horses'
hoofs. My purpose is to save you. If you will not listen, the
rude messengers who follow will bring death.

Gris. Well, then, speak.

Tanc. The Marquis of Saluce bribed the Pope to sanction the
divorce by which you were discrowned ; this you know. Now
he goes farther. He will marry again. The bride he has chosen
is a certain Lady Filomene, and already she is at his court.

Gris. Is this all your news ?

Tanc. You say no more ?

Gris. What should I say ?

Gian. Say ? — say with me that such a marriage is impossible
and infamous. The Marquis was and is my daughter's husband,
and I say

Gris. Father, words are useless.

Tanc. I should not of my free will have played the messenger
merely to bring bad tidings. I have more to tell.

Gris. More ?

Tanc. A troop of horse sent by the Marquis follows me, and
will soon be here. Their sergeant brings a letter which summons
you to court.

Gris. A letter from my lord ! How should you know what
he will write to me ? You are too busy. From his letter I shall
learn what my lord bids me do, and that I will do. You have
spent one welcome, sir ; your news may buy another from some
gossip. We will not traffic with you.

Gian. Grisyld, Grisyld ! To my ear the news rings true. I
would fain have more of it.

104 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Tanc. If I leave you now I shall throw away men's
lives risked for you.

Gris. Men's lives risked for me ? Father, if it please you, I
will hear this gentleman alone.

Gian. I will go. Men's lives ! I have neither skill nor will
to meddle with such gear; lam an ignorant old man — your
servant, sir. Be prudent, Grisyld. [Exit GIAN, L.

Gris. Now, sir, I will hear you ; but first tell me who you
are ; I never saw you at the court.

Tanc. Why speak of me ? I am nothing.

Gris. You wish me to believe you, and to act on my belief.
Tell me, then, who and what are you ?

Tanc. I know neither who nor what I am. I have inherited
no father's name, and as yet I have won no honour by which
men should know me ; but henceforth they shall say, ( He saved
Griselda.' Lady, I cannot buy your faith, but I entreat you
give it me as a free gift ; trust me, and I will soon prove that
your trust has been well bestowed.

Gris. Young sir, these are wild words. I am a very simple
person, and I wish for a simple answer. Who and what are
you?

Tanc. I am called Tancred, and I have no other name. My
guardians would not tell my parentage, but they gave me
kindly nurture in Bologna. There we, the student youth, loved
no theme so well as argument concerning noble women. One
we judged to be the worthiest of all who live. She was a peasant
girl, whom the wild Marquis of Saluce, in a mad freak, made
his wife. Men mocked at first, but by gentle dignity she taught
them both to love and honour her. Then, as though in spite
that she whom he had raised should stand upon the solid ground
of her own worth, the Marquis killed the two children she had
borne him, calling them base-born brats, because she was their
mother. She said he could not kill her love, whether for them
or him. Thereupon his mad mood changed, and he gave her
power, which she so used that for many years the weak had
peace, while the strong loved the law which bound them. Then
the moody Marquis took back all that he had given, and robbed
her even of the name of wife. Discrowned, divorced, stripped
to her smock, and cast out from the palace like a beggar, she

GRISELDA 105

went barefoot to her old father in the forest. On that day, the
Marquis would have been toppled down into the mire, if she
had said the word ; but she was silent, for she loved him. As
we in Bologna reasoned on her story, each man's judgment
mirrored the man himself. By the crafty her straight simplicity
was wrested into crooked cunning, but the noble gave her back
a noble recognition of nobility. As for me, I held that she was
wrong in having patience with such wickedness, and yet I
worshipped her ; and, as I now learn, my faith was such that
she wrought miracles on me. Nay, the facts will fit the words.
When heat has prompted me to wrath, I have often heard a
voice that soothed me — my mother's, as I then believed ; and
once, when folly would have had me enter a dark gate which led
to sin, I saw a vision on the open blackness barring me out with
light — the Virgin Mary, as I thought. But now I know the
truth ; the saint's face was yours ; the saving light shone from
your eyes. I called your voice my mother's. Fancy could not
trick me, for until this hour Griselda's face and voice were both
unknown to me. Yet what I knew led me, with many others?
to lay plans by which we hoped to draw you to us in Bologna,
when suddenly my guardians, giving no reason, sent me to the
Marquis of Saluce. I made no long stay with him, and this
day come from his court.

Gris. Is he well ?

Tanc. In body he is well. He received me kindly, saying
that my father had been his dear friend. He spoke much with
me, and showed so keen and sound a wit, that if I had not
borne in mind your wrongs I should have loved him.

Gris. I understand . Did he ?

Tanc. At times he spoke of you, and I was so foolish as to
hope that I, a boy, might turn his heart back to you.

Gris. Hope may not always be wise ; yet we love hope, and
those who hope — forgive me; — you see I am not very patient.
I spoke cruelly to you.

Tanc. I told my errand with such want of skill as deserved
reproof. But now you believe me ?

Gris. I do believe you. I think your nature noble ;

your heart kind And when you spoke of me to the

Marquis ?

io6 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Tanc. He would smile, and often lie would give no answer ;
but I thought I understood him better than his courtiers, and
that his harshness was a mask hiding a kind heart. I thought
he really loved you.

Gris. He did so once.

Tanc. Is there any pain like losing faith in one whom we
have loved ?

Qris. I have never felt that pain.

Tanc. Seven days since Lady Filomene arrived. The Mar-
quis changed. I thought he had put on a mask ; but I soon
learnt that his seeming goodness had been the mask. What I
now saw was his evil face.

Gris. Remember I was his wife.

Tanc. And you believe ?

Gris. Believe with me. The Marquis is a noble gentleman,
how strange soever his actions seem.

Tanc. Madam, what should I say ? He is your husband in
the sight of God ; yet he will marry this Lady Filomene.

Gris. Marry her ! Who is she ?

Tanc. No name is given her but Filomene. No one could tell
her lineage, nor say whence she came ; nor dared any man in-
quire. The courtiers laughed and said the Marquis held curiosity
to be a trespass on his royal chase.

Gris. Is she very beautiful — and young ?

Tanc. Young, beautiful, learned, and very proud.

Gris. Is this marriage — to her mind ?

Tanc. Truly, no. The Marquis has wooed her in no loving
or even courteous fashion, and he is old.

Gris. Ah ! — yes — old. You had more to tell me ? You said
my lord would summon me to court, and that there was danger
to men's lives. I could not understand.

Tanc. In a few hours a messenger will come, sent by the
Marquis, to bring you to Saluce by force. There he will make
you servant to the Lady Filomene.

Qris. No force is needed. I will go.

Tanc. You need not go.

Gris. I need not ?

Tanc. I came here to secure your freedom. Thirty students,
friends of mine, have at my summons crossed the frontier

GR1SELDA 107

secretly and wait for us hard by, at the little wood by the cross-
roads. Come with us, and in six hours you will be on Tuscan
soil, and free.

Gris. Free! I cannot understand — let me think. Silence —
let me speak. You speak too quickly. My lord is about to
marry. He will send for me to his court to serve the lady.
You, a stranger, come to me and ask me to follow you and dis-
obey the noble Marquis. Why ?

Tanc. That you may escape from him ; that you may reach
safety and happiness.

Gris. My boy, you know not what you say. I can reach
no happiness by flight or disobedience. I will go to the
Marquis.

Tanc. To the Marquis ? Say to persecution, insult, death.
A moment since you asked why you should follow me. I ask,
now, Why go to the Marquis ?

Gris. (a pause) I think it right.

Tanc. Right! I know well that as wide a gulf sunders
wrong from right as hell from heaven. Only, let us not give
the name of right to every common custom. In women obedience
is a custom, and this custom would make you obey your
Marquis, serve his concubine, and kiss his hand — the hand
which struck you. This custom would have you kneel and
stretch your throat to meet his knife, rusty with your children's
blood. Can you call this custom right ?

Gris. You hurt me. You say you come to serve me. Be
gentle, then.

Tanc. That is the voice. When I hear that voice I must be
calm ; but the voice even of an angel cannot make truth false.
Go to Saluce, and you do wrong.

Gris. You say that going to Saluce I shall do wrong and
suffer much, and you would bribe me from this wrong-doing and
misery with happiness. What happiness ? Daily food ? Shelter
from heat and cold ? More ? A servant — many ? Learned
Tuscans, too, to talk with — friends, you would call them;
wealth, perhaps, and leisure — much leisure to think upon the
past. It may be wrong, young sir — I am a poor casuist — but
I will go to the Marquis.

Tanc. Your words sting, but they are not just. In our

io8 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Tuscan town your life would have a larger range than in this
village.

Gris. Here I have obeyed my lord.

Tanc. There you shall rule many better men.

Gris. How should that be ?

Tanc. I speak in the name of hundreds such as I, and
nobler ; we offer you a brighter crown than that which you have
lost. By our faith in you, and by your faith in God, I summon
you to be our leader, our prophet, our martyr, if needs be.

Gris. What rhapsody is this ?

Tanc. You think that I speak wildly, but I tell you simple
facts. Would men who are not in earnest defy the Marquis in
arms ? We few, who are here to-day, were chosen out of many
hundreds — bound secretly by oath to good deeds and to each
other. I cannot yet make all clear to you, but we are strong.
Our aim is that of knights who in old days would right every
wrong or die. We cannot die ; each man of us may fall, but
the beauty of his death fires twenty more to take his place ; so
that we thrive by loss. Truth is our guide, justice is our aim,
and our glaive slays like the wrath of heaven — none knows
where or how. We will make crime rare in Italy.

Gris. You will add fresh crime ; you are raw youths — secret
murderers. You are no knights ; you stab like cowards, safe in
the dark. Look to yourselves if you would right wrongs. You
wrong the kingdom's peace ; that is the greatest wrong of all.

Tanc. Only the wicked fear us.

Gris. You in turn will fear those you hurt ; soon you will
hate those whom you fear, and hate will make you cruel. Then
begins a monstrous game. The open and the secret tyrant
brag against each other, whose torture shall be most feared, while
poor honest men are ground between two stones, pitiless law,
and pitiless rebellion. Would you have me take part in this ?

Tanc. Your words sound true. But to persuade me is little ;
come and teach us all. We have gone astray ; come and guide
us. Lead us.

Gris. How should a woman lead ?

Tanc. As a saint — by beauty in her life. We hold you to
be a saint, and we will follow you. We have worked in the
dark — you shall bring daylight to us ; we have been blind — you

GRIS ELD A 109

shall give us eyes ; we have known what to hate you shall
teach us what to love ; and we will worship the divinity of
womanhood in you. In us you shall have many sons, and our
one strife shall be to make the whole world call you blessed.

Gris. You have thought this of me, planned this for me !
I have known a strange happiness. I am childless, yet I see in
you the ever-budding youth of the world, and hear from your lips
the praise a noble son might render a good mother. In a sad
hour, sir, you have brought me a great joy. But I cannot follow
you.

Tanc. Why not ?

Gris. I would not grant your prayer even if I could. You
think I have lived nobly ; if that be so, the faith which I have
kindled in you is that help you claim from me ; that other help
you ask is not mine to give. I am no oracle ready to solve
every tangled riddle set by men's lives, nor would a single man
among you take an answer from my lips. You made a goddess
of me at a distance ; but now I am before you, you see only the
woman, and it is you who would command me, not I you. Oh,
it is so. Even now, I tell you that to me it seems right that I
should obey my lord, go to Saluce, and serve his bride ; but you
will not believe me.

Tanc. None can be judge in their own cause. I fear you are
in love with suffering, and would choose whatever lot gave you
most pain. Surely it is better to lead good men seeking guid-
ance, than as a willing victim to let a bad man make sport of you .

Gris. I think your goodness pains me more than that badness
you speak of. I cannot argue. Let me be, I pray you.

Tanc. If you are right, why do I not recognise your present
will as good ?

Gris. Because it thwarts your plans, and men are ever
masterful, even the best.

Tanc. In a good cause I would not spa.re my life ; no, nor
my friend's — not yours ! But this obedience serves no purpose.
To obey a villain wilfully is wrong, unholy.

Gris. You speak as a man. Man can strive. Man should
believe no evil to be without a remedy ; this he must win at the
sword's point if no less will serve. But a woman cannot battle
with hard hearts and hard hands. If submission, if endurance

i io LITERATURE AND DRAMA

be unholy, there is no martyr's palm for women. And he is no
villain.

Tanc. Until now you have shown strength by your sub-
mission, but to submit farther, and for no good end, is weakness.

Chris. I will submit.

Tanc. Nay, then, you shall submit to me. My will is your
good. His purpose is your degradation. (Goes out, back.) We
are ready. Bid them come. [Re-enters.

Gris. What have you done ?

Tanc. I have called my brethren ; you shall come ' with us
whether you will or not.

Gris. I will not come. [A confused noise is heard without.

Tanc. You shall not go to your death — for he needs your
death. This new marriage, if it be contracted while you live,
may be set aside any day. Death is your only stop game, said
the Marquis. Marriage and divorce may play see-saw, quoth
he ; and then he laughed. I hoped then that he might take
you back. He shall not have you back.

Gris. He shall have his will.

Tanc. Right ! All I said was folly. How could I dream
that you would flinch from martyrdom while you were free ! but
you shall not be free ; you shall be saved. Force shall save you.
And I thank God I am a man, and can use force.

Gris. You will not save me. Have some mercy. Let me at
least die near him — by his hand. Do not kill me here ; for I
will die sooner than go with you. (He seizes her.) Oh, bind
my hands ; you cannot bind life in me. I will neither eat nor
drink. That's too slow. I will not breathe : I will die — here-^-
now ! (A trumpet call is heard.) No, I shall live ; for he has
come ! That trumpet sounded his call — I hear his voice.
Walter ! I am here. [Bursts from TANCRED to the door.

Door opens, SERGEANT appears, c, and salutes.

Tanc. How is this ? Tancred ! — friends ! — a Tancred.
Gris. Soldier, speak.

GiAN enters, L.

Gian. What is this noise ? Who may you be ?

Serg. Sir, I am a sergeant in the bodyguard of the most

GRISELDA in

noble Marquis of Saluce, and I come to bring this letter to the
Lady Grisyld.

Gris. From my lord ?

Serg. Ay, madam.

Gris. Give it me. (Takes letter — reads :) Madam, follow
the bearer : he will bring you to our court. Walter, Marquis
of Saluce. (Kisses letter.) Soldier, I come gladly. Sir Tan-
cred, I thank you for playing herald to good news.

Tanc. I have still to earn your thanks. Sergeant, Lady
Griselda shall not go with you to Saluce.

Gian. Sir, she must go if the Marquis bids her. This is
good news indeed.

Tanc. I say she shall not go. [Whistles again.

Serg. Your friends have got beyond that whistle, Sir Tancred,
judging by the pace at which they started.

Tanc. Cowards !

Serg. Ten to one is eight or nine too many. The Marquis
knew the very corner of the wood where we should find them.

Tanc. The Marquis knew ?

Serg. The Marquis always does know. He gave me orders
to take you prisoner, but to let the others go — or rather make
them go, and they are gone.

Gian. Grisyld, child, are my wits wandering ? Who are
gone?

Gris. To take him prisoner! Soldier, are you sure that this
is so ? He has harmed no one. I come with you freely. Were
you in any case to bring Sir Tancred with you ?

Serg. My orders are clear, lady, to bring Sir Tancred back
— alive.

Tanc. You may find that difficult.

Gian. I cannot understand.

Gris. Father, it is better you should not be concerned with
what has happened ; this remains ; I am sent for by the Mar-
quis, and, as I believe, I am to be the servant of his new bride.

Gian. Well ! it is good for you to go to court again, but I
shall miss you. Still, you may be of use to me there. Pro-
bably the Marquis, though all is over between you and him,
might grant such a trifling favour as I want — for old remem-
brance' sake.

.112 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Gris. For old remembrance' sake !

Gian. What I wish would benefit you too. If I were made
a bailie, your position would be better. I think it hardly right
that, having been a queen, you should be nobody. Now, as the
bailie's daughter, you would have a certain rank.

Tanc. Sir, there is no question here of rank. The question
now

Gris. Silence, sir; my father asks but a small favour, which,
if I can, I will obtain.

Serg. If it please you, we had better start.

Tanc. What think you is to be my fate ?

Serg. A plain man would say you had earned a hanging,
but no one knows what the Marquis will or will not do. Just
now, you must come with me.

Tanc. Must may be too soon spoken. Madam, farewell.
For men at least, you did not say submission was a virtue.
(Draws his sword) Room there for man or sword !

Serg. (steps aside) Room enough for both.

[TANCRED, while rushing out, c, is tripped up and
pinioned by two soldiers behind the door.

Tanc. Treachery ! [He is borne away.

Gris. He is not hurt ?

Serg. No, madam. Will it please you, come.

Gris. Father, farewell. You will need help when I am
gone. Bridget will serve you best. The cows have waited long
to-day ; remember them. (To the SERGEANT) Take me to my
lord. [Exeunt GRIS. and SERG. C as Curtain falls.

ACT II.

SCENE I. — Well-furnished room in the palace at Saluce. Table
with fruit, wine, and silver cups. The MARQTIIS is dis-
covered sitting. To him enters the SERGEANT, R.

Marq. How fares your prisoner ?
Serg. Meagrely, my lord. Sir Tancred eats little and drinks
nothing.

Marq. Nothing!

GRISELDA 113

Serg. Nothing but water, my lord, which a soldier may call
nought,

Marq. So you drank the wine we sent him ?
Serg. I will never let good wine spoil, my lord, for lack of a
dry throat.

Marq. Go back to Sir Tancred. Say, we regret that our
good cheer should pall on him for lack of better company than
drunken soldiers, and that we therefore bid him to our own
table. Go, and bring him here. (Exit SERG. R.) The lad is
eighteen. If I cannot win his confidence before he knows I am
his father, constancy in hating me will seem to him a point of
honour. I like the boy. He meant to set Grisyld on a throne,
maugre me and all my men. That was folly — but the folly of
a prince. Filomene seems venomous. She thinks me a devil,
and despises Grisyld. Her head was turned by young Count
Malatesta's flattery. She has seen the boy four times, and
believes that she could never love another man. Well, he shall
marry her. I wish him joy. (Enter SERG. R.) Where is Sir
Tancred ?

Serg. My lord, Sir Tancred bade me say that, if it please
you, he prefers silence to your speech and hunger to your food.
Marq. It does not please me. Bring him with you. (Exit
SERG. R.) His indignation has the true antique Roman flavour.
Virtue is his goddess, and he saw that ancient lady smile on
him when he sent that message. Good old Virtue ! She is so
incompetent, so weak, that I feel bound to help the poor dame.
(Enter TANCRED and SERG.) He has no weapon ?
Serg. No, my lord.

Marq. Leave us. (Exit SERG. R.) Your case, sir, is not so
gloomy as to warrant those black looks. You shall not be
hanged to-day, no, nor to-morrow.
Tanc. What matters what day ?

Marq. What matters but the day, man ? I should take
hanging to be a speedy, peaceable kind of death — good enough
for any man if it came at the right time, which for you is not
yet. Let this wine prove to you that life may be enjoyed, no
matter how near Death may lurk.

Tanc. My life is forfeited, but I will not use wine to drown
thought ; nor will I pledge my gaoler.

VOL. I. I

ii4 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Marq. Now, in like case I should pledge ray gaoler roundly.
He should swear 'twere pity if such a jolly fellow might not
live — at least until the cask was out.

Tanc. I have no wish to resemble you.

Marq. Ought I rather to make you my model ? You broke
my laws, you violated my hospitality, and you betrayed my
counsels, though I made you my friend. Can you defend your-
self?

Tanc. I will not justify myself to you. You would not even
understand what my words meant.

Marq. Youth is sometimes unjust to age.

Tanc. Age is never just to youth.

Marq. Age, for instance, plays the gaoler when youth would
carry off his wife.

Tanc. That speech is, indeed, a foul instance of injustice.

Marq. Solemn Dame Justice must work hard if she weighs
that infinity of trifles, all we say and all we think.

Tanc. Trifles! Well, yes, Life and Death are trifles to you.
Why have you sent for me ?

Marq. I sent for you to win your friendship. I defy you to
believe me ; therefore I can speak frankly. I intend that you
should respect me. I mean you to approve of my life.

Tanc. You ask much ; but I understand you better than
you think. You have as your prisoner a boy who, in a blind
way, tried to do a good action, and failed ridiculously. If you
can make him talk, his crotchets will give you sport, and good
sport should end with the quarry's death.

Marq. A pathetic picture, but not true to nature. Let me
play the painter in my turn. My canvas shows a lusty lad,
whose friend, desiring some pleasant talk, offers him a cup of
wine ; but the boy's brow is black with twisted knots, dark
folds, wrinkled plaits, for no clear reason. You mislike your
host ? abuse me then — hail arguments upon me. Let each
pellet sting me to the quick ; let each phrase prove me a villain.
I'll face the storm.

Tanc. A sword's point is the one argument I should care to
use. You were wise to ask if I had no weapon. If a knife
lay on that table I would kill you like a beast of prey.

Marq. Is it wise to tell a man you wish to kill him ? But to my

GR IS ELD A 115

purpose. I know that you will give your friendship to no man
whom you cannot honour ; therefore I must praise myself. I
govern well : you have seen the proofs. Women smile in
Saluce, men walk upright in the streets, and children laugh in
our gutters, but at court my great lords are humble. I grant,
they tell you in a whisper I am mad. They believe it, partly
because my follies are not theirs, partly because from time to
time I have devised certain quaint punishments for rogues and
villains, whereby, let me say, the breed has been notably dis-
couraged. But these freaks would not scare you from my wine.
You would not refuse the hand I proffer, but for one sin which
you think stains it : you believe I wronged Griselda.

Tanc. You are more hateful when you play the hypocrite
than when you are openly a fiend.

Marq. You crow loud for a caged fowl. Some grain of the
fiend may lurk in me, but I am no hypocrite. To prove that
I am worth your friendship, I ask for no better evidence than
I can draw from Grisyld's story.

Tanc. Will you slander her? I have seen her eyes and
yours. She is true. You are false.

Marq. She is as true as the steel of my sword-blade, and my
flaws lie not where you find a blemish. You say you know by a
man's eyes when he speaks the truth. Look in mine, young sir.
What my reason has called right, I do, shall do, and have
done all my life. I own that a complete record of that life
would furnish matter for a quarto tome of acts, called sins by
priests and women ; but I have never done the deed nor said
the word I will not justify before a man. Show me base stuff
in me, and I'll not flinch before the knife. I will cut the rotten
matter out, though I bring life's root with it ; but cant me no
cant ; prate of no old customs such as cumber the world's
drudges like old fusty clothes. When have I been base ?

Tanc. In your youth — first.

Marq. You mean that I drank hard and loved women.
Neither my palate nor my stomach were the worse ; and as for
the women, they liked it.

Tanc. You spoilt a finer sense than taste.

Marq. That finer sense was not so blunted as to let me buy
a court puppet for a wife. I loathed great ladies. Their

i 2

u6 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

gracious manners were a mere aping of real grace, as their
clothes mocked real beauty ; but in the forest one spring day I
found Griselda, a woman to my liking. Was my ideal base ?

Tanc. No, my lord.

Marq. My friends were of a different opinion — then. Now
— you are wiser. I set Griselda on a throne. You will hardly
call that act base.

Tanc. She was unlike the women you knew, and your
appetite was tickled by the novelty.

Marq. Tickled ! — Appetite ! Commend me to the purity of
this precisian. I loved her, man, as I think you will never
love. Your nature cannot even apprehend my passion. Can
a fair body and sweet soul only tickle men like you ? Is appetite
the name you give to what men feel for a Griselda ? I call that
feeling love ; and I glory in it. You have not found the base
spot yet.

Tanc. Your feeling was not love. A man's love is an
honour to her he loves — an honour to all women ; but your
words would make good women blush.

Marq. Would they ? Let me hear, then, what you mean by
love?

Tanc. Love is man's worship of a woman's excellence.
That worship cleanses him from all base thoughts. How should
a lover not be pure when his whole desire is set on excellence ?
That desire wakes his strength, and at a touch from Hope his
courage rises till he will outdare demigods. When his prize is
won, her soul and his twine into a tree of life, stretching from
earth to heaven, from time into eternity. Love is a miracle, and
I have faith that God will work this miracle for me.

Marq. Well said; you have faith, but I have experienced
the miracle. We expect more than miracles. We long to
burst from the solitude where we are one only self; and for an
hour Nature tricks us with a dream in which we reach heaven's
shore, and walk there with our mate, hand in hand, soul in
soul ; but we wake to find we are still battling in life's sea—
alone.

Tanc. You think love cannot last.

Marq. Love lasts while we hope ; and when the woman is
Griselda, hope lasts long. You spoke of souls; we have

GRISELDA 117

bodies too, and strange ones. Love is less simple than you
think. That sphinx. Nature, sets each woman as a riddle.
Her lover must solve the problem or he dies. I thought of no
such matters when I found Griselda. Her peasant bodice clipt
the body of a queen. That body held a noble woman's soul.
Body and soul matched mine ; and I claimed my mate.

Tame. My lord, you seem even now to speak of her with
triumph.

Marq. Seem ! You think much of Grisyld. I made her.
You owe her to me.

Tanc. Do we owe the martyr to the hangman ?

Marq. That tongue-thrust was well put in ; but your weapon
galls me not, for your point lacks truth. You owe Grisyld to
me, for I am the man who saw the girl had stuff in her to make
a queen. As queen she was perfect, but as woman she was
incomplete. I felt alone when I was with her — she was not
open with me. She never spoke of herself, never asked me of
myself; never wondered why one day I was moody and another
in good heart. She would as soon have questioned why the
breeze blew yesterday and not to-day. She seemed not a
woman, but a plant. I was not a man for her. I was the sun,
and when I shone she lifted up her head.

Tanc. Put shortly, goodness wearied you.

Marq. Far from it ; her calm excited me. I made my wife
my idol : she became a statue. I would have strained her warm
and living to my breast, and I found her marble. My arms
slipped from the smooth cold stone — chilled, powerless. Anger
gave me heat and strength again; I cast down — I broke my
idol, and I was left without a god.

Tanc. You killed your children to see if their mother had a
heart.

Marq. I killed no children. A palace is no place for the
young, and I therefore sent my boy and girl to Tuscany, where
they might grow in the open air. When I took the children
from her, Grisyld was still marble. My anger said that her
patience might be mere plebeian dulness, and I told her I had
killed them ; — I set a strange problem :. What was her duty ?
To abhor me ? or still to love and honour me ?

Tanc. Her duty was to loathe you.

u8 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Marq. Why then should we both admire her for not loathing
me ? If I had foreseen what she would suffer, I could have
spared her and myself much pain ; but without trial we know
nothing. If Grisyld had no wants, small thanks to her for
patience. I worked — wept — stormed — fought for what I
wanted. She was silent ; yet now I know that my most
passionate desire was a boy's greed, measured by the mother's
yearning for her lost little ones.

Tanc. My lord, I must believe that you once loved Griselda,
and I think that, even now, you do not love evil. Be again the
man you were when you first won her—

Marq. I should like that much.

Tanc. Act now as you would have acted then, and you
will feel now as then. Give Griselda back her throne, her
children, and her husband ; her husband not in name only, but
the man she once loved — the man who must once have been
worth her love.

Marq. I may take your advice ; you think those children are
alive ?

Tanc. I am fooled again ; yet I would rather be the fool and
killed than you who kill.

Marq. To convince Grisyld that they lived I must have
brought them back. She would not have taken my mere word,
and yet she trusted me. What I did was still for her well
done.

Tanc. By heaven, it was base in her !

Marq. By solid earth, I now first feel anger ! Pray, sir, how
would you, so ready to teach me, have taught Griselda ? Are
you silent ? Grisyld was right, I say ; she nursed no grief to
give herself the pleasure of self-pity. She abjured sorrow, and
lived usefully. Grant me bad : her hate would have damned
me. Would you have had her in a nunnery to mumble prayers
for me in hell ? I have good cause to know the part she chose
was better, for by her trust in me she has redeemed my soul.
Diana's body ! you have heated me—

[Unbuckles sword, throws it on table, rises and walks to end of
room, with his bade to TANCRED, then turns.

Tanc. Why have you tempted me ? You cast the sword there
purposely.

GRISELDA 119

Marq. True. And you have not murdered me.

Tanc. You play easily with your life.

Marq. I thought the object worth the risk. I wished you to
trust me, so I trusted you.

Tanc. You trusted to my weakness.

Marq. No ; I honoured you so far as to believe that when
you heard the truth you would know it to be true, and I was
not deceived.

Tanc. My lord, when you praise the Lady Grisyld, you are
transfigured, so that I must believe you — even when, as now,
your deeds cry out loud that every word is a lie. I surely know
that you discrowned this wise queen, and martyred this pure
saint. Did you not cast her out with ignominy ? How can I
believe you when you tell me her trust saved your soul ?

Marq. Many said that she loved me little, but my crown
much ; that her patience was mere cunning, and her cheer-
fulness the proof of cold self-satisfaction. Do you think
this?

Tanc. No, by day's light !

Marq. Nor I — nor any one now. Tancred, I pawned my
life to purchase your faith ; therefore let me have it. I own
that in my house of life there are some crooked passages and
unknown chambers, but to-morrow the sun's light shall blaze
through its darkest vaults ; you shall come in and judge whether
each stone has been well shaped. As for the master of the
house, some trace of cat or monkey may disfigure his fair linea-
ments ; yet he is a man worthy of Grisyld's trust, and much
more of yours.

Tanc. Marquis, I wish I could believe you.

Marq. Let the will give the power. When the sun sets to-
morrow you shall judge me. Until then give me your trust as
a favour if not as a right.

Tanc. I will rather be deceived ten times than once fail to
return faith for faith. You have my word.

Marq. I thank you. Now pledge your gaoler (hands him
the cup of wine), and then come with me where you shall see
the Lady Grisyld well employed.

Tanc. (Takes cup and is about to drink — stops.) Is this
poison ?

120 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Marq. I asked you for your faith ; you gave it.
Tanc. Your true health, my lord.
Marq. We may be friends yet

[Exeunt, L.

SCENE II. — Bedchamber in the palace of the Marquis of Saluce.
LADY FILOMENE discovered sitting. To her enter GRISELDA
and SERGEANT, c.

Serg. My Lady Filomene, the Marquis sends you greeting.
By his orders I have brought Lady Grisyld to your chamber.
He bade me say that she would serve as your tirewoman against
the marriage, and obey you in all things.

Filo. Obey me but in one thing, madam ; leave me.

Or is. Am I free to go ?

Serg. I grieve to say, madam, you are not. My instructions
are precise. To-night, neither you nor Lady Filomene may
leave this room.

Filo. Will you take a message to the Marquis ?

Serg. Madam, I may not.

Filo. The world's turned miser, and grudges me one hour's
peace.

Gris. Teach me how to make my presence least unwelcome,
lady, and so far as my power goes I will obey.

Filo. Obey ! Ah, that's the spaniel trick in which you're
perfect. In my lessons I was taught how well you could obey.
I learnt to despise obedience, and to hate you.

Serg. We soldiers, madam, are proud to obey, and we were
never prouder than when we could obey Lady Grisyld.

Filo. Were you ordered to stay here and prate ?

Serg. No, madam.

Filo. Then go. (Exit SERG. c. GRISYLD arranges some dis-
order in the room.) I see you are a busy body.

Gris. Madam, if you will look upon me simply as a servant
— and I am nothing more — I shall trouble you little.

Filo. Your hypocrisy apes truth to the life — or are you no
hypocrite, but a true slave — one who will fawn on any hand
that holds a whip ?

Gris. I am made your servant, madam, by the prince who

GRIS ELD A 121

governs here. I have no power to disobey, even if I had the
will, which I own I have not.

Filo. I believe you tell the truth, and that you play the spy
right cheerfully for your kind master. Can you obey his vilest
orders with no sense of degradation ?

Gris. He would not give, nor would I obey, orders that were
vile. To serve you is no degradation. Women have served me.
They felt no shame.

Filo. Slaves may feel pride in serving ; but you have been
free — more than free — men have called you queen. A queen
should not turn servant.

Chris. What should a woman do, neither queen nor slave ?

Filo. Resist.

Gris. How can she ?

Filo. As I resist. I will not yield. Men may bind, starve,
torture me, but I will not yield.

Gris. To me But I have no right to speak.

Filo. I give you leave. Show me how low you can
fall.

Gris. I think women are too weak to resist. Useless resist-
ance is not honest,

Filo. The weaklings can die; is that not honest? But
snared birds flutter, fish writhe in the net. Will you laugh at
them because they are so weak ?

Gris. They do not know their weakness.

Filo. You mean, a woman knows ; and when a woman is in
the toils and shows impatience with the strings that strangle
her, patient Grisyld sneers.

Gris. If I could, I would cut the strings.

Filo. You would help me ?

Gris. Most willingly.

Filo. You lie. You are tempting me. You seek for some
way to betray me.

Gris. Why should I wish to hurt you ?

Filo. Why ? Because I am your rival. Am I not a fair,
young, fortunate rival ? Is not every word I speak an insult ?
But words are not whips, and a leathern thong is barely hard
enough to gall your tough peasant's skin.

Gris. Suppose I am in pain, which indeed is true ; suppose,

122 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

also, that you had caused the pain, which is not true ; — why
should I wish to give pain ?

Filo. Your wounds are skin-deep, or you would not stand
there smiling.

Gris. I think if I were a martyr, I could be quiet.

Filo. If you were a martyr ! You are a martyr.

Gris. I cannot think so. I have suffered ; but not more
than many women, and my joys have been great.

Filo. You speak as if past joy were a possession. Dante
says there is no greater grief than past happiness remembered
when we are in misery.

Gris. The saying does not please me. When a gift perishes,
our gratitude should not end.

Filo. Ah ! you are one of those who would thank God for
daily bread, and never curse Him when He lets you starve.

Gris. I am.

Filo. Then you are a fool.

Gris. I cannot judge God, and to me His yoke is easy ; for
I rejoice in His law.

Filo. I hate the law by which I suffer, and I defy the maker
of such laws — if there be any maker.

Gris. Your defiance will not change His laws.

Filo. Now you laugh at me.

Gris. God forbid ! for, as I think, you are in deadly pain.

Filo. I am, I am : be you fiend or fool, you speak the truth
in that. Oh, pardon me ! I am not wicked, but the pain
makes me mad. Men here say that you are good, and I half
think you are ; but I almost forget the meaning of the word.

Gris. Poor child ! poor child !

Filo. You would really help me ?

Gris. Indeed I would.

Filo. Oh, you are a woman ! I have seen no woman for
many days. Men's eyes are horrible ; they look at me as if I
were a beast which they could buy and kill for food. Your
eyes are different (looks away). What am I saying ? You
will spurn me ?

Chris. My child !

Filo. Now, you pity me. I will not be pitied. You have
cast a spell upon me. I was strong before you came. Men

GRISELDA 123

had not tamed me. I had outstared death. Now I am weak,
crushed, despised, pitied. I hate you. Oh, no, no ! I am too
miserable. (Falls on GRISYLD'S neck.) I meant to be silent, to
go and say no word, make no sign to man or God ; but I was
alone, and I felt very cold. Now — I have spoken. Will you
come with me ?

Gris. Where, my child ?

Filo. Into the grave.

Gris. No, no ! not yet — nor so. There is a time for death ;
but not yet. I will hold you ; you will not go from me while I
hold you.

Filo. I have not slept for days — I could sleep now. I could
sleep if I were certain not to wake. But to-morrow ! I must
not wake to-morrow : you and I are poor weak women : we
cannot resist — you said so — we can only die ; let me die while
I am happy. To-morrow, instead of you that man would come
—I should feel his hands, breathe his breath. No, no ! now is
my time to die. Why is he so wicked ?

Gris. He is not wicked, Lady Filomene.

Filo. (Disengages herself.) Not wicked !

Gris. Twenty years have I known the noble Marquis of
Saluce, whom you first saw ten days since : I have loved him as
I could love none wicked ; I love him still.

Filo. Have you come here to praise him ? to play the go-
between ?

Gris. When I heard you call him wicked I could not choose
but speak.

Filo. If you loved him, you would rather see me dead than
his wife.

Gris. That you should be his wife is not my grief; my pain
— oh, my pain is old and manifold !

Filo. Then you have suffered. Men said you could not
feel.

Gris. Yes, I have suffered.

Filo. Have you any hope ?

Gris. None.

Filo. Then come with me.

Gris. Why should you die ?

Filo. You must not hinder me ; you can bear much because

124 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

life promised you so little. I was promised all that earth can
give — rank, learning, beauty, wealth, power, love, even virtue-
all were to be mine. I believed they were mine already —
would be mine eternally. Was that a sin ? Surely not, only a
child's folly. I wished for what was good and beautiful. I
thought poets knew the truth; they told me of Love. I dreamt
that one day he would build me a charmed palace where nothing
foul could enter. I saw the first stones laid. I cannot explain
all. For a little while I was in fairy-land — now I am back
on earth, where I will rather be food for worms than that man's
wife.

Gris. You are sorely wounded ; but will you fly in your first
battle ?

Filo. Death is no coward's choice. Why should I bear
misery ? If I had any hope — yes, I would bear some pain ; but
without hope — how can I ? And there is none.

Gris. Experience would give you faith instead of hope.

Filo. Faith !— faith in what ?

Gris. In God — in man — even in yourself.

Filo. Is that the lesson your life has taught you ?

Gris. It is.

Filo. Then I have not been told the truth. I heard that
you were made a wife in mockery ; that your husband first
murdered your children, and then, in sheer wantonness, divorced
you and cast you out a beggar. Is this not true ?

Gris. That would seem the truth to many.

Filo. How could experience of such a life give you faith ?

Gris. Your words make no true picture of the life I see when
I look back.

Filo. Show me what you see. I cannot wait for more expe-
rience. Let me learn from yours. There is not much time,
but if you will tell me your real life I will wait till the day
breaks. No one ever told me what they really felt. I think
you will. If I knew what you meant by faith, perhaps I might
believe.

Gris. Then you would live.

Filo. No, no ! Let me rest : I am tired ; I long for rest.
Tell me your life, and I shall forget my miserable self a little
while. I will believe that I am dead already, and that you are

GRISELDA 125

an angel comforting me, teaching me to forget all my own false
life. Oh, speak ! speak ! If you leave me time to think about
myself, I must be gone at once.

Qris. I cannot readily find words — my suffering grew from
that ; yet, if you will be calm and gentle, you shall hear the
story of my life, for I love you, child.

Filo. Even your touch soothes me.

Gris. I never knew my mother ; my father was wealthy for
a peasant, and I grew up strong and well favoured. One day I
was gathering fodder, when a bear ran from the wood into the
little clearing where I was. Seeing that I could not run so fast
as he, I sat and waited. The great beast stopped short, gazed
in my face, sniffed round me like a dog, and then went slowly
from me. He had not gone ten paces when a young forester
sprang to my side, and the bear turned upon us. The young
man took two steps forward, waited till the bear rose, and with
one spear-stroke slew the wild thing, who died in pain. I cried,
4 You should have spared him as he spared me ; ' but the forester
laughed merrily, and said, ' You did well, and you speak well,
as a woman ; but men and wild beasts do not spare each other,
and I cannot think they should.' We talked long. I have
never heard or seen a man who looked or spoke like that young
forester.

Filo. Was it the Marquis ?

Gris. Truly, but I thought him a forester. We met often,
and one evening in the greenwood he asked me if I loved him.
Then I gave him all my heart, and we sat for a while happy ;
but I could not make him feel my love. He thought me cold.
He longed for more than I could give or promise. Men's love
is not like ours. He went in anger, saying I should never see
him more. Then first I knew grief.

Filo. I would that he had kept his word.

Gris. Many days went by in silence ; then in full noon,
amid the summer hay, he stood beside me, habited like himself,
a prince. ' Grisyld,' he said, f we have been sad, but we shall
be so no more. I am the Marquis of Saluce, master of the
land and of its people. You alone of women have my love ; you
are worthy of it, and you love me alone of men. I know it
well. I think myself no fool, and yet we have been sad ; but it

126 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

is over now, and you will come with me.' I trembled, and he,
impatient, flashed his eyes, and said, ' Come, and come now, for
you shall be my queen, though not my wife ; and never will I
have wife, you living. I love you, girl, peasant as you are, and
I so glory in my love, that I will set you on a throne of gold,
and honour you before all men. You shall help me to rule the
land.' ' Yet not your wife, my lord ? ' I said ; and he then
spoke with scorn of priests, and called me poor of heart, and
said I did not love him, and was silent. c My lord,' I said, ' had
you been the forester you seemed, should I have done well to
live with you, not being your wife ? I will not give the prince
that which I could not give the man ; my joy has come and
gone.' Then he was very wroth, and made as he would kill me,
but turned and ran.

Filo. You would have suffered less if he had killed you
then.

Oris. After long weeks, in harvest, as I worked among the
stacks at home, I heard the blare of trumpets and the tramp of
horses. Then a wild voice I knew well hallooed, ' Grisyld !
come, Griselda ! ' And I stepped forward and met the prince
with his train, cavaliers and dames — a noble sight. He dis-
mounted, took me by the hand, and spoke these words : l Ladies
and nobles of my realm, you have much urged marriage on
me, which I deferred until I should have found a wife who
pleased me — not alone my eye but my ripe judgment ; and here
the woman stands. Nay ; start not. Whosoever smiles but in
thought shall die, and rot unburied ; ' and as he looked round
faces paled with fear. ' Your purblind eyes,' he said, c see
nothing they are not taught to see. This girl is true queen by
nature, and I am wise in that I know it. Griselda, will you be
my married queen?' Now, when I heard the trumpet tones in
which he praised me, my heart said, ' I will be worthy of this
great love, the greatest ever shown by man to woman ; ' and I
answered boldly, ' Yea, my lord.' ' It is well,' he said. l Mark
me then, 0 queen ! Had you been my mistress, I would have
served you in the foolish fashion of my court with adulation,
sighs, and meek obedience. Being your husband, I remain your
master. Will you obey ? ' Looking on him, I thought there
was but one man on earth, and I said, ' I will obey.' ' Grisyld/

GRISELDA 127

he said, ' put off those peasant clothes, there where you stand,
and don these robes. The ladies of your court will aid you.'
As they came to me, one laughed ; the Marquis struck her with
the back of his hand so that her mouth bled, and she wept, but
no man stirred. When my clothes had fallen from me, the
Marquis bade them pause, and asked me if I was ashamed. I
answered, ' No ; I will never be ashamed to do what you
command. I trust in you.' And as I spoke a shout went up
from all the men, and my lord smiled. As the ladies robed me,
he took a necklace, and speaking to her who still wept, said,
1 Lady Florizel, this will last when your bruise is past, and as
you wear it remember to chafe no man when he is roused.' She
took the necklace with thanks, and then I better understood
why he had chosen me.

Filo. He was well named the wild Marquis.

Gris. I went with him to his court, and there with much
state was married ; and my lord heard willingly from me all the
sufferings of the poor ; and as he learnt the truth he was not
slack in doing justice. He was well pleased with me. No
happiness on earth could be greater than mine was then, and I
owed all to him.

Filo. It did not last.

Gris. I had years of happiness, and each year my blessings
grew, for I bore him children — one boy — one girl. They were
not with me long.

Filo. Blessings soon leave us, and the blessings we have lost
are curses.

Gris. I willingly pay all the pain my life can hold for the
joy my children gave me. They are my chief blessing now.

Filo. And your Marquis killed them. He said, ' No peasant's
child shall sit on my throne.'

Gris. He never said so in my hearing.

Filo. You know he killed them.

Gris. The world says so.

Filo. And their father ?

Gris. He sent them far away ; afterwards he told me they
were dead.

Filo. Not that he had killed them ? What were his very
words ?

128 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Gris. ' Griselda,' he said, looking strangely on me, * I have
learnt to-day your children are both dead.' I was dumb. I
could not think about my children for his eyes. They were the
eyes I saw when he had slain the bear, and again when he would
have killed me. I hardly heard his words. I only saw his
eyes.

Filo. Said he no more ?

Gris. t Did you not love your children, woman?' he said,
frowning; and I found no answer. Then he cried out loud,
1 1 think you are a stone, insensible ; do you love me ? ' I said,
' Most truly ; ' and his anger waxed, as I think, because my
voice was cold. He went aside a little way, and suddenly
turning, said, ' I killed your children. Can you love me now ? J
I said, ' Yes, my lord.' ' You lie ! ' he cried.

Filo. Was that no lie ?

Gris. How could my heart change in a moment? His
words were mere air. I heard of death and children, and felt
mazed ; but he was there, before me, miserable. So when he
asked me if I loved him, my heart said Yes. Was I wicked ?

Filo. Some minutes since I should have called you wicked.
Then he- -?

Gris. He drew his sword, and when I saw the blade, and in
his hand, I cried, ' Ah ! yes ; ' for I thought I saw the way to my
children ; and I rose and threw myself upon him and kissed
him, and then trembled ; for the steel had not pierced my heart,
but he was kissing me, and his eyes were raining tears. He
put me softly down, and ran out into the darkness weeping.

Filo. Strange !

Gris. That night in my chamber the devil tempted me.
Lady, you would die because you lack hope. Children are hope
made flesh, and they were both gone. Little Roland : he could
barely lisp, but his young soul shone with love of honour ; and
my baby girl — born princess, with her father's eyes — Dora —

Filo. My second name.

Gris. They were gone. Their father said that he had killed
them. The devil lurked all night in my heart, whispering,
' There is no God who lets such things be done ; there is no God
who lets such things be felt ; there are no men but only fiends,
since your man of men is but a fiend. Earth, heaven, and

GRISELDA 129

hell are all a mockery. Go back, Griselda, to the dust from
which you came.' But when the dawn brought light Satan
fled ; for God spoke to me, saying, ' Have I not these many
years nourished your body and your soul ? Have faith, faint not.'
Then strength came, and I could remember all my husband's
goodness. At sunrise he summoned me.

Filo. What was his mood then ?

Gris. He was gentle. l Grisyld,' he said,' you are the best or
worst of women. If, as you say, you love me, conquer sorrow.
Let my people be your children. If you can find means to
make them happy, you shall not lack power.' I obeyed him.

Filo. Yet he divorced you. Why ?

Grin. His first doubt was his last. He thought I could not
love him. I fear that I grew wearisome ; but I know now I
have kept faith ; I love him still.

Filo. He was cruel.

Gris. He said there was no middle way for him and me.
He must have all my love or none. I should have all his power,
or no crust of bread from him. I think him right.

Filo. And your children ? You learnt nothing more of them ?

Gris. Nothing.

Filo. Have you ever spoken of them ?

Gris. First to you.

Filo. Do you think them really dead ?

Gris. Why do you ask me if I think them dead ?

Filo. His words were strange, and not like the truth.

Gris. Then I am not a fool. You — you, the first who hear
the facts — the very first — you whose judgment is not warped
like mine, but clear, dispassionate — you say they are not dead.
Now I am certain. Now I know they live. What can be more
sure ? He could not murder them. He, so good, so kind ; the
tender little ones ! How could he ? He loved them, and he
loved me too, their mother, once. It is impossible that he
could murder them ; and I know they are not dead. They
would have come for me, and I have never seen them once —
not in a dream. Say it again ; say they live — say it ! Will
you not speak ?

Filo. I cannot believe they live.

Gris. What can you believe ? You can believe any folly.

VOL. I. K

i3o LITERATURE AND DRAMA

You can believe he is a murderer. Why cannot you believe
they live ? Speak !

Filo. I cannot.

Gris. Think again. I have told you all quite truly. I have
hidden nothing, and your first thought was my children lived ;
but now you will not say it. He is no murderer. Men tried
to scare me from Saluce. They threatened me with shame and
death ; yet I had no fear. I should have feared a murderer.
The trumpets of his messengers sounded the very call which
summoned me to meet him in my youth. That music heralds
hope, not fear; and as we came the whole long road smiled
with children — their eyes shone hope on me ; and while they
ran and laughed and leapt, again and again the clarion notes
rang out and sang to make hope bold, and always al the close I
heard his voice call, ' Grisyld, come, Griselda; ' yet since I came
I have not heard even his footfall ; and when I tell you all my
life, you cannot believe my children live, and you call my love,
my soul, their murderer. Why do you stare at me ? I am not
mad. You are mad. You credit infamy. I know that my
children live.

Filo. This world is too strange for me. I can stay no
longer. (Sucks ring.)

Gris. What have I done ? What have I said ?

Filo. This ring held poison. Your story did not tempt me
to stay. There is a little left for you.

Gris. I have killed her. Help ! — sergeant — soldiers — hel p !
Lady Filomene lies dying.

Filo. No, no ! — Let me be alone with you. Be as you were
at first. Peace — peace — not all this tumult. While I die you
might be gentle with me.

Gris. You may be saved. When he knows the truth he
will set you free.

Filo. I will not be saved. They will torture, they will
degrade me. Oh, I am afraid — I am afraid. Why can I not
die ? The rogue lied ; he said instant death. Will you not kill
me — quickly — out of mercy ? [Swoons.

Enter MARQUIS, TANCRED, and train.
Gris. Quick, quick, most noble lord ! Lady Filomene lies

GRISELDA 131

poisoned. This ring held the poison. You may learn the
nature of the drug from the strong smell. You have skill in
antidotes ; save her, my lord !

Marq. Griselda, I greatly fear that you have murdered
her.

Gris. Oh, waste no moment now, my lord ; the poison
works — speed, speed !

Tanc. My lord

Marq. Silence. (Aside) Sunrise is not sunset. (Aloud)
I sent her to serve Lady Filomene. Is it not most like that
out of jealousy Griselda poisoned her ? Nay, as I think, some
one heard her use the words, ' I have killed her.'

A Courtier. I heard that, my lord.

Gris. What matters how she got the poison ? My lord, I
never knew this slackness in you. Is she dead ?

Marq. (To courtiers) You are passing wise. Yet not so
wise as Grisyld there, whom you have known for years to be a
true and faithful woman, the noblest in the land and the most
prudent ; but you let one black doubt in one minute blot the
whole fair record. Cheerly, Grisyld ! The girl is not dead, nor
like to die.

Gris. God's blessing on you ! but be quick.

Marq. I will not touch her, or these wiseacres will say I
cured her with some antidote — to screen you, perhaps.

Gris. Oh, let me be, my lord.

Marq. Silence, Grisyld. In good sooth, to-day patient Grisyld
is impatient. See ! the girl revives — stand where you are ;
'twas a mere swoon.

Filo. (Flies to GRISYLD.) Save me, save me from him !

[GRISYLD clasps her.

Marq. Now, mark me. This foolish girl wore a ring in
which she stored poison, as she thought. The jeweller in
Florence who sold the ring, as in duty bound, told me, her
guardian. I took good heed the ring should hold mere scented
water. Young lady, you are richer by a strange experience. I
envy you. Sirs, are you certain that Griselda has not poisoned
Lady Filomene ?

Courtiers. We are indeed, my lord.

Marq. Day dawns. Our marriage feast begins shortly.

K 2

132 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Wait a few hours, Filomene, in this poor world, which you may
then find worth endurance. If not, at nightfall you shall have
your choice of poisons. Grisyld, be of good cheer. I heard your
story. If you could have spoken so long since, the world would
have been the poorer by a tale. Obey me once more ; serve at
our festival. Let your dress be rich to suit the day. Look
cheerfully. Order the house ; set the tables ; usher in the
guests. This service done, you shall be free — if a woman can
be free. Will you do this ?

Gris. My lord, right cheerfully.

ACT III.

SCENE. — Bariqueting-room in the palace of the Marquis of Solace.
Dais and table at the back of the stage. Two thrones behind
this table. Door centre, with curtains. Side tables on a lower
level right and left. Banquet partly set. GRISELDA and two
servants discovered ; two soldiers on guard R. and L.

Gris. Barnaby, these seats must not stand here. Place them
behind the tables.

Bar. There will be no room for us to pass.

Gris. Nay, my friend, I knew this house of old, before you
came here. There will be room.

Bar. Old ways are not new fashions. We were told to put
them where they stand by John, our majordomo ; and when
John bids, John's men had best do bis bidding.

Gris. I will answer him for you. These chairs must be
moved.

Richard. We had best do it ; I heard the Marquis say she
was to order this feast, and the Marquis is a bigger man than
John, though John thinks not.

Bar. I fear John his little finger more than the Marquis his
whole hand. The Marquis never heeds poor knaves like us ; but
I'll do her will, if thou'lt bear me out. Look you, mistress,
you must answer it to John. (Removes chairs to back of tables.)

Gris. You shall take no harm.

Bar. Here John comes ; now see to it.

GRISELDA 133

Enter MAJORDOMO, c., with two large bouquets, which he places in
front of the two thrones on the table.

Gris. Those flowers, sir, make a fair show

Major. They will please

Gris. But let them stand more apart, so that the Marquis
and his bride may see their guests. (MAJORDOMO walks away.)
You hear me, sir ?

Major. Hearing is not heeding. If you will serve in my
household, Madam Grisyld, learn to spare me your advice when
I ask none.

Gris. My lord will be ill pleased if he finds the flowers there.
I know his liking, and he commanded me

Major. No more words, I pray. I command here, and none
but I. You scurvy loons, why have you displaced those chairs ?

Bar. and Rich. The lady gave us orders, John.

Major. The lady! Orders! Why, look you, what a pitiful
thing it is to be a fool. Now, I will set the whole hall in a roar
telling of you three ; how the cast-off country wench gave orders,
and how the two big foolish knaves did as they were bid and
called her lady !

Gris. Sir, you mistake ; my authority, though small, is real ;
given by the Marquis. I but do his pleasure.

Major. The Marquis takes small pleasure in you. His

pleasure is to take a young wife, and use the old one for a

serving-wench. He's a merry fellow the Marquis, and he sends

you here to make us merry. That's his pleasure. Ha ! ha ! ha !

[The servants gather round and laugh. The MARQUIS enters

unseen at the back, c., with TANCRED, FILOMENE, and

suite ; they pause.

Gris. We lose time. The tables are not furnished, and
guests will be here immediately. Let us do the work.

Major. To it, wench, to it. Do thou work, we'll look on and
admire ; but let those flowers be, else thine ears shall tingle for it.

Serg. Shame!

Major. What, old tosspot ! wilt thou meddle ? Hast thou
still the humour to play the bully for thy lass ?

Serg. When my watch is out, my staff shall play the bully
on thy back, an' I be cashiered for't.

i34 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Major. Now am I so sweet a man, that for thy ill threat I'll
give thee good counsel. Make a match on't ; marry thy master's
leavings — 'tis a known way for old cullies to buy promotion.

[The MARQUIS advances^]

Marq. How is this, fellows ? You are not ready.
Major. My lord, this madam hath hindered us.
Marq. And what has been done is not well done.
Major. She is answerable, my lord.

Marq. Why, you have set a bush here ; a very thicket to
hide my guests from me. Griselda, you know how I mislike all
tawdry ornaments hindering good fellowship.

Major. I bade her shift those veiy flowers, my lord, but she
would take no orders from me — not she.

Marq. You said she was answerable. Was it not rather
your duty then to do her bidding ?

Major. Your lordship will be merry.
Marq. Would they not obey you, Grisyld ?
Gris. My lord, they thought you did not really mean that I
should be obeyed.

Marq. Ah ! (smiling) you thought I sent the lady here to
make you sport.

Major. We're not so dull but we can take a joke, my lord.
Marq. But it seems you have a spirit yet, Griselda, and
would not move the flowers at this fellow's bidding.

Gris. My lord, I was about to move them, not indeed at his
bidding, but knowing the custom of the house. Shall I move
them now ?

Marq. Too late, Griselda. Those who speak in my name
must be obeyed. You, fellow, say that she refused to shift those
flowers ; name her punishment yourself.

Major. Some merry gibe, my lord, would do well for a
wedding day. Let me see. Marry, I have it. My knaves
might paint her face, my lord, and smirch her fine clothes, and
turn her out among the common sort of people. They would
laugh, my lord.

8erg. Hound and liar ! Pardon my speech, my lord ; the
lady never disobeyed.

Major. You must not credit him, my lord. He and she will

GRISELDA 135

swear anything for one another, being something love-sick, an'
it please you.

Marq. Silence, old soldier ; I saw and heard him. Sirrah, your
sentence falls on yourself. You shall not lose your merry gibe.
We will brand it on your face in good lasting colours as a token
that you are the author of the jest — a jest so good that it shall
make the common sort of people laugh all your life. Our hang-
man shall be the artist ; his style is rough, but tells its story.
His graving tools make bold work ; he uses them redhot, with
a firm touch. Soldiers, take this false witness to our question
chamber. Bid our executioner burn a mouth upon him fit
to utter foul lies. Show him me a month hence grinning
merrily, like a half-rotten skull. If the brand you stamp on
him fail to make me laugh, he shall try his hand on you.

Major, (kneeling) Mercy ! Oh, my lord, have mercy ! We
mistook, and 1 was only one of many.

Marq. Will you still accuse ? Would you have companions
of the brand ? No ; they shall grin at you, but not so merrily
as you will grin at them. Laugh, hounds. Are my jests worse
than his ? (Servants try to laugh.)

Tanv. My lord, I beseech you, pause at least for one hour.
You are not master of yourself. Your sentence is more
monstrous than his villainy. The more so, since you are the
real culprit, in that you sent the noble lady to consort with
lackeys.

Marq. Sir, I once knew a knight who let a noble lady run
some risk by his own fault ; but he killed the churl who wronged
her. Was he not right, my Lady Filomene ? By your face,
vengeance and you should be close cronies. Do I not well to
punish this hound ?

Filo. I cannot tell. Punishment should not be merciless.

Marq. Merciless punishment may be true mercy to the
innocent. Is that not true, Griselda ?

Gris. Sire, you once taught me that punishment is not
vengeance. I remember that you said those punishments were
just which roused just so much fear as would deter men from the
crime. Will not this sentence make my fellow-servants fear too
much?

Marq. The good need have no fear.

i36 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Gris. The best will fear most. These men are your lackeys.
Their rough mockery is venial. They may be good men

Marq. You cannot call this man good.

Gris. As yet he is no criminal ; but if you carry out your
threat, he will be jeered and flouted into crime. This punish-
ment will make him wicked.

Marq. Grisyld, Grisyld, you are barely honest. You plead
this man's cause not for its justice, but because you cannot bear
to think of even vile things in pain. I know that weakness of
old in you. Yet your argument was good, and you gained time.
1 am cooler now. Go, fellow. I do not like your face. If you
show it me again I will carve it till it please me better.

Major. May Heaven bless you, lady, and make me a better
man

[MAJOR hurries off, R. ; the MARQUIS turns to his guests, wlio
take their places behind the side tables. The MARQUIS
leads FILOMENE to one throne, and remains standing.
Servants and GRISELDA in centre.

Marq. Gentles all, your pardon. Take your places. I
would say our feast had begun badly, but that the lady here
spoke well. Think you not so ?

Tanc. Would that my lord might ever have so good a coun-
sellor.

Marq. Good wishes are ever welcome, and they are most
welcome on a marriage day. Would the Lady Filomene have
us keep Griselda as our counsellor ?

Filo. My lord, if you would take her counsel in the greater
matter of our marriage, you would be spared a far greater
sin.

Marq. What sin ? But on this day I must do your will.
Griselda, what think you of this lady ? Is she not fair and
noble, and fit in all ways to be my bride ?

Gris. My lord, no man can desire a fairer wife. I know her
nature to be noble. She is worthy to be a queen. Only give
me leave to pray that you will not crown her with such sharp
thorns as your former wife bore patiently. She was a peasant,
but this lady is a princess.

Marq. True ! I was a prince and you a peasant ; but was
that the reason you obeyed me ?

GRISELDA 137

Gris. If you too had been a peasant, I should willingly have
obeyed you as your wife. Yet to us who toil and bear hardship
from our childhood, patience and obedience come more readily
than to women who are nurtured delicately. My prayer is that
you will remember this.

Filo. That prayer will not save me.

Marq. And you, my lords, I trust that you all think Lady
Filomene a bride worthy of your prince.

Courtier. Her worth is such, my lord, that had you riot been
secret in this matter, each princely bachelor in Italy would
have sent heralds to forbid the banns, and claim the lady for
himself.

Marq. Yet Grisyld here is wise, and fair too.

Courtier. True, my lord, but Lady Filomene is twenty years
the better bride.

Marq. Excellent valuer! My lords and ladies, pardon me
if I delay our feast yet a little while ; I have that to say which
may give it great relish. Nay, keep your seats — for once my
privilege shall be to stand. You must not steal away, Grisyld :
you are wanted here. I have but half a will to speak. Now, I
know what no man else knows, and one minute more will trans-
form my mystery into vulgar news. Yet my news will bring
me much profit. I shall gain a loving wife — oh ! 'tis true, girl ;
the word? that I shall use are magical. As for you, good youth,
when I have spoken you will crave a blessing from me ; though
now I see your hands quiver like leashed hounds when they
scent the deer : hold them from my throat one minute longer ;
then you may slip them if you list. You, my friends, who at
last know with certainty that I am mad — stark mad — you will
crack the air with shouts proclaiming that I am the wisest
prince who ever lived, and your applause will be sincere. You,
Griselda, shall be happy. Not one of you believes me. Common
courtesy almost forbids that I should show you how much mis-
taken you all are. When I have told my story, you will think
me good.

Courtier. My lord !

Marq. Your surprise is natural. You imagine me to be a
murderer, but in my courts we have one wise rule. We never
hang a man unless to make the pair with a dead body there

138 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

already. Griselda, I heard you say that you thought your chil-
dren were not dead.

Gris. Oh, sire, have mercy on me !

Marq. Other children might be born to me, and if the first
two be alive, they have rights to the succession in our marqui-
sate. What proof is there that the children died ? Which
among you ever met a man who had even heard another say that
he had seen those children lying dead ? But, if he be not dead,
most certainly Count Roland is our heir.

Gris. If he lives he can resign his claim. You said I should be
happy. I believed you, though they all thought you mocked me.

Marq. The blindness of this fair assembly far surpasses all
my expectation. Would a son like Tancred here content you ?

Gris. Is he my son ?

Marq. Come here, young man. (TANCRED joins MARQUIS ami
GRISELDA in centre.) If you had your choice of mothers would
you take this lady ?

Tanc. Griselda my mother !

Gris. Sir, my strength fails. I cannot hear. What was
that you said ? Will you not speak clearly ? Pray speak loud.

Marq. Count Roland of Saluce, kneel down before your
mother.

Gris. Ah ! and Dora ? She is Lady Filomene.

Marq. Even so.

[The courtiers have all risen. FILOMENE runs and kneels
before GRISELDA, who stares at her children.

Gris. True, you might be Roland ; you are what he would
have been. I could not wish more — wish — I wish I could see
my little boy again. You must not be angry. I will be happy.
I cannot yet ; but I see happiness shooting towards me from
heaven's gate. God's angel brings me a new heart. Gentlemen,
there is no doubt that this is true ; you all know it. Why
should he deceive you in a matter of such great moment ?
That is Dora. I know her eyes well. Are you glad I am your
mother, Dora ? Will you kiss me ?

[FILOMENE rises to receive the kiss. GRISELDA takes her head
in her hands, kisses her slowly, plays with the head,
looking earnestly in her eyes, then, as the hair is dis-
arranged, cries suddenly.

GRISELDA 139

Gris. Ah ! I see the scar ; child, I have kissed that wound
a thousand times. Walter, there, look where your sword —
Ah ! (Falls on FILOMENE and devours her with kisses.)

Marq. Yes, gentlemen, I tried one day whether the child,
having no experience of wounds, would yet fear steel. That
scar tells the answer. Our little Dora flung herself against the
blade. I had forgotten it.

Tanc. Mother, I remember you ; I knew your voice.

Oris. My son, my son, my Roland ! No more doubt,
Roland. Gone, gone — doubt is gone. Doubt was a heavy
load ; it grew and grew, and weighed me down. The thing
lived : it had a voice — a cuckoo voice — always in my ear —
doubt, doubt, doubt, doubt, unceasingly. Dead now. I am
free. You are no murderer, my lord. I knew that always ; you
heard me say I knew that you were not a murderer ; but no one
gave me any comfort ; no one said that what I knew to be the
truth was true. I might have been mad, you see ; but God
made my faith firm, and now I can thank God — Ah me ! — I am
tired. Forgive me, children ; I will love you. You are strong,
Roland ; help me to bear happiness, my son.

Marq. Rest, Grisyld ; lean on Roland ; I have more news
yet — none bad. Friends and counsellors, that divorce I showed
you was a forgery — good parchment spoiled. This lady has
been queen all the while. I trust none of you remember words
spoken to her which a queen might not hear. Griselda, have
you followed me ?

Gris. Not clearly, my lord ; but it is well with me.

Marq. Gentlemen, in time past certain of our subjects
caballed against our queen, and denounced her son as base born.
For his safety I concealed him, even from his mother. That
danger is now past. He stands there, a worthy prince, while
his mother's fame is such that before long heralds will forge
pedigrees to prove kings her kinsmen. Once I crowned her ;
now I hold that she crowns me, for her glory outshines mine .
Say I well, my lords ?

Courtiers. Most nobly. [Shouts.

Marq. Griselda, take my hand ; let me lead you to your
throne. I felt less joy on the first day I brought you here, a
younger bride. Last night you spoke words I had almost

140 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

despaired of hearing ; words for whose sake I could make you
welcome to a thousand thrones.

Gris. What words, my lord ?

Marq. Words that are far too precious, Grisyld, to be wasted
on the common ear. When we are alone you will smile to hear
how well I remember all you said. When you spoke of love
last night I heard passion in your voice, my wife. My doubt is
at an end.

Gris. Wife ! my lord. I am not your wife. I saw the papal
bull, where it was plainly written that from that time forward I
should no longer be your wife.

Marq. The bull was forged, Grisyld. Board, bed, and
throne, all are yours.

Gris. Will nothing hold ? My lord, you promised that I
should be free. Will you keep your word ? If I am your wife,
I am not free.

Marq. You shall be free. Henceforth I claim no obedience.
Have no fear. I will make no further trial of your love ; but
queen and wife you are, and queen and wife you must be.

Gris. If I must, my lord

Marq. What is this ? Friends, we have been somewhat
sudden. I pray you leave us for a little. The Queen needs
rest. Ladies, make you merry — you shall be summoned to the
banquet presently. (Exeunt courtiers, servants, and soldiers
talking, C., R., and L.) Bring a chair and cushions, Roland ;
your mother faints. Filomene, wine !

Gris. I am not faint, my lord.

Marq. Call me Walter, Grisyld.

Gris. I must not.

Marq. Nay, wife ; for you I was Walter long before you
knew me as a prince, and I will be Walter now.

Gris. You are not he, my lord ; nor am I Grisyld. These
are not my baby children. All is changed, my good lord.

Marq. We are not changed since last night, Grisyld.

Gris. Are we not ? I do not feel as if we were the same.
Sir, I cannot be your wife.

Tanc. Mother, mother !

Filo. She is right, Tancred ; he has sinned past forgiveness.

Marq. Your words are wild, Grisyld. Last night you still

GRISELDA 141

loved me, though you feared I was a murderer. To-day you
know that I am almost innocent.

Gris. The relief that knowledge brought me is past words ;
you must not accuse him, Dora. I have been much to blame.
He meant nobly. I have suffered, but suffering once past is
ended. If I am free I will go back to the forest ; there I shall
be happy. There, my lord, I will bless you every hour of each
day ; you, children, will come to me sometimes ; but not you,
my lord. I will love you in the forest, but I will not see you.

Tanc. My father's doubts were folly ; his trials of your love
were insults — sins ; but your present action, mother, is not of
a piece with your past life. You called for death sooner than
freedom, when I would have set you free, although my father
then seemed to threaten ; while now, when he owns his fault. —
gives you back your children and strives to make amends — you
will not stay with him ! Why not ?

Gris. I am not what I was.

Tanc. Surely you are less noble.

Chris. That may be ; but I am what I am.

Filo. All your life you have chosen what was best, most
right. Is this your choice now ?

Gris. I never chose. I did the one thing I could do.
Would it be what you call best, most right, to say I love the
Marquis when I do not love him ?

Tanc. I know the full depth of his sin ; but you, mother,
can you not forgive ?

Gris. I have nothing to forgive. You all say well. I am
in the wrong ; I beseech you all to forgive me.

Marq. Forgiveness is a word. Nor you nor I can be as if
what has been had not been. I could regret much that I have
done, but I ask for no forgiveness. When I did what I could
most regret, my love's sea was at the flood. That sea was wild
and cruel — cruel both to you and me ; yet the passion was love
— a wild deep sea of love, whose waves still buffet me ; and my
strength is failing. I fear that I shall sink.

Gris. I know that you have loved me ; I think I loved you,
long ago. Last night I thought that I still loved you, but to-
day I cannot. I must tell the truth. Oh, let me go. You
torture me.

142 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Marq. Griselda, you are full of pity. I have known you
pity thieves and murderers. Pity me. Stay with me. I will
not ask for love ; but all misery, even mine, claims pity. When
you turn from me, my life's light is quenched. Last night the
sun still shone on the green meadows in the wood where we
first met — where we were young — where we loved. All's dark
now. My past is dead. I had not killed the past for you ; it
lived in your voice last night.

Gris. I wish that I had died last night.

Marq. Although to-day brought back your children ! What
is my new crime ?

Gris. None. The crime is mine. That is why I wish that
I had died.

Filo. There is no crime. We honour you. Why should
you wish to die when we love you so ?

Gris. Why would you have killed yourself last night ?

Tanc. Marquis, your good deeds are but new born, and they
are far too weak to cope with your old sins. Mother, I grant
that you must go. I will not say that you are wrong, nor can
I say that you are right. I will go with you, protect you,
honour you, obey you.

Gris. And condemn me. I will go alone, if I may go, my lord.

Marq. Look up, Grisyld. This some time. past I have not
seen your true eyes. Grisyld, you are in the right. We have
all been wrong, as men always are when they doubt you. Last
night, children, your mother spoke of me as I once was, and you
heard that then she loved me. She even said she loved me now ;
but she was thinking of me as I was long since. Now, I am
strange to her, and this stranger comes, gives her a strange man
and woman for her children, and says : ' Quick ! love me. This
old rogue is that young forester you loved long ago.' You are
right. I am not he, Grisyld, though I remember him, and I
am glad to think you once loved him.

Gris. That is true, my lord ; but must a woman's love fade
as she withers ?

Marq. Not so. As we ripen, love grows ; but growth means
change. 'Twas sheer folly when I begged for love as boys beg
from girls. Your forest story set me dreaming. Now I am
awake. I say that you are right.

GRISELDA 143

Gris. I cannot think so ; but my faith in you is justified.

Marq. Let this be clear. You owe me no debt. Love can
never be a debt. Love is a free gift, or is not love. So, then
you are free. I set no limit to your freedom ; choose and act.
The forest shall be yours in fee if you choose its silence. Or in
Tuscany Roland can find you work that will reward your pains.
But if you can freely choose the lot, remain with me. Rule in
Saluce — my queen and my wife.

Gris. Sir, your great trust gives me courage. I will try to
tell you what I feel. My lord, for many long years you left me
in pain, when by one word you could have healed my bitterest
wound. All through those years I hoped — more — I believed
that your ways might be justified, though they were dark. Now
I know the truth. But that's not it. The sin of those we love
gives us pain, but the pain cannot kill our love, and my love is
not dead ; but you and I use that word with a difference. Long
ago you told me in the forest that such love as I could give was
of no worth to you ; yet I thought I loved you well, and when
I had become your wife with such joy as I must not think of,
you still feared, no less than before, that I could not love you.
Even when I gave our babe into your hands in my first hour of
motherhood, your greeting was to tell me in a whisper how you
hoped that, with our child, at last, love had come. You took
my children from me — murdered them, you said — and with the
same breath you asked, ' Can you love me now ? ' I answered,
* Yes,' and my answer was the truth. But after that I saw
men's eyes question me. ' Can she love ? ' they said, ' or does
she lie ? ' The smiles of women, as they passed me in the street,
told of the same doubt. Perhaps I read my own thought in
their looks, for not a dog could fawn on his master in my sight
bat I would ask myself whether my love were as true as his.
Even dead things seemed to mock me. In the dusk, love's
goddess laughed from the hangings of our room and said, ' You
cannot love ; we can love — we who are merry. You have a
broken heart.' Her wanton boy would chatter to me of dead
children, not of love. Fear mastered me, so that I believed I
was a liar ; but when you sent me to the forest I found my own
true self there. There I loved you. I loved you last night.
Only to-day, when I heard you call me wife — when I heard

144 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

your voice speak that word love — a chill struck through me
such as falls upon a wretch entering his prison cell. What I
feared was your love. I fear that love now. Wolves, met in
winter, have scared me less. My lord, you know the truth.

Marq. I had said that I would not ask for love. I have
learned to rate the passion I so cherished no higher than an old
antic fool — past service. The discarded knave should not have
frighted you as you sat upon your throne. A crust to mumble
in some unfrequented nook about your palace would have made
him almost happy.

Gris. You are angry. A woman cannot help her fear.

Marq. No, lady, no ! I am not angry with the sun if he
should blister me. I will not quarrel with the rain although it
wets me. Sun and rain are good. I think you good.

Gris. I thank you for your gentleness, my lord.

Marq. You need have had no fear, Grisyld. I have no
quarrel with the truth.

Gris. How base a thing fear is ! Day by day I have set this
hour before my eyes, night by night I have dreamt that I had
told all, and my wicked fear always showed me cruel phantoms
wearing your shape. I saw you kill me. I saw you die by
your own hand. I heard you curse me with such words as
blacken memory, and now the day has come, and in the light of
day I see no more phantoms. I see you. You stand before me
kind and gentle. I have been a fool.

Marq. Neither fool nor coward, Grisyld. You have been a
woman, and we men hurt women much more than we know ;
but I will do justice, now I know the truth. Your place is
upon the throne, but mine is not beside you. Saluce is some-
what stale to me. I will go see the world.

Gris. I rejoiced too soon.

Marq. Teach our son how to govern. He will be an apter
pupil than your husband. One maxim take from me, Roland :
the law must be feared — your mother is too tender-hearted
to rule men wisely. Speech is useless, Grisyld : you cannot
change my purpose, nor follow out what I see to be your own.
You must not leave Saluce. Your son needs you ; he has no
experience. Be comforted. This my act shows no despair, but
plain wisdom, simple justice. I deserve neither wife nor

GRISELDA 145

children — not even my people's love. If I were to stay, I
should be alone and a tyrant. Let this be my praise, that
I could be just, even to myself. Roland, call our friends
back. They will say that my last news betters all I told
before.

Gris. My lord, my lord, I will not stay an hour in this
palace if you leave. I have sinned. You drive home the
knowledge as if it were a sword.

Marq. You have not sinned, Grisyld. We have been like
two ships drifting in the dark. We clashed and are sorely
shattered ; but the light has come, and we will hurt each other
no more. Leaving you upon the throne, I can face my remnant
of this life gladly.

Gris. Sir, can you still love me, now that you know the
truth ?

Marq. Ay, Grisyld, we will love each other from far off.
I feel older since an hour — wiser too perhaps. You said well,
we loved with a difference ; your love shamed mine, and I am
your convert.

Gris . I fear that now you do not love me. Long since I
used sometimes to ask that question. You answered differently.

Marq. Grisyld, you are cruel !

Gris. Am I ? Husband ! — Walter ! — I will be your wife.

Marq. I feared that offer. Would you have me find my joy
in your pain, Grisyld ? Be just to me.

Gris. You are very blind. Sir, in other matters you are
shrewd, clear-witted, and experienced ; but in love I think you
are a greater novice than myself. You need have no fear.
Your joy never shall be my pain. I wonder if I ever shall feel
pain. Oh, I will be true ! I will not unspeak one word I
spoke. I do not wish one word unspoken ; but when we next
stand before the picture in our room, you shall hear me say, * O
Lady Venus, I have told all the truth, and your spell is broken ;
you and your boy, you are shadows of false love : it was you
who lied. I have living children, and I can love ; I love my
husband.'

Marq. Grisyld, Grisyld, is this true ?

Gris. Walter, you were not wont to be so cold when I made
you welcome. (Holds out both hands.)

VOL. I. L

J46 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Marq. My wife ! My wife ! (They embrace.) Be in this
mood once a twelvemonth, Grisyld, and I will think the whole
year happy.

Gris. This is no mood. This is myself. I have come back
to life. I rejoice to live. All sights show me beauty. All
sounds are music chiming with the song my soul sings within
me.

Marq. Your voice has the old ring. I believe that you are
happy, though I have somewhat lost my faith in my power to
confer a blessing.

Gris. Blessing ! I am a mother and a wife.

Marq. Queen too, lady. Small blessing for the nonce, since
for one long hour at least I fear the queen must listen to the
foolish babble of her guests. Summon them, Roland.

[Exit ROLAND.

Gris. I will meet our friends gladly. Among them I saw
many who were dear to me.

Courtiers enter, R., c., and L. The MARQUIS and GRISELDA welcome
them. TANCRED comes down to FILOMENE.

Marq. Ah ! womanlike, they have brought the queen's robes
for you, Grisyld.

Gris. I love my peasant clothes, Walter. You remember
them ?

Marq. They shall be set in gold like the relics of a saint.
Right, Dora : it is your turn to play the tirewoman while I
crown this linen coif.

Gris. Yon will never again lose hope, Dora.

Filo. Mother, I know now that pain may be a blessing.
Mine has taught me how to love you.

Tanc. Sister, shall we be friends ? (Leads her up.)

Filo. More than friends, Roland. I am glad to have a
brother. I am glad that you are he.

Marq. I've no more surprises for you, lords and ladies. You
know all. My tale is told. It will be retold often, and for the
most part wrongly. Men will praise you, Grisyld (leads her to
throne), and some women will jeer at you. No woman will
praise me, nor will any man take me for his model, though I

GRJSELDA 147

am he who found and crowned you. But let the world jog as
it lists. Our hearts are glad. With full cups, my lords, pledge
your queen, and make the farthest echo in the palace ring out,
c Welcome to Griselda ! '

Courtiers . Welcome to Griselda ! Long life to our queen !

Gris. My lords and counsellors, I prize your welcome very
dearly, for it is given by the voices of old friends — friends whom
I ever found rich in love and serviceable deeds. I see younger
faces, too, no less kindly in their look, although as yet unknown
to me. These new friends I shall in some sort link with my
children in my heart, as gained to-day. Old friends and new
friends, I thank you all.

Marq. Have you no thanks for me, Grisyld ? I shouted
louder than the youngest of them.

Gris. For so much, my lord, I thank you, but your other
gifts pass all thanks. [Applause.

Marq. Our friends endorse your verdict, but young Tancred
Roland here is silent.

Tanc. Father, you are a noble gentleman, but you wronged
my mother bitterly.

Marq. Yet you will take my hand, and when Dora learns
that she is promised to Count Guido Malatesta, Filomene will
kiss me. (TANCRED takes his hand, and DORA kisses him.) What
noise is this ?

Courtier. A fellow here, my lord, has brought a letter for the
queen.

Marq. Read it, Grisyld. They have begun to beg of you.

Gris. The man, my lord, who was your majordomo writes
craving that on this most auspicious day he may not alone be
outcast. He begs my intercession in favour of his reappoint-
ment. In a postscript he says his profits from the place were
too small.

Marq. Will you have the fellow back ?

Gris. In good sooth, no, my lord.

Marq. Right. One of you let him know I am hard at work
devising tortures. There is one boon which you must ask,
Griselda, or break faith.

Gris. What boon, my lord ?

L 2

148

LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Marq. Are you so forgetful ? Nay, then, 'tis too late — the
place is given. Madam, your father has this day been made
Mayor of his Bailiewick.

Oris. The thought and deed are kindly, and deserve re-
quital. My lord, your queen drinks to the health of the most
noble Walter, Marquis of Saluce.

\_Shouts. The courtiers pledge the MARQUIS.

CURTAIN.

149

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE.1

I.

THE reprint of Dr. Guest's well-known book will be welcome to
all students of English verse. The present editor truly says
that its numerous and well-arranged quotations give the work a
great and permanent value ; we will add that this value is much
enhanced by the copious index which Mr. Skeat has compiled, and
by the complete references which he gives to the source from
which each quotation is drawn. The title is somewhat mislead-
ing, although many historical facts of interest are to be found
in the book, more especially with reference to Anglo-Saxon and
Early English metres. We should rather describe the work as
treating of the analysis and classification of English metres
according to a new system based on Anglo-Saxon practice.
Mr. Skeat does not insist upon the merit of this system, which,
to our thinking, is in itself of small value, although it led Dr.
Guest to write a valuable and interesting work. It must, how-
ever, be conceded that no two persons ever yet agreed concern-
ing the theory of English verse.

The older writers assumed that each line was composed of
feet analogous to those employed in classical metres, and their
theory is not wholly abandoned even in the present day. Ac-
cented and unaccented syllables are, however, now usually
accepted as the elements of the English metrical foot in place of
the longs and shorts of our gradus, but the word accent is some-*
what loosely used to denote any prominence given to any
syllable. It is clear that feet consisting of elements which
differ merely by their strength and weakness are not metrically

1 Abridged from three articles in the Saturday Review for February and
March 1883 ; the first a review of A History of English Rhythms. By Edwin
Guest, LL.D. D.C.L. F.R.S. New Edition, edited by the Rev Walter W.
Skeat, M.A.

150 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

equivalent to feet composed of long and short syllables. The
ancient foot measured an interval of time, whereas in English
verse we allow, and indeed demand, that successive feet called
by the same name shall occupy dissimilar and irregular periods.
Notwithstanding this broad distinction, it is found that our
English iambs, trochees, and anapaests arranged in accordance
with classical laws produce lines possessing many of the quali-
ties which ancient grammarians attribute to the analogous clas-
sical metres ; but lines in which an attempt is made to combine
spondees and dactyls in classical fashion are not very successful.
So long as scanning was looked upon as a formal matter,
having very little connection with the sound of well-spoken sen-
tences, the heroic line commonly used in blank verse was with
no hesitation treated as a simple iambic of five feet. With the
aid of a little licence, all difficulty found in scanning lines in
this or any other metre was easily explained away. Indeed,
our language is so wonderfully flexible that no theorist has any
difficulty in bending the vast majority of examples under his
own special yoke ; and when he comes upon some more than
usually stubborn verse he says the line is bad, though Milton,
Pope, or Shakespeare may have written it. Mr. Goold Brown,
in his ' Grammar of English Grammars,' gives examples of all
sorts of metres classically scanned, and quotes the following lines
from * Paradise Lost ' to illustrate the catalectic iambic penta-
meter. A vertical line is used both by Dr. Guest and Mr.
Goold Brown to denote that an accent falls on the preceding
syllable :

No soon|-er had) th' Almight|-y ceas?d| — but all]
The mul|-titude| of an|-gels with| a shout
Loud as| from num|-bers with|-out num|ber, sweet
As from| blest voi -ces ut|-tering joy| heav'n rung, &c.

Far be it from us to decide which of these so-called feet the
grammarian considered to be iambs, which trochees, and which
perhaps spondees. By an effort of the will we may conceive
that ( titude ' and ' gels with ' are in some way like iambs ;
though, if we are to call the second syllables of these feet ac-
cented, the word accent must receive a definition of much-
embracing amplitude.

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 151

Dr. Guest pays no regard to scansion such as this. In
dealing with modern verse he never mentions feet, but substi-
tutes for the old-fashioned scansion a wholly different method of
analysis based on the final and middle pause. According to
him, the rhythmical element in all English verse is a section or
group of syllables bounded by a pause at either end. The
shortest section must, he says, contain at least two, and the
longest section at most three, accented syllables. It is, for Dr.
Guest, a self-obvious axiomatic law for all forms of English
verse that two consecutive syllables cannot both be accented.
Each accented syllable must be separated by one or by two un-
accented syllables, and the section may begin or close in three
ways — with an accented syllable, with an unaccented syllable,
or with two unaccented syllables. These laws admit of thirty-
six forms of the section, no one of which is called better or
worse than its neighbour. Each line of English verse is said to
be built up of two out of these thirty-six sections ; and very
numerous examples are given to show that all metres can in
this way be analysed and classified. At first ' one is inclined
to think the method at least novel ; but the novelty is less
obvious on further consideration. Stripped of disguise, Dr.
Guest's analysis, applied to the heroic line, amounts to this.

Each line of blank verse has five accented syllables, and
usually five unaccented syllables separating the others ; but
now and then an extra unaccented syllable is added, and at
other times one is left out. Moreover, a pause occurs between
the second and third accents, or between the third and fourth.
We think these statements neither new nor wholly true. Three
hundred and twenty-four distinct verses of five accents can be
built by combining two of the thirty-six permitted sections ;
but even the author of the theory does not venture to say that
all these will form good heroic lines, or good lines of any sort,
nor can he give us any clue as to which will or will not be
successful ; he merely notes which of these combinations have
been used by poets with success, and in these we easily discover
our old friends the iambs and the trochees. Dr. Guest has
observed no new fact ; he simply offers us a new and complex
notation by which we may name and classify many varieties of
verse. Critical examination is not aided by this new notation,

152 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

for indeed our author makes no attempt to show why one com-
bination should sound better than another, nor does the new
method remove any of the difficulties which confessedly arise in
scanning. Like Mr. Brown, Dr. Guest must find five accents
in Milton's line :

The multitude of angels with a shout ;

whereas a plain man without a theory would surely say there
were but three. But Dr. Guest plays lightly with accents,
tossing them with much ease from syllable to syllable. Ben
Jonson wrote :

A third thought wise and learned, a fourth rich,

and we think this good stout line well able to withstand all the
assaults of its enemies ; but unfortunately there are two con-
secutive accents on the last two syllables in plain defiance of
the Doctor's rule. He condemns the line as in duty bound, but
not for this reason. He selects it as an example of the vicious
practice of putting an accent on the article ' a,' not a little to
the bewilderment of the straightforward reader who, at this
page of the book, has not yet learnt the law of the composition
of sections, according to which no two accented syllables ever
can come together ; since the line is undoubtedly verse, Dr.
Guest logically concluded that * a' was accented and 'fourth '
was not. Jonson might allege that he had no intention of
putting an accent on the article ; but then he knew nothing of
the new rules of verse. Again, Milton wrote :

Thus at their shady lodge arrived, both stood,
Both turned.

One line ends with three strong syllables, and the next begins
with two — we have here apparently five consecutive accents —
but Dr. Guest escapes from this difficulty with the greatest
readiness. In defiance of Dr. Johnson, who thought diffe-
rently, he will not allow that ' both ' receives an accent in
either line.

He assumes as incontrovertible that there are always five
accents in each heroic line, neither more nor less. We have
already quoted a line from Milton with only three accents, and

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 153

to our ear there are no less than seven accented syllables in
the following example from Pope, as in many others :

Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides.

At least we are certain that seven of these syllables should be
pronounced with emphasis, and that any person beating time
while he speaks the verse with dramatic effect will strike seven
blows. The old practice of scanning fits all these lines better
than the new law of five accents adopted by Mr. Goold Brown,
Dr. Guest, and many others.

The hard and fast rule for the position of the middle pause
leads to difficulties quite as great as those raised by the laws
for the formation of each section. Thus, our author writes,
1 There are many instances, and some of high authority, in
which the middle pause falls in the midst of a word; these,
however, should not be imitated.' As an example he gives
Milton's line : —

My ang|er un| : appea|sable| still ra|ges.

Again, the unprepared reader might imagine that Milton never
intended a pause to come where the colon is placed, but in that
case where would the law of sections be ? Indeed, even with
the pause placed to suit our theorist, the second section with
an accent on ' ble ' and none on ' still ' must have seemed to
him a very tough morsel. Yet the line is in Milton's noblest
style.

A supporter of Dr. Guest, while admitting that the con-
demned lines are good, might perhaps urge that the new theory
has been found to fit a vast number of examples, and need nob
be rejected because here and there an exceptional verse falls
outside the rules. To this we answer that it would indeed be
strange if some one of the three hundred and twenty-four modes
of analysing a simple line of five feet should not be found
applicable to most cases ; but, as the theory is absolutely
general, it must, if true, fit all examples ; and in this it fails.
We shall readily grant that some of the lines which defy the
new analysis are not of the normal heroic type ; but to satisfy
Dr. Guest we must go much further and admit that, unless the line
is mispronounced so as to let the pause and accents fall after his

154 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

fashion, the lines are not verse of any kind, but prose, which is
absurd.

Our author is quite fearless in applying his theory even to
those examples which have been most obviously written to scan.
Thus he prints a verse from Gray as follows :

When the British : warrior Queen,
Bleeding from the : Roman rods,

Sought with an : indignant mien
Counsel of her : country's gods.

The two dots indicate that Anglo-Saxon pause which he always
finds even when, as in the last three lines, any such pause in
the delivery would make the verse ridiculous.

In fine, the new theory requires that we should often pause
where no pause is possible, call syllables accented on which no
stress falls, and others unaccented on which the plain meaning
of the words demands emphasis. It offers no criterion of
excellence nor any clue by which we might recover the almost
lost art of elocution. Under a new name we meet with the old
false law, classifying verse by the mere number of accents ; and
in place of scansion we are offered new and far more complex
rules which, notwithstanding their great laxity, are yet inap-
plicable to much good verse. We conclude that the new theory
is of small value. And yet we hold that Dr. Guest was guided
by historical research to the very threshold of the door, which,
had he opened it, would have disclosed all the secrets of English
rhythm and metre.

In discussing the arrangement of his subject, he promises
to treat of a ' metre which resulted from modifying the longer
Anglo-Saxon rhythms by the accentual rhythm of the Latin
chants,' and again of other metres c which appear to be the
natural growth of the Latin rhythm modified by the native
rhythm of our language.' Here, as we think, is the root of the
whole matter. Two independent verse-systems have endowed
English poetry with power and beauty. Two series of rhyth-
mical elements, one classical and one native to the soil, co-exist
in each verse ; but this idea did not occur to Dr. Guest, for, as
we find in later chapters, he simply meant that certain modes
of old-fashioned verse were possibly suggested by Latin and

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 155

others by English rhythms. He makes no attempt to show
how Anglo-Saxon rhythm and classic metre became blended.
He simply abandons all scansion, and in the place of any law
of living rhythm which our ear can recognise, he offers meaning-
less rules, based, so far as they have any base, upon the look of
lines as written, not upon their sound as heard.

One object in passing this strong condemnation on the pro-
posed theory is to set the reader free fully to enjoy the charming
book in which this fallacy is set forth. If he will pass carelessly
over all references to the new dogma, he may wander with un-
tired mind in a delightful maze of history, poetry, and criticism .
When he reaches certain translations from the Anglo-Saxon,
their rugged sections may not improbably inspire him with awe,
and yet in the rifts even of their middle pauses he may find
matter for pleasant cogitation. Elsewhere an almost endless series
of lines quoted from our best poets will lure him onward by a
charm comparable with that which we experience as we dreamily
peruse an early edition of Johnson's Dictionary, and that charm
is great.

II.

Nowhere are the difficulties of analysing English rhythms
more obvious and more perplexing than in the heroic measure. If,
indeed, we attempt to scan this form of verse, we shall find that
many lines may be divided into feet arranged as in an iambic
pentameter. In other cases, in order to scan the line without
greatly forcing the pronunciation, we must employ spondees
and, perhaps, pyrrhics ; further, we must occasionally allow two
unaccented syllables to count as one, and at other times we
must let a pause do duty for a syllable. Still further, we must
grant the poet leave to lengthen his lines by adding at their
close one, or even two, unaccented syllables, when the normal
five feet are already there. When all these privileges have been
granted, our rules hardly aid us to distinguish blank verse thus
licensed from prose. Nor can laws so loose aid us in judging
of the excellence of verse. Hot controversy has raged as to
whether long and short or accented and unaccented syllables

156 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

should be considered as the primary elements of the English
metrical foot. Victory appears to have declared for the school
which puts accent in the place of quantity ; but the controversy
was rather about terms than facts. No sane man ever pro-
nounced English verse by the ancient rules of quantity ; and,
on the other hand, those who classify by accents are fain to call
many syllables accented whose sole claim to that honour is
given by their length. We doubt whether the nominal scanning
of a single line was altered by those who fought most violently
for accent against quantity. The difficulties of scansion are not
to be removed by a mere change of names.

Probably no new statement about verse will be found to be
true ; but some important truths have been imperfectly stated,
and others have met with neglect, so that no one complete
theory is now generally accepted. Instead of wearily picking
out small modicums of truth from this or that half-forgotten
author, let us search for the main laws of rhythm by listening
to the actual sound of prose and verse as spoken nowadays.
Both in prose and verse we habitually run words together, so as
to form a group of sounds as continuous as those in any single
word. The pause dividing these groups sometimes separates
the members of a sentence ; sometimes it is used for purposes
of emphasis ; but in many cases the pause we speak of is invo-
luntary, being made while we rearrange the organs of speech, so
as to allow a fresh word to begin with a clear, well-cut sound.
We make the pause, in fact, to avoid what Mr. Melville Bell
calls a glide. This continuous group we will call a section. The
letter ' r ' is a great cem enter of words, and perhaps the meaning
of this term section may be best explained by examples of faulty
sections, such as ' Mariar Ann,' or ' idear of,' where words which
ought not to form a continuous group are nevertheless welded
by the vulgar into a section with a distinct rhythmical character.

We will first consider the function or properties of these
sections in prose, for prose has its rhythm as well as verse ; and
if we can find the simpler laws of rhythm in prose, we shall
then more easily ascertain the precise difference between prose
and verse. To our ear the following prose passage falls into
eight sections, separated by seven pauses, of which the second and
sixth are very short, and would in rapid speech be omitted :

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 157

ll beseech you : 2 punish me not . 3with your hard th6ughts :
whereiii : 5I confess me much guilty : 6to deny . 7so fair and Ex-
cellent ladies : 8 any thing.

The shorter pauses are here and hereafter indicated by a dot,
and the longer pauses by two dots, or a colon. The strong syl-
lables are indicated by an accent. Other readers might divide
the passage otherwise, as by pausing after ' fair/ and not after
1 deny ; ' but all Englishmen would break up the sentence in
some such way as is here indicated. Each group given above
has a distinct rhythmical character, which, avoiding all contro-
versy as to length or accent, we may indicate in time-honoured
terms as follows :

^ititumti 2tumtititi Hititumtum 4titum 5 tititum-titumtumti
6tititum 7 titum-titumtiti-tumti 8tumtiti.

The hyphens introduced in the longer sections may, perhaps,
enable the reader more easily to catch the rhythm indicated ;
they are not intended to denote any peculiarity in the rhythmical
character of the groups. No one will deny that the short groups
are rhythmical, for they are closely analogous to classical feet.
The longer groups owe their rhythmical character to the regular
beat which falls on each strong syllable — each of these is, within
the section, separated from its neighbour by a constant time-
interval. If we were to employ musical notation to express the
time occupied in delivery, each strong syllable would begin a
fresh bar. The fact that the beats are regular is best observed
in the larger groups ; as, c I con|fess me| much] guilty,' or,
1 So| fair and| excellent|ladies.' The bar here is placed as a
bar is placed in musical notation. At the end of each section a
pause of uncertain length may be introduced ; the time begins,
or may begin, de novo. No effort is required to secure rhythmi-
cal character for each section as we speak or write. This cha-
racter belongs essentially to every sentence, depending wholly
on our native mode of delivery. A Frenchman hardly ever
masters the art ; indeed, he seems to be without the organ
which recognises a difference between tumtiti and tititum.
His rhythm, in English at least, consists of a series of equal
beats on all syllables, followed by a long uncertain pause,
sometimes on a syllable, sometimes on the stops or chief

i58 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

pauses. Even the Americans are apt to lose the true English
rhythm, and to break our sentences into short sections which
strike the English ear as quaint. Thus we may imitate one
American mode of speech as follows : £ I confess me : much
guilty : to deny : so fair : and excellent ladies : anything.'
But, although no art is necessary to insure that each phrase we
speak shall be rhythmical, yet the rhythm may be good or bad
Our worst or weakest rhythms arise from monotonous redupli-
cation, as titum titum, or tumti tumti. Sections of this cha-
racter take all force out of any phrase in which they recur
frequently. There is in prose no law for the collocation of suc-
cessive sections; but unless they vary in length and character
the sentence will ring poorly, while if they balance and answer
one another too obviously, the effect is artificial and pompous.
Observe how admirably Orlando's compliment stands all tests-
no section poor, no repetition, no antithesis ; some sections long
enough to let us hear the rhythmical pulse ; and these followed
by a break in the time, due to a natural pause.

This last condition is essential in strong prose. We like
occasionally to hear long sweeping sections ; but if one con-
tinuous beat is maintained for several successive sections without
a check, in place of flowing prose we hear weak verse. In con-
trast to Shakespeare's prose let us take a sentence such as any
of us may write when we are so intent on saying what we mean
as to be quite indifferent to rhythmical effect :

!In fact : 2we must : 3as will sh6rtly appear : 4 measure labour :

5 by the ani6unt of pain : 6 which attaches to it.

1 Titum 2 titum 3 tititum-tititum 4 tumti-tumti * tititi turn -titum

6 tititumtiti.

The first two sections are identical ; the third consists of a
repetition of two identical parts ; the fourth is one of the
poorest groups possible ; and the sixth is weak, in consequence
of the symmetry of its form. Only the fifth can escape censure.
Then, as to their collocation ; no pause of sufficient importance
occurs to warrant our breaking the time from first to last ; and
if the reader will beat time so as to bring one stroke on each
accented syllable, he will speak like a professor painfully
explaining his point.

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 159

In verse the section or group of undivided sounds is an ele-
ment of no less importance than in prose. In the smooth line
used by Pope, the rhythmical section very rarely extends beyond
four syllables. Milton often uses sections of five syllables ; but
even in his sweeping lines we have met with none longer.
Short sections are the first characteristic of verse as compared
with prose. In the heroic line we habitually find four pauses,
and in the normal arrangement the short and long pauses occur
alternately. The two longer pauses are known as the final pause
and middle pause or caesure. By some writers the slighter
pauses are called semipauses or demicsesures. Thus we find
each line split into four sections, of which the shortest may con-
tain one syllable, while the longest will contain four, or, by ex-
ception, five. If we limit ourselves to sections of four syllables,
we may designate each variety of section by that letter of the
alphabet which is represented by the same rhythmical group in
the Morse code. In verse these sections are not joined at ran-
dom. In beating time from beginning to end of each line one
stroke will fall on each accented syllable, and even in passing
from line to line the beat is very generally continued unbroken.
(By accent we mean the primary or strong accent, not that
stress which in a word of many syllables is sometimes called the
secondary accent.) Not unfrequently a beat falls on the final
pause, and occasionally a beat falls on some pause in the middle
of a line, or at its close ; but neither in verse nor prose does a
beat ever fall on a weak unaccented syllable. In this continuity
of pulse or beat we find a second characteristic of verse. In
some loose forms the lines have no other characters, but in
most verse a third rule prevails. A definite number of sections
are so joined as to form lines which can be scanned accord-
ing to laws borrowed from the rules of classic metre ; we then
have in each line two co-existing rhythms, one due to the
grouping of sections, and one to the grouping of feet ; the
number of sections never coincides with that of the feet; so
that one pause at least must divide a foot, as in the classic
ensure.

An example from Pope will assist to make our meaning clear.
An accent is shown where we consider that a beat should fall.
A colon marks the csesure and a dot the semi-csesure :

160 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

G6 * w6ndrous creature : m6uiit • where science guides :
Go • measure earth : weigh air • and state the tides,
Instruct • the planets : in what 6rbs • to run :
Correct • old time : and regulate * the sun.

We will now to the best of our ability scan these lines, using
the ordinary classical symbols. In scanning we shall frequently
count syllables as long which receive no primary accent or beat ;
but every syllable which does receive a beat will be counted as
long. For instance, we count the first syllable of l regulate ' as
a long element in virtue of its accent, although it is very quickly
pronounced, and we are ready to give equal rank in scanning
to its last syllable in virtue of the time required for its pronuncia-
tion. It will be seen that the lines closely resemble iambics :

With very little persuasion we might be led to consider even
the spondees and pyrrhic as merely strong and weak varieties
of the iamb.

In the second mode of analysis by sections we will employ
long and short upright marks to denote that relation which in
prose we call tumti. The long marks correspond exactly with
the accented syllables :

Those who know the Morse alphabet might readily write down

this scheme as

tc : ta, tk : ma, ar : ua, aa : la.

No one who merely saw the scheme of feet could form any clear
idea of the character of the lines, whereas a man to whom the
scheme of sections was given could almost recognise the style of
Pope.

In the lines quoted above there is no possible ambiguity in

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 161

either mode of analysis ; but the reader may doubt whether the
grouping by sections is always so well defined. The experiment
is simply made. Let two persons select any passage of classical
verse, and sitting in separate rooms, so as to avoid discussion,
mark three places in each line where pauses, however slight,
might conceivably be made. They must bear in mind that very
few sections can exceed four syllables, and that no words are to
be called one section which will not run fluently together with
a continuous sound. We have repeatedly found the agreement
between two such versions to be almost perfect.

If our observation of the facts has been accurate, we are
now able to see clearly the essential characteristics which dis-
tinguish verse from prose. In prose we have long and short
sections, grouped according to the taste of the writer ; and our
sense of prose rhythm is due to the individual sections more
than to the groups which these form. In verse we are restricted
to the use of comparatively few frequently recurring short sec-
tions ; but these are grouped according to some law or laws so
as to form the rhythmical unit which we call a line. The
number of sections in a normal line is constant, and the line is
delivered so that the interval between successive accented syl-
lables is habitually constant ; in other words, we have one beat
per accent throughout the line, the only exception being that
occasionally a beat falls on a pause. In certain looser forms of
verse no other law holds good ; but in the stricter forms the
further law is added that the syllables in the section shall scan
according to a more or less rigid scheme. When the scanning
is strict this leads to a constant number of syllables in each line,
and even when the scanning is lax the number of syllables does
not greatly vary. In this complete form of verse we have time,
number, and rhythm. The beat upon the accents marks the
time, the feeling of number is given by the constant number of
feet and the constant number of sections. The group of syl-
lables within the section, and the group which these sections
form within the line, give the primary sense of rhythm, and
underlying this varying rhythm we have the secondary rhythm
due to feet which by their approximately uniform arrangement
assist in giving that sense of unity by which we recognise a
series of lines as belonging to one species,

VOL. i. M

1 62 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

So long as this sense of unity is preserved, much licence is
permitted to the poet and to those who speak his lines. If the
verse is otherwise strongly marked, the speaker may break
the beat by a random pause. If the scanning is strict, the
number of sections may be allowed occasionally to vary. If the
length and the number of sections are normal, the scanning
may be lax. English scansion is often indefinite and lax,
probably because its laws are not of indigenous growth. More-
over, our sense of number is weaker than that of time orr hythm.
The schoolboy trying to write verse beats time naturally, and
finds some rhythm, good or bad, by instinct, but he counts
the syllables on his fingers. Further examples are needed to
show how far these theories may assist in the critical examina-
tion of style, and what aid they bring to elocution.

III.

The normal English heroic line is an iambic of five feet,
broken into four sections by one major and two minor pauses.
The time of its delivery is measured by beats, each falling on an
accented syllable or on a pause, and the number of these beats
may vary from three to seven or even eight, although the number
of long elements in the feet is only five.

The beauty of a line cannot be determined by noting how
closely it approaches to the central type. We require indeed
that no line shall be so abnormal as to disturb our sense of
unity ; but there is no formula for a good line, and no criticism
is more absurd than that which condemns famous verses because
some stress or pause may fall in an unusual place. Neverthe-
less, if a theory of metre is to be of any value, it must help us
to give praise where praise is clue, and to point out the cause of
failure when a cultivated ear rejects a line as bad. Our object
at present is to show how far the thesis already stated will give
us aid of this sort.

The character of a line varies much, according to the number
of beats required for its delivery, or, in other words, according
to the number of syllables which receive a strong or prirnarv

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE

163

accent. Five is the number most frequently employed, but four
beats per line are also common. For the purpose of analysis
in this and other respects we have taken a hundred lines by
Shakespeare, the same number by Milton, and the same number
by Pope. On counting the number of beats when these lines
were spoken with due emphasis we obtained the following
results :

Shakespeare 45
Shakespeare 43
Shakespeare 7
Shakespeare 4

Lines of 5 beats
Lines of 4 beats
Lines of 6 beats
Lines of 3 beats
Lines of 7 beats

Pope 54
Pope 38
Pope 8
Pope 0
PopeO

Milton 53
Milton 34
Milton 8
Milton 3
Milton 2

Shakespeare 1

There is nothing absolute in these numbers. Other readers
would obtain other results. Even the same reader will not on
different days obtain identical results ; but all readers who make
the experiment will obtain a somewhat similar series of figures.
The deduction to be drawn is that the number of beats in a line
is not employed to enhance the sense of unity, but is freely
varied. The number will be good when it suits the intention of
the author, contributing to the sense of aptness which, to quote
Milton, gives ( musical delight.' Thus the seven beats required
for the delivery of the following line add much to its solemnity :

As one' grea't fur'nace • na/med : yet' • frdm tho'se fla/mes.

How different is the sense of joyous motion produced by a line
with three beats instead of seven :

Th6 multitude • 8f Aii'gfils : with a shou't.

In these examples, as in all which follow, an accent denotes a
beat, a single dot a slight pause, and a colon a longer pause.
The scanning is shown in the ordinary way ; but many syllables
are counted as long in the scansion which are weak in the
sectional rhythm — as, for instance, in the case of the word
' with ' above.

If five successive beats come on the five long syllables of five
successive iambs, we have a smooth but rather commonplace
verse. Thirty-two of the hundred lines from Pope have this
peculiarity, as :

M 2

164 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

Where all' • must fall' : Sr not' colie'rgnt • be'
And all' • that rl's6s : rl'se • in due' degree'.

Milton, in our sample lines, employs this forja only five times,
and Shakespeare only thrice. In one of these three lines, the
uniform beat is admirably adapted to indicate the stealthy
creeping pace of Rumour :

And who' • but Ku'mour : who' • but only- 1'.

In a second example it is used with a semi-humorous purpose :
ThSy sell' • th6 pas'ture : now' • t6 buy' th& hor'se.

The following line by Ambrose Phillips may show how unsuited
this form is to express strong emotion :

Erg yon' • mSrld'ian sun' : dScll'nes • hS di'es.

Yet this is the form which is sometimes held up as the perfect
type, and a line is praised or blamed as it more or less thoroughly
imitates this model of monotony.

The following from Pope is commonplace enough to prove
that four beats are met with almost as frequently as five :

lii dou'bt • his mi'nd : Or bod'y • to prgfer'.
Like Milton, Shakespeare, telling us of speed, uses three beats :

lii ino'tiOn : of no" less' • celerity :
Than that' • Of thou'ght..

Monosyllables receive an accent only when they are to be pro-
nounced with emphasis, and to these no rules apply, such as in
classical languages make certain syllables long and others short ;
but in polysyllabic words one syllable is in English usually so
prominent as, in verse, to demand an accent or beat. Never-
theless, words of minor importance, such as ' being,' ' under,' or
1 above,' although they often receive an accent, are also often
spoken rapidly with none. Thus we read the following line
with five beats :

Fold * above fold : a sur'ging ma'ze • his head'.

The beat upon a pause may often be used with excellent effect.
Thus in two of the following lines we like to hear the middle
pause prolonged as follows :

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 165

Assu'me th8 po'rt tff Mar's — ' : and at his heels

Lea'shed In' like houn'ds : should fani'me" • swo'rd • Snd fl're

Crou'ch • ftfr gmploy'mgnt — ' : but par'dfrn • gen'tlgs all'.

These noble lines will serve aptly to introduce the difficulties
met with in English scansion, and to illustrate the mode now
suggested of meeting them. The practice according to which a
stress would be thrown on the conjunction i and ' in the first
line is to our ear singularly disagreeable; but, if a pause
followed by a weak syllable be allowed to count as a long
element (no new idea), this line and many which are similar to
it will be found to scan with perfect regularity. If the reader
will look back and forward he will find in this rule the explana-
tion of the long marks which appear over several insignificant
words, such as 'to' and 'of in examples already quoted.
Looking upon scansion as derived from a system of longs and
shorts, we shall see nothing forced in this claim, and we shall be
prepared to grant a further demand that when necessary a pause
may be allowed to do duty for a syllable, long or short. Thus,
in the third line above, scansion seems to us impossible unless
the pause be allowed to count as a long element. With this
licence we scan the line as an ordinary alexandrine.

This conception of a pause as sometimes equivalent to a long
syllable helps us to understand why we contentedly accept an
eleventh and even a twelfth short syllable after the long element
of the fifth iamb. These short superabundant syllables do not
break the iambic flow of the verse, for with the final pause they
make one iamb the more, and yet this foot is not sufficiently
prominent to disturb our sense of number requiring the feet to
be grouped in sets of five. To scan an English line we must
further have leave to count any syllable long which receives
a secondary accent, or is in any way slightly more prominent
than its neighbour. We must have leave to count two short
syllables as one — to treat elision as a reality and not a fiction,
which it certainly is ; and, finally, to count spondees as equi-
valent to iambs, possibly on the plea that we may, if we please,
lay rather more stress on the second syllable than the first. It
is probably better frankly to admit the spondee, and scan
Milton's well-known line as follows :

Rock's ca'ves • la'kes fen's • bog's den's ; and sha'des t>f dea/th.

1 66 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

If these demands be all granted, very little difficulty will be
found in showing that the mere arrangement of the heroic feet
in verse is extremely regular ; the laxity is found in the great
freedom of choice as to what we may call a long and what a
short element, and yet, lax as we are in this respect, there is
seldom much difference as to the scanning of a line by different
grammarians ; and good lines will be found to scan well .

A single trochee in place of an iamb is very common. It is
usually placed at the beginning of the line, but is often met
with immediately after the middle pause or caesure. Thus we
may say in general that a trochee is used to begin a major
section. In the hundred sample lines we find a trochee sub-
stituted for the first iamb in 28 lines by Shakespeare, 20 by
Milton, and 22 by Pope. At the beginning of the second
major section we find a trochee 8 times in Shakespeare, 7
times in Milton, and once in Pope. Shakespeare twice has
two trochees in one line ; one at the beginning of each major
section. Milton twice uses a weak trochee for the second foot.
The ear will not tolerate a strong trochee between two iambs
in a major section ; it breaks the flow and the line must halt, as
in the following strange example from Pope :

Is' thS grea't • chai'n : that draw's all' t6 agree'.

Two successive trochees at the beginning of the second section
make a rough line, as in this example from ' Paradise Lost : '

And diis't ' shalt ea't : all7 the day's • Of thy H'fe.

Notwithstanding all the licence which we are forced to claim
before we dare promise to scan the vast majority of heroic lines,
scansion is a reality ; but the beauty of a line depends less on
scansion than on any other quality. There are certain rules to
be observed ; but the simple observance of these rules will no
more result in beauty than the performance of steps in accurate
time will make dancing beautiful. Prosody is a kind of grammar.
We must learn the law and observe the law, but the law will
give no grace of style. At most we may learn by its aid why
some lines displease us. Above all, we must never force the
pronunciation so as to bring the arrangement of the feet into
prominence. The rules of scansion are like the rules of etiquette
— best kept when they are kept well out of sight.

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 167

That in English two short syllables often count as one need
in no way surprise us, for scansion was originally based on a
measurement of time, and in English two, or even three, short
syllables are often so swiftly spoken as to occupy no more time
than a single unaccented syllable in other parts of the same line.
Elision is not wanted to make Milton's lines scan — the two
syllables may count as one element in a foot, although both
vowel sounds are perfectly heard ; they really produce a diph-
thong. The English letter I, which counts as one syllable, is
composed of two successive sounds quite as distinct as the final
e and the initial A in the following :

The way' * he wen't : and on7 • the Assyr'ian moun't.

Thassyrian is not English and is completely hostile to the music
of the line. We believe that Milton used this extra syllable
systematically to avoid the rhythmical sections tumti-tumti and
titum-titum, which his ear loathed. With the elision the rhyth-
mical scheme of the above line becomes very poor. The extra
syllables just save it :

, | . ! . | . i | i i |

This may be observed again and again. Thus in the much finer

line

Hur'led heading • fla'ming : from the ethe'rial • sky',

the third section with the elisions would again be tumti-tumti,
instead of a fine rhythmical phrase contrasting by its vigorous
rapidity with the strong solemn sections preceding it. These
long sections in Milton often have a beauty like that of a
trumpet call, as :

That' mvm'cible • Sam/xsCn : far' • renow'ned.

It is on the character and grouping of the sections that the
rhythmical beauty of a line chiefly depends. The most com-
monplace sections are built of two iambs or two trochees ; the
most common place lines are those in which the end of each
section corresponds with the end of a foot. An example of this
bad subdivision is to be found in Ambrose Phillips's verse already
quoted.

The four sections are usually grouped in pairs separated by

1 68 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

the chief pause, and usually the pause between lines is longer
than the pause between sections ; but these common character-
istics are not laws, and any departure from the practice is in
itself neither good nor bad, but is good or bad as it serves to
produce or mar the musical and dramatic effect at which the
poet aimed :

Dl're was • the tos'smg • dee'p the groa'ns : Des'pair
Ten'ded the sick' : bus'iest • frOm cou'ch t6 cou'ch :
And • oVer them • trium'phant dea'th : his dar't •
Shook' : but delay 'ed • t6 strl'ke • th6' oft invo'ked.

In these lines the scanning is normal. The phrasing (as division
into sections may be named) divides each line into four normal
groups, but the relative length of the pauses is abnormal except
in the second line. The departure from ordinary custom is one
means employed to produce the effect, and we are sorry for the
critic who would condemn the enjambement at the end of the

third line.

On examining our sample hundred lines we find that in
Pope all but two have four sections — one of the exceptions has
three and the other five sections — and only three of Pope's sec-
tions have five syllables ; Milton has four lines of three sections,
but two of these contain a compound word which might very
well be divided in pronunciation, as

BeeTzebub : to whom' • the Arch' • en'emy.

Milton uses sections of five syllables sixteen times, and the
rhythm of these is characteristic of his style. ' In adamantine.'
' The Omnipotent ' (there are people who would say i thomni-
potent '). Shakespeare allows himself great freedom in phrasing
as in everything else. In the hundred lines we find no fewer
than fifteen with only three sections, and the deviation from the
normal path is not accidental ; the change is employed to vary
the character of the verse :

Within' • this wood'en 0' : the ver'y cas'ques :
That did affrl'ght • the ai'r : at Ag'mcourt.

We have here a rapid, almost bounding, effect, very different
from the normal stately march resulting from the fourfold
division in such lines as these :

ON RHYTHM IN ENGLISH VERSE 169

I' • from the o'rient : to the droop'ing • We'st
Ma/king • the wln'd : my post'htfrse • still' unfol'd.

In seventeen cases Shakespeare used sections of five syllables ;

but they seem to be accidentally employed, contributing little to

any special effect, as —

tJpon my ton'gues : cOntln'ual • slan'ders • rl'de
The which' • in ev'ery lan'giiage : I prOnoun'ce.

The division of lines into sections, although well known long
since (vide Sheridan's ' Art of Reading '), has fallen much into
oblivion; so much so, that we may be accused of putting
arbitrary pauses where the ear detects none. We submitted,
however, farther back, an experiment by which the reality of the
sectional pause can be proved ; and we will now give another
experiment, showing that it is of the very essence of verse. If
we wish to read blank verse as prose, to take all verse quality
out of it, we have only to cancel the greater number of the
pauses, running several short verse sections into long prose
sections. The iambic grouping of the syllables will not then be
detected by the ear. Thus, let us read the following passage in
a natural straightforward way, with no pauses except those
rigidly required to make the meaning clear : ' Sing Heavenly
Muse — that on the secret top of O'reb — or of Sinai — didst
inspire that shepherd.' Where is the verse? Or let us try
another plan, keeping time to a regular beat on each long
syllable of the iamb or trochee, but still omitting all unnecessary
pauses : ' Sing Heavenly Muse — that on the secret top of
Oreb, — or of Sinai, — didst inspire that shepherd.' All the
iambs are there much clearer than when the verse is properly
read ; the continuous beat is painfully obtrusive, but the sound
is not even English, much less is it that of English verse. Now
let us try the effect of making the prescribed pauses, but with
no conscious attention to beat or scanning : ' Sing • Heavenly
Muse : that • on the secret top : of Oreb * or of Sinai : didst
inspire : that shepherd.' We think that, however badly the words
are read, some trace of blank verse will be discernible. Some
readers neglect the true phrasing, and introduce false pauses at
the end of each foot, as : c Sing Heav — nly Muse — that on — the
secret top.' This style is sometimes heard upon the stage, and

1 70 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

is then generally enriched by the addition of a rise in the pitch
of the voice on each accented syllable. In the ' American
Review ' for May 1848 this mode of division is frankly advocated.
i In the line,' says the reviewer, ' " Full many a tale their music
tells," there are at least four accents or stresses of the voice with
faint pauses after them just enough to separate the continuous
stream of sounds into four parts, to be read thus : " Fullman—
yataleth — eirmus — ictells," by which new combinations of sound
are produced of a singularly musical character.' We do not
agree with this author, but he was a man of sufficient intelli-
gence to observe and record his own practice and that of far less
clever men.

There are many beauties in a fine line besides that of
rhythm, and even rhythm cannot be accurately recorded by
those coarse methods which simply distinguish between long
and short, or weak and strong. One iamb may differ from
another in character almost as much as one verse differs from
its neighbour. Two sections with the same nominal rhythm
represented by the same letter in the Morse alphabet may differ
in character and beauty with all the difference expressible by
the words good and bad. No analysis will enable anyone but
a poet to write a single good verse, but a true theory would
serve to protect us against certain pestilent diseases which at
times afflict actors, readers, and critics. Even an imperfect
theory may beget a better.

A FRAGMENT ON GEORGE ELIOT.*

IT is difficult to lay down the 4 Life ' of George Eliot without
making some effort to record the impression produced upon the
mind.

In one respect the book attains its object. No candid man
or woman can lay it down without thinking, ' This was a good
woman — a woman with warm feelings and strong just thoughts.'
Unfortunately the book is in the truest sense uninteresting.
George Eliot in her everyday correspondence shows hardly a trace
of the great creator who gave us Adam Bede, Dinah, Romola and
Dorothea.

There are wise and good sayings to be found here and there
at long; intervals, but these are not of such merit as to add

o '

materially to the fame of the writer. Of mere gossiping interest
there is probably enough to carry many readers of the present
day from the first page to the last, but this interest depends
almost wholly on the great personality of the writer, not on the
intrinsic merit of her doings or sayings. The position of the
Queen gives an exceptional interest to the record of her likes or
dislikes, and to all honest statement of what she does or thinks ;
and so the great position of George Eliot gives her a like claim to
the attention of us all : but intrinsically the merit of the great
writer's autobiography is hardly greater than that of ; Leaves
from our Highland Journal,' to which George Eliot's journals have
a strange resemblance.

Well, it may be said, the ' Life ' seems to have given this
outsider a fairly clear conception of a person whom he admires
and respects the more for what he reads there, and what more
can a ' Life ' do ? A biography may reveal to us a friend or at least
a companion — someone whom we know as we know Dorothea

1 MS. — The beginning of a review which was never completed of the Life
of George Eliot.

172 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

or Romola. The present book falls wholly short of any such
revelation. Possibly George Eliot never revealed herself except
by her books, yet how we long to know what that narrow Low
Church creed meant to the girl ; how we long to understand how
she felt when the faith to which she clung left her wholly within
a few days. No picture of this mental and moral development
could be presented without the highest artistic skill ; but this
woman had the skill — she experienced the change — she was one
of the great ones of womankind, and we are left without a vestige
of a record of the stupendous change.

Passing on, we know that this woman of pure heart and right
moral feeling lived as wife to a man who had no right to marry
her. How did she feel ? How did passion speak to this great
soul ? We see the possibility of a daily record of thoughts, hopes,
fears, doubts, faith, love in fact, beside which the ' Confessions of
Rousseau ' or the ' Diary of Pepys ' would seem very poor reading ;
but, as it is, we know no more of all this than if taking Mr. Lewes
for life had been no more than taking a house on lease. Conse-
quently Pepys and Rousseau, though one was no very great in an
and the other was a mean fellow, will be of interest to men and
women when George Eliot's ' Life ' interests historians only. No
doubt what we have got is much more decorous, respectable,
nice, in fact, than what we should have got if we had a true record
of what this woman felt; but, somehow, one does now and lln-n
hanker for something else than niceness, and the appetite is not
unwholesome ; it is merely the appetite for intimate communion
with a great person.

We can go further. The ' Life ' shows a moral growth
throughout her life which inspires admiration. The narrow-
minded, somewhat pert methodistic school-girl becomes a clear-
headed, businesslike freethinker, doing work diligently with dis-
content. This rather shallow literary hack fell in love with
George Lewes, and thereupon the possibility of true sacred passion
became manifest to her, and remained an unshaken article of faith.
But for this she would probably never have become an artist.
Her books reveal not so much the hard-headed thinker of whom
women are proud because she could think dispassionately like a
man, but a warm, large-hearted woman, seeking for a higher life
than any intellectual exercise can occupy. In reading her artistic

A FRAGMENT ON GEORGE ELIOT 173

work we feel the broad sympathy with all true human nature
which she proclaims in her letters, but which those letters hardly
show. Her artistic birth seems to have been a regeneration.
The more she achieved the more humble she became. There is
indeed no trace of self-abasement in the ' Life ' ; she knew that she
meant to do good work and had great powers, but her mind was
clearer, her sympathies larger, than most even of the ablest
men she met. But yet, in relation to the possibilities of art and
of life, the journal shows a fine simple humility. The reluctance
to read criticism was not a fear of wounds to her self-love, but
a dread lest to see her efforts misunderstood might render her
incapable of further effort. She cherished a hearty faith in the
great public ; contact with petty criticism tended to destroy that
faith. She did well to pass it by.

The necessity for religion as an artistic element impressed
her strongly ; what she most cared to teach and to show was best
set forth in the words of men and women with deep religious
feelings* This seems to have shocked the little sect which had
the honour of destroying her dogmatic faith, and the good hard
raps she administers to those who would have kept her to the
narrow way of orthodox atheism are among the few amusing
things in the book. She endeavoured with much success to
present a profoundly religious aspect of things and men while
rejecting all dogmatic faith. In this she represents the gene-
ration, and represents it nobly. But while the ' Life ' confirms us
in this view of her character it would do little to exhibit the
nobility of her conceptions unless read by the light of those
works — and the works acquire no new or deeper significance by
the light shown in the ' Life.' On the contrary, a feeling is pro-
duced that she was hampered in her life by the set among whom
she lived — men and women of narrow minds setting up science
and logic as better than religion and fatal to it. There is no-
thing in the ' Life ' to show that she had any real sympathy with
scientific research, or even knew what it meant. She loved
Lewes faithfully, and physiology for his sake, as she might have
loved his dog because it was his. There is not a trace of living
interest in the pursuit, either for the pleasure of the chase or
for the hope of booty in the form of scientific spoils won from
the dark country of the unknown.

174 LITERATURE AND DRAMA

The lady herself, to one who did not know her books, would
be as uninteresting, when seen by the light of these writings
only, as any famous author must be when met in the beaten way
of social converse.

If we were not forewarned by the example of two or three
wonderful written lives, we should be in much danger of believing
that biography was worse than useless except in the case of those
whose actions, rather than their lives, were interesting. But in
truth we get no record of the lives of our thinkers or artists ;
we learn their actions and we read their opinions well or ill
expressed, but the record of actions is no record of the true life
of a man ; and opinions of novelist or philosopher are of small
importance except within that limited range where they have
probably expressed their views far more perfectly in their well-
considered writings. Even if we had a novelist's carefully con-
sidered verdict well expressed on architecture, law, medicine, oil
and water-colour painting, the decalogue, spirit-rapping, and the
home policy of statesmen, this would be no record of the life of
that man or woman ; it would possess, except as to style, no
other interest than that felt for the record of the interviews
published by clever journals— — .

SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

177

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY.1

I know not whether this inquiry I speak of concerning the first condition
of seeds or atoms be not the most useful of all. — BACON.

THE popular conception of any philosophical doctrine is ne-
cessarily imperfect, and very generally unjust. Lucretius is
often alluded to as an atheistical writer, who held the silly
opinion that the universe was the result of a fortuitous concourse
of atoms ; readers are asked to consider how long letters must
be shaken in a bag before a complete annotated edition of
Shakespeare could result from the process ; and after being
reminded how much more complex the universe is than the
works of Shakespeare, they are expected to hold Lucretius, with
his teachers and his followers, in derision. A nickname which
sticks has generally some truth in it, and so has the above view,
but it would be unjust to form our judgment of a man from his
nickname alone, and we may profitably consider what the real
tenets of Lucretius were, especially now that men of science are
beginning, after a long pause in the inquiry, once more eagerly
to attempt some explanation of the ultimate constitution of
matter.

This problem, a favourite one with many great men, has
come to be looked upon by most persons as insoluble ; nay, the
attempt to solve it is sometimes treated as impious ; but know-
ing that all the phenomena of light are explained by particular
motions of a medium constituted according to simple laws, and
so perfectly explained that the exact motions corresponding to
all the colours of the spectrum, with their modifications due to
reflection, refraction, and polarisation, can be defined in form,

1 Review of Munro's Lucretius, second edition. From the North British
Review, 1868.

VOL. I. N

1 78 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

speed, and magnitude — knowing this, we may reasonably expect
that the other complex attributes of inorganic matter may be
deduced from some simple theory, involving only as an assump-
tion the existence of some original material possessing proper-
ties far less complex than those of the gross matter apparent to
our senses. It is only in this sense that we can hope ever to
understand the ultimate constitution of matter; but as the
undulatory theory of light has both suggested the discovery of
new facts, and has connected all known facts concerning light
into one intelligible series of logical deductions, so any true
theory of the constitution of matter would suggest new inquiries,
and would group the apparently disjointed fragments of know-
ledge, now called the various branches of science, into one
intelligible whole. To frame some such theory as this was the
first aim of Greek philosophers, and to establish the true theory
will be the greatest triumph of modern science. Of all the
subtle guesses made by the Greeks at this enigma, one only,
we think, has been fruitful, and that the one expounded by
Lucretius, but learnt by him from Epicurus, who in his turn
seems to have derived his most valuable conceptions from
Democritus and Leucippus. As, however, we possess fragments
only of these earlier writers, it is convenient to speak of the,
theory as that of Lucretius, though he seems to have been
simply the eloquent and clear expounder of a doctrine wholly
invented by others.

Before explaining how far the views of Lucretius are still
held by naturalists, and how far they contain the germs of many
modern theories, we must endeavour to give a clear account of
what his views really were, in which attempt we shall be much
aided by the admirable edition and translation of his works by
Mr. Munro.

The principles of the atomic theory are all contained in the
first two books ; attention being generally called in the original
to each new proposition by a ' mine agej or some such expres-
sion. Lucretius begins by stating that ' nothing is ever be-
gotten of nothing.' To this principle, which is assumed as true
in all physical treatises of the present day, he unnecessarily
adds, that this is not done even by divine power, about which
he could know nothing. Lucretius felt little reverence for the

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 179

pagan divinities, and states this principle so roundly as at first
to shock our feelings ; but if we limit the application of the
principle to matter once created, and such as we can observe, his
principle is true, and invariably acted upon. Not even by
divine power is matter now created out of nothing — nor does
any effect happen without what we call a natural cause.
Lucretius seizes the opportunity of stating that men think
things are done by divine power because they do not understand
how they happen, whereas he will show how all things are done
without the hand of the gods — a bold proposition truly, but
one which, translated into modern language, means simply that
natural phenomena are subject to definite laws, and are not
unintelligible miracles. Lucretius fails to perceive that definite
physical laws are consistent with the work of God ; and the
difficulty of reconciling the two ideas, unreal as it seems to us,
has been felt by able men even nowadays, when the conception
of divine power is very different from any present to the mind
of Lucretius. To most of us the very conception of a law
suggests a lawgiver, while he, to prove the existence of laws,
thought it necessary to deny the action of beings who could set
those laws at nought. The demonstration which he gives of
his first principle is loose, and goes rather to establish the fact
that natural phenomena occur according to definite rules than
to prove that no matter is created out of nothing, except in so
far as this creation would, he thinks, disturb the order of nature.
This first principle, as to the creation of matter, cannot indeed
be otherwise than loosely stated by Lucretius, for no definition
is given of what should measure the quantity of matter,1 and
until we have defined how this quantity is to be measured, we
cannot experimentally determine whether matter is being created
or not. But Lucretius meant his proposition to include the
statement that nothing happens without a cause, and without
a material cause, and his proof of this is precisely that which
we should still adduce, being the perfect regularity with which
in nature similar effects follow similar causes.

The next proposition is that ' nothing is ever annihilated,
but simply dissolved into its first bodies,' or, as we should say,

1 Afterwards, -i. 360, the quantity of body is assumed as proportional to
weight.

N 2

i8o SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

components. This statement is complementary to the first. To-
gether the two propositions affirm that constancy in the total
quantity of matter which is a commonplace truth now, but
which to Lucretius must have been unsupported by any rigorous
proof. His own arguments in support of the law go no farther
than to show that we have no proof of the destruction of any
portion of matter. He shows that rain when it falls is not lost,
but produces leaves and trees, that ' by them in turn our race
and the race of wild beasts is fed ; ' but he makes no effort to
measure accurately the quantity of matter apparently disappear-
ing, but reappearing in the new form, and without that measure-
ment his proposition could not be rigorously proved ; moreover,
in the mind of Lucretius, the indestructibility referred to all
kinds of causes ; so that, to make our proposition co-extensive
with his, we must interpret it to mean that matter is indestruc-
tible, and that no cause fails to produce an equivalent effect,
though Lucretius probably did not conceive these two parts of
his proposition separate one from the other.

Occasion is taken at this point to state that the components
into which bodies are resolved, or out of which they are built,
may be invisible. The third distinct proposition states that ' ;ill
things are not on all sides jammed together and kept in by
body : there is also void in things.' Lucretius thought that, in
order to explain the properties of matter, it was absolutely
necessary to admit the existence of vacuum, or empty space,
containing nothing whatever. If there were not void, he says,
things could not move at all ! And it does seem, at first sight,
that in a universe absolutely full, like a barrel full of herrings,
so shaped as to leave not a cranny between them, no motion
whatever would be possible ; but reflection shows us that what
is called re-entering motion is possible, even under those cir-
cumstances, provided we do not suppose our fish to stick to one
another ; there may be an eddy in which the fish swim round
and round one after the other, without leaving any vacant space
between them or on either side, and yet without enlarging,
diminishing, or disturbing the barrel as they move.1 Lucretius
either failed to perceive this, or declined to admit the possi-
bility that all the movements of gross matter could be of this
1 A homogeneous plenum may also be conceived as compressible.

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 181

class ; but he has another argument in favour of a vacuum :
' Why do we see one thing surpass another in weight, though not
larger in size ? ' How can things be of various densities unless
we admit empty pores in bodies ? His proof is insufficient ;
but here again modern research has confirmed his conclusion, so
far as it affects gross matter only, and Lucretius conceived no
other. His explanation of varying density is that which is
universally received and taught, and even the modern dis-
believers in a vacuum do not deny that some space may be un-
occupied by gross matter, but simply affirm, on grounds to be
hereafter stated, that all space is full of something, though not
of ponderable matter. In support of his proposition, Lucretius
points to the pores found in all bodies, and uses the following
ingenious though fallacious argument to prove a vacuum : ' If
two broad bodies after contact quickly spring asunder, the air
must surely fill all the void which is formed between the bodies.
Well, however rapidly it stream together with swift circling
currents, yet the whole space will not be able to be filled up in
one moment ; for it must occupy first one spot, and then
another, until the whole is taken up ; ' therefore, in the middle
a void must have existed for a sensible time.

We are next informed by our author that matter exists, or,
in the language of Lucretius, l all nature, then, as it exists by
itself, has been founded on two things : there are bodies, and
there is void in which these bodies are placed, and through
which they move about.' In his first and second propositions,
Lucretius uses the word thing, res, which, as we have already
explained, comprehended all kinds of things, such as matter,
force, motion, thought, life, &c. He now states the existence
of matter, and few will be disposed to contradict him ; indeed, he
appeals to the general feeling of mankind in proof of his assump-
tion. Unless you grant this, he says, ' there will be nothing
to which we can appeal to prove anything by reasoning.'

Lucretius now affirms that nothing exists but matter and
void, or, as put in Mr. Munro's translation, ' there is nothing
which you can affirm to be at once separate from all body and
quite distinct from void, which would, so to speak, count as the
discovery of a third nature.' Here at last we reach debatable
ground. Lucretius hardly adduces a single argument in support

1 82 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

of this proposition, contenting himself with showing, first, that
no tangible thing but matter exists — a mere begging the ques-
tion ; and, secondly, that properties and accidents are not
entities distinct from matter — which is true, but little to the
point. As examples of properties he gives weight, heat, fluidity ;
as examples of accidents, poverty, riches, liberty, &c. Time, he
says, exists not by itself, but simply from the things which
happen ; actions do not exist by themselves, but may be fairly
called accidents of matter, and of the space in which they seve-
rally go on. Even if all this be granted, we shall not necessarily
concede that matter and void have alone a separate existence ;
but we must not complain that Lucretius does not support his
proposition more strongly at this point, for indeed his six books
form one long argument in support of his proposition. Lucretius
undertakes to show that every fact in the world can be explained
by the properties of matter, and that matter itself may be con-
ceived as possessed of but a very few simple properties, from the
construction of which the complex facts we see may follow. Of
course, he fails to do this ; but if the proposition be restricted
to what are called physical phenomena, it becomes, if not
certainly true, nevertheless an hypothesis well worthy of con-
sideration, and not yet proved false. Lucretius admits no
subtle ethers, no variety of elements with fiery, watery, light,
heavy principles ; he does not suppose light to be one thing,
fire another — electricity a fluid, magnetism a vital principle — but
treats all phenomena as mere properties or accidents of simple
matter, and produced in simple ways ; but to understand what
he meant by matter, or ' bodies,' we must pass on.

The next proposition of Lucretius describes the composition
of matter as we perceive it. Bodies are either atoms, or com-
pounded of atoms and void, or, more at length, they ' are partly
first beginnings of things, partly those which are formed of a
union of first beginnings.' The words which Mr. Munro here
translates as ' first beginnings of things ' describe the Lucretian
atoms ; Lucretius does not use the word atoms, but calls these
( primordia,' or c semina rerum.' These atoms are necessarily
solid, or they could not mark off void space from full. They
cannot be broken, because they have no void within them to
admit a cutting body, or wet, or cold, or fire, therefore they

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 183

must be everlasting and indestructible. Lucretius, too, is so
persuaded of the great wear and tear that is going on, that he
remarks, if atoms had not been indestructible, everything would
have been destroyed by this time. The constancy of all pheno-
mena is a very good argument in favour of the indivisible atom,
for unless the component parts of a machine are unchanged,
how can the results produced be constant ? unless there be
really something indestructible and indivisible in sodium, how
can it happen that every little fragment shall retain every
physical property of sodium, so that, for instance, when glowing
with heat, it shall continually, as it were, ring out the same
notes of light, imparting such vibrations to our eye as paint the
well-known double yellow line ? If we could divide the little
bodies which, vibrating at those special speeds, prove sodium to
be glowing in the flame, they would no more vibrate at those
speeds than a cut violin-string would give out the true note to
which it had been tuned. By such division sodium would be
destroyed ; whatever might be the result, the body named
sodium would exist no longer ; but as yet no man has been able
thus to divide the sodium atom, and no one expects that bodies
will ever be decomposed into elements simpler than such as
would ring out a single note, a single line in the spectrum. In
other words, all men of science believe — consciously or not — in
atoms indivisible and imperishable. Lucretius certainly knew
nothing of spectrum analysis, nor of the law owing to which
chemical compounds have forced an atomic theory into daily
language ; but the arguments drawn from these sources are
simply special applications of his general theorem ; if matter
really obeys definite unchangeable laws, the ultimate materials
employed to make matter must themselves be definite and un-
changeable. Newton's exposition of this argument, quoted by
Mr. Munro to illustrate our author, is admirably clear :

While the particles continue entire they may compose bodies of
one and the same nature and texture in all ages ; but should they
wear away or break in pieces, the nature of things depending on
them would be changed. Water and earth composed of old worn-
out particles would not be of the same nature and texture now with
water and earth composed of entire particles in the beginning.
And, therefore, that nature may be lasting, the changes of corporeal

184 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

things are to be placed only in various separations and new associa-
tions and motions of these permanent particles, compound bodies
being apt to break, not in the midst of solid particles, but where those
particles are laid together and only touch in a few points.

We confess that these arguments seem to us unanswerable,
as proving the existence of some unalterable basis of matter.
Lucretius described his atoms as small, but not infinitely small,
nay, having parts, yet ' strong in everlasting singleness,' im-
penetrably hard, indivisible, unalterable, eternal.

Having reached his atom, before proceeding with the conse-
quences of his assumption, Lucretius pauses to demolish rival
theorists ; but though he does this very well, we prefer to follow
out his own propositions in their natural order, remarking,
however, that the next proposition occurs incidentally, as it
were, while refuting his antagonists, and is to the effect that the
differences between all bodies may be accounted for by the
different arrangement of the atoms, and the different way in
which they move ; or, more literally, ( the motions which they
mutually impart and receive.' Lucretius conceived matter as
formed by atoms in continual motion, rebounding, as it were,
from one another. His conception is most remarkable, as being
very far removed from the impression produced by inert matter
on our own senses, and yet almost indisputably true. Arguments
drawn from the laws of the elasticity of gases and from the dif-
fusion of fluids go far to prove the proposition. The former
laws may be deduced from the assumption of atoms rebounding
in a void : and it is hard to conceive why different fluids or
liquids should mix with extraordinary rapidity whenever placed
in contact one with its neighbour, unless molecules were con-
tinually fluttering as it were at the limits of each fluid, restrained
only from continuing their course by the opposition of other atoms.
If these arguments seem insufficient, we may refer to the concep-
tion of heat as a mode of motion. If heat be a mode of motion of
gross matter, then, as all bodies are more or less hot, the mole-
cules of all bodies will be moving with more or less speed — pre-
cisely what Lucretius taught. Lucretius was led to his concep-
tion by considerations very analogous to those which lead us to
consider heat and other forms of energy as modes of motion.
Probably the reason why he does not state this seventh proposi-

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 185

tion as a dogma by itself is, that the proof could not as yet be
given ; but in discussing rival doctrines he is led to anticipate
his own views.

He proceeds to assert that there is no limit to space, nor
yet to the total quantity of matter ; but these are rather meta-
physical than physical questions, although he seems to think
that, unless infinite space were full of matter, the universe
could not hold together, for he will not hear of gravitation, by
which ' all things press to the centre of the sum.' He is almost
comically unfortunate in denouncing the idea, that heavy bodies
which are beneath the earth shall press upwards, or that living
things walk head downwards, and that when these see the sun
we behold the stars of night ; but although it is very interesting
to observe that these doctrines were then held, we will examine
only the propositions strictly necessary for his theory of matter,
passing over also his assertion that atoms were not arranged by
design, until we examine how he himself conceived that they
were arranged. This explanation is given in the Second Book,
containing what we should term the Kinetic branch of his
theory, or, to use his own language, he next explains ' by what
motion the begetting bodies of matter do beget different things,
and, after they are begotten, again break them up, and by what
they are compelled so to do.' The book opens with the pro-
position that matter does not ' cohere inseparably massed
together ; ' it does not stick together as a mere inert mass.
Lucretius infers this from the continual change which we per-
ceive, and by which all things wax and wane, although the
sum remains constant.

A modern physical treatise would attribute these changes to
chemical affinity, heat, gravitation, &c., or possibly, in more
general terms, to the various forms of what we term Energy.
Lucretius can only suppose this energy to be represented by
atoms in motion ; and if this be not universally true, it is pro-
bably true for many cases. This perpetual motion of the atoms
is next reasserted as a distinct proposition. ' No atom,' he
says, ' can ever stop, giving up its motion to its neighbour.'
At first sight, nothing can be more contrary to our ideas of the
laws of motion. We repeatedly see a ball strike another, and
set it in motion, remaining itself apparently quiescent after the-

1 86 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

blow ; but nevertheless it is quite impossible that the relative
motion of two perfectly hard elastic bodies, such as Lucretius
imagined, can ever be altered by knocking one against the other.
Motion is essentially relative ; we only know that a body moves
by observing that it changes its position relatively to another.
When, therefore, treating of two isolated bodies only, we need
only speak of their relative velocity. The motion of the centre
of gravity of any system of bodies remains quite unaffected by
their collision one with another, and, in considering our two
isolated atoms, we may as well, for simplicity's sake, assume
the motion of their joint centre of gravity to be nilj though this
is not necessary to our argument. Moreover, it is found that
a certain quantity, sometimes called vis viva, sometimes the
kinetic energy of the system, is also constant after and before
any collision. This quantity is proportional for each body to
the mass of the body, and to the square of its velocity. It
must be remembered that we are now speaking of two simple
bodies which have only the properties of hardness and elasticity,
not being compressible, hot, or susceptible of vibration, so that
the transformation of energy due to motion into other forms of
energy such as heat is excluded by hypothesis.

Now, in the case of two such bodies striking one another,
since their mass will not change, it is impossible that this quan-
tity should remain constant unless each body kept its own
velocity. The one cannot hand over a part of its velocity to
the other, for in that case the centre of gravity of the system
would acquire motion. The velocity of the two cannot in-
crease or, decrease simultaneously, or the vis viva of the system
would alter, so the bodies have no choice but to bound back or
to glance aside with their original velocity. In the latter case a
spinning motion might represent the vis viva, but this would not
be rest. If it be asked how it is that we do see the relative
motion of bodies alter after striking one another, we answer that
heat and other forms of energy have been found equivalent to
vis viva, which may therefore pass into these forms, and so
allow a change in the relative velocities of bodies. Had
Lucretius known this he would have answered, that heat can
only be equivalent to vis viva inasmuch as it substitutes the
motion of small parts for the motion of the whole ; — this being

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 187

the very answer given by Leibnitz to the above objection, urged
as fatal to the doctrine of vis viva which he had enounced.

It may be seen that our two bodies need not continue to
move in straight lines after striking ; they may glance off, so
as to spin round. The vis viva, or energy, will be perfectly
represented by the velocity of the rotating masses, and the
centre of gravity may remain undisturbed. When two actual
bodies strike and come to rest, it is probable that their atoms
do acquire some periodic motion, such as spinning, which mo-
tion produces the appearance of heat, but is on so small a scale
as to be otherwise invisible to our senses. When we consider
the collision of a multitude of bodies, innumerable changes
may take place in their relative velocities without violating the
two principles, that the motion of the centre of gravity and the
energy of the system shall both remain unchanged. Among
these combinations some will admit of one or more parts of the
system coming wholly to rest, contrary to Lucretius's views,
but the following consideration shows that it is difficult to see
how this would be brought about if we adhered strictly to his
assumption, that the motion of a hard mass is the sole form of
energy. He almost unconsciously, and certainly without any
express statement, assumes elasticity as a property of his atoms,
which he describes as rebounding one from another ; but, revert-
ing to our two hard bodies, if they do strike and rebound they
must gradually slacken speed, stop for an inconceivably short
time, and 'then gradually resume their pace in an opposite
direction, so that, if they rebound, they must stop and pass
through all speeds intermediate between zero and their original
velocity ; so that if we admit no form of energy but a hard mass
in motion, we must conclude that no two bodies ever could
strike one another, and yet, as neither we nor Lucretius have
assumed anything to keep them apart, we find ourselves in a
droll dilemma, which seems to prove the impossibility of the
existence of a universe containing simple hard atoms in motion.
We moderns jump out of the difficulty at once by saying that
the hard bodies are elastic, and elasticity is a form of energy, so
that the energy or vis viva which at one time was represented
by the body in motion, is at another time represented by the
potential energy of elasticity. Lucretius would have shaken.

1 88 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

his head at this explanation, and would have much preferred
the theory just started by Sir William Thomson, and long since
vaguely suggested by Hobbes, that the elasticity of atoms may
be due to the motion of their parts — a proposition exemplified
by one smoke-ring bounding away from another in virtue of the
relative motions of their parts, these not being necessarily them-
selves elastic. The energy of the molecule at that point where
it strikes its neighbour and changes velocity is on this theory
transferred to another part of the molecule which moves faster
as the first part moves more slowly. If the molecules of gross
matter are made up of atoms in rapid motion, as Lucretius
believed, or of a portion of whirling fluid, as Sir William Thomson
suggests, and if elasticity itself be only a secondary property,
not possessed by the primordia rerum at all, then the proposition
that a molecule never can come to rest is undoubtedly true ;—
such rest would be equivalent to the destruction of matter.
Lucretius could not have proved this, nor even have understood
the proof. He did not know the laws of motion even of two
elastic bodies, but it is singular to find modern science return-
ing to the never-ending motion of the old Greek atom.

The next proposition of our author explains the varying den-
sity of bodies. He says that the greater or less density of bodies
depends on the smaller or greater distance to which the atoms
in each continue to rebound after striking one another. They
never stop striking and rebounding ; they are in perpetual
motion, tossed about by blows. Mr. Munro's translation fails,
it seems to us, to convey this view, reading as though the atoms
struck, rebounded and remained quiet afterwards, hooked as it
were together ; but Lucretius in many passages describes the
never-ending restlessness of his atoms, tossed like motes in a
sunbeam, which he describes to illustrate the motion of the
atoms in void. This explanation of the varying density of
matter is still commonly received, and will be found in all popu-
lar text-books ; the density of the ultimate particles of gravi-
tating matter is very generally assumed to be the same, the
greater or less density of gross matter being supposed due to
empty pores, of greater or smaller magnitude, separating the
molecules. At first sight it is very difficult to see how any
other explanation of varying density can be given, since we

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 189

find that by compression we actually can increase the density
of bodies without altering their weight or mass in any way.
Now, unless there were a void space separating the molecules,
where can these go to when squeezed ? Most men1 will find a
difficulty in conceiving that space absolutely full of matter, soft
or hard, can be made to hold more ; but the same space does
hold sometimes more and sometimes less gross matter, so that in
the latter case it cannot be quite full, or, in other words, the body
it contains is composed in part of empty pores. The proof is
incomplete, and, if molecules be formed by the motion of a fluid,
greater density may possibly be due to a modification in the
motion of molecules, and not only to the greater frequency of
the eddying molecules in a given space.

Lucretius next points out that his atoms must move very
rapidly. In vacuum atoms travel faster than light. His proof
of this is extremely vague. He says the ligfyt and the heat of
the sun (which he calls c vapours ') are forced to travel slowly,
cleaving the waves of air, and several minute bodies of the heat
(vapour) are entangled together and impede one another, but
atoms of solid singleness can go ahead wholly unimpeded in a
vacuum — not a very satisfactory proof. The idea running in
the mind of the writer seems to have been that any matter
moving in a medium would be impeded by friction, and there-
fore necessarily move more slowly than a free atom moving in
a void ; he may also have felt that, if all the power of the uni-
verse depended on the motion of exceedingly small particles, it
was necessary to suppose them endowed with great velocity;
but we do not find this argument used, although it has led the
modern believers in atoms to the conviction that if their motion
does represent energy, their velocity must be enormous. Lucre-
tius would be glad to know that Herapath, Joule, Kronig,
Clausius, and Clerk Maxwell have been able to calculate it ;
fQ-^Q-Q-Q inch is the distance named by Maxwell.

The nature of the original motion of atoms is next defined.
Atoms which have not struck one another move in straight
parallel lines, sheer downwards ; gravitation is the evidence of
this. An infinite number of atoms eternally pour from infinite

1 Sir William Thomson and Professor Tait find no difficulty in this con-
ception.

190 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

space above to infinite space below with enormous velocity.
This velocity is conceived as the explanation of the power or
energy of the universe. Gravitation thus understood was a
property of all matter. The apparent exceptions are correctly
explained by Lucretius. The idea of his eternal infinite rain of
atoms is enough to turn one giddy ; it can be best discussed
after we have stated the next most singular proposition. The
atoms, at quite uncertain times and uncertain places, swerve a
very little from the straight line, then they strike, and from
their clashing, matter and all natural phenomena are produced.
As Mr. Munro translates it, ' When bodies are borne down-
wards sheer through void at quite uncertain times and uncertain
points of space, they swerve a little from their equal poise, you
just and only just can call it a change of inclination. If they
were not used to swerve, they would all fall down like drops of
rain through the deep void, and no clashing would have been
begotten nor blow produced among the first beginnings ; thus
nature never would have produced aught.'

Most people will think Nature would not have produced
much had she started in this way, and they are probably right ;
this is the head and front of our philosopher's offending, and,
indeed, there is not much to be said in his defence. Let us,
nevertheless, in spite of the ridicule which from Cicero's time
downwards has been heaped on this unhappy doctrine of the
' Declination of Atoms,' try to enter into the mind of Lucretius,
and to understand what he sought for and thought he had
found. As already said, he sought for power in the velocity
of the atoms — power which, deflected hither and thither by
obstacles of all kinds, should be the origin of every motion,
every force observed on earth. Gravitation in its apparent
action seemed to show a universal tendency in one direction ;
this, then, he claimed as an inherent property of his atoms — a
claim no broader than the claim made by Newton, that every
atom of matter should attract all other atoms at whatever
distance they might be — and at first sight much more conceiv-
able ; at first sight only, for, indeed, atoms pouring onward, as
imagined by our author, could be no source of power. Motion
in mechanics has no meaning except as denoting a change of
relative position ; all atoms moving, as Lucretius fancied, at one

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY igi

speed, and in parallel lines, would relatively to one another have
been in perfect rest. A bag of marbles in a railway train could
not be employed as a source of energy in the train ; they lie at
rest ; and it is only when brought into collision with something
moving at a different pace from the train that they can develop
any power, which may then be considerable. But more than
this : How are we to conceive direction in space except
relatively to something ? — what is up and what is down in
space ? If it be answered, The place atoms come from is up
above us, we answer, How, when all atoms are all one relatively
to one another in a perfectly similar position, are we poor atoms
to know that they are coming from anywhere ? So far as we
can see, an absolute motion in space is devoid of all meaning.
We must conceive a shape or position for space before we can
conceive of motion relatively to space, and as we are at perfect
liberty to conceive any shape or position, or none at all, it fol-
lows that absolute motion in space is anything you please, that
is to say, a mere fancy. Lucretius unconsciously assumed the
world as his basis by which to measure direction and velocity.
The direction in which things fall on the earth was sheer down
in void ; but really his assumption was meaningless, or, at least,
explained in no way the power or force which he wished to
explain. Not so, by the way, the older conception of Demo-
critus, who thought atoms moved in all directions freely and
indifferently ; — a universe so constituted originally might at
least contain all the energy we require. One atom would then
exert its force on another, but the Lucretian atoms would have
remained in profound stillness, except for that occasional swerve
at quite uncertain times and places, the cause of which he
leaves wholly unaccounted for. This swerving seems but a silly
fancy, and yet consider this : It is a principle of mechanics
that a force acting at right angles to the direction in which a
body is moving does no work, although it may continually and
continuously alter the direction in which the body moves. No
power, no energy, is required to deflect a bullet from its path,
provided the deflecting force acts always at right angles to that
path — an apparent paradox, which is, nevertheless, quite true
and familiar to the engineer. It is clear to us that Epicurus,
when he devised his doctrine of a little swerving from the

192 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

straight path of an atom, had an imperfect perception of this
mechanical doctrine ; a little swerving would bring his atoms
into contact, and a modern mechanician would tell him you
require no power to make them swerve. With what triumph
Epicurus, and Lucretius his scholar, would have hailed the
demonstration ; but, alas ! their triumph would have been
short-lived ; they would soon have perceived that their atoms
were described as in deadly stillness — a death from which no
life could spring, a rest from which they could never swerve
until inspired with power from a source of life. Still we can
see that their conception was not stupid, it was simply false, as
all physical explanations of the origin of energy and matter
must be. There is little to be said for the further conception
that matter with its present properties would result from die
mere accidental clashing of atoms ; this one doctrine of
Lucretius is so well known and so little valued, that we will
waste no further time on it, merely pointing out that the worth-
lessness of these ideas as an explanation of the origin of things
does not impair the value of the conception of moving atoms as
the constituent parts of gross matter as it exists.

The motive for devising the curious doctrine that atoms
might swerve now and then from the straight path without
being acted upon by other atoms, was, as Mr. Munro observes,
undoubtedly the desire to devise an explanation of Free-will.
Lucretius believed in free-will. If you believe in free-will and
in atoms, you have two courses open to you. The first alterna-
tive may be put as follows : Something which is not atoms must
be allowed an existence, and must be supposed capable of
acting on the atoms. The atoms may, as Democritus believed,
build up a huge mechanical structure, each wheel of which
drives its neighbour in one long inevitable sequence of causation ;
but you may assume that beyond this ever-grinding wheelwork
there exists a power not subject to but partly master of the
machine ; you may believe that man possesses such a power,
and if so, no better conception of the mariner of its action could
be devised than -the idea of its deflecting the atoms in their
onward path to the right or left of that line in which they
would naturally move. The will, if it so acted, would add
nothing sensible to nor take anything sensible from the energy

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 193

of the universe. The modern believer in free-will will probably
adopt this view, which is certainly consistent with observation,
although not proved by it. Such a power of moulding circum-
stances, of turning the torrent to the right, where it shall
fertilise, or to the left, where it shall overwhelm, but in nowise
of arresting the torrent, adding nothing to it, taking nothing
from it, — such is precisely the apparent action of man's will ;
and though we must allow that possibly the deflecting action
does but result from some smaller subtler stream of circumstance,
yet if we may trust to our direct perception of free-will, the
above theory, involving a power in man beyond that of atoms,
would probably be our choice. Lucretius chose the second
alternative as an exit from the difficulty : Atoms with strict
causation did exist, and free-will too. We will then grant
free-will to atoms, one and all, not in perpetual exercise, but at
quite uncertain times. The idea is startling, but not illogical,
and the form in which atoms are supposed to exercise their
free-will is quite unexceptionable. We cannot but admire the
audacity of the man who, called upon to grant free-will as a
tertium quid, either to man or to atoms, chooses the atoms
without a qualm. We do not agree with him, because observa-
tion has detected no such action on the part of atoms, or the
constituents of matter.

We cannot hope that natural science will ever lend the least
assistance towards answering the Free-will and Necessity ques-*
tion. The doctrines of the indestructibility of matter and of
the conservation of energy seem at first sight to help the Neces-
sitarians, for they might argue that if free-will acts it must add
something to or take something from the physical universe, and
if experiment shows that nothing of the kind occurs, away goes
free-will ; but this argument is worthless, for if mind or will
simply deflects matter as it moves, it may produce all the con-
sequences claimed by the Wilful school, and yet it will neither
add energy nor matter to the universe. Lucretius thought
atoms acted thus ; we do not, because we observe no action of
the kind in matter, but, on the contrary, strict causation or
sequence of phenomena. Whether what we call mind act so
or not must also be a matter of observation, but as people have
not been able to agree as to the results of observation about

VOL. i. o

I94 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

free-will made during a great many centuries, we fear the path
of observation will lead us no turther than we have already come.
We beg pardon for this little digression, which was really
necessary to the understanding of our author's physical theory.
Lucretius proceeds to state that atoms have always moved and
always will move with the same velocity, or, as translated by
Mr. Munro, ' The bodies of the first beginnings in time gone by
moved in the same way in which they now move, and will ever
hereafter be borne along in like manner, and the things which
have been wont to be begotten, will be begotten after the same
law,' for there is nothing ' extra,' nothing outside and beyond
the atoms which can either add to or take away from what we
should call the energy of the universe. This proposition fore-
shadows the doctrine of conservation of energy. It is coupled
with the assertion that the sum of matter was never denser or
rarer than it now is, a proposition which we may admit, in the
sense that the mean density of the universe is constant, but
the connection of this proposition with what may be called the
constancy of the total amount of motion in the universe escapes
us. But it is clear, in all his work, that Lucretius conceived
two things as quite constant : atoms were neither created nor
destroyed, and their motion could neither be created nor
destroyed. He believed that each atom kept its velocity un-
altered. The modern doctrine is that the total energy of the
'universe is constant, but may be variously distributed, and is
possibly due to motion alone ultimately, though this last point
has not been yet proved. Many a fierce battle has been waged
over the question, whether what was called the i quantity of
motion ' in the universe was constant. Newton, with perfect
accuracy, declared that it was not, defining the quantity of
motion in a body as the product of mass and velocity. Leibnitz
declared that it was constant, defining the quantity of motion
as the product of the mass and the square of its velocity, but
observing that when apparently the quantity of motion dimi-
nished, it was simply transferred to the molecules of the body, so
as to escape our observation as motion. Davy and Joule have
proved him right in some cases, and shown that our senses still
detect the motion as heat. It is conceivable, but not yet proved,
that Leibnitz may be right in all cases, and that \vha.t we call

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 195

the potential energy of gravitation, elasticity, &c., may really
be due to the motion either of the atoms of gross matter, or of
their constituent parts. If matter in motion be conceived as
the sole ultimate form of energy, Leibnitz's proposition is
absolutely true, and Lucretius must be allowed great merit in
having taught that the motion of matter was as indestructible
as its material existence, although he knew neither the laws of
momentum nor of vis viva. If energy, as he believed, be due
solely to motion, then his doctrine is true.

It is unnecessary further to state our author's theory in dis-
tinct propositions. He proceeds to, explain the necessary pro-
perties of atoms. It is not odd, he says, that though they are
in continual motion, their sum (i.e. gross matter) seems to rest
in supreme repose. Atoms are too minute to be perceived ; their
forms, he says, are various, but the number of these forms is
finite. This doctrine corresponds to the modern idea of simple
or elementary chemical substances, each with its special atom,
but limited in number. There are, he thinks, an infinite
number of similar atoms. Infinite or not, the chemical theory
requires that there shall be a great many similar atoms, but
nothing, thought Lucretius, is formed of simple atoms; all
bodies, however minute, are compounds. Atoms have no colour,
nor are they hot or cold in themselves ; they have neither
sound, scent, nor moisture as properties. All these properties
Lucretius believed to be dependent on the shape, motion, and
relative position of his atoms, but he makes only the most feeble
attempt to explain how these various properties can be thus
conferred, nor could this be done with the slightest hope of
success until the laws of these properties had been established
by long series of experiments. Something may now be done in
this direction, but it remains to be done, with one exception.
The motions producing the phenomenon of light are known, but
we do not know what moves.

Of course, Lucretius believed organic bodies to be made of
atoms, and atoms only. Sentient beings, he thought, did not
require to be built up of sentient materials ; but we need not
discuss this conclusion, which follows of course from his assump-
tion that nothing but atoms and void exists, a mere assumption,
until the manner how atoms can build sentient beings be

o 2

196 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

discovered. He determines in favour of a plurality of worl(
for what has chanced to happen here must certainly have
chanced to happen elsewhere.

The Second Book concludes by a contrast between the
miserable inefficiency of the gods, who pass a calm time in
tranquil peace, and the mighty power of the infinite sum of
clashing atoms, now building up new worlds, now slowly but
inevitably crumbling heaven and earth to dust by the unceasing
aggression of their never-ending flood.

He thinks Memmius his friend ought to be very glad when
this conclusion is reached, and if fine poetry could please
Memmius he probably enjoyed the peroration ; otherwise it is
doubtful how far looking upon himself as a curious and com-
plicated result .of the accidental collision of little bits of hard
stuff is calculated to make a man cheerful.

We do not propose to follow Lucretius further. The appli-
cations which he makes of his theory are no doubt curious and
amusing, but they contain little that is true, while any criticism
of them would lead us to consider the whole field of physical
research ; nor do they add much to the clearness of his doctrine
as to the constitution of matter. Let us rather reconsider what
that doctrine was, and what merit it can claim. We shall find
that almost all the propositions which refer simply to the con-
stitution of matter are worthy of the highest admiration, as
either certainly true, or as foreshadowing in a remarkable way
doctrines since held by most eminent naturalists. Confine the
following statements to matter as we can observe it, to physical
science in fact, and they form a basis which even now would
require but little modification to be acceptable to a modern
student of physics.

Nothing is made out of nothing, nor can anything perish ;
both matter and vacuum have a real existence, and gross matter,
such as we perceive, contains absolutely solid particles sepa-
rated by empty spaces. The absolutely solid particles are atoms.
These are impenetrable, hard, indivisible, indestructible. These
atoms are in continual motion, and the difference between
various bodies consists, first, in the difference of the shapes of
original atoms, and, secondly, in their arrangement and their
motion. The velocity with which atoms move is exceedingly

i97

great, and their motion is indestructible ; it can neither increase
nor diminish. This motion escapes our senses only because
atoms are very small. But they are not infinitely small. Atoms
have no colour, nor are they of themselves hot, cold, noisy,
moist, coloured, or scented. These properties are given by
motion, shape, and arrangement. We shall better understand
the extraordinary merit and good sense of these propositions
after considering some rival theories.

Where Lucretius breaks down is in the attempt to account
for the origin of the power found in the universe, and for the
various regulated motions required to explain what we observe
and for the apparent anomaly between the strict causation re-
quired and perceived in inanimate nature, and the free-will of
which he was conscious. Here he fails entirely, and many
others have failed too. Although lie would have cared little for
our commendation of his physics, coupled with a rejection of
his proud claim to have set free mankind from grovelling super-
stition, by explaining the mystery of the existence of matter
and man's mind, we may derive sincere pleasure in recognising
the early germs of discoveries which have required two thousand
years to reach their present development. Let us not be too
indignant at his scornful rejection of divine agency. Divinity
to him meant either the old pagan gods or the pale abstract
idea of a First Cause, which explained nothing, being but one
form of statement that something was left to be explained.
What wonder that he rejected both ? We may admire those
old philosophers who could clothe divinity with noble attri-
butes, and find in their own hearts the motive for their faith,
but we need not therefore despise those who, smitten with the
great truth that nature's laws are constant, fancied that in this
constancy they saw the proof that nature's laws are self-
existent. But we are diverging from our subject.

We will not compare our author's views with other ancient
theories at any great length ; these at first sight seem greatly
inferior to the atomic doctrine. Of the idea that the universe
is composed of four elements, earth, fire, air, and water, no trace
remains except in language, but careful investigation might
show that the believers in these elements, or in some one or
more of them, as the material of the universe, meant something

198 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

very different and much more sensible than the vulgar inter-
pretation of their doctrine. Lucretius abuses these philosophers,
some because they denied a vacuum, a denial which he thought
inconsistent with motion, some because their material wanted
the character of indestructibility which he thought essential,
some because he quite failed to perceive how all things could
be made out of the element chosen — fire, for instance ; but we
must not take Lucretius's account of rival theories as fair ; we
may with the exercise of a good deal of fancy see in the doc-
trine of homoeomeria, which taught that all things contained the
materials of everything else in a latent state, a foreshadowing
of the chemical theory which proves that our bodies are made
of the same chemical materials as peas, cabbages, &c., but it
requires an elastic imagination to link the old and new creed
together. Any explanation of the metaphysical conceptions of
matter would also be out of place here. To Aristotle the existence
of an atom with any properties at all, and the nature of motion,
were mysteries demanding, as he says, speculation of a far
deeper kind than Democritus and the atomic school attempted.
This is true enough, but we think Aristotle and his followers
got entangled in the ' snares of words,' to use Hobbes's language,
and their teaching led to little or no progress in what we call
science. Let us then pass on some two thousand years, and see
at the revival of philosophy what some modern great men have
taught and written on the possible constitution of matter. We
need choose no smaller men than Leibnitz and Descartes to
serve as foils to our author.

Descartes, after a hypocritical nourish to the effect that he
knew the complete fallacy of all he was going to say, since it
did not agree with the orthodox theory of creation, but still that
it would be interesting to consider how God might have created
the world if He had been of Descartes's mind as to the simplest
way of proceeding, propounds the following plan :

The universe at first was quite full of something ; it was all
alike, and there was no void anywhere. This universal plenum
by-and-by was broken up into pieces. The pieces of plenum
rubbed against one another till they became quite round : the
dust rubbed off their angles filled up the interstices — for of
course no void could possibly occur once the universe was quite

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 199

full. The dust and round balls he calls the first and second
kind of materials of which the universe, as we know it, is com-
posed ; but besides the dust and balls there is a third material ;
all the edges of the first fragments of plenum did not get ground
into dust ; a fair number were merely rubbed into a kind of
snake-shape of triangular section — such a shape as would slip
through the interstices in a pile of cannon-balls. These snake-
shaped pieces sometimes got entangled, and when so entangled
they composed the solid matter which is apparent to our senses.
The balls and dust fill all space, the dust forms the great vor-
tices which carry the planets round the sun, the balls are light
and go flying about, so do the snakes, which, getting entangled,
form gross matter. It is far more interesting to endeavour
to understand the views of great men, however removed they
may be from our own, than to look merely on the ludicrous side
which their ideas may happen to present ; but we are unable in
all Descartes's theory of matter to perceive anything beyond the
most childish fancy. It does not seem to have occurred to him
that there would be any difficulty in breaking up an absolute
plenum ; what would be the nature of the separation between
the fragments, what could define the boundary, he nowhere says ;
he sends his balls, dust, and snakes flying about in any direction
he may think convenient ; the balls and dust are imponderable,
the knotted snakes, made of the same stuff, and intermediate
between the two other kinds, are ponderable. Why three kinds
— balls, dust, and snakes ? Why not rather fragments of
infinite variety of shape and size, from big bits of plenum to
dust ? No answer to all this, but long dissertation on the knot-
ting of snakes to form spots on the sun. His laws of motion are
false, and he knew it, but says we must not judge from our
experience of gross matter ; and yet, this man insisted on clear
conceptions as the very test of truth.

Leibnitz about the same time declared against atoms, against
a vacuum, and against Descartes. He will have it to be inconsis-
tent with the perfection of God, that a vacuum can exist. It is
out of the question that God should leave any part of space
unemployed. John Bernoulli, in whose correspondence with
Leibnitz these questions are treated with much dexterity, very
properly replies that vacuum may be useful, since it may be a

200 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

condition without which matter would not have its present
properties ; if so, the void could not properly be called unem-
ployed. Still, Bernoulli admitting that a void is not necessary
to the theory of matter, gives it up. We must of course re-
member that these men did not mean by void the absence of
gross matter — the Torricellian vacuum was then known — they
meant absolute emptiness. This argument about what God could
or could not do, because it was derogatory to His dignity or
wisdom, was at this time pulled in upon all occasions, and led
to the strangest paradoxes about His free-will and omnipotence.
We do not use the argument now in support of the laws of
mechanics ; we do not speak of circles as more perfect than
other figures, and therefore more consistent with Divine wisdom,
but in morals a claim of the kind is still frequently made, and
Darwin applies this argument to stripes on horses' legs, which
he thinks God would not have stooped to create. We are far
from saying that an appeal of the kind is without meaning.
The argument may be turned thus, when it will no longer seem
altogether foolish : We observe great regularity and veiy per-
fect adaptation of means to ends throughout creation, so that
what we do understand seems to be perfectly done, and we
infer that the contrivances we do not understand are equally
perfect. Any contrivance which we can show to be bad or
imperfect will therefore by that very fact be proved impossible
as a part of creation. The main proposition will very generally
be granted ; the difficulty lies in applying the minor premiss.
When a man says that a vacuum is an imperfect contriv-
ance, he only means that he dislikes it ; and the application
of the argument to moral questions is generally open to like
criticism. Bernoulli asked Leibnitz how he accounted for the
existence of moral evil as part of a perfect universe. Leibnitz
returned Bernoulli's own argument about a vacuum. Evil may
be necessary to allow of good, just as Bernoulli thought a
vacuum might be necessary to allow of matter.

Leibnitz, though he protested against atoms, himself devised
what must be called an atomic theory, though his atoms were
not separated by a vacuum. They were a kind of bubble (bulla)
with a glassy shell containing ether. They were of various
composition, containing more or less fire, earth, air, or water ;

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 201

not the gross things known by that name, but essences of some
kind. Leibnitz does not think his bubbles existed from all
eternity, but gives the strangest account of their formation in
his i Theoria motus concreti.' He sets the sun and earth spin-
ning in the midst of a universal ether. Molecules of the sun's
mass, too, had a special motion of their own, which impelled
some thing or some action, we are not sure which, along the
ether, producing light; this light striking the earthy, airy,
watery globe of the earth, sets the whole in fermentation ; the
dense parts formed in hollow bubbles containing ether ; these
spun round and so acquired consistency. (This idea of giving
consistency by motion, taken by Leibnitz from Hobbes, was in
opposition to Descartes, who derived consistency from rest.)
Leibnitz explains his meaning by a metaphor : In a glass-
blower's, glasses of a simple artificial form result from the
straight motion of breath, combined with the circular motion
of fire, and so ' bullae ' were produced from the straight motion
of light and the circular motion of the earth. These bubbles
are the seeds of things — Lucretins's own phrase — the origin
of various kinds of things, the receptacles of ether, the basis of
bodies, the cause of the force we admire in motions.

The bubbles varied in ' contents through density ; ' in ' con-
tents through size ; ' in emptiness, or perfect fulness, and in
more or less emptiness and fulness. He explains how bubbles
for the animal, vegetable, and mineral reigns, of sterile or pro-
ductive qualities ; salt, sulphurous, mercurial bubbles, &c. &c.,
are formed, and gives the special combination of qualities wanted
for each. Thus, one of his bubbles is empty-extraordinary-
alkaline-colourable-feminine, another full-extraordinary-acid-
coloured-masculine — these two kinds of seeds differ in their
way of acting. This seems like idiocy to persons not familiar
with the scholastic habit of bracketing off qualities and cate-
gories, distinguishing and dividing things into a kind of verbal
Chinese pattern. We have not made out the constitution of
Leibnitz's ether, or his earthy, watery, airy globe, out of which
he blew his bubbles, but we have found enough to show a very
unfavourable contrast with Lucretius, even omitting monads,
pre-established harmony, and many other interesting ideas, pro-
posed by the man who claimed to have run a race with Newton

202 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

in inventing the higher calculus of mathematics, and who
enounced the doctrine of vis viva.

Adhesion, he thought, was obtained by motion, but how we
fail to understand. His explanation runs somewhat thus — that
two bodies in motion, one after the other, are both trying to be
in the same place at once, and, as they cannot accomplish this,
stick together. Even Bernoulli, familiar with the views and
terms of the day, found Leibnitz's theory extremely difficult to
understand ; as found in his ' Hypothesis physica nova,' it is con-
tained in a series of short dogmatic sentences with very little
elucidation ; we may therefore be unjust to him in our ignorance,
but his criticism contained in his correspondence with Bernoulli
seems to us much more valuable than this blowing of little com-
plex bubbles. Thus he would not hear of the usual explanation
of solidity, by the supposition that particles were hooked to-
gether or entangled by their shape, as taught both by Lucretius
and Descartes. What, he asks, is to keep the hook together ?
and he got no answer. He refused to admit Lucretius's pos-
tulate of infinitely hard bodies and infinitely elastic bodies ;
indeed, the two properties do seem incompatible. The elas-
ticity which we observe is given by a change of position of the
parts of the body, and if the parts never change position it is
hard to see by what the energy required for elasticity can be
represented. He further objected to the assumption that atoms
were indivisible, since, however small we conceive a particle to
be, we can invariably think of its parts. Leibnitz was not to be
satisfied with the idea which Lucretius seems to hold, that a
thing may exist just big enough to have parts too small in
themselves for independent existence. John Bernoulli, however,
did not quite abandon atoms in consequence of this attack ; like
a sensible man he does not like assumptions of infinite hardness
and infinite elasticity, but he replies to Leibnitz that atoms may
be so constituted that they may be really indivisible by any
process to which they can be subjected by other atoms, although
they may have an infinity of parts such as the mind can
conceive.

We will now endeavour to trace the development of the
school which, discarding the hard solid elastic atoms of Lucre-
tius, attempts to deduce the properties of matter from the

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 203

motion of an all-pervading fluid endowed with comparatively
simple qualities. This conception of matter probably differs
little from the tenets of those ancient philosophers who held that
the universe was built of some one element, such as air, fire, or
water. Descartes, who has at least the merit of reviving the
idea, in opposition to Gassendi and others who followed Lucre-
tius, could devise no rational hypothesis from this assumption ;
but Hobbes, contemporary with Descartes, held views which
bear a striking resemblance to those recently broached by Sir
William Thomson. Hobbes thought that a moist fluid ether
fills the universe, so that it left no empty space at all. He
understood by fluidity, that which is made such by nature
equally in every part of the fluid body — not as dust is fluid, for
so a house which is falling in pieces may be called fluid — but in
such manner as water seems fluid ; he defines ' a hard body to
be that whereof no part can be sensibly moved unless the whole
be moved ; ' and in explanation how a fluid can compose a hard
body, he says, ' Whatsoever, therefore, is soft or fluid can never
be made hard, but by such motion as makes many of the parts
together stop the motion of some one part by resisting the
same ;' an admirable explanation of a recent discovery due to
Helmholtz, described below, contrasting most favourably with
Leibnitz's subsequent mere verbal quibble on the same point.
More than this, Hobbes perceived that elasticity need not be a
primary quality of matter, but might be conferred by motion.
4 If the cause of this restitution (elasticity) be asked, I say it
may be in this manner, namely, that the particles of the bended
body, whilst it is held bent, do nevertheless retain their motion,
and by this motion they restore it as soon as the force is re-
moved by which it is bent.' These are most remarkable pro-
positions, and, should Thomson's ideas be established, will
entitle Hobbes to a very high position as the precursor of the
true theory. Unfortunately, Hobbes did not compose an har-
monious system out of the above ideas. He missed the con-
ception of vortices of ether as atoms, and introduced particles of
gross matter, distinct from ether, which may after all be true.
He also could not get free from the old nomenclature of ele-
ments, and even devised those same glassy bubbles full of ether,
which now serve chiefly to prove that Leibnitz took (without

204 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

acknowledgment which we can find) the best of Hobbes's ideas,
without being able to leave the dross behind. Hobbes has a
kind of undulating theory of light, which he thought was pro-
duced by the motion of an ether ; Leibnitz took that too ; but
Galileo might perhaps claim this, as well as the notion that it
was the action of this ether which was meant by the spirit
brooding on the waters at creation. Leibnitz took that too, and
altogether he seems to have been a great hand at appropriation.
Malebranche, who followed Descartes in most things, gave
up to a great extent the balls and dust and snakes, and broached
the idea that gross matter was made up of molecules, each of
which was an eddy or vortex of the primeval fluid. Here we
reach an intelligible conception, greatly in advance of the crude
and somewhat confused views of Hobbes. The molecule is
separated from the surrounding medium by the motion of its
parts, it has a distinct existence, and may have very different
properties from all the rest of the medium or fluid. If the parts
of this fluid do not cohere in any way, but move frictionless,
our little vortex-atom may have quite a sharp boundary, and if
inertia be granted as an original property in our fluid, the little
vortex may go on spinning for ever. Moreover, if it goes at a
very great rate it may contain almost infinitely more energy
or power than other parts of the medium, even when these are
displaced by the motion of the vortex-atom, or a congeries of
these, through the medium, which must of course then form a
comparatively slow eddy coming in behind our vortex-atoms as
fast as it is shoved away in front. The vortex plays the part of
the Lucretian atom, the medium of the Lucretian void. A few
vortices in a given space constitute a rare body ; a dense body
contains many vortices in the same space. The idea is one of
remarkable merit, and has received several recent developments.
Malebranche conceives the medium itself as full of vortices,
almost infinitely small as compared with those constituting
gross matter. He thought that cohesion was the result of
pressure from this elastic medium against gross matter, as the
two halves of a Magdeburg sphere were pressed together by the
elastic air outside when the air inside is removed. Here we
have a fresh explanation of hardness, as due to the motion of a
fluid — an idea adopted in an unintelligible form by Leibnitz

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 205

from Hobbes, and also by John Bernoulli, who further argues
that this property may be given by re-entering motion.

This very idea, first due, we think, to Hobbes, and now
proved possible by rigid mathematics, is perhaps the latest con-
tribution to our subject. Helmholtz has proved that in a
perfect fluid one vortex or whirlpool cannot destroy another,
cannot cut through it or divide in any way from the outside—
so that a ring-shaped vortex, for instance, would be quite inde-
structible by other vortices ; by a ring-vortex we do not mean
one in which the fluid moves round in a simple circle, but a
ring built up of a series of such little circles side by side ; each
little circle placed as a circlet of thread tied on a marriage ring
would be. Such a ring- vortex as this, once set goirg in a perfect
fluid, in which no friction occurs, would go on for ever, if we
suppose our fluid endowed with inertia. Our ring- vortex might
be stretched, squeezed, even knotted by other similar vortices,
but it could never be pierced by them, never destroyed, and
would, in all its metamorphoses, retain some of its original
characteristics, depending on the velocity of its particles and
its magnitude. Sir William Thomson at once pounced on
this indestructible vortex as possibly fulfilling the conditions
required for a practical atom. Each vortex would be indestruc-
tible, since we could never bring to bear on it anything but other
like vortices. It would be elastic, in virtue of the motion of its
parts only, without any assumption of elasticity in its materials —
an idea this hard to grasp, but to be practically felt by anyone
who tries to upset a good heavy top. He will find that, as he
pushes it over, it resists, and will come upright again, exerting
what we may call a kind of elasticity due to motion only.
Moreover, Thomson shows that these very vortices have neces-
sary modes of vibration, which may correspond to the special
waves of light which the chemical atom of each elementary sub-
stance is capable of exciting or receiving; knotted, or even
knitted, they would explain cohesion and chemical properties
without any supposition of attraction or repulsion between atoms.
By their impact they may explain the elasticity of gases in the
manner proposed by a later Bernoulli ; by other motions, such
as those treated of by Thomson himself and Clerk Maxwell, they
may cause magnetism and electricity. Nor is more required for

206 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

the explanation of heat ; and although it cannot be said that
we yet know with any certainty what motions are required for
the explanation of these phenomena, we do begin to know some
of the relations which must exist between the several motions ;
nor need we despair even of explaining light and gravitation
with the same machinery. Having traced the theory of a con-
tinuous fluid to its development in the hands of Thomson, we
find that this school too has arrived at indestructible elastic
atoms as the secondary constituents of gross matter, though
they reject the crude atoms of Lucretius as a primary material.

Bacon was very cautious about atomic theories, but on the
whole believed in atoms. He devised the idea of groups or
knots of atoms, saying, in reference to the argument of Demo-
critus, that if only one kind of atom existed, all things could
be made out of all things ; £ there is no doubt but that the
seeds of things though equal, as soon as they have thrown
themselves into certain groups or knots, completely assume the
nature of dissimilar bodies till those groups or knots are dis-
solved.'

Newton, while approving of some form of the atomic theory,
was very guarded in expressing his opinions ; but his discovery
of the laws of gravitation exercised great influence on most
subsequent hypotheses as to the constitution of matter. The
conception of atoms having the property of exerting various
forces across a void space, followed as a matter of course from
the idea of universal gravitation. A school arose which taught
that atoms might have the property of exerting force at a dis-
tance, and that this property might be inherent in the atoms,
just as Lucretius taught that hardness and elasticity were ori-
ginal indefeasible properties of the seeds of things. Force came
to be considered as having a real existence apart from matter ;
but this idea, though very popular now, was not established
without a hard struggle, and may yet have to be abandoned.

This view is in direct contradiction with the old axiom that
matter could not act where it was not, or, as Hobbes put it,
1 there can be no cause of motion except a body contiguous and
moved '—no unnatural idea, but, on the contrary, universally or
almost universally believed till Newton's time. We do not
think that the fact of gravitation justifies the assumption that

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 207

atoms can exert a force upon one another across a void, but
Newton spoke of gravitation as an action between two distant
bodies, and since then we have got quite accustomed to the idea
of finite molecules of matter acting everywhere in the universe,
and that, too, without any material medium of communication.
This to Leibnitz was either miraculous or absurd. But, in fact,
Newton did not teach this ; he stated a fact, he did not devise
hypotheses ; he found that from the law of gravitation the vast
mass of facts observed about falling bodies and planetary
motions could be logically deduced. The one statement com-
prehended all the others ; his great discovery was the short
statement with its proof; he invented no explanation of how
the law of gravitation could be brought about, and neither
asserted nor denied that some medium of communication must
exist. Leibnitz and other doubters said, How can this be, this
attraction at a distance ? We cannot see how it can be done, so
we will not believe it ; it is miraculous or absurd. Newton
could only reply it was a fact, and we have been so satisfied with
the answer as to be somewhat in danger of forgetting that the
question, ' How can it be ? ' deserves consideration ; that the
statement of the law of gravitation, though a wonderful dis-
covery, does not set a bound to further inquiry.

The law of gravitation considered as a result is beautifully
simple ; in a few words it expresses a fact from which most
numerous and complex results may be deduced by mere reason-
ing, results found invariably to agree with the records of obser-
vation ; but this same law of gravitation looked upon as an
axiom or first principle is so astoundingly far removed from all
ordinary experience as to be almost incredible. What ! every
particle in the whole universe is actively attracting every other
particle through void without the aid of any communication by
means of matter or otherwise — each particle unchecked by
distance, unimpeded by obstacles, throws this miraculous in-
fluence to infinite distance without the employment of any
means ! No particle interferes with its neighbour, but all
these wonderful influences are co-existent in every point of
space ! The result is apparent at each particle, but the con-
dition of this intermediate space is exactly the same as though
no such influence were being transmitted across it ! Earth

2o8 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

attracts Sirius across space, and yet the space between is as if
neither Earth nor Sirius existed ! Can these things be ? We
think not ; and Newton himself did not affirm this ; his work
was to prove a fact, and he neither affirmed nor denied the pos-
sibility of a medium of communication. That was a secondary
question then, but now that the fact of the attraction is esta-
blished the secondary question has risen to the first rank, and we
must consider whether the intermediate space really contains
nothing which plays a part in gravitation.

Analogy is against such a supposition. The influence ex-
erted at a distance by electricity, magnetism, heat, and light, is
effected by the substances filling intermediate space. For every
one of these influences we suppose some intermediate material,
and the existence of this material, often called an ether, is
almost demonstrated. Faraday, by proving the influence of the
intermediate material in the case of electrical action, by his
discovery of magneto-optic rotation, and by showing how lines
of force arose in media, rudely shook the theory of attraction
and repulsion, exerted at a distance across a perfect void. Light
gives us a very perfect analogy to illustrate our assertion that
the law of gravitation is not an hypothesis, but a result capable
of and requiring further explanation. Gravitation is not per-
ceived directly by the senses, except in the case of the attraction
of the earth. We have a special sense for the perception of
light, yet many phenomena of radiation are not detected by the
eye. Similarly, some of the phenomena of gravitation may
escape our observation. Newton detected some of these. Sup-
pose we had all been blind, Newton, instead of discovering
universal gravitation, might have discovered light and its laws.
From observations on the growth of vegetation, the sensation of
heat, chemical decomposition, and other facts perceptible to
blind creatures, he with vast genius might have discovered that
a body existed at a great distance from the earth, from which
a peculiar influence was periodically rained upon the earth ;
that this influence could also be produced by fire and in other
ways by men living on the earth, and was in a given medium
inversely proportional to the square of the distance from the
source of light, as we call it. He might have discovered the
transparency and opacity of bodies, and the simpler laws of

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 209

refraction and reflection. To any one of his blind compeers
who objected that such a supposition as an influence starting
from an amazing distance, occupying no sensible time in the
traject, transmitted, reflected, and refracted without the inter-
ference of one ray with another, was either miraculous or absurd,
and wholly unworthy of consideration as a physical hypothesis,
he would have answered : Light exists for all that, and its laws
I can prove to you by mathematical reasoning from experiment.
He would have been perfectly right, as he was about gravitation,
but that need not have prevented subsequent philosophers from
devising the undulatory theory of light if they had been clever
enough ; quite similarly, the fact that gravitation as discovered
by Newton does exist need not prevent our trying to devise a
scheme which shall explain its action, starting from much
simpler postulates than that of a universal influence of each
atom on all others at a distance.

The action of a body on its neighbour can be explained
without the idea of a force acting even across a small void, by
the simple assumption that two bodies cannot be in the same
place at the same time, an assumption only tacitly made by
Lucretius, and generally received as undeniable, though it
admits of rational doubt, for experiment is by no means conclu-
sive as to its certainty. Still, most people will be and have
been unable to doubt it. With this assumption, motion and
influence of all kinds can be transmitted either through a fluid
constituting a plenum, or from one atom to another, as they
clash in a vacuum. By successive blows or extended currents
action can produce results at a great distance from its origin
upon either of these hypotheses, without the assumption that
matter can act where it is not. Some explanation of gravity
may be found requiring only the above assumption coupled with
the other dogma, that matter once in motion will continue to
move till stopped, and no atomic theory can be received as
complete which does not explain gravitation as one of its con-
sequences.

Lesage, a Genevese, undertook to deduce the laws of gravi-
tation as a necessary consequence of the atomic theory, revert-
ing, however, to the chaotic motion of atoms in all directions
taught by Democritus, instead of the rectilinear parallel motions
VOL. I. P

210 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

of Lucretius. Lesage asked you to conceive two solid bodies in
space, say the earth and sun, and atoms coming to assail them
equally in all directions ; but one side of the earth would be
partially screened by the sun, and the corresponding side of the
sun would be partially screened by the earth, so what we would
call the front faces of the earth and sun, which looked towards
one another, would be less bombarded by the atoms than all the
other faces. The atoms hitting at the back of the two bodies
would push them together. The atoms hitting the sides would
of course balance one another. The idea is ingenious, but re-
quires some strong assumptions. The attraction of gravitation
is not as the surface of the bodies, but as their mass. Lesage
had therefore to suppose his solid bodies not solid but excessively
porous, built up of molecules like cages, so that an infinite num-
ber of atoms went through and through them, allowing the last
layer of the sun or earth to be struck by just as many atoms as
the first, otherwise clearly the back part of the sun and earth
would gravitate more strongly than the front or nearer sides,
which would be struck only by the siftings of the previous
layers of matter. This notion involves a prodigious quantity of
material in the shape of flying atoms, where we perceive no
gross matter, but very little material in solid bodies where we
do find gross matter, and it further requires that the accumula-
tion of atoms which strike the solid bodies perpetually should
be insensible, and on these grounds, independently of dynamical
imperfections, we must reject the theory in its crude form,
though it may prove fruitful some day. Meanwhile it serves
to show that the school which denies action at a distance need
not have recourse to an absolute plenum.

Three distinct atomic theories have now been discussed : we
have found believers in atoms of i solid singleness,' in atoms due
to the motion of a continuous fluid, and in atoms having the
property of exerting force at a distance. Naturally the three
elementary conceptions have been compounded in a variety
of ways. Leibnitz mentions with great disapproval a certain
Hartsoeker who supposed that atoms moved in an ambient fluid,
though the idea is not unlike his own. It is difficult to trace
the origin of the hypothesis, but Galileo and Hobbes both speak
of a subtle ether. The conception of an all-pervading imponder-

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 211

able fluid of this kind has formed part of many theories, and
ether came to be very generally adopted as a favourite name for
the fluid, but caloric was also much thought of as a medium.
We even find half-a-dozen imponderable co-existent fluids re-
garded with favour — one called heat, another electricity, another
phlogiston, another light, and what not, with little hard atoms
swimming about, each endowed with forces of repulsion and
attraction of all sorts, as was thought desirable. This idea of
the constitution of matter was perhaps the worst of all. These
imponderable fluids were mere names, and these forces were
suppositions, representing no observed facts. No attempt was
made to show how or why the forces acted, but gravitation being
taken as due to a mere ' force,' speculators thought themselves
at liberty to imagine any number of forces, attractive or repul-
sive, or alternating, varying as the distance, or the square, cube,
fifth power of the distance, &c. At last Boscovich got rid of
atoms altogether, by supposing them to be the mere centres of
forces exerted by a position or point only, where nothing existed
but the power of exerting a force. A medium composed of
molecules flying in all directions has been shown by Maxwell to
have certain properties in which it resembles a solid body rather
than a fluid. .The less the molecules interfere with each other's
motion the more decided do these properties become, till in
the ultimate case in which they do not interfere at all, Maxwell
states that the elastic properties of the medium are precisely
those deduced by French mathematicians from the hypothesis
of centres of force at rest acting on one another at a distance.
Thus the most opposite hypotheses sometimes conduct to the
same result. Dalton, assuming that the idea of an atom with
an ambient ether was generally believed in, gave an immense
support to the atomic theory by his discovery of the simple
relations in which substances combine chemically. Since then
it has been heretical to doubt atoms, until Sir Benjamin Brodie
the other day broached ideas which seemed independent if not
subversive of the simple atomic faith.

Reviewing the various doctrines, we find that the problem
of the constitution of matter is yet unsolved ; but at least it can
now be fairly stated. We know with much accuracy the con-
ditions to be fulfilled by any hypothesis, and we possess a

p 2

212 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

mathematical machinery by which we can test how completely
any hypothesis does fulfil those conditions. The materials for
the work are not wanting, though the architect has not ap-
peared. Inertia and motion seem the most indispensable ele-
ments in the conception of the materia prima extended in space.
Once in motion, it must continue in motion till stopped ; when
at rest, it must not move without a cause ; when in motion, it
represents energy, or power, and can exert force. How ? The
simplest but not the only mode conceivable, is by displacement,
in virtue of the property that two parts of it cannot occupy one
and the same part of space. The believers in displacement may
assume that space is quite full, or that in parts it is wholly
empty ; that it contains one, two, or more kinds of primary in-
gredients capable of displacing one another, or each its own
products merely.

The most plausible suggestion yet made by this school is,
that a single omnipresent fluid, ether, fills the universe ; that
by various motions, of the nature of eddies, the qualities of co-
hesion, elasticity, hardness, weight, mass, or other universal pro-
perties of matter are given to small portions of the fluid which
constitute the chemical atoms ; that these, by modifications in
their combination, form and motion, produce all the accidental
phenomena of gross matter ; that the primary fluid, by other
motions, transmits light, radiant heat, magnetism, and gravita-
tion ; that in certain ways the portions of the fluid transmuted
into gross matter can be acted upon by the primary fluid which
remains imponderable or very light ; but that these ways differ
very much from those in which one part of gross matter acts
upon another; that the transmutation of the primary fluid into
gross matter, or of gross matter into primary fluid, is a creative
action wholly denied to us, the sum of each remaining constant.

Gross matter, on this view, would be merely an assemblage
of parts of the medium moving in a particular way ; groups of
ring-vortices, for instance. There appears to be some difficulty
in determining the fundamental properties to be assumed for our
medium. We must grant it inertia or it would not continue in
motion.

The believers in hard atoms can hardly restrict themselves to
the combination and motion of atoms of gross matter; these will

LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY 213

not explain light, gravitation, and analogous phenomena, for
which a second kind of very subtle matter is required ; but this
may be supposed to consist of almost infinitely finer atoms. If
the molecules of gross matter be supposed constructed from
these finer atoms moving in certain special ways, this doctrine
would be in accordance with that of Lucretius, and would differ
little from the fluid theory, except that it would admit a void.
Thus far the displacement school.

Those who believe in force exerted at a distance without a
means of communication have more elbow-room. They may
assume attractive and repelling forces, perhaps oblique and
tangential forces ; they may assume that these forces vary
according to laws, simple or very complex ; they may wholly
deny the existence of anything but force, and grant extension
and inertia to a field of force regulated in a special fashion. This
little field of force, or a combination of such fields, may build
their chemical atom, and the motions of these atoms, in their
turn as above, produce some of the properties or accidents of
gross matter ; they may believe in a plenum or a partial vacuum,
and in one or more kinds of matter, precisely as the other school
may do ; and, indeed, it is impossible to set a limit to their con-
jectures ; because when once the mind admits this conception
of an abstract force, such as that of gravitation as popularly
understood, it will not refuse to entertain the idea of any other
kind of force varying according to infinitely different laws, nor
is there any mental limit to the possible set of co-existent
forces.

Let each party try. Mathematics provide a sure test of suc-
cess, though impotent to suggest a theory. The existence of
the chemical atom, already quite a complex little world, seems
very probable, and the description of the Lucre tian atom is won-
derfully applicable to it. We are not wholly without hope that
the real weight of each such atom may some day be known, not
merely the relative weight of the several atoms, but the number
in a given volume of any material ; that the form and motion of
the parts of each atom, and the distance by which they are sepa-
rated, may be calculated ; that the motions by which they
produce heat, electricity, and light may be illustrated by exact
geometrical diagrams ; and that the fundamental properties of

214 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

the intermediate and possibly constituent medium may be
arrived at. Then the motion of planets and music of the spheres
will be neglected for a while in admiration of the maze in which
the tiny atoms turn. Those who doubt the possibility of this
achievement should read the writings of Thomson, Clausius,
Rankine, and Clerk Maxwell. They will there gain some insight
into what is meant by an explanation of such things as heat,
electricity, and magnetism, as caused by the motion of matter,
ponderable or imponderable. They will also perceive the vast
difference between the old hazy speculations and the endeavours
of modern science. Yet when we have found a mechanical
theory by which the phenomena of inorganic matter can be
mathematically deduced from the motion of materials endowed
with a few simple properties, we must not forget that Democri-
tus, Leucippus, and Epicurus began the work, and we may even
now recognise their merits, and acknowledge Lucretius not only
as a great poet, but as the clear expositor of a very remarkable
theory of the constitution of matter, though we must admit that
he failed in his bolder attempts to abolish the gods, and dis-
pense with creation, or even to reconcile universal causation with
free-will.

215

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.1

THE theory proposed by Mr. Darwin as sufficient to account
for the origin of species has been received as probable, and
even as certainly true, by many who from their knowledge of
physiology, natural history, and geology, are competent to form
an intelligent opinion. The facts, they think, are consistent
with the theory. Small differences are observed between
animals and their offspring. Greater differences are observed
between varieties known to be sprung from a common stock.
The differences between what have been termed species are
sometimes hardly greater in appearance than those between
varieties owning a common origin. Even when species differ
more widely, the difference, they say, is one of degree only,
not of kind. They can see no clear, definite distinction by
which to decide in all cases whether two animals have sprung
from a common ancestor or not. They feel warranted in con-
cluding, that for aught the structure of animals shows to the
contrary, they may be descended from a few ancestors only-
nay, even from a single pair.

The most marked differences between varieties known to
have sprung from one source have been obtained by artificial
breeding. Men have selected, during many generations, those
individuals possessing the desired attributes in the highest
degree. They have thus been able to add, as it were, small
successive differences, till they have at last produced marked
varieties. Darwin shows that by a process, which he calls
natural selection, animals more favourably constituted than
their fellows will survive in the struggle for life, will produce
descendants resembling themselves, of which the strong will

1 Eeview of Darwin's Origin of Species : from the North British Review,
June 1867.

216 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

live, the weak die ; and so, generation after generation, nature?,
by a metaphor, may be said to choose certain animals, even as
man does when he desires to raise a special breed. The device
of nature is based on the attributes most useful to the animal ;
the device of man on the attributes useful to man, or admired
by him. All must agree that the process termed natural selec-
tion is in universal operation. The followers of Darwin believe
that by that process differences might be added, even as they
are added by man's selection, though more slowly, and that this
addition might in time be carried to so great an extent as to
produce every known species of animal from one or two pairs,
perhaps from organisms of the lowest known type.

A very long time would be required to produce in this way
the great differences observed between existing beings. Geo-
logists say their science shows no ground for doubting that
the habitable world has existed for countless ages. Drift and
inundation, proceeding at the rate we now observe, would
require cycles of ages to distribute the materials of the surface
of the globe in their present form and order ; and they add, for
aught we know, countless ages of rest may at many places have
intervened between the ages of action.

But if all beings are thus descended from a common ancestry,
a complete historical record would show an unbroken chain of
creatures, reaching from each one now known back to the first
type, with each link differing from its neighbour by no more
than the several offspring of a single pair of animals now differ.
We have no such record ; but geology can produce vestiges
which may be looked upon as a few out of the innumerable
links of the whole conceivable chain, and what, say the followers
of Darwin, is more certain than that the record of geology must
necessarily be imperfect? The records we have show a certain
family likeness between the beings living at each epoch, and
this is at least consistent with our views.

There are minor arguments in favour of the Darwinian hypo-
thesis, but the main course of the argument has, we hope, been
fairly stated. It bases large conclusions as to what has hap-
pened upon the observation of comparatively small facts now
to be seen. The cardinal facts are the production of varieties
by man, and the similarity of all existing animals. About the

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 217

truth and extent of those facts none but men possessing a
special knowledge of physiology and natural history have any
right to an opinion ; but the superstructure based on those
facts enters the region of pure reason, and may be discussed
apart from all doubt as to the fundamental facts.

Can natural selection choose special qualities, and so breed
special varieties as man does ? Does it appear that man has
the power indefinitely to magnify the peculiarities which dis-
tinguish his breeds from the original stock ? Is there no other
evidence than that of geology as to the age of the habitable earth ?
and what is the value of the geological evidence ? How far, in
the absence of other knowledge, does the mere difficulty in
classifying organised beings justify us in expecting that they
have had a common ancestor ? And finally, what value is to
be attached to certain minor facts supposed to corroborate the
new theory ? These are the main questions to be debated in
the present essay, written with a belief that some of them have
been unduly overlooked. The opponents of Darwin have been
chiefly men having special knowledge similar to his own, and
they have therefore naturally directed their attention to the
cardinal facts of his theory. They have asserted that animals
are not so similar but that specific differences can be detected,
and that man can produce no varieties differing from the parent
stock, as one species differs from another. They naturally
neglect the deductions drawn from facts which they deny. If
your facts were true, they say, perhaps nature would select
varieties, and in endless time all you claim might happen ;
but we deny the facts. You produce no direct evidence that
your selection took place, claiming only that your hypothesis is
not inconsistent with the teaching of geology. Perhaps not, but
you only claim a c may be,' and we attack the direct evidence
you think you possess.

To an impartial looker-on the Darwinians seem rather to
have had the best of the argument on this ground, and it is at
any rate worth while to consider the question from the other
point of view; admit the facts, and examine the reasoning.
This we now propose to do, and for clearness will divide the
subject into heads corresponding to the questions asked above,
as to the extent of variability, the efficiency of natural selection,

218 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

the lapse of time, the difficulty of classification, and the value
of minor facts adduced in support of Darwin.

Some persons seem to have thought his theory dangerous to
religion, morality, and what not. Others have tried to laugh it
out of court. We can share neither the fears of the former nor
the merriment of the latter ; and, on the contrary, own to feeling
the greatest admiration both for the ingenuity of the doctrine
and for the temper in which it was broached, although, from a
consideration of the following arguments, our opinion is adverse
to its truth.

Variability. — Darwin's theory requires that there shall be no
limit to the possible difference between descendants and their
progenitors, or, at least, that if there be limits they shall be at
so great a distance as to comprehend the utmost differences
between any known forms of life. The variability required, if
not infinite, is indefinite. Experience with domestic aninuils
and cultivated plants shows that great variability exists. Dar-
win calls special attention to the differences between the various
fancy pigeons, which, he says, are descended from one stock ;
between various breeds of cattle and horses, and some other
domestic animals. He states that these differences are greater
than those which induce some naturalists to class many speci-
mens as distinct species. These differences are infinitely small
as compared with the range required by his theory, but he as-
sumes that by accumulation of successive differences any degree
of variation may be produced ; he says little in proof of the
possibility of such an accumulation, seeming rather to take for
granted that if Sir John Seabright could with pigeons produce
in six years a certain head and beak of say half the bulk pos-
sessed by the original stock, then in twelve years this bulk could
be reduced to a quarter, in twenty-four to an eighth, and so
farther. Darwin probably never believed or intended to teach
so extravagant a proposition, yet by substituting a few myriads
of years for that poor period of six years, we obtain a proposition
fundamental in his theory. That theory rests on the assump-
tion that natural selection can do slowly what man's selection
does quickly ; it is by showing how much man can do, that
Darwin hopes to prove how much can be done without him.

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 219

But if man's selection cannot double, treble, quadruple, centuple,
any special divergence from a parent stock, why should we
imagine that natural selection should have that power ? When
we have granted that the ' struggle for life ' might produce the
pouter or the fantail, or any divergence man can produce, we
need not feel one whit the more disposed to grant that it can
produce divergences beyond man's power. The difference be-
tween six years and six myriads, blinding by a confused sense
of immensity, leads men to say hastily that if six or sixty years
can make a pouter out of a common pigeon, six myriads may
change a pigeon to something like a thrush ; but this seems no
more accurate than to conclude that because we observe that a
cannon-ball has traversed a mile in a minute, therefore in an
hour it will be sixty miles off, and in the course of ages that it
will reach the fixed stars. This really might be the conclusion
drawn by a savage seeing a cannon-ball shot off by a power the
nature of which was wholly unknown to him, and traversing a
vast distance with a velocity confusing his brain, and removing
the case from the category of stones and arrows, which he well
knows will not go far, though they start fast. Even so do the
myriads of years confuse our speculations, and seem to remove
natural selection from man's selection ; yet Darwin would be the
first to allow that the same laws probably or possibly govern
the variation, whether the selection be slow or rapid. If the
intelligent savage were told, that though the cannon-ball started
very fast, it went slower and slower every instant, he would
probably conclude that it would not reach the stars, but presently
come to rest like his stone and arrow! Let us examine whether
there be not a true analogy between this case and the variation
of domestic animals.

We all believe that a breeder, starting business with a con-
siderable stock of average horses, could, by selection, in a very
few generations, obtain horses able to run much faster than
any of their sires or dams ; in time perhaps he would obtain
descendants running twice as fast as their ancestors, and pos-
sibly equal to our race-horses. But would not the difference
in speed between each successive generation be less and less ?
Hundreds of skilful men are yearly breeding thousands of
racers. Wealth and honour await the man who can breed one

220 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

horse to run one part in five thousand faster than his fellows.
As a matter of experience, have our racers improved in speed by
one part in a thousand during the last twenty generations ?
Could we not double the speed of a cart-horse in twenty gene-
rations ? Here is the analogy with our cannon-ball ; the rate
of variation in a given direction is not constant, is not erratic ;
it is a constantly diminishing rate, tending therefore to a limit.

It may be urged that the limit in the above case is not fixed
by the laws of variation, but by the laws of matter ; that bone
and sinew cannot make a beast of the racer size and build go
faster. This would be an objection rather to the form than to
the essence of the argument. The existence of a limit, as proved
by the gradual cessation of improvement, is the point which \ve
aim at establishing. Possibly in every case the limit depends
on some physical difficulty, sometimes apparent, more often con-
cealed ; moreover, no one can d priori calculate what bone and
sinew may be capable of doing, or how far they can be improved ;
but it is unnecessary further to combat this objection, for what*-
ever be the peculiarity aimed at by fancy breeders, the same
fact recurs. Small terriers are valuable, and the limit below
which a terrier of good shape would be worth its weight in
silver, perhaps in gold, is nearly as well fixed as the possible
speed of a race-horse. The points of all prize cattle, of all prize
flowers, indicate limits. A rose called * Senateur Vaisso ' weighs
300 grains, a wild rose weighs 30 grains. A gardener, with a
good stock of wild roses, would soon raise seedlings with flowers
of double, treble, the weight of his first briar flowers. He or
his grandson would very slowly approach the ' Cloth of Gold ' or
c Senateur Vaisse,' and if the gradual rate of increase in weight
were systematically noted, it would point with mathematical
accuracy to the weight which could not be surpassed.

We are thus led to believe that whatever new point in the
variable beast, bird, or flower, be chosen as desirable by a fancier,
this point can be rapidly approached at first, but that the rate of
approach quickly diminishes, tending to a limit never to be
attained. Darwin says that our oldest cultivated plants still
yield new varieties. Granted ; but the new variations are not
successive variations in one direction. Horses could be pro-
duced with very long or with very short ears, very long or short

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 221

hair, with large or small hoofs, with peculiar colour, eyes,
teeth, perhaps. In short, whatever variation we perceive of
ordinary occurrence might by selection be carried to an extra-
vagant excess. If a large annual prize were offered for any of
these novel peculiarities, probably the variation in the first few
years would be remarkable, but in twenty years' time the judges
would be much puzzled to which breeder the prize should fall,
and the maximum excellence would be known and expressed in
figures, so that an eighth of an inch more or less would deter-
mine success or failure.

A given animal or plant appears to be contained, as it were,
within a sphere of variation ; one individual lies near one por-
tion of the surface, another individual, of the same species, near
another part of the surface ; the average animal at the centre.
Any individual may produce descendants varying in any direc-
tion, but is more likely to produce descendants varying towards
the centre of the sphere, and the variations in that direction
will be greater in amount than the variations towards the sur-
face. Thus, a set of racers of equal merit indiscriminately
breeding will produce more colts and foals of inferior than of
superior speed, and the falling off of the degenerate will be
greater than the improvement of the select. A set of Clydes-
dale prize horses would produce more colts and foals of inferior
than superior strength. More seedlings of ' Senatsur Vaisse '
will be inferior to him in size and colour than superior. The
tendency to revert, admitted by Darwin, is generalised in the
simile of the sphere here suggested. On the other hand,
Darwin insists very sufficiently on the rapidity with which new
peculiarities are produced ; and this rapidity is quite as essential
to the argument now urged as subsequent slowness.

We hope this argument is now plain. However slow the
rate of variation might be, even though it were only one part
in a thousand per twenty or two thousand generations, yet if it
were constant or erratic we might believe that, in untold time,
it would lead to untold distance ; but if in every case we find
that deviation from an average individual can be rapidly effected
at first, and that the rate of deviation steadily diminishes till
it reaches an almost imperceptible amount, then we are as much
entitled to assume a limit to the possible deviation as we are to.

222 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

the progress of a cannon-ball from a knowledge of the law ol
diminution in its speed. This limit to the variation of species
seems to be established for all cases of man's selection. What
argument does Darwin offer showing that the law of variation
will be different when the variation occurs slowly, not rapidly ?
The law may be different, but is there any experimental ground
for believing that it is different ? Darwin says (p. 153) : ' The
struggle between natural selection on the one hand, and the
tendency to reversion and variability on the other hand, will in
the course of time cease, and that the most abnormally developed
organs may be made constant, I can see no reason to doubt.'
But what reason have we to believe this ? Darwin says the
variability will disappear by the continued rejection of the
individuals tending to revert to a former condition ; but is there
any experimental ground for believing that the variability will
disappear ; and, secondly, if the variety can become fixed, that
it will in time become ready to vary still more in the original
direction, passing that limit which we think has just been
shown to exist in the case of man's selection ? It is peculiarly
difficult to see how natural selection could reject individuals
having a tendency to produce offspring reverting to an original
stock. The tendency to produce offspring more like their
superior parents than their inferior grandfathers can surely be
of no advantage to any individual in the struggle for life. On
the contrary, most individuals would be benefited by producing
imperfect offspring, competing with them at a disadvantage ;
thus it would appear that natural selection, if it select anything,
must select the most perfect individuals, having a tendency to
produce the fewest and least perfect competitors ; but it may be
urged that though the tendency to produce good offspring is
injurious to the parents, the improved offspring would live and
receive by inheritance the fatal tendency of producing in their
turn parricidal descendants. Yet this is contending that in the
struggle for life natural selection can gradually endow a race
with a quality injurious to every individual which possesses it.
It really seems certain that natural selection cannot tend to
obliterate the tendency to revert; but the theory advanced
appears rather to be that, if owing to some other qualities a race
is maintained for a very long time different from the average or

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 223

original race (near the surface of our sphere), then it will in
time spontaneously lose the tendency to relapse, and acquire a
tendency to vary outside the sphere. What is to produce this
change ? Time simply, apparently. The race is to be kept
constant, to all appearance, for a very long while, but some
subtle change due to time is to take place ; so that, of two indi-
viduals just alike in every feature, but one born a few thousand
years after the other, the first shall tend to produce relapsing
offspring, the second shall not. This seems rather like the idea
that keeping a bar of iron hot or cold for a very long time would
leave it permanently hot or cold at the end of the period when
the heating or cooling agent was withdrawn. This strikes us
as absurd now, but Bacon believed it possibly true. So many
things may happen in a very long time, that time comes to be
looked on as an agent capable of doing great and unknown
things. Natural selection, as we contend, could hardly select
an individual because it bred true. Man does. He chooses for
sires those horses which he sees not only run fast themselves,
but produce fine foals. He never gets rid of the tendency to
revert. Darwin says species of pigeons have bred true for
centuries. Does he believe that it would not be easier by selec-
tion to diminish the peculiarities of the pouter pigeon than to
increase them ? and what does this mean, but that the tendency
to revert exists ? It is possible that by man's selection this
tendency may be diminished as any other quality may be some-
what increased or diminished, but, like all other qualities, this
seems rapidly to approach a limit which there is no obvious
reason to suppose c time ' will alter.

But not only do we require for Darwin's theory that time
shall first permanently fix the variety near the outside of the
assumed sphere of variation, we require that it shall give the
power of varying beyond that sphere. It may be urged that
man's rapid selection does away with this power ; that if each
little improvement were allowed to take root during a few
hundred generations, there would be no symptom of a decrease
of the rate of variation, no symptom that a limit was ap-
proached. If this be so, breeders of race-horses and prize
flowers had better change their tactics ; instead of selecting the
fastest colts and finest flowers to start with, they ought to begin

224 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

with very ordinary beasts and species. They should select the
descendants which might be rather better in the first generation,
and then should carefully abstain from all attempts at improve-
ment for twenty, thirty, or one hundred generations. Then
they might take a little step forward, and in this way in time
they or their children's children would obtain breeds far surpass-
ing those produced by their over-hasty competitors, who would
be brought to a stand by limits which would never be felt or
perceived by the followers of the maxim, Festina lente. If we
are told that the time during which a breeder or his descen-
dants could afford to wait bears no proportion to the time used
by natural selection, we may answer that we do not expect the
enormous variability supposed to be given by natural selection,
but that we do expect to observe some step in that direction, to
find that by carefully approaching our limit by slow degrees,
that limit would be removed a little farther off. Does anyone
think this would be the case?

There is indeed one view upon which it would seem natural
to believe that the tendency to revert may diminish. If the
peculiarities of an animal's structure are simply determined by
inheritance, and not by any law of growth, and if the child is
more likely to resemble its father than its grandfather,, its
grandfather than its great-grandfather, &c., then the chances
that an animal will revert to the likeness of an ancestor a
thousand generations back will be slender. This is perhaps
Darwin's view. It depends on the assumption that there is no
typical or average animal, no sphere of variation, with centre
and limits, and cannot be made use of to prove that assumption.
The opposing view is that of a race maintained by a continual
force in an abnormal condition, and returning to that condition
so soon as the force is removed ; returning not suddenly, but by
similar steps with those by which it first left the average state,
restrained by the tendency to resemble its immediate progenitors.
A priori, perhaps, one view is as probable as the other ; or in
other words, as we are ignorant of the reasons why atoms fashion
themselves into bears and squirrels, one fancy is as likely to
meet with approval as another. Experiments conducted in a
limited time point, as already said, to a limit, with a tendency
to revert. And while admitting that the tendency to revert

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 225

may be diminished though not extinguished, we are unaware
of any reason for supposing that pouters, after a thousand
generations of true breeding, have acquired a fresh power of
doubling their crops, or that the oldest breed of Arabs are
likely to produce ' sports ' vastly surpassing their ancestors in
speed. Experiments conducted during the longest time at our
disposal show no probability of surpassing the limits of the
sphere of variation, and why should we concede that a simple
extension of time will reverse the rule ?

The argument may be thus resumed.

Although many domestic animals and plants are highly vari-
able, there appears to be a limit to their variation in any one
direction. This limit is shown by the fact that new points are
at first rapidly gained, but afterwards more slowly, while finally
no further perceptible change can be effected. Great, therefore,
as the variability is, we are not free to assume that successive
variations of the same kind can be accumulated. There is no
experimental reason for believing that the limit would be re-
moved to a greater distance, or passed, simply because it was
approached by very slow degrees, instead of by more rapid
steps. There is no reason to believe that a fresh variability is
acquired by long selection of one form ; on the contrary, we
know that with the oldest breeds it is easier to bring about a
diminution than an increase in the points of excellence. The
sphere of variation is a simile embodying this view; — each
point of the sphere corresponding to a different individual of the
same race, the centre to the average animal, the surface to the
limit in various directions. The individual near the centre may
have offspring varying in all directions with nearly equal
rapidity. A variety near the surface may be made to approach
it still nearer, but has a greater tendency to vary in every other
direction. The sphere may be conceived as large for some
species and small for others.

iciency of Natural Selection. — Those individuals of any
species which are most adapted to the life they lead, live on an
average longer than those which are less adapted to the circum-
stances in which the species is placed. The individuals which
live the longest will have the most numerous offspring, and as

VOL. 1. Q

226 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

the offspring on the whole resemble their parents, the descend-
ants from any given generation will on the whole resemble the
more favoured rather than the less favoured individuals of the
species. So much of the theory of natural selection will hardly
be denied ; but it will be worth while to consider how far this
process can tend to cause a variation in some one direction. It
is clear that it will frequently, and indeed generally, tend to
prevent any deviation from the common type. The mere ex-
istence of a species is a proof that it is tolerably well adapted
to the life it must lead ; many of the variations which may
occur will be variations for the worse, and natural selection will
assuredly stamp these out. A white grouse in the heather, or a
white hare on a fallow, would be sooner detected by its enemies
than one of the usual plumage or colour. Even so, any favour-
able deviation must, according to the very terms of the state-
ment, give its fortunate possessor a better chance of life ; but
this conclusion differs widely from the supposed consequence
that a whole species may or will gradually acquire some one
new quality, or wholly change in one direction, and in the same
manner. In arguing this point, two distinct kinds of possible
variation must be separately considered : first, that kind of
common variation which must be conceived as not only possible,
but inevitable, in each individual of the species, such as longer
and shorter legs, better or worse hearing, &c. ; and, secondly,
that kind of variation which only occurs rarely, and may be
called a sport of nature, or more briefly a ' sport,' as when a
child is born with six fingers on each hand. The common
variation is not limited to one part of any animal, but occurs in
all ; and when we say that on the whole the stronger live longer
than the weaker, we mean that in some cases long life will have
been due to good lungs, in others to good ears, in others to good
legs. There are few cases in which one faculty is pre-eminently
useful to an animal beyond all other faculties, and where that is
not so, the effect of natural selection will simply be to kill the
weakly, and insure a sound, healthy, well -developed breed.
If we could admit the principle of a gradual accumulation or
improvements, natural selection would gradually improve the
breed of everything, making the hare of the present generation
run faster, hear better, digest better, than his ancestors ; his

227

enemies, the weasels, greyhounds, &c., would have improved
likewise, so that perhaps the hare would not be really better
off; but at any rate the direction of the change would be from
a war of pigmies to a war of Titans. Opinions may differ as
to the evidence of this gradual perfectibility of all things, but
it is beside the question to argue this point, as the origin of
species requires not the gradual improvement of animals retain-
ing the same habits and structure, but such modification of
those habits and structure as will actually lead to the appearance
of new organs. We freely admit, that if an accumulation of
slight improvements be possible, natural selection might im-
prove hares as hares, and weasels as weasels, that is to say, it
might produce animals having every useful faculty and every
useful organ of their ancestors developed to a higher degree ;
more than this, it may obliterate some once useful organs when
circumstances have so changed that they are no longer useful, for
since that organ will weigh for nothing in the struggle of life,
the average animal must be calculated as though it did not exist.
We will even go further : if, owing to a change of circum-
stances, some organ becomes pre-eminently useful, natural selec-
tion will undoubtedly produce a gradual improvement in that
organ, precisely as man's selection can improve a special organ.
In all cases the animals above the average live longer, those
below the average die sooner, but in estimating the chance of
life of a particular animal, one special organ may count much
higher or lower according to circumstances, and will accordingly
be improved or degraded. Thus, it must apparently be conceded
that natural selection is a true cause or agency whereby in some
cases variations of special organs may be perpetuated and accu-
mulated, but the importance of this admission is much limited
by a consideration of the cases to which it applies : first of all
we have required that it should apply to variations which must
occur in every individual, so that enormous numbers of indivi-
duals will exist, all having a little improvement in the same
direction ; as, for instance, each generation of hares will include
an enormous number which have longer legs than the average
of their parents, although there may be an equally enormous
number who have shorter legs ; secondly, we require that the
.variation shall occur in an organ already useful owing to the

02

228 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

habits of the animal. Such a process of improvement as is
described could certainly never give organs of sight, smell, or
hearing to organisms which had never possessed them. It could
not add a few legs to a hare, or produce a new organ, or even
cultivate any rudimentary organ which was not immediately
useful to an enormous majority of hares. No doubt half the
hares which are born have longer tails than the average of their
ancestors ; but as no large number of hares hang by their tails,
it is inconceivable that any change of circumstances should breed
hares with prehensile tails ; or, to take an instance less shocking
in its absurdity, half the hares which are born may be presumed to
be more like their cousins the rabbits in their burrowing organs
than the average hare ancestor was ; but this peculiarity can-
not be improved by natural selection as described above, until
a considerable number of hares begin to burrow, which we have
as yet seen no likelihood of their doing. Admitting, therefore,
that natural selection may improve organs already useful to
great numbers of a species, does not imply an admission that it
can create or develop new organs, and so originate species.

But it may be urged, although many hares do not burrow,
one may, or at least may hide in a hole, and a little scratching
may just turn the balance in his favour in the struggle for life.
So it may, and this brings us straight to the consideration of
' sports,' the second kind of variation above alluded to. A hare
which saved its life by burrowing would come under this head ;
let us here consider whether a few hares in a century saving
themselves by this process could, in some indefinite time, make
a burrowing species of hare. It is very difficult to see how this
can be accomplished, even when the sport is very eminently
favourable indeed ; and still more difficult when the advantage
gained is very slight, as must generally be the case. The
advantage, whatever it may be, is utterly outbalanced by
numerical inferiority. A million creatures are born ; ten thou-
sand survive to produce offspring. One of the million has
twice as good a chance as any other of surviving ; but the
chances are fifty to one against the gifted individuals being one
of the hundred survivors. No doubt, the chances are twice as
great against any one other individual, but this does not prevent
their being enormously in favour of some average individual.

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 229

However slight the advantage may be, if it is shared by half the
individuals produced, it will probably be present in at least fifty-
one of the survivors, and in a larger proportion of their offspring ;
but the chances are against the preservation of any one ' sport '
in a numerous tribe. The vague use of an imperfectly under-
stood doctrine of chance has led Darwinian supporters, first, to
confuse the two cases above distinguished ; and, secondly, to
imagine that a veiy slight balance in favour of some individual
sport must lead to its perpetuation. All that can be said, is
that in the above example the favoured sport would be preserved
once in fifty times. Let us consider what will be its influence
on the main stock when preserved. It will breed and have a
progeny of say 100 ; now this progeny will, on the whole, ba
intermediate between the average individual and the sport.
The odds in favour of one of this generation of the new breed
will be, say 1 \ to 1, as compared with the average individual ;
the odds in their favour will therefore be less than that of their
parent ; but owing to their greater number, the chances are that
about \\ of them would survive. Unless these breed together,
a most improbable event, their progeny would again approach
the average individual; there would be 150 of them, and their
superiority would be say in the ratio of \\ to 1 ; the probability
would now be that nearly two of them would survive, and have
200 children, with an eighth superiority. Rather more than
two of these would survive ; but the superiority would again
dwindle, until after a few generations it would no longer be
observed, and would count for no more in the struggle for life
than any of the hundred trifling advantages which occur in the
ordinary organs. An illustration will bring this conception
home. Suppose a white man to have been wrecked on an
island inhabited by negroes, and to have established himself in
friendly relations with a powerful tribe, whose customs he has
learnt. Suppose him to possess the physical strength, energy,
and ability of a dominant white race, and let the food and
climate of the island suit his constitution ; grant him every
advantage which we can conceive a white to possess over the
native ; concede that in the struggle for existence his chance of
a long life will be much superior to that of the native chiefs ;
yet from all these admissions there does not follow the conclu-;

23o SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

sion that, after a limited or unlimited number of generations, the
inhabitants of the island will be white. Our shipwrecked hero
would probably become king ; he would kill a great many
blacks in the struggle for existence ; he would have a great
many wives and children, while many of his subjects would live
and die as bachelors ; an insurance company would accept his
life at perhaps one-tenth of the premium which they would
exact from the most favoured of the negroes. Our white's
qualities would certainly tend very much to preserve him to a
good old age, and yet he would not suffice in any number of
generations to turn his subjects' descendants white. It may be
said that the white colour is not the cause of the superiority.
True, but it may be used simply to bring before the senses the
way in which qualities belonging to one individual in a large
number must be gradually obliterated. In the first generation
there will be some dozens of intelligent young mulattoes, much
superior in average intelligence to the negroes. We might
expect the throne for some generations to be occupied by a
more or less yellow king; but can anyone believe that the
whole island will gradually acquire a white or even a yellow
population, or that the islanders would acquire the energy,
courage, ingenuity, patience, self-control, endurance, in virtue
of which qualities our hero killed so many of their ancestors,
and begot so many children ; those qualities, in fact, which the
struggle for existence would select, if it could select anything ?

Here is a case in which a variety was introduced, with far
greater advantages than any sport ever heard of, advantages
tending to its preservation, and yet powerless to perpetuate the
new variety.

Darwin says that in the struggle for life a grain may turn
the balance in favour of a given structure, which will then be
preserved. But one of the weights in the scale of nature is due
to the number of a given tribe. Let there be 7,000 A's and
7,000 B's, representing two varieties of a given animal, and let
all the B's, in virtue of a slight difference of structure, have the
better chance of life by Y^^th part. We must allow that there
is a slight probability that the descendants of B will supplant
the descendants of A; bat let there be only 7,001 A's against
7,000 B's at first, and the chances are once more equal, while if

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 231

there be 7,002 A's to start, the odds would be laid on the A's.
True, they stand a greater chance of being killed ; but then
they can better afford to be killed. The grain will only turn
the scales when these are very nicely balanced, and an advan-
tage in numbers counts for weight, even as an advantage in
structure. As the numbers of the favoured variety diminish, so
must its relative advantage increase, if the chance of its exist-
ence is to surpass the chance of its extinction, until hardly any
conceivable advantage would enable the descendants of a single
pair to exterminate the descendants of many thousands if they
and their descendants are supposed to breed freely with the
inferior variety, and so gradually lose their ascendency. If it
is impossible that any sport or accidental variation in a single
individual, however favourable to life, should be preserved and
transmitted by natural selection, still less can slight and imper-
ceptible variations, occurring in single individuals, be garnered
up and transmitted to continually increasing numbers ; for if a
very highly favoured white cannot blanch a nation of negroes, it
will hardly be contended that a comparatively very dull mulatto
has a good chance of producing a tawny tribe ; the idea, which
seems almost absurd when presented in connection with a practical
case, rests on a fallacy of exceedingly common occurrence in
mechanics and physics generally. When a man shows that a
tendency to produce a given effect exists, he often thinks he has
proved that the effect must follow. He does not take into
account the opposing tendencies, much less does he measure the
various forces, with a view to calculate the result. For instance,
there is a tendency on the part of a submarine cable to assume
a catenary curve, and very high authorities once said it would ;
but, in fact, forces neglected by them utterly alter the curve
from the catenary. There is a tendency on the part of the same
cables, as usually made, to untwist entirely ; luckily there are
opposing forces, and they untwist very little. These cases will
hardly seem obvious ; but what should we say to a man who
asserted that the centrifugal tendency of the earth must send it
off in a tangent ? One tendency is balanced or outbalanced by
others ; the advantage of structure possessed by an isolated
specimen is enormously outbalanced by the advantage of numbers
possessed by the others.

232 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

A Darwinian may grant all that has been said, but contend
that the offspring of ' sports ' is not intermediate between the
new sport and the old species ; he may say that a great number
of the offspring will retain in full vigour the peculiarity constitu-
ting the favourable sport. Darwin seems with hesitation to
make some such claim as this, and though it seems contrary
to ordinary experience, it will be only fair to consider this hypo-
thesis. Let an animal be born with some useful peculiarity,
and let all his descendants retain his peculiarity in an eminent
degree, however little of the first ancestor's blood be in them ;
then it follows, from mere mathematics, that the descendants of
our gifted beast will probably exterminate the descendants of
his inferior brethren. If the animals breed rapidly the work of
substitution would proceed with wonderful rapidity, although
it is a stiff mathematical problem to calculate the number of
generations required in any given case. To put this case
clearly beside the former, we may say that if in a tribe of a
given number of individuals there appears one super-eminently
gifted, and if the advantage accruing to the descendants bears
some kind of proportion to the amount of the ancestor's blood
in their veins, the chances are considerable that for the first few
generations he will have many descendants ; but by degrees this
advantage wanes, and after many generations the chances are
so far from being favourable to his breed covering the ground
exclusively, that they are actually much against his having any
descendants at all alive, for though he has a rather better
chance of this than any of his neighbours, yet the chances are
greatly against any one of them. It is infinitely improbable
that the descendants of any one should wholly supplant the
others. If, on the contrary, the advantage given by the sport
is retained by all descendants, independently of what in com-
mon speech might be called the proportion of blood in their
veins directly derived from the first sport, then these descend-
ants will shortly supplant the old species entirely, after the
manner required by Darwin.

But this theory of the origin of species is surely not the
Darwinian theory ; it simply amounts to the hypothesis that,
from time to time, an animal is born differing appreciably from
its progenitors, and possessing the power of transmitting the

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 233

difference to its descendants. What is this but stating that,
from time to time, a new species is created ? It does not, indeed,
imply that the new specimen suddenly appears in full vigour,
made out of nothing ; but it offers no explanation of the cause
of the divergence from the progenitors, and still less of the
mysterious faculty by which the divergence is transmitted
unimpaired to countless descendants. It is clear that every
divergence is not thus transmitted, for otherwise one and the
same animal might have to be big to suit its father and little to
suit its mother, might require a long nose in virtue of its grand-
father and a short one in virtue of its grandmother, in a word,
would have to resume in itself the countless contradictory
peculiarities of its ancestors, all in full bloom, and unmodified
one by the other, which seems as impossible as at one time to
be and not to be. The appearance of a new specimen capable
of perpetuating its peculiarity is precisely what might be termed
a creation, the word being used to express our ignorance of how
the thing happened. The substitution of the new specimens,
descendants from the old species, would then be simply an
example of a strong race supplanting a weak one, by a process
known long before the term 'natural selection' was invented.
Perhaps this is the way in which new species are introduced?
but it does not express the Darwinian theory of the gradual
accumulation of infinitely minute differences of every-day oc-
currence, and apparently fortuitous in their character.

Another argument against the efficiency of natural selection
is, that animals possess many peculiarities the special advantage
of which it is almost impossible to conceive ; such, for instance,
as the colour of plumage never displayed ; and the argument
may be extended by pointing how impossible it is to conceive
that the wonderful minutiae of, say a peacock's tail, with every
little frond of every feather differently barred, could have been
elaborated by the minute and careful inspection of rival gallants
or admiring wives ; but although arguments of this kind are
probably correct, they admit of less absolute demonstration than
the points already put. A true believer can always reply, i You
do not know how closely Mrs. Peahen inspects her husband's
toilet, or you cannot be absolutely certain that under some
unknown circumstances that insignificant feather was really

234 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

unimportant ; ' or finally, lie may take refuge in the word
correlation, and say, other parts were useful, which by the law
of correlation could not exist without these parts ; and although
he may have not one single reason to allege in favour of any of
these statements, he may safely defy us to prove the negative,
that they are not true. The very same difficulty 'arises when a
disbeliever tries to point out the difficulty of believing that some
odd habit or complicated organ can have been useful before fully
developed. The believer who is at liberty to invent any ima-
ginary circumstances, will very generally be able to conceive
some series of transmutations answering his wants.

He can invent trains of ancestors of whose existence there is
no evidence ; he can marshal hosts of equally imaginary foes ;
he can call up continents, floods, and peculiar atmospheres ; he
can dry up oceans, split islands, and parcel out eternity at will ;
surely with these advantages he must be a dull fellow if he can-
not scheme some series of animals and circumstances explaining
our assumed difficulty quite naturally. Feeling the difficulty of
dealing with adversaries who command so huge a domain of
fancy, we will abandon these arguments, and trust to those which
at least cannot be assailed by mere efforts of imagination. Our
arguments as to the efficiency of natural selection may be
summed up as follows :

We must distinguish several kinds of conceivable variation
in individuals.

First. We have the ordinary variations peculiar to each indi-
vidual. The effect of the struggle for life will be to keep the
stock in full vigour by selecting the animals which in the main
are strongest. When circumstances alter, one special organ may
become eminently advantageous, and then natural selection will
improve that organ. But this efficiency is limited to the cases
in which the same variation occurs in enormous numbers of
individuals, and in which the organ improved is already used
by the mass of the species. This case does not apply to the
appearance of new organs or habits.

Secondly. We have abnormal variations called sports, which
may be supposed to introduce new organs or habits in rare in-
dividuals. This case must be again subdivided : we may sup-
pose the offspring of the sports to be intermediate between

235

their ancestor and the original tribe. In this case the sport
will be swamped by numbers, and after a few generations its
peculiarity will be obliterated. Or, we may suppose the offspring
of the sport faithfully to reproduce the advantageous peculiarity
undiminished. In this case the new variety will supplant the
old species ; but this theory implies a succession of phenomena
so different from those of the ordinary variations which we see
daily, that it might be termed a theory of successive creations ; it
does not express the Darwinian theory, and is no more dependent
on the theory of natural selection than the universally admitted
fact that a new strong race, not intermarrying with an old
weak race, will surely supplant it. So much may be conceded.

Lapse of Time. — Darwin says with candour that he i who
does not admit how incomprehensibly vast have been the past
periods of time,' may at once close his volume, admitting there-
by that an indefinite, if not infinite, time is required by his
theory. Few will on this point be inclined to differ from the
ingenious author. We are fairly certain that a thousand years
has made no very great change in plants or animals living in
a state of nature. The mind cannot conceive a multiplier vast
enough to convert this trifling change by accumulation into
differences commensurate with those between a butterfly and
an elephant, or even between a horse and a hippopotamus. A
believer in Darwin can only say to himself, Some little change
does take place every thousand years ; these changes accumu-
late, and if there be no limit to the continuance of the process,
I must admit that in course of time any conceivable differences
may be produced. He cannot think that a thousandfold the
difference produced in a thousand years would suffice, accord-
ing to our present observation, to breed even a dog from a cat.
He may perhaps think that by careful selection, continued for
this million years, man might do quite as much as this ; but he
will readily admit that natural selection does take a much
longer time, and that a million years must by the true believer
be looked upon as a minute. Geology lends her aid to convince
him that countless ages have elapsed, each bearing countless
generations of beings, and each differing in its physical condi-
tions very little from the age we are personally acquainted

236 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

with. This view of past time is, we believe, wholly erroneous.
So far as this world is concerned, past ages are far from count-
less ; the ages to come are numbered ; no one age has resembled
its predecessor, nor will any future time repeat the past. The
estimates of geologists must yield before more accurate methods
of computation, and these show that our world cannot have been
habitable for more than an infinitely insufficient period for the
execution of the Darwinian transmutation.

Before the grounds of these assertions are explained, let
us shortly consider the geological evidence. It is clear that
denudation and deposition of vast masses of matter have oc-
curred while the globe was habitable. The present rate of deposit
and denudation is very imperfectly known, but it is nevertheless
sufficiently considerable to account for all the effects we know
of, provided sufficient time be granted. Any estimate of the
time occupied in depositing or denuding a thousand feet of any
given formation, even on this hypothesis of constancy of action,
must be very vague. Darwin makes the denudation of the
Weald occupy 300,000,000 years, by supposing that a cliff 500
feet high was taken away one inch per century. Many people
will admit that a strong current washing the base of such a
cliff as this, might get on at least a hundredfold faster, perhaps
a thousandfold ; and on the other hand, we may admit that, for
aught geology can show, the denudation of the Weald may have
occupied a few million times more years than the number Darwin
arrives at. The whole calculation savours a good deal of that
known among engineers as c guess at the half and multiply by
two.'

But again, what are the reasons for assuming uniformity of
action, for believing that currents were no stronger, storms no
more violent, alternations of temperature no more severe, in past
ages than at present ? These reasons, stated shortly, are that
the simple continuance of actions we are acquainted with
would produce all the known results, that we are not justi-
fied in assuming any alteration in the rate or violence of
those actions without direct evidence, that the presence of
fossils and the fineness of the ancient deposits show directly
that things of old went on much as now. This last reason,
apparently the strongest, is really the weakest; the deposits

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 237

would assuredly take place in still waters, and we may fairly
believe that still waters then resembled still waters now. The
sufficiency of present actions is an excellent argument in the
absence of all proof of change, but falls to utter worthlessness
in presence of the direct evidence of change. We will try to
explain the nature of the evidence, which does prove not only
that the violence of all natural changes has decreased, but also
that it is decreasing, and must continue to decrease.

Perpetual motion is popularly recognised as a delusion ; yet
perpetual motion is no mechanical absurdity, but in given con-
ditions is a mechanical necessity. Set a mass in motion and it
must continue to move for ever, unless stopped by something
else. This something else takes up the motion in some other
form, and continues it till the whole or part is again transmitted
to other matter ; in this sense perpetual motion is inevitable.
But this is not the popular meaning of ' perpetual motion,' which
represents a vague idea that a watch will not go unless it is
wound up. Put into more accurate form, it means' that no finite
construction of physical materials can continue to do work for
an infinite time ; or in other words, one part of the construction
cannot continue to part with its energy and another part to
receive it for ever, nor can the action be perpetually reversed.
All motion we can produce in this world is accompanied by the
performance of a certain amount of work in the form of over-
coming friction, and this involves a redistribution of energy.
No continual motion can therefore be produced by any finite
chemical, mechanical, or other physical construction. In this
case, what is true on a small scale is equally true on a large
scale. Looking on the sun and planets as a certain complex
physical combination, differing in degree but not in kind from
those we can produce in the workshop by using similar materials
subject to the same laws, we at once admit that if there be no
resistance the planets may continue to revolve round the sun for
ever, and may have done so from infinite time. Under these
circumstances, neither the sun nor planets gain or lose a particle
of energy in the process. Perpetual motion is, therefore, in this
case quite conceivable. But when we find the sun raising huge
masses of water daily from the sea to the skies, lifting yearly
endless vegetation from the earth, setting breeze and hurricane

238 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

in motion, dragging the huge tidal wave round and round our
earth ; performing, in fine, the great bulk of the endless labour
of this world and of other worlds, so that the energy of the
sun is continually being given away ; then we may say this
continual work cannot go on for ever. This would be precisely
the perpetual motion we are for ever ridiculing as an exploded
delusion, and yet how many persons will read these lines, to
whom it has occurred that the physical work done in the world
requires a motive power, that no physical motive power is infi-
nite or indefinite, that the heat of the sun, and the sum of all
chemical and other physical affinities in the world, is just as surely
limited in its power of doing work as a given number of tons of
coal in the furnace of a steam engine. Most readers will allow that
the power man can extract from a ton of coals is limited, but per-
haps not one reader in a thousand will at first admit that the
power of the sun and that of the chemical affinities of bodies on
the earth is equally limited.

There is a loose idea that our perpetual motions are impos-
sible because we cannot avoid friction, and that friction entails
somehow a loss of power, but that Nature either works without
friction, or that in the general system friction entails no loss,
and so her perpetual motions are possible ; but Nature no more
works without friction than we can, and friction entails a loss
of available power in all cases. When the rain falls, it feels
the friction as much as drops from Hero's fountain ; when the
tide rolls round the world it rubs upon the sea-floor, even as a
ball of mercury rubs on the artificial inclined planes used by
ingenious inventors of impossibilities ; when the breeze plays
among the leaves, friction occurs according to the same laws as
when artificial fans are driven through the air. Every chemical
action in nature is as finite as the combustion of oxygen and
carbon. The stone which, loosened by the rain, falls down a
mountain-side, will no more raise itself to its first height, than
the most ingeniously devised counterpoise of mechanism will
raise an equal weight an equal distance. How comes it, then,
that the finite nature of natural actions has not been as gene-
rally recognised as the finite nature of the so-called artificial '
combinations ? Simply because, till very lately, it was impos-
sible to follow the complete cycle of natural operations in the

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 239

same manner as the complete cycle of any mechanical operations
could be followed. All the pressures and resistances of the
machine were calculable; we knew not so much as if there were
analogous pressures and resistances in nature's mechanism.
The establishment of the doctrine of conservation of energy,
showing a numerical equivalence between the various forms of
physical energy exhibited by vis viva, heat, chemical affinity,
electricity, light, elasticity, and gravitation, has enabled us to
examine the complete series of any given actions in nature,
even as the successive actions of a train of wheels in a mill can
be studied. There is no missing link ; there is no unseen
gearing, by which, in our ignorance, we might assume that the
last wheel of the set somehow managed to drive the first. We
have experimentally proved one law — that the total quantity of
energy in the universe is constant, meaning by energy some-
thing perfectly intelligible and mensurable, equivalent in all
cases to the product of a mass into the square of a velocity, some-
times latent, that is to say, producing or undergoing no change ;
at other times in action, that is to say, in the act of producing or
undergoing change, not a change in amount, but a change of
distribution. First, the hand about to throw a ball, next the
ball in motion, lastly the heated wall struck by the ball, con-
tain the greater part of the energy of the construction ; but,
from first to last, the sum of the energies contained by the hand,
the ball, and the wall, is constant. At first sight, this constancy,
in virtue of which no energy is ever lost, but simply transferred
from mass to mass, might seem to favour the notion of a possible
eternity of change, in which the earlier and later states of the
universe would differ in no essential feature. It is to Professor
Sir W. Thomson of Glasgow that we owe the demonstration of
the fallacy of this conception, and the establishment of the
contrary doctrine of a continual dissipation of energy, by which
the available power to produce change in any finite quantity of
matter diminishes at every change of the distribution of energy.
A simple illustration of the meaning of this doctrine is afforded
by an unequally heated bar of iron. Let one end be hot and
the other cold. The total quantity of heat (representing one
form of energy) contained by the bar is mensurable and finite,
and the bar contains within itself the elements of change — the

240 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

heated end may become cooler, and the cold end warmer. So
long as any two parts differ in temperature, change may occur ;
but so soon as all parts of the bar are at one temperature, the
bar quoad heat can produce no change in itself, and yet if we
conceive radiation or conduction from the surface to have been
prevented, the bar will contain the same total energy as before.
In the first condition, it had the power of doing work, and if it
had not been a simple bar, but a more complex arrangement of
materials of which the two parts had been at different tempera-
tures, this difference might have been used to set wheels going,
or to produce a thermo-electric current ; but gradually the
wheels would have been stopped by friction producing heat
once more, the thermo-electric current would have died out,
producing heat in its turn, and the final quantity of heat in
the system would have been the same as before. Its distribu-
tion only, as in the simple case, would have been different. At
first, great differences in the distribution existed ; at last, the
distribution was absolutely uniform ; and in that condition
the system could suffer no alteration until affected by some other
body in a different condition, outside itself. Every change in
the distribution of energy depends on a difference between
bodies, and every change tends, on the whole, to diminish this
difference, and so render the total future possible change less in
amount. Heat is the great agent in this gradual decay. No
sooner does energy take this form than it is rapidly dissipated,
i.e. distributed among a large number of bodies, which assume
a nearly equal temperature ; once energy has undergone this
transformation, it is practically lost. The equivalent of the
energy is there ; but it can produce no change until some fresh
body, at a very different temperature, is presented to it. Thus
it is that friction is looked upon as the grand enemy of so-called
perpetual motion ; it is the commonest mode by which vis viva
is converted into heat ; and we all practically know, that once
the energy of our coal, boiling water, steam, piston, fly-wheel,
rolling mills, gets into this form, it is simply conducted away,
and is lost to us for ever ; just so, when the chemical or other
energies of nature, contained, say, in our planetary system, once
assume the form of heat, they are in a fair way to be lost for all
available purposes. They will produce a greater or less amount

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 241

oF change according to circumstances. The greater the dif-
ference of the temperature produced between the surrounding
objects, the greater the physical changes they will effect, but the
degradation is in all cases inevitable. Finally, the sun's rays
take the form of heat, whether they raise water or vegetation, or
do any other work, and in this form the energy quits the earth
radiated into distant space. Nor would this gradual degrada-
tion be altered if space were bounded and the planets inclosed
in a perfect non-conducting sphere. Everything inside that
sphere would gradually become equally hot, and when this con-
summation was reached no further change would be possible.
We might say (only we should not be alive) that the total
energy of the system was the same as before, but practically the
universe would contain mere changeless death, and to this con-
dition the material universe tends, for the conclusion is not
altered even by an unlimited extension of space. Moreover, the
rate at which the planetary system is thus dying is perfectly
mensurable, if not yet perfectly measured. An estimate of the
total loss of heat from the sun is an estimate of the rate at which
he is approaching the condition of surrounding space, after
reaching which he will radiate no more. We intercept a few of
his rays, and can measure the rate of his radiation very accu-
rately : we know that his mass contains many of the materials
our earth is formed of, and we know the capacity for heat and
other forms of energy which those materials are capable of, and
so can estimate the total possible energy contained in the sun's
mass. Knowing thus approximately, how much he has, and
how fast he is losing it, we can, or Professor Thomson can, cal-
culate how long it will be before he will cool down to any given
temperature. Nor is it possible to assume that, per contra, he
is receiving energy to an unlimited extent in other ways. He
may be supplied with heat and fuel by absorbing certain planetary
bodies, but the supply is limited, and the limit is known and
taken into account in the calculation, and we are assured that
the sun will be too cold for our or Darwin's purposes before
many millions of years — a long time, but far enough from count-
less ages ; quite similarly past countless ages are inconceivable,
inasmuch as the heat required by the sun to have allowed him
to cool from time immemorial, would be such as to turn him
VOL. I. R

242 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

into mere vapour, which would extend over the whole planetary
system, and evaporate us entirely. It has been thought neces-
sary to give the foregoing sketch of the inevitable gradual
running down of the heavenly mechanism, to show that this
reasoning concerning the sun's heat does not depend on any one
special fact, or sets of facts, about heat, but is the mere acciden-
tal form of decay, which in some shape is inevitable, and the
very essential condition of action. There is a kind of vague
idea, when the sun is said to be limited in its heating powers,
that somehow chemistry or electricity, &c., may reverse all that ;
but it has been explained that every one of these agencies is
subject to the same law ; they can never twice produce the same
change in its entirety. Every change is a decay, meaning by
change a change in the distribution of energy.

Another method by which the rate of decay of our planetary
system can be measured, is afforded by the distribution of heat
in the earth. If a man were to find a hot ball of iron suspended
in the air, and were carefully to ascertain the distribution in
the ball, he would be able to determine whether the ball was
being heated or cooled at the time. If he found the outside
hotter than the inside, he would conclude that in some way the
ball was receiving heat from outside ; if he found the inside
hotter than the outside, he would conclude that the ball was
cooling, and had therefore been hotter before he found it than
when he found it. So far mere common-sense would guide him,
but with the aid of mathematics and some physical knowledge
of the properties of iron and air he would go much farther, and
be able to calculate how hot the ball must have been at any
given moment, if it had not been interfered with. Thus he would
be able to say, the ball must have been hung up less than say
five hours ago, for at that time the heat of the ball would have
been such, if left in its present position, that the metal would
be fused, and so could not hang where he saw it. Precisely
analogous reasoning holds with respect to the earth ; it is such
a ball ; it is hotter inside than outside. The distribution of the
heat near its surface is approximately known. The properties
of the matter of which it is composed are approximately known,
and hence an approximate calculation can be made of the
period of time within which it must have been hot enough to

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 243

fuse the materials of which it is composed, provided it has
occupied its present position, or a similar position, in space.
The data for this calculation are still very imperfect, but the
result of analogous calculation applied to the sun, as worked out
by Professor Sir W. Thomson, is five hundred million years, and
the results derived from the observed temperatures of the earth
are of the same order of magnitude. This calculation is a mere
approximation. A better knowledge of the distribution of heat
in the interior of the globe may modify materially our estimates.
A better knowledge of the conducting powers of rocks, &c., for
heat, and their distribution in the earth, may modify it to a less
degree, but unless our information be wholly erroneous as to
the gradual increase of temperature as we descend towards the
centre of the earth, the main result of the calculation, that the
centre is gradually cooling, and if uninterfered with must,
within a limited time, have been in a state of complete fusion,
cannot be overthrown. Not only is the time limited, but it is
limited to periods utterly inadequate for the production of
species according to Darwin's views. We have seen a lecture-
room full of people titter when told that the world would not,
without supernatural interference, remain habitable for more
than one hundred million years. This period was to those people
ridiculously beyond anything in which they could take an
interest. Yet a thousand years is an historical period well
within our grasp — as a Darwinian or geological unit it is almost
uselessly small. Darwin would probably admit that more than
a thousand times this period, or a million years, would be no
long time to ask for the production of a species differing only
slightly from the parent stock. We doubt whether a thousand
times more change than we have any reason to believe has taken
place in wild animals in historic times, would produce a cat from
a dog, or either from a common ancestor. If this be so, how
preposterously inadequate are a few hundred times this unit for
the action of the Darwinian theory !

But it may be said they are equally inadequate for the geo-
logical formations which we know of, and therefore your calcu-
lations are wrong. Let us see what conclusions the application
of the general theory of the gradual dissipation of energy would
lead to, as regards these geological formations. We may per-

B 2

244

haps find the solution of the difficulty in reconciling the results
of the calculation of the rate of secular cooling with the results
deduced from the denudation or deposition of strata in the
following consideration. If there have been a gradual and con-
tinual dissipation of energy, there will on the whole have been
a gradual decrease in the violence or rapidity of all physical
changes. When the gunpowder in a gun is just lighted, the
energy applied in a small mass produces rapid and violent
changes ; as the ball rushes through the air it gradually loses
speed ; when it strikes rapid changes again occur, but not so
rapid as at starting. Part of the energy is slowly being diffused
through the air ; part is being slowly conducted as heat from
the interior to the exterior of the gun, only a residue shatters
the rampart, and that residue, soon changing into heat, is finally
diffused at a gradually decreasing rate into surrounding matter.
Follow any self-contained change, and a similar gradual diminu-
tion on the whole will be observed. There are periods of greater
and less activity, but the activity on the whole diminishes.
Even so must it have been, and so will it be, with our earth.
Extremes tend to diminish ; high places become lower, low
places higher, by denudation. Conduction is continually en-
deavouring to reduce extremes of heat and cold ; as the sun's
heat diminishes, so will the violence of storms ; as inequalities
of surface diminish, so will the variations of climate. As the
external crust consolidates, so will the effect of internal fire
diminish. As internal stores of fuel are consumed, or other
stores of chemical energy used up, the convulsions or gradual
changes they can produce must diminish ; on every side, and
from whatever cause changes are due, we see the tendency to
their gradual diminution of intensity or rapidity. To say that
things must or can always have gone on at the present rate is a
sheer absurdity, exactly equivalent to saying that a boiler fire
once lighted will keep a steam engine going for ever at a
constant rate. To say that changes which have occurred, or will
occur, since creation, have been due to the same causes as those
now in action ; and further, that such causes have not varied in
intensity according to any other laws than those which now
prevail, is, we believe, a correct scientific statement ; but then
we contend that those causes must and do hourly diminish in

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 245

intensity, and have since the beginning diminished in intensity
and will diminish, till further sensible change ceases, and a dead
monotony is the final physical result of the mechanical laws
which matter obeys.

Once this is granted, the calculations as to the length of
geological periods, from the present rates of denudation and
deposit, are blown to the winds. They are rough, very rough,
at best. The present assumed rates are little better than
guesses ; but even were these really known, they could by no
means be simply made use of in a rule-of-three sum, as has
generally been done. The rates of denudation and deposition
have been gradually, on the whole, slower and slower, as the
time of fusion has become more and more remote. There has
been no age of cataclysm, in one sense, no time, when the phy-
sical laws were other than they now are, but the results were as
different as the rates of a steam engine driven with a boiler first
heated to 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit, and gradually cooling to
200.

A counter argument is used, to the effect that our argument
cannot be correct, since plants grew quietly, and fine deposits
were formed in the earliest geological times. But, in truth,
this fact in no way invalidates our argument. Plants grow just
as quietly on the slope of Vesuvius, with a few feet between
them and molten lava, as they do in a Kentish lane ; but they
occasionally experience the difference of the situation. The law
according to which a melted mass cools would allow vegetation
to exist, and animals to walk unharmed over an incredibly thin
crust. There would be occasional disturbances ; but we see that
a few feet of soil are a sufficient barrier between molten lava
and the roots of the vine ; each tendril grows not the less slowly
and delicately because it is liable in a year or two to be
swallowed up by the stream of lava. Yet no one will advance
the proposition that changes on the surface of a volcano are
going on at the same rate as elsewhere. Even so in the
primeval world, barely crusted over, with great extremes of
climate, violent storms, earthquakes, and a general rapid
tendency to change, tender plants may have grown, and deep
oceans may have covered depths of perfect stillness, interrupted
occasionally by huge disturbances. Violent currents or storms

246 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

in some regions do not preclude temperate climates in others,
and after all the evidence of tranquillity is very slight. There
are coarse deposits as well as fine ones ; now a varying current
sifts a deposit better than a thousand sieves, the large stones fall
first in a rapid torrent, then the gravel in a rapid stream, then
the coarse sand, and finally the fine silt cannot get deposited
till it meets with still water. And still water might assuredly
exist at the bottom of oceans, the surface of which was traversed
by storms and waves of an intensity unknown to us. The
soundings in deep seas invariably produce samples of almost
intangible ooze. All coarser materials are deposited before they
reach regions of such deathlike stillness, and this would always
be so. As to the plants, they may have grown within a yard of
red-hot gneiss.

Another class of objections to the line of argument pursued
consists in the suggestion that it is impossible to prove that since
the creation things always have been as they are. Thus, one
man says : ' Ah, but the world and planetary system may have
passed through a warm region of space, and then your deduc-
tions from the radiation of heat into space go for nothing ; or, a
fresh supply of heat and fuel may have been supplied by regular
arrivals of comets or other fourgons ; or the sun and centre of
the earth may be composed of materials utterly dissimilar to
any we are acquainted with, capable of evolving heat from a
limited space at a rate which we have no example of, leaving
coal or gunpowder at an infinite distance behind them. Or it
may please the Creator to continue creating energy in the form
of heat at the centre of the sun and earth ; or the mathematical
laws of cooling and radiation, and conservation of energy and
dissipation of energy, may be actually erroneous, since man is,
after all, fallible.' Well, we suppose all these things may be true,
but we decline to allow them the slightest weight in the argument
until some reason can be shown for believing that any one of
them is true.

To resume the arguments in this chapter : Darwin's theory
requires countless ages, during which the earth shall have been
habitable, and he claims geological evidence as showing an incon-
ceivably great lapse of time, and as not being in contradiction
with inconceivably greater periods than are even geologically

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 247

indicated — periods of rest between formations, and periods
anterior to our so-called first formations, during which the rudi-
mentary organs of the early fossils became degraded from their
primeval uses. In answer, it is shown that a general physical
law obtains, irreconcilable with the persistence of active change
at a constant rate ; in any portion of the universe, however
large, only a certain capacity for change exists, so that every
change which occurs renders the possibility of future change less,
and, on the whole, the rapidity or violence of changes tends to
diminish. Not only would this law gradually entail in the future
the death of all beings and cessation of all change in the plane-
tary system, and in the past point to a state of previous violence
equally inconsistent with life, if no energy were lost by the
system, but this gradual decay from a previous state of violence
is rendered far more rapid by the continual loss of energy going
on by means of radiation. From this general conception point-
ing either to a beginning, or to the equally inconceivable idea of
infinite energy in finite materials, we pass to the practical appli-
cation of the law to the sun and earth, showing that their
present state proves that they cannot remain for ever adapted to
living beings, and that living beings can have existed on the
earth only for a definite time, since in distant periods the earth
must have been in fusion, and the sun must have been mere hot
gas, or a group of distant meteors, so as to have been incapable
of fulfilling its present functions as the comparatively small
centre of the system. From the earth we have no very safe
calculation of past time, but the sun gives five hundred million
years as the time separating us from a condition inconsistent
with life. We next argue that the time occupied in the arrange-
ment of the geological formations need not have been longer
than is fully consistent with this view, since the gradual dissi-
pation of energy must have resulted in a gradual diminution of
violence of all kinds, so that calculations of the time occupied
by denudations or deposits based on the simple division of the
total mass of a deposit, or denudation by the annual action now
observed, are fallacious, and that even as the early geologists
erred in attempting to compress all action into six thousand
years, so later geologists have outstepped all bounds in their
figures, by assuming that the world has always gone on much

248 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

as it now does, and that the planetary system .contains an inex-
haustible motive power, by which the vast labour of the system
has been and can be maintained for ever. We have endeavoured
to meet the main objections to these views, and conclude that
countless ages cannot be granted to the expounder of any theory
of living beings, but that the age of the inhabited world is proved
to have been limited to a period wholly inconsistent with Darwin's
views.

Difficulty of Classification. — It appears that it is difficult to
classify animals or plants, arranging them in groups as genera,
species, and varieties ; that the line of demarcation is by no
means clear between species and sub-species, between sub-
species and well-marked varieties, or between lesser varieties
and individual differences ; that these lines of demarcation, as
drawn by different naturalists, vary much, being sometimes
made to depend on this, sometimes on that organ, rather arbi-
trarily. This difficulty chiefly seems to have led men to devise
theories of transmutation of species, and is the very starting-
point of Darwin's theory, which depicts the differences between
various individuals of any one species as identical in nature
with the differences between individuals of various species, and
supposes all these differences, varying in degree only, to have
been produced by the same causes ; so that the subdivision
into groups is, in this view, to a great extent arbitrary, but may
be considered rational if the words variations, varieties, sub-
species, species, and genera, be used to signify or be considered
to express that the individuals included in these smaller or
greater groups have had a common ancestor very lately, some
time since, within the later geological ages, or before the primary
rocks. The common terms, explained by Darwin's principles,
signify, in fact, the more or less close blood-relationship of the
individuals. This, if it could be established, would undoubtedly
afford a less arbitrary principle of classification than pitching on
some one organ and dragging into a given class all creatures
that had this organ in any degree similar. The application of
the new doctrine might offer some difficulty, as it does not
clearly appear what would be regarded as the sign of more or
less immediate descent from a common ancestor, and perhaps

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 249

each classifier would have pet marks by which to decide the
question, in which case the new principle would not be of much
practical use; yet if the theory were really true, in time the
marks of common ancestry would probably come to be known
with some accuracy, and meanwhile the theory would give an
aim and meaning to classification, which otherwise might be
looked upon as simply a convenient form of catalogue.

If the arguments already urged are true, these descents from
common ancestors are wholly imaginary. ' How, then,' say the
supporters of transmutation, ( do you account for our difficulty
in distinguishing, d priori, varieties from species ? The first,
we know by experience, have descended from a common ances-
tor : the second you declare have not, and yet neither outward
inspection nor dissection will enable us to distinguish a variety
from what you call a species. Is not this strange, if there be
an essential difference ? '

No, it is not strange. There is nothing either wonderful or
peculiar to organised beings in the difficulty experienced in
classification, and we have no reason to expect that the dif-
ferences between beings which have had no common ancestor
should be obviously greater than those occurring in the descend-
ants of a given stock. Whatever origin species may have had,
whether due to separate creation or some yet undiscovered pro-
cess, we ought to expect a close approximation between these
species and difficulty in arranging them as groups. We find
this difficulty in all classification, and the difficulty increases as
the number of objects to be classified increases. Thus the
chemist began by separating metals from metalloids, and found
no difficulty in placing copper and iron in one category, and
sulphur and phosphorus in the other. Nowadays, there is or
has been a doubt whether hydrogen gas be a metal or no.
It probably ought to be so classed. Some physical properties
of tellurium would lead to its classification as a metal; its
chemical properties are those of a metalloid. Acids and bases
were once very intelligible headings to large groups of sub-
stances. Nowadays there are just as finely drawn distinctions
as to what is an acid and what a base, as eager discussions
which substance in a compound plays the part of acid or base,
as there can possibly be about the line of demarcation between

250 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

animal or vegetable life, and any of the characteristics used
to determine the group that shall claim a given shell or plant.
Nay, some chemists are just as eager to abandon the old terms
altogether, as Darwin to abolish species. His most advanced
disciple will hardly contend that metals and metalloids are the
descendants of organic beings, which, in the struggle for life,
have gradually lost all their organs : yet is it less strange that
inorganic substances should be hard to class, than that organic
beings, with their infinitely greater complexity, should be diffi-
cult to arrange in neat, well-defined groups ? In the early days
of chemistry, a theory might well have been started, perhaps
was started, that all metals were alloys of a couple of unknown
substances. Each newly discovered metal would have appealed
to occupy an intermediate place between old metals. Alloys
similarly occupied an intermediate place between the metals
composing them ; why might not all metals be simply sets of
alloys, of which the elements were not yet discovered ? An alloy
can no more be distinguished by its outward appearance than
a hybrid can. Alloys differ as much from one another, and
from metals, as metals do one from another, and a whole set of
Darwinian arguments might be used to prove all metals alloys.
It is only of late, by a knowledge of complicated electrical and
other properties, that we could feel a certainty that metals were
not alloys.

Other examples may be given, and will hereafter be given, of
analogous difficulties of classification ; but let us at once exa-
mine what expectations we might naturally form, d priori, as
to the probable ease or difficulty in classifying plants and
animals, however these may have originated. Are not animals
and plants combinations, more or less complex, of a limited
number of elementary parts ? The number of possible com-
binations of a given number of elements is limited, however
numerous these elements may be. The limits to the possible
number of combinations become more and more restricted, as
we burden these combinations with laws more and more com-
plicated— insisting, for instance, that the elements shall only be
combined in groups of threes or fives, or in triple groups of five
each, or in n groups, consisting respectively of a, &, c, d . . . n
elements arranged each in a given order. But what conceiv-

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 251

able complexity of algebraic arrangement can approach the
complexity of the laws which regulate the construction of an
organic being out of inorganic elements ? Let the chemist tell
us the laws of combination of each substance found in an or-
ganised being. Let us next attempt to conceive the complexity
of the conditions required to arrange these combinations in
a given order, so as to constitute an eating, breathing, moving,
feeling, self-reproducing thing. When our mind has recoiled
baffled, let us consider whether it is not probable, nay cer-
tain, that there should be a limit to the possible number of com-
binations, called animals, or vegetables, produced out of a few
simple elements, and grouped under the above inconceivably
complex laws. Next, we may ask whether, as in the mathe-
matical permutations, combinations, and arrangements, the com-
plete set of possible organised beings will not necessarily form a
continuous series of combinations each resembling its neighbour,
even as the letters of the alphabet, grouped say in all possible
sets of five each, might be arranged so as to form a continuous
series of groups, or sets of series, according as one kind of
resemblance or another be chosen to guide us in the arrange-
ment. It is clear that the number of combinations or animals
will be immeasurably greater when these combinations are
allowed to resemble each other very closely, than when a con-
dition is introduced, that given marked differences shall exist
between them. Thus, there are upwards of 7,890,000 words or
combinations of five letters in the English alphabet. These are
reduced to 26 when we insert a condition that no two combi-
nations shall begin with the same letter, and to 5 when we
stipulate that no two shall contain a single letter alike. Thus
we may expect, if the analogy be admitted, to find varieties of a
given species, apparently though not really, infinite in num-
ber, since the difference between these varieties is very small,
whereas we may expect that the number of well-marked pos-
sible species will be limited, and only subject to increase by the
insertion of fresh terms or combinations, intermediate between
those already existing. Viewed in this light, a species is the
expression of one class of combination ; the individuals express
the varieties of which that class is capable.

It may be objected that the number of elements in an organ-

252 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

ised being is so great as practically to render the number of
possible combinations infinite ; but unless infinite divisibility
of matter be assumed, this objection will not hold, inasmuch as
the number of elements or parts in the germ or seed of a given
animal or plant appears far from infinite. Yet it is certain
that differences between one species and another, one variety
and another, one individual and another, exist in these minute
bodies, containing very simple and uniform substances if
analysed chemically. Probably, even fettered by these condi-
tions, the number of possible animals or plants is inconceivably
greater than the number which exist or have existed ; but the
greater the number, the more they must necessarily resemble
one another.

It may perhaps be thought irreverent to hold an opinion that
the Creator could not create animals of any shape and fashion
whatever ; undoubtedly we may conceive all rules and all laws
as entirely self-imposed by Him, as possibly quite different or
non-existent elsewhere ; but what we mean is this, that just as
with the existing chemical laws of the world the number of
possible chemical combinations of a particular kind is limited,
and not even the Creator could make more without altering the
laws He has Himself imposed, even so, if we imagine animals
created or existing under some definite law, the number of spe-
cies, and of possible varieties of one species, will be limited ; and
these varieties and species, being definite arrangements of organic
compounds, will as certainly be capable of arrangement in series
as inorganic chemical compounds are. These views no more
imply a limit to the power of God than the statement that
the three angles of a triangle are necessarily equal to two right
angles.

It is assumed that all existing substances or beings of which
we have any scientific knowledge exist under definite laws.
Under any laws there will be a limit to the possible number of
combinations of a limited number of elements. The limit will
apply to size, strength, length of life, and every other quality.
Between any extremes the number of combinations called ani-
mals or species can only be increased by filling in gaps which
exist between previously existing animals, or between these and
the possible limits, and therefore whatever the general laws of

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 253

organisation may be, they must produce results similar to those
which we observe, and which lead to difficulty in classification,
and to the similarity between one species or variety and another.
Turning the argument, we might say that the observed facts
simply prove that organisms exist and were created under definite
laws, and surely no one will be disposed to deny this. Darwin
assumes one law, namely, that every being is descended from a
common ancestor (which, by the way, implies that every being
shall be capable of producing a descendant like any other being),
and he seems to think this the only law which would account
for the close similarity of species, whereas any law may be ex-
pected to produce the same results. We observe that animals
eat, breathe, move, have senses, are born, and die, and yet we
are expected to feel surprise that combinations, which are all
contrived to perform the same functions, resemble one another.
It is the apparent variety that is astounding, not the similarity.
Some will perhaps think it absurd to say that the number of
combinations is limited. They will state that no two men
ever were or will be exactly alike, no two leaves in any past or
future forest ; it is not clear how they could find this out, or
how they could prove it. But, as already explained, we quite
admit that by allowing closer and closer similarity, the number
of combinations of a fixed number of elements may be enor-
mously increased. We may fairly doubt the identity of any
two of the higher animals, remembering the large number of
elements of which they consist, but perhaps two identical fora-
miniferae have existed. As an idle speculation suggested by the
above views, we might consider whether it would be possible
that two parts of any two animals should be identical, without
their being wholly identical, looking on each animal as one pos-
sible combination, in which no part could vary without altering
all the others. It would be difficult to ascertain this by experi-
ment.

It is very curious to see how man's contrivances, intended
to fulfil some common purpose, fall into series, presenting the
difficulty complained of by naturalists in classifying birds and
beasts, or chemists in arranging compounds. It is this difficulty
which produces litigation under the Patent Laws. Is or is not
this machine comprised among those forming the subject of the

254 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

patent ? At first sight nothing can be more different than the
drawing in the patent and the machine produced in court, and
yet counsel and witnesses shall prove to the satisfaction of
judge, jury, and one party to the suit, that the essential part, the
important organ, is the same in both cases. The case will often
hinge on the question, What is the important organ ? Just the
question which Darwin asks ; and quite as difficult to answer
about a patented machine as about an organic being.

This difficulty results from, the action of man's mind con-
triving machines to produce a common result according to defi-
nite laws, the laws of mechanics. An instance of this is afforded
by the various forms of bridge. Nothing would appear more
distinct than the three forms of suspension bridge, girder, and
arch ; the types of which are furnished by a suspended rope, a
balk of wood, and a stone arch ; yet if we substitute an iron-
plate girder of approved form for the wooden balk, and then a
framed or lattice girder for the plate-iron girder, we shall see
that the girder occupies an intermediate place between the two
extremes, combining both the characteristics of the suspension
and arched rib — the upper plates and a set of diagonal strutts
being compressed like the stones of an arch, the lower plates
and a set of diagonal ties being extended like a suspended rope.
Curve the top plates, as is often done, and the resemblance to
an arch increases, yet every member of the girder remains.
Weaken the bracing, leaving top and bottom plates as before,
the bridge is now an arched bridge with the abutments tied
together. Weaken the ties gradually, and you gradually ap-
proach nearer and nearer to the common arch with the usual
abutments. Quite similarly the girder can be transformed into
a suspension bridge by gradual steps, so that none can say
when the girder ends and the suspension bridge begins. Nay,
take the common framed or lattice girder, do not alter its shape
in any way, but support it, first, on flat stones like a girder, then
wedge it between sloping abutments like an arch, and lastly,
hang it up between short sloping links like those of a suspension
bridge, attached to the upper corners at the end — you will so
alter the strains in the three cases that in order to bear the
same load, the relative parts of the framework must be altered
in their proportions in three distinct ways, resembling in the

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF -SPECIES 255

arrangement of the strongest parts, first a girder, next an arch,
and finally a suspension bridge. Yet the outline might remain
the same, and not a single member be removed.

Thus we see, that though in three distinct and extreme cases
it is easy to give distinctive names with clear characteristics, it
is very difficult as the varieties multiply to draw distinct lines
between them. Shall the distribution of strains be the impor-
tant point ? Then one and the same piece of framework will
have to be included under each of three heads, according to the
manner in which it is suspended or supported. Shall form be
the important point? We may construct a ribbed arch of
string, of a form exactly similar to many compressed arches,
we may support this from below, and yet the whole arch shall
be in tension, and bear a considerable load. Shall the mode of
support be the important point ? It would be an odd conclu-
sion to arrive at, that any stiff beam hung up in a particular
way was a suspension bridge. Nor is this difficulty simply a
sophistical one invented for the occasion ; the illustration was
suggested by a practical difficulty met with in drawing up a
patent ; and in ordinary engineering practice one man will call
a certain bridge a stiffened arch, while another calls it a girder
of peculiar form ; a third man calls a bridge a strengthened
girder, which a fourth says differs in no practical way from a
suspension bridge. Here, as in the case of animals or vege-
tables, when the varieties are few, classification is comparatively
easy ; as they are multiplied it becomes difficult ; and when all
the conceivable combinations are inserted it becomes impos-
sible. Nor must it be supposed that this is due to the sugges-
tion of one form by another in a way somewhat analogous to
descent by animal reproduction. The facts would be the same
however the bridges were designed. There are only certain
ways in which a stream can be bridged ; the extreme cases are
easily perceived, and ingenuity can then only fill in an indefi-
nite number of intermediate varieties. The possible varieties
are not created by man, they are found out, laid bare. Which
are laid bare will frequently depend on suggestion or associa-
tion of ideas, so that groups of closely analogous forms are dis-
covered about the same time ; but we may d priori assert that
whatever is discovered will lie between the known extremes

256 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

and will render the task of classification, if attempted, more and
more difficult.

Legal difficulties furnish another illustration. Does a parti-
cular case fall within a particular statute ? is it ruled by this or
that precedent ? The number of statutes or groups is limited ;
the number of possible combinations of events almost unlimited.
Hence, as before, the uncertainty which group a special com-
bination shall be classed within. Yet new combinations being
doubtful cases, are so precisely because they are intermediate
between others already known.

It might almost be urged that all the difficulties of reasoning
and all differences of opinion might be reduced to difficulties of
classification, that is to say, of determining whether a given
minor is really included in a certain major proposition and of
discovering the major proposition or genus we are in want of.
As trivial instances, take the docketing of letters or making
catalogues of books. How difficult it is to devise headings, and
how difficult afterwards to know under what head to place your
book. The most arbitrary rule is the only one which has a
chance of being carried out with absolute certainty.

Yet while these difficulties meet us wherever we turn, in
chemistry, in mechanics, law, or mere catalogues of heterogene-
ous objects, we are asked to feel surprise that we cannot docket
off creation into neat rectangular pigeon-holes, and we are
offered a special theory of transmutation, limited to organic
beings, to account for a fact of almost universal occurrence.

To resume this argument : Attention has been drawn to
the fact that when a complete set of combinations of certain ele-
ments is formed according to a given law, they will necessarily
be limited in number, and form a certain sequence, passing from
one extreme to the other by successive steps.

Organised beings may be regarded as combinations, either of
the elementary substances used to compose them, or of the parts
recurring in many beings ; for instance, of breathing organs,
apparatus for causing blood to circulate, organs of sense, repro-
duction, &c., in animals. The conclusion is drawn that we can
feel 110 reasonable surprise at finding that species should form a
graduated series which it is difficult to group as genera, or that
varieties should be hard to group into various distinct species.

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 257

Nor is it surprising that newly discovered species and varie-
ties should almost invariably occupy an intermediate position
between some already known, since the number of varieties of
one species, or the number of possible species, can only be in-
definitely increased by admitting varieties or species possessing
indefinitely small differences one from another.

We observe that these peculiarities require no theory of
transmutation, but only that the combination of the parts,
however effected, should have been made in accordance with
some law, as we have every reason to expect they would be.

In illustration of this conclusion, cases of difficult classifica-
tion are pointed out containing nothing analogous to reproduc-
tion, and where no struggle for life occurs.

Observed Facts supposed to support Darwin s Views. — The
chief arguments used to establish the theory rest on conjecture.
Beasts may have varied ; variations may have accumulated ;
they may have become permanent ; continents may have arisen
or sunk, and seas and winds been so arranged as to dispose of
animals just as we find them, now spreading a race wildly, now
confining it to one Galapagos island. There may be records of
infinitely more animals than we know of in geological forma-
tions yet unexplored. Myriads of species differing little from
those we know to have been preserved, may actually not have
been preserved at all. There may have been an inhabited world
for ages before the earliest known geological strata. The world
may indeed have been inhabited for an indefinite time ; even
the geological observations may perhaps give a most insufficient
idea of the enormous times which separated one formation from
another : the peculiarities of hybrids may result from accidental
differences between the parents, not from what have been called
specific differences.

We are asked to believe all these maybe's happening on an
enormous scale, in order that we may believe the final Dar-
winian ' maybe,' as to the origin of species. The general form
of his argument is as follows : — All these things may have been,
therefore my theory is possible, and since my theory is a pos-
sible one, all those hypotheses which it requires are rendered

VOL. i. s

258 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

probable. There is little direct evidence that any of these may-
be's actually have been.

In this essay an attempt has been made to show that many
of these assumed possibilities are actually impossibilities, or at
the best have not occurred in this world, although it is prover-
bially somewhat difficult to prove a negative.

Let us now consider what direct evidence Darwin brings for-
ward to prove that animals really are descended from a common
ancestor. As direct evidence we may admit the possession of
webbed feet by unplumed birds ; the stripes observed on some
kinds of horses and hybrids of horses, resembling not their
parents, but other species of the genus ; the generative vari-
ability of abnormal organs ; the greater tendency to vary of
widely diffused and widely ranging species ; certain peculiarities
of distribution. All these focts are consistent with Darwin's
theory, and if it could be shown that they could not possibly
have occurred except in consequence of natural selection, they
would prove the truth of this theory. It would, however,
clearly be impossible to prove that in no other way could these
phenomena have been produced, and Darwin makes no attempt
to prove this. He only says he cannot imagine why unplumed
birds should have webbed feet, unless in consequence of their
direct descent from web-footed ancestors who lived in the water :
that he thinks it would in some way be derogatory to the
Creator to let hybrids have stripes on their legs, unless some
ancestor of theirs had stripes on his leg. He cannot imagine
why abnormal organs and widely diffused genera should vary
more than others, unless his views be true ; and he says he
cannot account for the peculiarities of distribution in any way
but one. It is perhaps hardly necessary to combat these
arguments, and to show that our inability to account for certain
phenomena, in any way but one, is no proof of the truth of the
explanation given, but simply is a confession of our ignorance.
When a man says a glowworm must be on fire, and in answer
to our doubts challenges us to say how it can give out light
unless it be on fire, we do not admit his challenge as any proof
of his assertion, and indeed we allow it no weight whatever as
against positive proof we have that the glowworm is not on fire.
We conceive Darwin's theory to be in exactly the same case ;

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 259

its untruth can, as we think, be proved, and his or our own in-
ability to explain a few isolated facts consistent with his views
would simply prove his and our ignorance of the true explana-
tion. But although unable to give any certainly true explana-
tion of the above phenomena, it is possible to suggest explana-
tions perhaps as plausible as the Darwinian theory, and though
the fresh suggestions may very probably not be correct, they
may serve to show that at least more than one conceivable ex-
planation may be given.

It is a familiar fact that certain complexions go with certain
temperaments, that roughly something of a man's character may
be told from the shape of his head, his nose, or perhaps from
most parts of his body. We find certain colours almost always
accompanying certain forms and tempers of horses. There is a
connexion between the shape of the hand and the foot, and so
forth. No horse has the head of a cart-horse and the hind-
quarters of a racer ; so that, in general, if we know the shape of
most parts of a man or horse, we can make a good guess at the
probable shape of the remainder. All this shows that there is
a certain correlation of parts, leading us to expect that when the
heads of two birds are very much alike, their feet will not be
very different. From the assumption of a limited number of
possible combinations or animals, it would naturally follow that
the combination of elements producing a bird having a head
very similar to that of a goose, could not fail to produce a foot
also somewhat similar. According to this view, we might expect
most animals to have a good many superfluities of a minor kind,
resulting necessarily from the combination required to produce
the essential or important organs. Surely, then, it is not very
strange that an animal intermediate by birth between a horse
and ass should resemble a quagga, which results from a combina-
tion intermediate between the horse and ass combination. The
quagga is in general appearance intermediate between the horse
and ass, therefore, d priori, we may expect that in general
appearance a hybrid between the horse and the ass will resemble
the quagga, and if in general appearance it does resemble a
quagga, we may expect that owing to the correlation of parts
it will resemble the quagga in some special particulars. It is
difficult to suppose that every stripe on a zebra or quagga, or

s 2

260 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

cross down a donkey's back, is useful to it. It seems possible,
even probable, that these things are the unavoidable consequences
of the elementary combination which will produce the quagga,
or a beast like it. Darwin himself appears to admit that corre-
lation will or may produce results which are not themselves
useful to the animal ; thus how can we suppose that the beauty
of feathers which are either never uncovered, or very rarely so,
can be of any advantage to a bird ? Nevertheless those concealed
parts are often very beautiful, and the beauty of the markings on
these parts must be supposed due to correlation. The exposed
end of a peacock's feather could not be so gloriously coloured
without beautiful colours even in the unexposed parts. According
to the view already explained, the combination producing the
one was impossible unless it included the other. The same idea
may perhaps furnish the clue to the variability of abnormal
organs and widely diffused species, the abnormal organ may
with some plausibility be looked upon as the rare combination
difficult to effect, and only possible under very special circum-
stances. There is little difficulty in believing that it would more
probably vary with varying circumstances than a simple and
ordinary combination. It is easy to produce two common wine-
glasses which differ in no apparent manner ; two Venice goblets
could hardly be blown alike. It is not meant here to predicate
ease or difficulty of the action of omnipotence ; but just as
mechanical laws allow one form to be reproduced with certainty,
so the occult laws of reproduction may allow certain simpler
combinations to be produced with much greater certainty than
the more complex combinations. The variability of widely
diffused species might be explained in a similar way. These
may be looked on as the simple combinations of which many
may exist similar one to the other, whereas the complex com-
binations may only be possible within comparatively narrow
limits, inside which one organ may indeed be variable, though
the main combination is the only possible one of its kind.

We by no means wish to assert that we know the above
suggestions to be the true explanations of the facts. We merely
wish to show that other explanations than those given by Darwin
are conceivable, although this is indeed not required by our
argument, since, if his main assumptions can be proved false,

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 261

his theory will derive no benefit from the few facts which may
be allowed to be consistent with its truth.

The peculiarities of geographical distribution seem very
difficult of explanation on any theory. Darwin calls in alter-
nately winds, tides, birds, beasts, all animated nature, as the
diffusers of species, and then a good many of the same agencies
as impenetrable barriers. There are some impenetrable barriers
between the Galapagos Islands, but not between New Zealand
and South America. Continents are created to join Australia
and the Cape of Good Hope, while a sea as broad as the British
Channel is elsewhere a valid line of demarcation. With these
facilities of hypothesis there seems to be no particular reason
why many theories should not be true. However an animal
may have been produced, it must have been produced some-
where, and it must either have spread very widely, or not have
spread, and Darwin can give good reasons for both results. If
produced according to any law at all, it would seem probable
that groups of similar animals would be produced in given
places. Or we might suppose that all animals having been
created anywhere or everywhere, those have been extinguished
which were not suited to such climate ; nor would it be an
answer to say that the climate, for instance, of Australia, is less
suitable now to marsupials than to other animals introduced
from Europe, because we may suppose that this was not so when
the race began ; but in truth it is hard to believe any of the
suppositions, nor can we just now invent any better ; and this
peculiarity of distribution, namely, that all the products of a
given continent have a kind of family resemblance, is the sole
argument brought forward by Darwin which seems to us to lend
any countenance to the theory of a common origin and the
transmutation of species.

Our main arguments are now completed. Something might
be said as to the alleged imperfection of the geological records.
It is certain that, when compared with the total number of
animals which have lived, they must be very imperfect; but
still we observe that of many species of beings thousands and
even millions of specimens have been preserved. If Darwin's
theory be true, the number of varieties differing one from another
a very little must have been indefinitely great, so great indeed

262 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

as probably far to exceed the number of individuals which have
existed of any one variety. If this be true, it would be more
probable that no two specimens preserved as fossils should be of
one variety than that we should find a great many specimens col-
lected from a very few varieties, provided, of course, the chances of
preservation are equal for all individuals. But this assumption
may be denied, and some may think it probable that the condi-
tions favourable to preservation only recur rarely, at remote
periods, and never last long enough to show a gradual unbroken
change. It would rather seem probable that fragments, at
least, of perfect series would be preserved of those beings which
lead similar lives favourable to their preservation as fossils.
Have any fragments of these Darwinian series been found where
the individuals merge from one variety insensibly to another ?

It is really strange that vast numbers of perfectly similar
specimens should be found, the chances against their perpetua-
tion as fossils are so great ; but it is also very strange that the
specimens should be so exactly alike as they are, if, in fact, they
came and vanished by a gradual change. It is, however, not
worth while to insist much on this argument, which by suitable
hypotheses might be answered, as by saying, that the changes
were often quick, taking only a few myriad ages, and that then
a species was permanent for a vastly longer time, and that if we
have not anywhere a gradual change clearly recorded, the steps
from variety to variety are gradually being diminished as more
specimens are discovered. These answers do not seem to us
sufficient, but the point is hardly worth contesting, when other
arguments directly disproving the possibility of the assumed
change have been advanced.

These arguments are cumulative. If it be true that no
species can vary beyond defined limits, it matters little whether
natural selection would be efficient in producing definite varia-
tions. If natural selection, though it does select the stronger
average animals and under peculiar circumstances may develop
special organs already useful, can never select new imperfect
organs such as are produced in sports, then, even though
eternity were granted, and no limit assigned to the possible
changes of animals, Darwin's cannot be the true explanation of
the manner in which change has been brought about. Lastly,

DARWIN AND THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES 263

even if no limit be drawn to the possible difference between off-
spring and their progenitors, and if natural selection were
admitted to be an efficient cause capable of building up even
new senses, even then, unless time, vast time, be granted, the
changes which might have been produced by the gradual selec-
tion of peculiar offspring have not really been so produced,
Any one of the main pleas of our argument, if established, is
fatal to Darwin's theory. What then shall we say if we believe
that experiment has shown a sharp limit to the variation of
every species, that natural selection is powerless to perpetuate
new organs even should they appear, that countless ages of a
habitable globe are rigidly proven impossible by the physical
laws which forbid the assumption of infinite power in a finite
mass ? What can we believe but that Darwin's theory is an
ingenious and plausible speculation, to which future physiolo-
gists will look back with the kind of admiration we bestow on
the atoms of Lucretius, or the crystal spheres of Eudoxus, con-
taining like these some faint half-truths, marking at once the
ignorance of the age and the ability of the philosopher. Surely
the time is past when a theory unsupported by evidence is
received as probable, because in our ignorance we know not why
it should be false, though we cannot show it to be true. Yet
we have heard grave men gravely urge, that because Darwin's
theory was the most plausible known, it. should be believed.
Others seriously allege that it is more consonant with a lofty
idea of the Creator's action to suppose that he produced beings
by natural selection, rather than by the finikin process of making
each separate little race by the exercise of Almighty power.
The argument, such as it is, means simply that the user of it
thinks that this is how he personally would act if possessed of
almighty power and knowledge, but his speculations as to his
probable feelings and actions, after such a great change of cir-
cumstances, are not worth much. If we are told that our expe-
rience shows that God works by law, then we answer, ' Why the
special Darwinian law ? ' A plausible theory should not be
accepted while unproven ; and if the arguments of this essay be
admitted, Darwin's theory of the origin of species is not only
without sufficient support from evidence, but is proved false by
accumulative proof.

264 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

A FRAGMENT ON TRUTH.1

I.

IT is admitted on all hands that in all matters, whether of faith,
knowledge or perception, we should endeavour to attain truth ;
to believe truly, know truly, teel truly. But, inasmuch as in all
these respects all men differ one from another, a strong desire
has ever been felt for some criterion or touchstone by which a
man might, even in the simplest case, discern truth from false-
hood. No such touchstone has or ever will be found, and in-
deed the desire is rather akin to the vague longing for magic
powers than to any healthy appetite.

The word truth is in this matter strangely abused. The
word, truly used, signifies a concordance either between some
verbal expression and an external fact or between some mental
impression and an external fact. These two meanings shall be
separately considered. In regard to the first, let us first re-
member that no word has any definite or absolutely circum-
scribed meaning, much less, any congeries of words such as form
a sentence. No one word absolutely corresponds to any one
thing, fitting it so as absolutely to express all its qualities and
no others. To suppose that a sentence built of these imperfect
bricks, and apprehended in the shadowy impression which words
convey, shall correspond absolutely with even the simplest
natural fact in all its relations is manifestly absurd.

Agreement between many minds as to any statement be-
comes more and more probable as the statement is more and
more restricted to the simplest class of facts. In this and in this
alone lies the supposed superiority of mathematics, and science
generally, in regard to truths. The truths of exact science mean
very little ; hence we agree fairly well as to the truth of the

1 From an unfinished MS., dated May, 1885.

A FRAGMENT ON TRUTH 265

language by which they are expressed. The moment we apply
these so-called truths to express the complex facts of any real
combination, we are met by the discrepancy between theory and
practice ; the statements and the facts accord imperfectly.

Using the word truth in this first sense, the mechanic well
knows that absolute truth is unattainable, but he nevertheless
values highly the approximation to truth which allows him ap-
proximately to ascertain the result of given simple material com-
binations. The knowledge that perfect agreement between the
statement and the corresponding fact is impossible by no means
leads him to avoid the calculation of the breaking weight of a
bridge, or the power required to pump water for the supply of a
town. The calculations are imperfect ; the words, or symbols,
and the facts do not agree ; it is inconceivable that they should
agree ; at most he hopes for the approximate agreement between
the conception indicated by the words in his mind and one small
part of the resulting facts, but this approximate agreement is of
infinite value to mankind, and the mechanic who rejects calcu-
lation, because of its imperfect accord with fact is ignorant or
foolish.

Coming now to the second conceivable meaning of truth, as
signifying an accord between what seems and what is, between
conception in our minds and the fact which gives rise to that
conception, the very notion of absolute agreement or identity
seems preposterous. The impression can not conceivably be
identical with the impresser. A dint by a hammer can not be
identical with the hammer which produces it. At most one
may fit the other, and it is clear that in any such interaction
the nature of the impressing or impressed matter greatly in-
fluences the perfection of fit. Our perception can never be the
thing perceived, and can never correspond even roughly with
that thing, except as regards some very limited quality ; as the
dint may correspond with a part of the hammer head in respect
of form, but in no wise as regards weight, colour, strength,
magnetic properties, and so forth. Moreover, the impression
even in regard to form will differ widely in different substances ;
nay, no two pieces of money, all of one material, all struck from
one die, shall be identical. How much less can we expect the
impression on several minds, differing far more one from another

266 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

than one gold bar from another, to be identical ? Not only is
the gold piece not the die, but no two coins are absolutely alike.
So our perceptions are not the things perceived, neither are the
perceptions of one thing the same in two men. But coin is that
which we can use, the die is no concern of ours — and the identity
between the coins is sufficient for our use. So natural facts are
important to us only as they impress us ; with the things in
themselves we have no concern, and the impressions on various
men are so far alike as to render commerce possible.

Therefore we may say nothing is true, in either sense.
Words can express no truth wholly, and again no impression
corresponds wholly with the fact ; and again we may say that
no man can honestly say that which is untrue, for if he say that
which he believes, his words express that which he perceives or
conceives. He may indeed use the words unskilfully , that is to
say, his words may convey to me some impression false .to the
fact, yet to him the words may be true, as when a man awaking
says, I have not slept. He can but tell what is then in his mind,
and he truly tells this although he slept. He would be an un-
true witness if having slept unawares he, not remembering it,
said, ' 1 slept.'

So again we may say that our senses never deceive us, for
given all the circumstances, the impression must be that which
it is. We might desire to leave out some of the circumstances,
as in trying to spear a fish we might desire to leave out the
refractive power of water, but our senses tell us all the fact.
They even tell us their own imperfection, the impression made
being partly the result of the fact and partly the result of our
own organism. In this sense every impression is true, being
the inevitable result of the whole complex circumstances. The
man who is colour-blind is not misled by his senses. His eye
tells him that to him a given surface is colourless, which is true,
although to another man this surface may be brilliantly coloured.
The one impression is no more true in this transcendental sense
than the other.

This matter of truth and untruth has been thus sifted merely
to expose the folly involved in any hope of a criterion of absolute
truth. Let there be a criterion — is it conceivable that we
should ever apply it with exactitude ?

A FRAGMENT ON TRUTH 267

II.

When it is said that by scientific measurement things, not
sensations, are compared, the word things must be interpreted
as bearing a very wide meaning. Time, space, matter, energy,
are included in the term. Measurements compare such things
as position, velocity, tenacity, and so forth. Call these attributes,
properties, abstractions, relations, conditions, actions, what you
will, the fact remains that when the man of science measures
these things, he compares the things themselves, not the sen-
sations they produce in his mind. Neither the method nor the
result of the comparison is affected by the individual mind,
except so far as concerns the more or less complete accuracy of
the measurement.

No doubt one individual will weigh with less error than an-
other while using the same apparatus, and then the imperfec-
tion of our organs prevents absolute agreement about even
measurable things ; but the disagreement in these cases affects
the mere fringe or margin of the thing, not the thing in bulk.
One man comparing the weight of two masses, A and B, shall say
that A is twice as heavy as B ; another man shall say that this
relation is really 2 to I'OOOl ; but no person can be found to
measure so badly as to suppose that B is twice as heavy as A.
A reversal of this kind, or indeed any wide disagreement between
,the measurements of fairly skilled observers is inconceivable, and
all the measurers act successfully on the supposition that there is
one real relation between the weights, and that this relation is
independent of the peculiarities of their own minds. Those fields
of knowledge in which this manner of comparison between the
things themselves is possible cover the domain of exact know-
ledge rightly so called, although we may never hope for absolute
exactitude in any measurement whatever. We know absolutely
that in those fields relations exist and that our senses enable us
to determine those relations with all the nicety which our wants
require. In these regions dispute is settled by an appeal to
things, not to minds ; no criterion of truth is missed, and pro-
longed difference of opinion concerning the relations measured is

268 SPECULATIVE SCIENCE

impossible, except as regards a small and constantly lessening
fringe or margin of the whole part.

III.

The mathematical relations between numbers and magnitudes
require separate consideration.

In geometry they involve the comparison of dimensions, and
dimensions are, in the sense explained above, things. But where
mathematics deal with the relations between symbols, whether
algebraic or numerical, they do not compare things. They
essentially substitute a symbol for the thing itself, and use the
symbols to facilitate not measurement but ratiocination con-
cerning measurements. Number is not an object, a condition,
a property, an attribute, or even an abstraction. Numbers ex-
press the result of measurement; they cannot themselves be
measured. The relation between them is stated when they are
stated. The very conception of number involves the assumption
that two things can be identical, or may for a special purpose
be regarded as identical. This is neither the result of abstrac-
tion nor reasoning ; it is merely a short way of saying that
any four things which we choose to regard as identical, may be
counted in two ways, described as regards number in tw6
different phrases .

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