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MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  LIIL 


MACMILLAN'S 


VOL.  LIIL 

NOVEMBER  1885,  TO  APRIL  1886. 


MACMILLAN   AND   CO., 
29  &  30,  BEDFORD  STREET,  CO  VENT  GARDEN  ;  AND 

gotk. 
1886. 


W.J.  LINTON.  S' 


The  Right  of  Translation  and  Reproduction  is  Reserved. 


,53 


RICHARD  CLAY  &  SONS, 
BREAD  STREET  HILL, 

Bungay,  Su/olk. 


CONTENTS. 


i'AGE 

American  Notes,  Some 43 

Arolliad,  The;  an  Epic  of  the  Alps k    .....  311 

Austria's  Policy  in  the  East , 17 

Books,  A  Century  of 377 

Borrow,  George.    By  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 1 70 

Bradshaw,  Henry.     By  ARTHUR  BENSON 475 

Burmah,  Matters  in.     By  MAJOR-GENERAL  McMAHON 314 

Champion  of  her  Sex,  A.     By  W.  MINTO 264 

Church  Authority ;  its  meaning  and  value.     By  REV.  J.  M.  WILSON  .    .    .    .    .    .    .  116 

Classic  Ground,  On 28 

Cossack  Poet,  A.    By  W.  R.  MORFILL 458 

Culture  and  Science.     By  E.  A.  SONNENSCHEIN 5 

Democracy,  The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern.     By  HON.  G.  C.  BRODRICK     .    .  390 
Dymond,  Mrs.     By  MRS.  RITCHIE  (Miss  THACKERAY)  : — 

Chapters  xxxii. — xxxv 63 

,,       xxxvi. — xxxiX 141 

Egypt,  The  Situation  in.     By  R.  H.  Lang 246 

"  English,"  The  Depression  of.     By  W.  BAPTISTE  SCOONES 37 

Eton  College,  Ode  on  a  Near  Prospect  of 213 

"  Eumenides  "  at  Cambridge,  The.     By  MOWBRAY  MORRIS 205 

Faroes,  A  Walk  in  the 121 

February  Filldyke.     A  SONNET 263 

Florence  and  Modern  Tuscany,  Old.     By  MRS.  Ross 153 

Footprints 276 

Fyvie  Castle,  and  its  Lairds.     By  MRS.  Ross 465 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd.     By  GOLDWIN  SMITH 321 

General  Readers  ;  By  One  of  Them . 450 

Gladstone  Myth,  The  Great 241 

Graham,  Victor .  k: 364 

Grant,  General.     By  L.  J.  JENNINGS 161 

Holiday,  A.    Sonnet 347 

Indian  Village,  An 75 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

Irish  Shootings 92 

King's  Daughter  in  Danger,  The 193 

Legend  of  Another  World,  A.     By  the  Author  of  "  A  Strange  Temptation  ".    ...  401 

Literature,  The  Office  of 361 

Long  Odds.     By  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD 289 

Love's  Labours  Lost,  On.     By  WALTER  PATER 89 

Mendelssohn,  Moses 298 

Morris  and  the  French  Revolution,  Gouverneur 55 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love.     By  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 414 

Poetic  Imagination,  The.     By  ARTHUR  TILLEY 184 

Poetry  and  Politics.     By  ANDREW  LANG 81 

Poetry  and  Politics.     By  ERNEST  MYERS 257 

Poetry,  The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in.     By  THOMAS  WHITTAKER  .  .  428 

Poetry,  The  Province  and  Study  of.     By  FRANCIS  T.  PALGRAVE 332 

Present-Day  Idealism 445 

Reflections,  Some  Random 278 

Robsart,  The  Death  of  Amy 131 

Sand's  Country,  In  George.     By  Miss  BETHAM  EDWARDS 382 

School-Book,  An  Old.     By  J.  H.  RAVEN .  437 

Shakespeare,  A  Translator  of 104 

Strange  Temptation,  A 215 

Van  Storck,  Sebastian.     By  WALTER  PATER 348 

Vastness.     By  LORD  TENNYSON '.  1 

Victor  Graham 364 

Whist,  American  Leads  at.     By  CAVENDISH 235 


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-i 


\      MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 

NOVEMBER,  1885. 


VASTNESS. 


i. 

MANY   a  hearth   upon   our  dark   globe    sighs   after  many  a 

vanished  face, 
Many  a  planet  by  many   a   sun   may   roll   with   the  dust  of 

a  vanish'd  race. 


II. 

Raving   politics,   never    at    rest — as    this   poor    earth's    pale 

history  runs, — 
What   is   it   all   but    a    trouble   of  ants   in   the   gleam  of  a 

million  million  of  suns  ? 


in. 

Lies  upon   this   side,  lies   upon  that  side,  truthless  violence 

mourn'd  by  the  Wise, 
Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a  popular  torrent 

of  lies  upon  lies ; 
No.  313. — VOL.  LIU.  B 


Vast  ness. 

IV. 

Stately  purposes,  valour   in   battle,  glorious  annals   of  army 

and  fleet, 
Death    for    the    right    cause,    death    for    the    wrong    cause, 

trumpets  of  victory,  groans  of  defeat; 

v. 
Innocence  seethed  in  her  mother's  milk,  and  Charity  setting 

the  martyr  aflame ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of  Freedom,  and  recks 

not  to  ruin  a  realm  in  her  name. 

VI. 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in   the  gloom  of   doubts 

that  darken  the  schools ; 
Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand,  follow' d  up  by 

her  vassal  legion  of  fools ; 

VII. 

Pain,  that  has  crawl' d  from  the  corpse  of  Pleasure,  a  worm 

which  writhes  all  day,  and  at  night 
Stirs   up   again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper,  and   stings  him 

back  to  the  curse  of  the  light; 

VIII. 

Wealth   with   his   wines   and  { his   wedded   harlots ;    Flattery 

gilding  the  rift  of  a  throne;   , 
Opulent  Avarice,  lean   as  Poverty;   honest  Poverty,  bare  to 

the  bone  ; 


IX. 

Love  for  the  maiden  crown'd  with  marriage,  no   regrets    for 

aught  that  has  been, 
Household  happiness,  gracious  children,  debtless  competence, 

golden  mean; 

x. 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and  pigmy  spites  of 

the  village  spire ; 
Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle,  and  vows  that 

are  snapt  in  a  moment  of  fire ; 

XI. 

He  that  has  lived  for  the  lust  of  the  minute,  and  died  in 

the  doing  it,  flesh  without  mind  ; 
He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till  Self  died  out 

in  the  love  of  his  kind ; 

XII. 

Spring    and    Summer   and    Autumn    and   Winter;  and    all 

these  old  revolutions  of  earth ; 
All   new-old   revolutions  of   Empire — change   of   the   tide — 

what  is  all  of  it  worth  ? 

XIII. 

What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences,  poesy,  varying  voices 

of  prayer  ? 
All   that   is   noblest,   all    that    is   basest,    all   that    is    filthy 

with  all  that  is  fair? 

B  2 


"Fastness. 

XIV. 

What  is   it   all,  if  we  all  of  us   end  but  in  being  our  own 

corpse-coffins  at  last, 

Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence,  drown' d  in  the  deeps 
of  a  meaningless  Past  ? 

xv. 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom,  or  a  moment's 
anger  of  bees  in  their  hive  ? — 


Peace,  let  it  be  !    for  I  loved  him,  and  love  him  for  ever  : 
the  dead  are  not  dead  but  alive. 

TENNYSON. 


CULTURE  AND   SCIENCE.1 


IT  is  with  some  diffidence  that  I  have 
elected  to  address  you  to-day  on  the 
subject  of  culture  and  science.  I  am 
aware  that  I  shall  have  to  speak  about 
matters  on  which  I  am  imperfectly 
instructed  in  the  presence  of  masters 
of  the  craft ;  and  even  to  tread  ground 
on  which  the  eminent  man  who  opened 
this  college  five  years  ago — Professor 
Huxley — has  unfurled  the  flag  of 
occupation.  But  after  all,  science  and 
culture  are  subjects  of  perennial  in- 
terest, upon  which  a  good  deal  may  be 
said.  And  there  is  perhaps  a  certain 
fitness  in  reverting,  at  the  close  of  our 
first  college  lustrum,  and  on  a  day 
when  the  memory  of  our  generous 
founder  and  of  our  late  venerable  pre- 
sident, Dr.  Heslop,  is  fresh,  to  the 
topics  in  which  they  were  so  deeply 
interested. 

But  I  must,  at  the  outset,  guard 
myself  against  misapprehension.  In 
comparing  culture  and  science,  I  have 
no  intention  of  contrasting  the  facul- 
ties of  arts  and  science  in  this  or  any 
other  college.  I  must  claim  the 
original  right  of  a  speaker  to  define 
the  terms  he  uses  in  his  own  way. 
By  science  I  do  not  mean  merely  the 
science  of  nature ;  by  culture  I  do 
not  mean  merely  literary  culture.  Nor 
is  it  the  object  of  this  address  to  define 
the  position  and  relations  of  classics 
and  physical  science  in  the  school 
curriculum.  I  am  about  to  speak  to 
students  of  a  "  miniature  University" 
about  university  studies.  And  my 
object  is  to  indicate  the  relations  of 
science — in  the  widest  sense — and  let- 
ters to  culture.  Let  us  first  ask, 
"  What  is  science  ?  " 

1  An  Address  delivered  at  the  Distribution 
of  Prizes  in  the  Mason  College,  Birmingham 
(October  1st,  1885),  by  E.  A.  Sonnenschein, 
M.A.,  Professor  of  Classics,  and  Chairman  of 
the  Academic  Board. 


By  science  I  understand  organised 
knowledge,  working  by  method,  based 
on  evidence,  and  issuing  in  the  dis- 
covery of  law.  By  culture  I  mean  the 
complete  spiritual  development  of  the 
individual.  The  object  of  science  is 
exact  knowledge ;  the  object  of  cul- 
ture is  a  complete  human  being. 

Nor  can  I  admit  that  this  view  is 
arbitrary.  Underlying  much  con- 
fusion of  thought  and  polemical  per- 
versity, I  find  some  such  distinction 
as  I  have  indicated  present  to  the 
consciousness  of  educated  men  and 
women. 

In  contending,  then,  that  the  dis- 
tinction between  science  and  culture 
is  not  coincident  with  the  distinction 
between  the  study  of  the  external 
universe  on  the  one  hand  and  the 
study  of  letters  on  the  other,  let  me 
first  try  to  show  that  science  does  not 
exclude  letters — that  letters  admit  of 
a  scientific  treatment  just  as  much  as 
the  phenomena  of  light  or  the  circula- 
tion of  the  blood. 

Having  given  an  extended  sense  to 
the  word  science,  I  will  indicate  the 
part  that  it  plays  in  culture;  and 
finally  I  will  maintain  that,  though  an 
essential  factor  in  culture,  it  is  not  the 
only  factor.  I  will  try  to  show  that 
science  embraces  one  aspect  of  letters, 
but  is  itself  only  one  element  in  a 
wider  conception  of  culture. 

I  do  not  wish  to  base  my  argument 
on  authority  ;  but  it  is  the  fashion 
nowadays  to  appeal  on  important 
questions  to  Germany,  and  I  will 
remind  you  that  the  word  Wissenschaft 
is  by  no  means  so  restricted  in  its  use 
as  our  corresponding  English  word 
"  science  "  sometimes  is.  Wissenschaft 
—  scientific  knowledge  —  embraces 
philology,  philosophy,  theology,  laws, 
no  less  than  mathematics  and  the 
branches  included  under  the  name 


6 


Culture  and  Science. 


Naturwissenschaftj  chemistry,  physics, 
biology,  and  so  on.  This  is  not  a  mere 
question  of  terminology ;  under  dis- 
tinctions of  words  there  generally  lie 
distinctions  of  things,  and  by  this  use 
of  their  word  Wissenschaft  the  Ger- 
mans—  the  most  active  body  of  ex- 
plorers in  the  world — declare  that 
they  regard  all  these  subjects  as 
admitting  of  scientific  treatment ;  and 
they  make  it  the  chief  business  of 
their  Universities  to  treat  them  in 
this  way.  The  word  arts  I  cannot 
but  regard  as  unfortunate.  It  carries 
very  little  meaning  in  it.  There  are 
fine  arts,  and  arts  which  are  not  fine. 
There  are  even  black  arts.  But  why 
philology,  for  instance,  should  be 
called  an  art,  and  medicine  a  science, 
does  not  appear,  except  to  the  historic 
consciousness. 

My  illustrations  shall  be  derived 
chiefly  from  the  subject  in  which  I  am 
personally  most  interested — the  study 
of  classical  philology.  Classics  is  a 
wide  field,  and  includes  two  main  divi- 
sions —  interpretation,  and  textual 
criticism.  It  embraces  in  its  scope 
several  departments,  such  as  ancient 
history,  archaeology,  mythology,  epi- 
graphy, palaeography.  The  latter  is 
the  study  of  manuscripts,  and  aims  at 
determining  the  method  of  deciphering 
them,  and  the  law  of  error  in  them. 
The  object  of  the  whole  of  classical 
philology  is  to  restore  a  picture  of 
human  life  in  the  Greek  and  Roman 
world.  The  object  of  textual  criticism 
is  the  restoration  of  texts,  the  dis- 
covery of  what  the  classical  writers 
really  said.  This  it  effects  by  exposing 
the  traces  of  detrition  in  them,  the 
havoc  which  time  and  error  have 
wrought,  and  by  finding  the  true 
way  of  repairing  their  devastations. 
George  Eliot  speaks  with  light 
banter  of  inventing  a  few  Greek 
emendations,  as  if  emendation  were 
mere  guesswork,  to  be  thrown  off  in 
a  careless  hour  for  the  amusement 
of  the  world  of  scholars  and  the 
advertisement  of  one's  own  ingenuity. 
But  to  emend  scientifically  is  no  light 
task.  The  scholar  must  employ 


method  and  proof  if  his  work  is  to 
claim  serious  attention.  To  discover 
that  a  passage  is  corrupt,  he  must  have 
found  that  this  word,  or  this  construc- 
tion, or  this  rhythm,  is  a  barbarism,  or 
at  any  rate  is  never  so  used  by  his 
author ;  that  this  sentiment  or  allusion 
is  an  anachronism  ;  he  must,  in  fact, 
discover  or  rectify  the  law  of  the  word, 
the  law  of  the  sentence,  the  law  of  the 
metre.  Here  there  is  plenty  of  room 
for  independent  observation.  These 
laws  are  not  to  be  found  ready-made  in 
grammars  ;  an  emendation  really  new 
must  be  based  on  nothing  less  than  a 
new  examination  of  the  facts.  The 
proof  of  corruption  of  the  text  lies  in 
the  application  of  the  resulting  laws 
to  a  particular  passage.  To  emend  is 
to  form  an  hypothesis  as  to  the  original 
constitution  of  the  passage — an  hypo- 
thesis which  must  pass  through  the 
ordeal  of  verification  by  all  the  known 
laws — palseographical,  linguistic,  his- 
toric, and  other. 

Let  us  not  be  dominated  by  the 
phrase  "inductive  science."  Each 
science  has  its  own  peculiar  methods, 
in  which  induction  and  deduction, 
observation  and  experiment,  play 
parts  more  or  less  prominent.  The 
methods  of  physics  are  not  identically 
the  methods  of  the  so-called  natural 
sciences.  Mathematics  is  not  usually 
reckoned  as  an  inductive  science  at 
all.  But  the  methods  and  results  of 
one  and  all  may  be  equally  scientific 
— may  be  alike  calculated  to  carry  an 
authoritative  power  of  conviction. 

No  doubt  the  processes  of  textual 
criticism  have  been  often  conducted  in 
such  a  way  as  to  lead  to  results  which 
were  tentative,  or  even  purely  fanciful. 
But  other  sciences  too  have  passed 
through  an  empirical  stage.  As 
practised  nowadays,  especially  in  the 
philological  seminaries  of  Germany, 
textual  criticism  may  claim  to  rank 
as  a  science ;  its  methods  are  well- 
established,  its  results  definite — 
KrrjfjLara  es  det,  wrung  from  the  wil- 
derness of  mediaeval  barbarism  by 
the  devoted  efforts  of  armies  of  scho- 
lars. If  a  scholar  of  the  sixteenth 


Culture  and  Science. 


century  could  come  to  life,  he  would 
be  astonished  at  the  magnitude  of  the 
results  which  have  been  achieved. 
He  would  find  many  a  familiar  in- 
terpolation exscinded,  many  a  sorry 
gap  filled  up  by  probable  or  certain 
conjectures,  many  a  line — nay,  even  a 
whole  author — restored  to  metrical 
form.  It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say 
that  the  face  of  classical  literature  has 
undergone,  and  is  undergoing,  a  pro- 
cess of  renovation. 

I  might  extend  my  illustrations  al- 
most infinitely.  There  is  comparative 
philology,  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
examples  of  what  can  be  effected  by 
scientific  research  in  the  field  of  lan- 
guage. It  has  opened  up  to  us 
glimpses  into  a  past  far  more  remote 
than  the  beginnings  of  history ;  it  has 
given  us  a  far  from  colourless  picture 
of  early  Aryan  civilisation,  and  a  still 
fuller  account  of  the  periods  when 
the  western  Aryans  separated  from 
their  eastern  kinsfolk.  I  might  quote 
the  marvellous  discoveries  in  the 
history  of  Assyria  and  Egypt,  the 
deciphering  of  the  cuneiform  cha- 
racter and  the  hieroglyphics.  There 
is  comparative  mythology,  which  has 
brought  to  light  the  various  deposits 
of  nature  worship,  hero  worship,  and 
primitive  custom  embedded  in  the  soil 
of  language,  like  the  remains  of  ex- 
tinct animals  in  the  crust  of  the  earth. 
All  these  sciences  are  sisters  german 
of  anthropology  and  archaeology.  To 
sketch  the  early  condition  of  man 
many  different  kinds  of  evidence  must 
be  pressed  into  the  service ;  and  the 
study  of  language  is  not  the  least  of 
them. 

By  a  similar  argument  I  might  es- 
tablish the  claims  of  history,  of  soci- 
ology, of  political  economy  to  the  name 
of  sciences.  All  the  great  products  of 
human  thought  and  human  life  may 
form  the  subject-matter  of  science,  if 
examined  on  scientific  principles. 

Let  us,  then,  cease  to  oppose  one 
subject  to  another  as  scientific  and 
non-scientific.  The  distinction  is  not 
in  subjects,  but  in  methods  of  treating 
them.  Let  us  hold  fast  to  the  position 


that  science  is  a  particular  method  of 
treating  subjects,  leading  to  results  of 
a  particular  kind. 

I  am  not  going  to  discuss  the  ques- 
tion of  the  school  curriculum.  But 
even  at  the  risk  of  seeming  to  adopt 
the  platform  that  there  is  "  nothing 
like  leather,"  I  will  say  one  word 
upon  the  educational  value  of  these 
studies.  If  scientific  in  themselves, 
they  may  be  so  taught  as  to  furnish  a 
scientific  discipline.  The  highest  ideal 
of  teaching  is  that  which  follows  the 
path  of  discovery,  leading  the  pupil 
along  lines  which  an  original  dis- 
coverer pursued,  or  might  have  pur- 
sued. And  I  do  not  know  that  there 
is  any  better  field  for  educating  the 
logical  powers  than  the  scientific  treat- 
ment of  language  and  the  products  of 
literature.  Am  I  confronted  with  the 
statement  that  these  studies  depend  on 
authority  ?  Not,  I  reply,  if  they  are 
taught  and  studied  rationally.  Whose 
authority  1  Not  the  authority  of  the 
classics  themselves.  The  days  are 
past  when  men  set  the  classics  of 
Greece  and  Home  on  an  icy  pinnacle  of 
excellence  by  themselves,  unapproach- 
able by  the  literary  masters  of  other 
countries.  All  serious  students  of  the 
classics  know,  or  ought  to  know,  that 
not  all  the  writers  of  Greece  and  Rome 
are  equally  worthy  of  admiration  and 
imitation.  Nor  would  any  classical 
teacher,  I  imagine,  claim  special  con- 
sideration for  any  opinions  expressed 
by  these  writers.  Is  it  the  authority 
of  the  grammar  that  is  referred  to  ?  I 
reply  that  a  grammar  is  not  the  arbi- 
trary creation  of  schoolmasters,  but 
the  record  of  law  discovered  by  the 
patient  observation  of  ages,  and  liable 
to  revision  by  any  independent  in- 
quirer into  the  phenomena  of  lan- 
guage. No,  the  doctrine  of  the  in- 
fallibility of  the  Eton  grammar,  like 
the  doctrine  of  the  plenary  inspiration 
of  manuscripts,  has  had  its  day.  I 
believe  that  so  far  from  fostering  a 
blind  adherence  to  authority,  there  is 
no  discipline  more  helpful  in  liberating 
the  mind  from  the  thraldom  of  words. 
Hear  one,  who  cannot  himself  be 


8 


Culture  and  Science. 


charged  with  any  prejudice  in  favour 
of  authority — the  late  John  Stuart 
Mill : — "  To  question  all  things,  never 
to  turn  away  from  any  difficulty,  to  ac- 
cept no  doctrine  either  from  ourselves 
or  from  other  people  without  a  rigid 
scrutiny  by  negative  criticism ;  letting 
no  fallacy  or  incoherence  or  confusion 
of  thought  step  by  unperceived  ;  above 
all,  to  insist  upon  having  the  meaning 
of  a  word  clearly  understood  before 
using  it,  and  the  meaning  of  a  propo- 
sition before  assenting  to  it — these  are 
the  lessons  we  learn  from  ancient 
dialecticians."  And  again,  "  In  cul- 
tivating the  ancient  languages.  .  .  . 
we  are  all  the  while  laying  an  admir- 
able foundation  for  ethical  and  philo- 
sophical culture." 

And  this  is  not  the  expression  of  an 
isolated  opinion.  The  unanimous  and 
maturely -considered  verdict  of  the 
University  of  Berlin,  contained  in  the 
memorial  addressed  in  the  year  1880 
to  the  Prussian  Minister  of  Education 
on  the  question  of  the  admission  of 
Realschiiler — pupils  of  modern  schools 
— to  the  University,  constitutes,  per- 
haps, the  most  important  modern  tes- 
timony to  the  value  of  a  classical  edu- 
cation. This  memorial  was  signed  by 
all  the  members  of  the  philosophical 
faculty,  including  such  names  as 
Hoffmann,  the  chemist ;  Helmholtz, 
the  physicist ;  Peters,  the  naturalist ; 
Zeller,  the  philosopher;  as  well  as 
Mommsen,  the  classical  philologist ; 
Zupitza,  the  English  philologist; 
Curtius,  the  historian.  I  am  aware 
that  the  whole  of  Germany  is  not 
unanimous  upon  the  educational  ques- 
tions raised  in  the  Berlin  memorial ; 
but  they  are  nevertheless  worthy  of 
our  most  earnest  attention.  The  in- 
teresting point  of  the  memorial  is  the 
emphasis  with  which  it  insists  on  the 
value  of  classical  philology  in  cultivat- 
ing what  it  calls  "  the  ideality  of  the 
scientific  sense,  the  interest  in  science 
not  dependent  upon,  nor  limited  by, 
practical  aims,  but  ministering  to  the 
liberal  education  of  the  mind  as  such, 
the  many-sided  and  broad  exercise  of 
the  thinking  faculty."  By  science  is 


of  course  here  meant  not  merely  the 
science  of  nature.  But  the  science  of 
nature  is  included.  Germany  has  built 
temples  and  palaces  for  the  study  of 
nature,  as  Professor  Hoffmann  says. 
But  she  cultivates  philology  side  by 
side  with  nature  more  assiduously 
than  ever;  and  here  we  have  some 
of  her  leading  physicists  and  natural- 
ists joining  hands  with  the  philologists, 
and  coming  forward  to  tell  the  world 
that  they  Consider  classics  not  in  the 
light  of  a  foe,  but  rather  as  a  discipline 
of  peculiar  value  as  a  preparation  for 
other  scientific  pursuits.  And  the 
German  Universities  are  schools  of 
universal  learning.  Here  are  a  few 
statistics.  In  the  year  1880  the  Ger- 
man Universities  numbered  in  all 
eighteen  hundred  and  nine  teachers, 
including  extraordinary  professors  and 
Privat-Docenten.  Of  these,  nine  hun- 
dred and  thirty  belonged  to  the  philo- 
sophical faculty,  which  includes  what 
we  should  call  the  faculties  of  science 
and  arts.  Now,  how  are  these  nine 
hundred  and  thirty  teachers  distri- 
buted ?  About  one-third  of  them  re- 
present mathematics  and  the  sciences 
of  nature;  the  other  two-thirds  are 
engaged  upon  classical  philology,  ori- 
ental philology,  modern  philology  (the 
latter  two  branches  are  increasing  in 
numbers  from  year  to  year),  arch- 
seology,  history,  political  science,  and 
philosophy.  The  numbers  at  Leipsic 
were  : 

Total  of  ordinary  professors  (not  includ- 
ing extraordinary  professors  and  Privat- 
Docenten) 34 

f  Professors  of  Classical  Philology 5 

Oriental     and    Modem 

Philology 9 

23 1                        Archaeology 2 

History 2 

Philosophy 2 

Political  Economy 3 

Mathematics    and    As- 
tronomy    4 

Physical    and    Natural 

Science 7 

If  we  consider  the  numbers  of 
students,  the  proportions  are  similar. 
In  1881-82,  the  German  Universities 
numbered  about  twenty-four  thousand 


Culture  and  Science. 


students ;  of  these,  nine  thousand 
five  hundred  were  members  of  the 
philosophical  faculty  —  rather  more 
than  five  students  for  each  professor. 
And  the  percentages  of  their  distribu- 
tion were : — 

Students  of  Philology,  Philoso- 
phy, History,  &c 63  per  cent. 

Students  of  Mathematics  and 
the  Sciences  of  Nature 37  ,, 

But  I  must  in  fairness  also  mention 
the  fact  that  during  forty  years  the 
students  of  mathematics  and  the 
sciences  of  nature  have  increased  ten- 
fold, while  those  of  philology  and  his- 
tory have  not  yet  been  tripled ;  and  also 
that  of  the  three-fold  increase  in  stu- 
dents of  philology,  a  large  part  is  due 
to  the  students  of  modern  philology. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  ten-fold  in- 
crease is  largely  due  to  the  mathema- 
ticians. And  it  is  a  curious  fact  that 
the  study  of  medicine  is  not  making 
such  strides  in  popular  favour  as  the 
philological  and  historical  sciences.1 

I  cannot  give  you  accurate  statistics 
about  France  or  America ;  but  the 
recent  announcement  of  the  prospectus 
of  the  Johns  Hopkins  University  in 
Baltimore,  of  no  less  than  thirteen 
advanced  courses  of  lectures  in  ori- 
ental philology  alone,  shows  that  one 
university  of  the  United  States,  at 
any  rate,  does  not  regard  physical 
science  and  philology  as  inconsistent 
ends. 

The  nineteenth  century — the  "so- 
called  nineteenth  century,"  as  an 
indignant  and  sarcastic  lecturer  is  said 
to  have  called  it — is  marked  by  a 
powerful  re-action  against  the  tradi- 
tion of  an  exclusive  classical  education. 
France  led  the  way,  at  the  end  of  last 
century,  by  abolishing  her  classical 
schools  and  setting  up  polytechnics  in 
their  place ;  and  although  she  soon 
repented  and  returned  to  the  paths  of 
Greek  and  Latin,  recent  changes,  and 
especially  those  made  under  the  minis- 
try of  M.  Jules  Ferry  in  1880,  seem  to 
point  to  another  oscillation  in  the 

1  See  Conrad's  German  Universities  for  the 
last  Fifty  Years,  translated  by  J.  Hutchison. 


direction  of  the  ideas  of  the  Revolution. 
Germany  is  agitated  by  the  question  of 
modern  as  against  classical  education. 
In  England,  one  parliamentary  com- 
mission after  another  has  reported 
upon  the  deficient  provision  for  science 
teaching  in  our  public  and  endowed 
schools,  apparently  without  much  effect 
upon  the  majority  of  schools  in  ques- 
tion. Physical  science  and  modern 
languages  are  in  revolt,  demanding — 
and  demanding  justly — a  fair  recogni- 
tion in  our  school  curriculum.  The 
claims  of  their  most  accredited  cham- 
pions are  strictly  moderate,  and  the 
enlightened  educationist  must,  I  think, 
pronounce  their  revolt  to  be  completely 
justified,  and  sympathise  with  an  agi- 
tation the  object  of  which  is  to  remove 
the  educational  ban  laid  by  our  tradi- 
tional system  upon  the  study  of  nature 
and  modern  languages. 

But  sometimes  physical  science, 
arrogating  the  broader  name  of  science, 
takes  up  an  aggressive  attitude,  and 
exhibits  a  special  animus  against  what 
it  calls  "dead  languages."  "Sweep 
away  the  lumber  of  the  middle  ages," 
it  cries ;  "  cease  mumbling  of  the  dry 
bones^  of  "your|  classics,  and  open  the 
book  "of  nature."  It  would  appear 
that  physical  science,  like  Ireland, 
cannot  get  her  grievances  redressed 
without  threatening  the  sister  realm. 
But  this  attitude  of  aggression  is 
essentially  of  the  nature  of  temporary 
reaction  ;  its  representatives  might  do 
well  to  bear  in  mind  that  a  reaction, 
pushed  too  far,  may  provoke  a  counter 
reaction. 

But  thisr^is{by  way  of  digression. 
Permit  me  to  remind  you  of  the  general 
drift  of  my  argument.  So  far  I  have 
been  claiming  language  and  literature 
as  departments  of  science.  But  this 
was  not  my  main  object.  My  main 
object  is  to  define  the  relations  of 
science  and  letters  to  culture. 

Perhaps  it  is  unnecessary  for  me 
to  dwell  much  upon  the  importance  of 
science  as  an  element  of  culture.  But 
I  desire  to  lay  some  emphasis  upon 
what  I  may  call  the  formative  function 
of  science,  because  in  the  first  place  I 


io 


Culture  and  Science. 


have  extended  tbe  use  of  the  word, 
and  in  the  second  place  there  is  one 
point  of  view  in  which  the  man  of 
science,  and  especially  the  student  of 
nature,  appears  to  be  often  misunder- 
stood. "  A  mere  specialist  "  has  be- 
come a  term  of  reproach.  Now  I  will 
not  deny  that  specialism  has  its  dan- 
gers. We  all  know  the  scarabseist  of 
Wendell  Holmes,  who  sunk  his  life 
in  beetles,  and  regarded  the  man  pro- 
fessing to  be  an  entomologist  as  neces- 
sarily a  humbug.  There  is  the  classi- 
cal scholar  who,  as  JByron  says  : — 

"  Of    Grecian  dramas  _  vaunts   the    deathless 

fame, 

Of  Avon's    bard    remembering   scarce  the 
name." 

There  is  the  German  student  of 
American  politics  who  follows  the 
minutest  ramifications  of  parties  across 
the  Atlantic,  but  has  neither  thought 
nor  interest  for  the  political  problems 
of  his  own  country.  Science  is  long, 
life  short.  And  we  are  sometimes 
tempted  to  fear  that  science  may  be- 
come so  split  up — like  the  practical 
arts — that  every  man  will  be  working 
at  a  branch  of  the  subject  which  no 
one  cares  for  or  can  understand  except 
himself. 

"  Im  engen  Kreis  verengert  sich  der  Sinn,"  * 

says  Goethe.  "  Culture  means  com- 
pensation of  bias,"  says  Emerson ;  and 
in  a  similar  spirit  Dr.  Martineau,  the 
venerable  ex-principal  of  Manchester 
New  College,  has  recently  told  us  that 
he  compelled  himself  when  a  young 
man  to  devote  his  best  energies  to  the 
subjects  for  which  he  had  no  aptitude, 
leaving  those  for  which  he  had  a  gift 
to  take  care  of  themselves.  So  con- 
siderable are  the  dangers  of  specialism. 
But  there  is  another  side  to  the 
picture.  I  submit  that  specialism 
may  be  claimed  as  an  essential  element 
in  the  life  of  the  mind,  and  that  from 
the  point  of  view  of  culture.  This 
may  sound  paradoxical ;  but  a  man's 
bias  is  at  least  part  of  himself  ;  and 
there  is  something  in  the  consecration 

1  "In  a  narrow  sphere  the  mind  becomes 
narrowed." 


of  all  the  faculties  to  a  limited  field, 
which  braces  the  mind  and  gives  it 
intellectual  grip.  Specialism  means 
depth  of  insight,  the  probing  a  subject 
to  the  core ;  it  means  discovery,  it 
means  originality.  I  believe  it  means 
development  of  character  and  growth 
of  the  capacity  for  knowledge.  Let 
me  compare  the  mind  to  a  house  with 
many  windows.  For  a  vital  compre- 
hension of  truth,  I  would  prefer  to 
look  through  one  window  thoroughly 
cleaned,  than  through  all  of  them  only 
half  purified  from  the  obscuring 
medium  of  error  and  prejudice.  To 
the  young  student  especially  I  would 
say :  "  Clean  one  of  your  windows  ;  be 
not  content  until  there  is  one  branch 
of  your  subject  —  if  it  be  only  one 
branch  of  a  branch — which  you  under- 
stand as  thoroughly  as  you  are  capable 
of  understanding  it,  until  your  sense 
of  truth  is  satisfied,  and  you  have 
intellectual  conviction.'7  Be  assured 
that  in  learning  this  one  thing  you 
will  have  added  an  eye  to  your  mind, 
an  instrument  to  your  thought,  and 
potentially  have  learned  many  things. 
In  the  life  of  the  mature  investigator 
specialism  plays  a  similar  part ;  to 
remain  healthy,  he  must  continually 
drink  deep  at  the  fountain  head  ;  he 
must  go  further  than  others  have  gone 
before  him;  and  to  this  end  he  must 
devote  what  may  seem  to  outsiders  an 
abnormal  amount  of  time  and  energy 
to  his  special  department.  It  is  too 
common  an  experience  that  the  man 
of  mere  general  culture  loses  interest 
in  what  he  "studies ;  his  mind  ranges 
over  wide  tracts,  through  which  he  is 
guided  by  no  central  idea  or  dominant 
conviction ;  he  acquires  a  habit  of 
thinking,  like  the  typical  Oxford  man, 
that  "there  is  nothing  new,  nothing 
true,  and  it  does  not  much  matter." 
The  cure  for  this  intellectual  ailment 
is  concentration.  Let  the  sufferer 
make  some  little  plot  of  ground  his 
own;  let  him  penetrate  through  and 
beyond  the  region  of  literary  ortho- 
doxy, and  he  will  find  that  the  universe 
is  not  exhausted  by  even  the  highest 
thoughts  of  the  greatest  minds ;  that 


Culture  and  Science. 


11 


truth  has  ever  new  lights  for  the 
inquirer,  and  that  the  humble  efforts 
of  pigmies  like  himself  may  by  com- 
bination lead  to  the  scaling  of  heights 
which  even  giants  could  not  take  by 
storm. 

Do  not,  then,  neglect  the  scientific 
attitude  in  your  studies.  Whatever 
it  be  that  you  are  engaged  upon — 
whether  chemistry  or  physics,  or  bio- 
logy or  geology,  whether  mathematics 
or  classics,  or  some  modern  language 
or  literature — make  it  your  effort,  if 
possible,  to  be  a  discoverer,  on  however 
small  a  scale,  or  at  any  rate  to  exer- 
cise independent  thought. 

I  have  accentuated  the  importance 
of  the  scientific  attitude  in  the  develop- 
ment of  mind.  But  a  further  and 
important  question  remains.  Is  the 
scientific  attitude  the  only  and  all- 
sufficient  attitude  ?  Let  us  consider 
more  closely  what  the  method  of 
science  involves.  The  object  of  science 
is  essentially  to  arrange  phenomena 
in  the  most  simple  way — to  introduce 
order  into  our  conceptions  of  things. 
To  effect  this,  each  science  adopts  a 
single  point  of  view,  and  is  compelled 
to  deal  with  single  aspects  of  things — 
employs,  in  fact,  division  of  labour.  For 
to  treat  all  aspects  at  once  would  be  to 
introduce  cross  divisions  into  science, 
and  so  make  it  unscientific.  Thus 
mathematics,  for  instance,  deals  with 
things  from  the  point  of  view  of 
number  and  space ;  physics  treats 
them  as  exhibiting  energy  ;  chemistry 
as  compounded  or  uncompounded ; 
biology  as  living ;  psychology  as  think- 
ing and  feeling  ;  sociology  as  living  in 
societies  or  states.  Comte  sketched 
out  a  pyramid  of  the  sciences,  in  which 
they  were  arranged  in  a  sort  of  hier- 
archy of  complexity ;  at  the  base  the 
most  general  and  simple,  at  the  apex 
the  most  special  and  complex.  But, 
whether  more  or  less  complex,  each 
science  deals  with  its  one  aspect  of 
things,  and  that  only.  No  single 
science  can  exhaust  even  the  smallest 
concrete  thing.  A  piece  of  chalk 
represents  for  the  physicist  a  certain 
group  of  forces ;  for  the  chemist  certain 


elements  combined  in  certain  propor- 
tions ;  for  the  geologist  a  certain  stage 
in  the  history  of  the  earth's  crust. 
To  the  political  economist  man  is 
wealth-producing,  for  political  eco- 
nomy deals  mainly  with  human  nature 
as  concerned  in  wealth.  Each  science, 
then,  consciously  limits  its  view,  in 
order  that  it  may  give  a  more  com- 
plete account  of  one  phase  of  things — 
directs  its  energies  into  one  channel 
in  order  to  give  force  to  the  stream. 
In  other  words,  science  is  abstract. 

But  man  is  not  content  always  to 
confine  his  view  to  aspects  of  things ; 
he  needs  also  to  regard  them  as 
wholes.  It  is  true  that  the  several 
sciences  to  a  certain  extent  supple- 
ment one  another.  The  man  who  is 
acquainted  with  physics,  chemistry, 
geology,  and  other  sciences,  has  an 
insight  into  several  aspects  of  the 
same  lump  of  chalk.  But  still  the 
unity,  the  wholeness,  may  be  missed. 
For,  though  the  whole  is  made  up  of  its 
parts,  it  cannot  be  conceived  by  addi- 
tion of  isolated  conceptions  of  parts. 
This  has  been  expressed  with  fine 
sarcasm  by  Goethe's  Mephistopheles : — 

"  Wer  will    was    Lebendig's   erkennen    und 

beschreiben, 

Sucht  erst  den  Geist  herauszutreiben, 
Dann  hat  er  die  Theile  in  seiner  Hand, 
Fehlt  leider  nur  das  geistige  Band. "  * 

How,  then,  are  we  to  grasp  the 
"  spirit  that  binds  things  together  2  " 
The  answer  is,  by  another  than  the 
scientific  method — by  the  method  of 
poetry.  Science  analyses  and  arranges 
according  to  special  aspects ;  poetry 
bodies  forth  conceptions  of  wholes, 
rejecting  all  definition  by  limitation, 
sacrificing  detail  for  breadth.  The 
poet's  aim  is  to  build  up  again  in  his 
own  soul  the  unity  of  things,  which 
science  is  always  breaking  down  ;  to 
find  in  the  universe  an  object  which 
can  satisfy  the  claims  of  his  emotional 
as  well  as  his  intellectual,  nature. 

1  "The  man  who  seeks  to  know  and  de- 
scribe a  living  thing  first  drives  the  spirit  out 
of  it :  he  then  holds  the  parts  in  his  hand ; 
but  alas  !  the  spirit  that  bound  them  together 
has  departed." 


12 


Cultilre  and  Science. 


Thus,  if  in  one  sense  it  is  true  that 
poetry  always  lags  a  little  behind 
science,  turning  the  laborious  results 
of  one  generation  into  the  fairy 
tales  of  the  next,  in  another  sense 
poetry  anticipates  science ;  the  vision 
of  the  poet  dimly  traces  out  the  lines 
along  which  the  science  of  the  future 
will  march.  Shall  I  seem  to  be  trying 
to  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with 
the  hounds,  if  I  say  that  some  of  the 
highest  generalisations  of  science 
appear  to  me  to  be  in  large  degree 
of  the  nature  of  poetry — anticipations 
of  nature,  conceived  and  believed  long 
before  anything  like  adequate  evi- 
dence was  forthcoming  'I  I  would 
name  the  doctrines  of  the  conserva- 
tion of  energy  and  the  evolution  of 
life.  The  latter  may  be  read,  in  a 
somewhat  archaic  form,  in  the  philo- 
sophic poem  of  Lucretius,  written 
nearly  two  thousand  years  ago ;  and  I 
can  well  believe  that  it  was  present 
to  Darwin  as  a  poetic  idea  before  he 
conceived  of  the  exact  method  of  its 
demonstration. 

No  doubt  poetry  must  renounce  the 
severity  and  caution  of  which  science 
is  so  justly  proud.  For  the  objects  at 
which  the  poet  "  throws  out  "his  con- 
ception are  too  great  to  be  compassed 
by  definition,  and  his  ideas  will  often 
be  pronounced  faulty  by  the  future 
researcher.  But  he  is  content  in  his 
own  sphere  of  work — that  of  a  maker 
or  creator — knowing  that  his  results, 
too,  are  unapproachable  by  the  scien- 
tific man.  No  amount  of  psychology 
would  create  a  Hamlet. 

And,  if  the  results  of  poetry  are 
different  from  those  of  science,  so  is 
the  form  into  which  the  poet  throws 
his  ideas.  He  does  not  aim  at  an 
iron  rigidity  of  logical  proof,  but 
rather  at  a  lightness  of  touch  which 
hints  rather  than  demonstrates,  veils 
while  it  unveils.  The  ideal  of  science 
is  exhaustive  demonstration;  that  of 
poetry  imaginative  creation.  The  poet 
does  not  attempt  to  give  new  know- 
ledge ;  rather  he  takes  the  reader  into 
partnership,  and  tries,  by  the  power 
of  sympathy,  to  awaken  his  slumber- 


ing conceptions.  And  the  products 
of  literature  can  be  apprehended  only 
imaginatively.  If  we  seek  for  demon- 
stration, we  find  emptiness.  I  know 
of  a  young  man,  trained  in  mathe- 
matics and  Latin  grammar,  who  pa- 
tiently— almost  pathetically — read  and 
re-read  his  Sartor  Resartus  in  the  hope 
of  finding  a  syllogism  or  some  sem- 
blance of  a  proposition  of  Euclid  in  it, 
and  who  did  not  understand  it.  Like 
the  mathematical  reader  of  Paradise 
Lost,  he  could  not  make  out  that  it 
proved  anything.  Perhaps  it  would 
not  be  going  too  far  to  say  that,  in 
the  interests  of  science  itself,  we 
ought  to  cultivate  the  capacity  for  a 
non-scientific  attitude.  For  the  first 
attitude  in  approaching  an  object, 
whether  natural  or  literary,  should  be 
a  receptive  one.  The  widening  of 
one's  experience,  letting  things  tell 
their  own  tale,  even  the  attitude  of 
mere  passive  enjoyment,  will  often 
carry  the  beginner  further  in  under- 
standing than  a  relentless  search  for 
law. 

Nature,  then,  is  not  exhausted  by 
the  most  complete  inquiry  into  her 
laws  taken  separately.  It  still  re- 
mains to  conceive  her  as  a  whole — to 
apprehend  her  by  the  imagination ; 
and  some  of  her  secrets  reveal  them- 
selves less  to  the  microscope  than  to 
the  poetic  eye.  "  This  most  excellent 
canopy,  the  air,  look  you,  this  brave 
o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majestical 
roof  fretted  with  golden  fire" — how 
many  a  digger  and  delver  in  the  cause 
of  science  has  presented  to  them  a 
mind  petrified  by  absorption  in  a  fixed 
idea,  and  insensible  to  their  magic  1 
"  We  live  by  admiration "  is  one  of 
the  favourite  texts  of  Wordsworth. 
The  scientist  seeks  not  to  live,  but  to 
reduce  things  to  his  categories  of 
thought.  Like  Mr.  Browning's  Para- 
celsus : 

"  He  still  must  hoard  and  keep  and  class  all 

truths 
With  one  ulterior  purpose  :  he  must  know. " 

To  him  nature  is  indeed  never  a  mere 
"  pestilential  congregation  of  vapours." 


Culture  and  Science. 


13 


For  there  is  the  beauty  of  her  law 
ever  unfolding  itself  before  his  eyes  ; 
"  the  heavens  "  it  has  been  said,  "  de- 
clare to  him  the  glory  of  Kepler  and 
Newton."  But  this  is  not  all  their 
glory.  He  must  have  something  of 
the  poetic  mind  if  he  would  feel  the 
awe  and  rapture  with  which  Kant 
gazed  upon  the  starry  heavens,  and 
Linnaeus  upon  the  gorse  in  blossom ;  if 
he  would  see  nature  as  she  paints 
herself  upon  the  canvas  of  Turner ; 
if  he  would  love  her  as  Words- 
worth loved  her.  Otherwise  the  soul 
of  nature  escapes  his  ken  ;  we  may 
say  of  Nature  what  Schiller  says  of 
truth  generally  : 

"  Dich  zu  fangen,  ziehen  sie  aus  mit  Netzen 

und  Stangen, 

Aber  mit  Geistestritt  schreitest  du  mitten 
hindurch."  1 

Let  me  further  illustrate  this  diffe- 
rence of  attitude  in  dealing  with  the 
products  of  literature.  The  scientific 
observer  brings  them  into  the  field  of 
the  grammatical  microscope  or  the 
historic  telescope.  But  their  aroma  is 
apt  to  vanish  in  the  process.  One  may 
have  ransacked  the  Iliad  and  the 
Odyssey  to  discover  the  development 
of  a  mood  or  a  particle,  while  remain- 
ing wall-eyed  to  the  beauty  of  these 
poems ;  one  may  be  an  authority  on 
the  Homeric  question  without  having 
known  Homer.  I  would  not  call  such 
a  man  a  pedant ;  but  I  would  say  that 
he  has  confined  himself  to  one  aspect 
of  the  poet  and  missed  his  poetry.  A 
fair  country  lies  around  him,  waiting 
for  illumination  from  the  dawn  of 
poetic  imagination.  He  gropes  in  it, 
guided  only  by  the  uncertain  beams  of 
his  grammatical  candle.  For  to  enter 
into  the  conceptions  of  the  poet,  one 
must  be  something  of  a  poet  oneself ; 
one  needs,  at  any  rate,  some  literary 
experience.  A  sense  of  humour  is 
one  thing ;  an  inquiry  into  the 
humorous — the  rationale  of  humour 
— is  quite  another. 

1  "To  catch  thee  they  take  the  field  with 
nets  and  poles  ;  but  thou,  like  a  spirit,  passest 
through  the  midst  of  them. " 


I  think  a  protest  is  needed  at 
the  present  day  against  an  exclusive 
devotion  to  the  scientific  side  of 
literature,  and  especially  of  classical 
literature.  The  laws  and  history  of 
the  classical  languages  are  the  main 
objects  of  work  in  our  classical 
schools  and  universities ;  grammar 
tends  to  replace  literature,  prosody 
is  substituted  for  poetry,  and  little 
room  is  left  for  the  play  of  con- 
templative imagination.  This  perhaps 
cannot  be  otherwise  so  long  as  we  live 
under  the  whips  and  scorpions  of  an 
exigent  examination  system ;  for  the 
scientific  side  of  literature  presents 
obvious  advantages,  in  the  examination 
room,  both  to  examiners  and  exami- 
ned. Literary  culture,  like  astronomy, 
does  not  pay.  So  our  students  learn 
to  translate  and  compose,  but  not  to 
read  or  appreciate;  and  the  literary 
artists  are  approached  through  the 
medium  of  what  the  scientific  scholars 
have  said  about  them.  It  is  commonly 
believed  abroad  that  the  English  man 
of  business,  or  country  squire,  re- 
freshes his  soul  during  the  long  winter 
evenings  by  reading  his  Yirgil  or 
Horace.  This  is,  I  am  told,  an  ex- 
aggeration, and  likely  to  be  less  true 
since  it  has  ceased  to  be  the  fashion 
for  members  of  Parliament  to  quote 
Horace  in  the  House — or  at  any  rate 
to  quote  him  correctly.  However,  in 
the  treatment  of  the  classics  as  litera- 
ture, we  might  perhaps  do  well  to 
remember  the  best  traditions  of  Eng- 
lish scholarship,  and  emulate  the  wider 
and  more  liberal  reading  of  the  age 
of  Bentley. 

Again  in  history  we  have  the  same 
two  elements — the  scientific  and  the 
purely  literary.  I  have  no  wish  to 
depreciate  the  great  achievements  of 
scientific  history — a  science  which  has 
resulted  in  discoveries  as  instructive 
as  those  of  palaeontology  or  geology. 
It  is  an  admirable  thing  to  weigh 
evidence,  and  to  correct  hasty  judg- 
ments by  fuller  research  ;  but  history, 
written  in  this  spirit  only,  loses  its 
power  of  inspiration,  of  kindling  the 
imagination  at  the  thought  of  great 


Culture  and  Science. 


deeds  and  great  men,  and  of  carrying 
the  reader  on  the  wings  of  sympathy 
into  a  remote  past.  And  this — its 
dramatic  or  poetic  function — is  surely 
one  at  least  of  the  functions  of  history. 

Here  then  you  have  my  conception 
.of  the  prime  essentials  of  culture  in 
the  two  attitudes  of  mind — the  scien- 
tific and  the  poetic.  Intellectual  man- 
hood is  not  reached  till  concentration, 
exact  inquiry,  begins  ;  but  the  mind 
grows  poor  without  the  poetical  spirit. 
There  is  one  truth  of  science,  and  an- 
other of  poetry,  and  both  are  indispens- 
able. But  it  is  not  many  subjects  that 
are  needed  for  culture ;  rather  it  is  a 
manysidedness  of  mind  by  which  to 
conceive  things  both  scientifically  and 
imaginatively.  To  maintain  this  two- 
fold attitude  is,  I  know,  not  easy. 
Men  inspired  with  the  ardour  of  pur- 
suit, and  conscious  of  the  limitless  field 
of  research  right  ahead,  may  say  with 
Luther,  "  God  help  me,  I  can  no 
other  ;  "  and  he  would  be  a  bold  man 
who  ventured  to  cast  a  stone  at  them. 

"  The  ink  of  science,"  says  a  Mo- 
hammedan proverb,  "  is  more  precious 
than  the  blood  of  martyrs."  But  the 
victories  of  science  too  have  been 
achieved  not  without  sweat  and  blood. 
Let  us  not  fail  to  remember  the  cost 
to  the  intellectual  martyrs  them- 
selves. They  have  nobly  served  hu- 
manity ;  but  they  have  sacrificed  their 
own  development.  The  Nemesis  is  in- 
evitable ;  we  cannot,  for  our  own  sakes, 
afford  to  be  less  than  cultured.  Nay, 
we  cannot  afford  to  be  less  than  cul- 
tured for  others'  sakes.  Culture  as 
well  as  science  has  its  altruistic  side. 
Society  is  the  gainer  by  every  com- 
plete unit  that  is  added  to  it,  and 
enriched  by  every  ideal  human 
creature. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  he  who 
commands  both  attitudes  of  mind 
possesses  all  knowledge.  Man's  mind 
I  have  compared  to  a  house  with 
many  windows  :  some  of  them,  let  us 
say,  look  out  upon  the  trees  and 
flowers  of  the  garden  ;  others  are 
turned  towards  the  street,  crowded 
with  human  life ;  its  skylights  look 


upon  the  heavens.  Doubtless  it  were 
a  grand  thing  to  have  knowledge  of 
all  the  great  objects  of  human  con- 
templation ;  but  we  must  recognise  the 
limitations  of  our  nature,  and  renounce 
the  impossible. 

On  the  other  hand,  we  may  con- 
sole ourselves  with  the  reflection 
that  one  subject  deeply  studied  in- 
volves examination  of  others.  No  man 
can  thoroughly  probe  a  difficult  ques- 
tion of  law  without  coming  upon 
problems  of  morals,  politics,  and 
religion  ;  no  one  can  carry  his  re- 
searches into  language  far  without 
solving  on  the  way  many  a  question 
of  logic  and  even  metaphysics.  In  this 
way  one  science  leads  over  to  another  ; 
and  the  specialist  is  not  so  incomplete 
as  he  is  sometimes  supposed  to  be. 
His  knowledge  stretches  itself  out  in 
many  directions,  like  the  branches  of 
a  tree,  which  spring  from  a  single 
trunk  and  are  centred  in  it.  Still  no 
man  can  be  a  master  of  all  sciences. 

But  there  is  one  kind  of  knowledge 
of  which  we  must  all  take  account — 
all  must  be  students  in  the  school  of 
life  and  manners.  Some  practical  ex- 
perience of  men  and  affairs  is  essential 
to  character  and  social  refinement. 

"  Es  bildet  em  Talent  sich  in  der  Stille  ; 
Sich.  ein  Charakter  in  dem  Strom  der  Welt."1 

For  those  who  have  not  yet  stepped 
forth  into  the  arena  of  public  life, 
there  is  the  microcosm  of  school  or 
college  in  which  they  may  learn  many 
of  the  lessons  which  the  great  world 
teaches.  This  social  life  is  a  hardly 
less  important  feature  of  n.  college  than 
the  lecture  room.  And  I  hope  that 
while  in  the  latter  you  will  imbibe 
something  more  than  you  can  get  from 
books,  catching  the  contagion  of  the 
lecture  room  and  laboratory — the  vis 
viva  of  nascent  thought — you  will,  by 
contact  with  one  another  in  the  com- 
mon rooms  and  Union,  gain  that  edu- 
cation of  which  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
are  so  justly  proud — the  experience  of 
the  world,  which  makes  a  man. 

1  "  Genius  develops  in  retirement  ;  a 
character  in  the  stream  of  life."— GOETHE. 


Culture  and  Science. 


15 


Let  me  cast  a  brief  glance  upon  the 
general  aim  and  purport  of  what  I 
have  said.  The  prime  essentials  of  cul- 
ture are  science  and  poetry ;  and  they 
may  be  cultivated  without  spreading 
ourselves  impartially  over  the  whole 
field  of  knowledge,  without  ascetically 
denying  our  special  bent.  One  branch 
of  either  of  the  great  departments, 
nature  and  literature,  may  give  us 
scope  for  both  energies  of  soul ;  but 
the  student  of  nature  cannot  be  inde- 
pendent of  the  aid  of  poetry,  unless, 
indeed,  he  is  a  poet  himself.  Farther, 
in  resigning  claims  to  universal  know- 
ledge, we  may  remember  that  to 
command  one  department  is  to  com- 
mand many  potentially,  and  even 
involves  inquiry  into,  and  partial  grasp 
of,  subjects  lying  outside  it.  Finally, 
life  is  long  enough  to  admit  of  our 
making  practical  experience  of  our 
fellow  men,  without  which  we  our- 
selves are  scarcely  human. 

I  do  not  know  whether  my  concep- 
tion of  the  distinction  between  science 
and  poetry  will  be  accepted.  I  am 
aware  that  some  philosophers — even 
Plato — give  a  very  different  account  of 
poetry,  reducing  it  to  mere  imitation 
and  subjective  fancy.  The  position  of 
co-ordinator  which  I  have  given  to 
poetry  is  assigned  by  Plato  to 
dialectic,  that  is,  philosophy,  which 
he  calls  the  "  coping  stone  of  the 
sciences."  But  I  think  you  will  agree 
with  me  that  there  is  a  difference 
between  poetry  and  science,  and  that 
both  are  essential  elements  of  culture. 
And  perhaps  what  Plato  means  by 
"  philosophy  "  is  not.  after  all,  so  very 
different  from  what  I  mean  by  poetry 
— from  the  highest  kind  of  poetry. 
Philosophy  might  be  called  poetry 
in  undress.  The  late  Mark  Patti- 
son  spoke  of  philosophy  as  a  dis- 
position, a  method  oL  conceiving 
things — not  a  series  of  demonstra- 
ble propositions.  In  this  sense  it 
means  the  power  of  escaping  from 
one's  own  limitations,  and  of  rising  to 
higher  conceptions ;  the  capacity  of 
reverence  for  the  wider  universe  of 
which  one's  positive  knowledge  touches 


merely  the  fringe  ;  the  saving  know- 
ledge by  which  man  corrects  the 
tendencies  to  intellectual  arrogance  : 
and  this  is  what  I  mean  by  poetry. 

Plato  prophesied,  half  seriously,  that 
the  State  would  never  cease  from  ill 
till  philosophers  became  kings,  or 
kings  philosophers.  For  the  academic 
workers  of  the  future  I  do  not 
demand  royal  prerogatives.  But  if 
the  University  is  worthy  of  its  calling 
the  people  will  look  to  it  for  intellec- 
tual light  and  leading.  England  is 
waking  up  to  the  paramount  import- 
ance of  education ;  to  this  question 
the  new  Democracy  is  sure  to  turn 
with  increasing  earnestness.  Is  it 
too  much  to  hope  that  the  University 
will  hold  its  position  at  the  helm  of 
the  educational  system?  From  the 
University  the  nation  will  expect 
guidance  in  developing  the  education 
of  the  people ;  and  if  it  is  not  to  be 
false  to  its  trust,  it  must  take  up  the 
problem  of  education  in  a  serious,  in  a 
scientific  spirit.  Teaching  may  be 
called  a  science  or  an  art ;  but  the 
enlightened  know  that  it  admits  of 
definite  principles  and  of  progress ; 
and  progress,  even  in  details,  involves 
far-reaching  consequences  to  millions. 
In  the  science  of  education  England  is 
far  behind  the  foremost  nations  of 
Europe — perhaps  behind  America. 
This  deficiency  is  nothing  less  than  a 
"national  calamity."  To  faulty  and 
antiquated  methods  of  teaching  we 
may  safely  attribute  much  of  that  ill- 
success  in  the  race  of  life  of  which  we 
have  recently  heard  such  just  com- 
plaints. The  future  of  England  hangs 
not  only  on  the  recognition  of  physical 
science,  but  far  more  upon  the  creation 
of  a  high  ideal  of  teaching,  and  the 
total  abolition  of  that  senseless  ingur- 
gitation  of  compendious  statements, 
which  has  usurped  its  place  in  the 
national  consciousness. 

I  am  drawing  near  the  conclusion 
of  my  task.  I  fear  I  have  already 
taxed  your  patience  too  far.  One 
word  in  conclusion. 

A  genial  bishop  was  in  the  habit  of 
inquiring  from  his  candidates  for 


16 


Culture  and  Science. 


ordination  whether  they  were  married. 
"  Happy  man  !"  cried  the  prelate  if  the 
answer  was  given  in  the  affirmative ; 
if  in  the  negative,  his  formula  of 
benediction  was,  "  Lucky  dog."  In  a 
similar  spirit  I  would  address  the 
younger  members  of  this  college  who 
have  elected  to  be  members  of  the 
faculties  of  science  or  the  faculties  of 
arts  respectively.  Those  of  you  who 
pursue  physical  science  have  before 
you  a  sphere  worthy  of  all  the  highest 
energies  of  the  mind.  You  will  come 
into  direct  contact  with  Nature — get 
to  know  her,  not  at  second-hand  from 
her  blurred  reflection  in  books,  but 
face  to  face.  The  field  on  which  the 
victories  of  physical  science  have  been 
won  is  teeming  with  problems  of  the 
widest  bearing  on  many  questions  of 
the  day — social,  religious,  and  philo- 
sophical, as  well  as  natural.  To  the 
scientific  man  belongs  the  "  spirit  of 
the  great  world  brooding  upon  things 
to  come."  In  a  very  true  sense,  his 
is  the  future. 

To  the  students  of  what  I  must  still 
call  arts,  I  would  say  :  You  are  about 


to  make  personal  acquaintance  with 
the  great  minds  of  the  past.  Before 
you  there  will  unfold  itself  a  rich  and 
manifold  life,  to  which  you  may  be 
brought  very  near.  The  inheritance 
of  the  past  is  yours,  and  in  the  litera- 
ture of  your  own  and  other  countries 
you  may  study  the  great  generalisa- 
tions of  science,  clarified  by  their  pas- 
sage through  great  minds,  turned  to 
shape  and  incorporated  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  race  by  the  pen  of 
poet  and  philosopher. 

"  Happy  the  man,"  sang  Virgil, 
"  who  has  gained  a  knowledge  of  the 
causes  of  things,  and  trampled  all  fear 
under  foot,  and  risen  above  relentless 
Fate  and  the  hungry  clamour  of  death. 
Yet  not  less  blest  is  he  who  knows 
the  rustic  gods — even  Pan,  and  old 
Silvanus,  and  the  sister  nymphs." 

Thrice  happy  he  who  has  strength 
"  to  do  these  things,  and  not  to  leave 
the  others  undone."  Firmly  centred 
in  the  present,  he  reaches  a  hand  both 
to  the  past  and  to  the  future.  He  is, 
the  true  "  heir  of  all  the  ages," 


17 


AUSTRIA'S   POLICY   IN   THE   EAST. 


BEFORE  proceeding  to  examine  the 
position  which  Austria  has  assumed 
in  the  East,  it  will  be  profitable  to 
consider  the  course  she  has  pursued 
since  the  Six  Weeks'  War  thrust  her 
forth  from  the  German  Confederation. 
In  doing  so,  more  regard  must  be  had 
for  material  facts  than  for  the  diplo- 
matic bye-play  and  false  lights  which 
have  been  employed  to  conceal  the  true 
intent  of  her  designs  and  course  of 
policy.  The  exclusion  of  Austria  from 
the  German  Bund  having  left  her  states- 
men without  a  field  for  their  diplomatic 
activity  in  the  west,  impelled  them 
to  seek  new  openings  in  the  south- 
east for  the  exercise  of  the  propensity 
to  meddle  in  their  neighbours'  affairs 
which  has  been  a  dominating  vice  in 
the  policy  of  the  House  of  Hapsburg. 
The  early  intentions  of  Count  Beust, 
on  succeeding  to  the  direction  of 
Austro-Hungarian  affairs  in  1866, 
though  calculated  to  disturb  the  poli- 
tical status  quo  in  the  East  so  far  as 
the  unprogressive  Turkish  rule  in 
Europe  was  concerned,  appear  to  have 
been  founded  on  a  statesmanlike  and 
true  perception  of  the  necessities  of 
the  time.  The  Christian  populations 
of  the  Ottoman  Empire  were  for  the 
first  time  awakening  to  the  need  of 
higher  political  organisation,  in  which 
freer  scope  than  the  Turk  permitted 
should  be  found  for  their  intellectual 
and  material  development.  The  Ser- 
vian, Bulgarian,  and  Hellenic  races, 
groaning  through  centuries  of  despot- 
ism under  a  power  alien  alike  in  blood 
and  religion,  were  becoming  restless, 
and  striving,  feebly  though  it  may 
have  been,  to  throw  off  the  hateful 
yoke.  It  was  in  sympathy  with  their 
aspirations  and  needs  that  the  inten- 
tions of  Count  Beust  were  conceived, 
and  they  were  such  as  must  have  met 
with  the  approval  of  liberal-minded 
No.  313. — VOL.  LIII. 


men  both  in  England  and  Europe  at 
large.  But  in  lending  a  helping  hand 
to  the  Christians  of  the  Turkish 
dominions  in  Europe,  Count  Beust 
contemplated  no  violent  attack  on 
that  shadowy  fetish  of  British  poli- 
ticians for  so  many  years  after  the 
substance  had  ceased  to  exist — the 
integrity  and  independence  of  the 
Ottoman  Empire.  A  semi-political 
independence  under  the  sovereignty  of 
the  Sultan  was  all  that  was  aimed  at. 
It  is  not  necessary  here  to  specu- 
late on  what  might  have  been  the 
issue  of  this  change ;  suffice  it  to 
say  that  it  was  a  solution  at  once 
legitimate  and  eminently  pacific.  But 
it  did  not  meet  the  views  of  the  court 
party  at.  Vienna,  which  had  not  yet 
recovered  from  the  wound  to  its  pride 
and  obstinacy  inflicted  by  the  forced 
concession  of  Hungarian  legislative 
independence;  nor  did  it  enjoy  the 
approval  of  the  moving  spirit  which 
controls  from  Berlin  the  destinies  of 
Austria.  Foreign  and  internal  in- 
fluences, both  hostile  to  his  policy  in 
the  East,  helped  to  bring  about  Count 
Beust's  downfall,  and  paved  the  way 
for  the  advent  to  power  of  Count 
Andrassy  and  the  tortuou's  courses 
which  have  led  to  the  position  in 
which  Austria  now  finds  herself, 
whence  to  retrograde  or  to  advance 
is  equally  difficult  and  dangerous. 

The  first  steps  of  the  Andrassy  policy 
in  the  East  were  not,  however,  of  too 
pronounced  a  character,  nor  did  they 
by  any  means  indicate  the  full  inten- 
tions of  the  new  Chancellor ;  though 
had  the  Turks,  who  were  more  imme- 
diately concerned,  been  possessed  of 
greater  political  foresight,  they  must 
have  discerned  the  dangers  ahead. 
The  methods  adopted  were  peaceful, 
though  it  can  hardly  be  supposed  that 
they  were  misunderstood  by  Russia. 

c 


18 


Austria's  Policy  in  the  East 


Steamers  directed  from  Triest,  took  pos- 
session of  both  the  coasting  and  foreign 
trade  of  Turkey.     The  Danube  traffic 
was  monopolised  by  a  company  subsi- 
dised from  Vienna.     The  foreign  and 
internal  postal  system,  except  at  Con- 
stantinople, was  almost  completely  in 
the  hands  of  the  Austrian  Lloyd's,  and 
controlled  by  Austrian  officials.      But 
the    Turks    remained    blind    to    the 
dangers  of  the    situation,   and  made 
no  effort  to  extricate  themselves  from 
the  meshes  of  the  net  Austria  was  in- 
sensibly weaving  round  them.     It  is 
true    that    under     English     auspices 
attempts    were  made  to  develop   the 
postal  system  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Ottoman  Government ;  but  such  was 
the   obstruction   offered    by    Turkish 
officials,    in     many     cases     prompted 
from   outside,    that    no    practical    re- 
sult was  possible.     The  power  which 
the      apathy     and      indifference      of 
the  Turkish    Administration    in  this 
way    placed    in    the    hands    of    the 
Austrian  Government  was  unlimited. 
The  markets  of  Turkey  were  inundated 
with    Vienna    wares     and    Austrian 
manufactures    of    the    cheapest    and 
most  inferior  descriptions ;  their  cheap- 
ness enabling  them  to  completely  oust 
British  and  other  goods  from  markets 
in  which  the  latter  had  once  enjoyed 
the  monopoly.    The  Danube  commerce 
became  almost  exclusively  Austrian  ; 
and  the  traveller  in  the  East  found  no 
other  means  of  voyaging  from  port  to 
port  but  in  vessels  flying  the  nag  of 
the    empire-kingdom.       The   Turkish 
banner  was   nowhere  seen.      The  in- 
fluence conferred  by  the  control  of  the 
postal  system  of  the  Ottoman  Empire 
was  less  obvious  and  legitimate,  but 
infinitely  greater.       How  many  who 
have  resided  in  the  East  or  travelled 
there   can  tell  of  correspondence  de- 
layed or  missing  !     No  government  of 
Europe  knew  more  of  the  secrets  of 
the  East    than    that  of    the    Kaiser 
Franz  Josef,  with  its  control  of  the 
mail  bags    and    the     telegraph    wires 
carrying  the  news  of  the  East  to  the 
West.     The  exceptional  means  of  in- 
formation   which    it    thus    possessed 


enabled  the  Austrian  Cabinet,  or,  more 
properly  speaking,  the  Austrian  Chan- 
cellor, to  follow  at  ease  every  phase  in 
the  development  of  affairs  in  the   Sul- 
tan's dominions,  and  to  strike  in  with 
the    effect    possible    only    for    those 
familiar  with  each  spring  of  action. 
The  first  active  steps  of  Austria  in 
bringing  on  the  disintegration  of  the 
Turkish  Empire,  which  was  solemnly 
registered   at   Berlin    in    1878,    were 
taken    in   Bosnia    and    Herzegovina. 
The  movements  of  the  Panslavists  in 
Bulgaria  through  their  committees  at 
Bucharest  and   in  Russia    were   well 
known,    and    their    aims    thoroughly 
understood,  at  Vienna.     Accordingly, 
in  1875,  measures  leading  to  a  rising 
in  Herzegovina  were  planned.     Agents 
provocateurs  were  sent  to  prepare  the 
way.     The   visit  of   the    Emperor   of 
Austria  to  Dalmatia  in  April  of  that 
year,    and    his    reception    of    deputa- 
tions from  Herzegovina,  were  details 
diligently     and     elaborately     carried 
out.     Their  meaning,  however,  was  not 
hidden  entirely  from  the  Turks,  whose 
suspicions   appear   to  have  been  now 
effectually  roused.     -In  May,  just  after 
the  Austrian  Emperor   had  returned 
from  Dalmatia,  the  Turks  began  send- 
ing ammunition,  arms,  accoutrements, 
and  clothing  for  troops  in  large  quanti- 
ties by  rail  from  Salonica  to  Mitrovitza, 
whence  they  were  despatched  to  depots 
in  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina.   This  unex- 
pected action  caused  much  speculation 
among  the  Austrian  agents  who  were 
scattered  over  the   country;  and  the 
reinforcement  of  the  garrisons  in  those 
provinces  caused  the 'Austrian  Govern- 
ment   to    send   a    special    diplomatic 
agent  to  report  on  the  actual  state  of 
affairs.      The   personage    selected  for 
this  duty  was   the   celebrated    Baron 
Hiibner,  on  whom  the  Emperor  Napo- 
leon inflicted  the  slight  at  that  memor- 
able New   Year's   reception   of    1859 
which  heralded  the  War  of  Italian  In- 
dependence.   At  Serajevo,  Baron  Hiib- 
ner found  the  now  well-known  Dervish 
Pasha  in  command,  and  was  received 
by  him  with  all  the  honours,  and  invited 
to  a  review  of  the  troops  composing 


Policy  in  the  East. 


19 


the    garrison.        The    incident   which 
occurred  after  the  review,  as  described 
by  an    eyewitness,   was   striking,  and 
must   have    suggested   some  suspicion 
of   the    Turkish   commander     to    the 
mind    of    the    Austrian    envoy.       In 
replying   to  the   compliments    of   the 
Baron  on  the  appearance  of  his  troops, 
the    wily    little    Pasha    said,     "  Yes, 
Excellency  !  You  see  here  men  devoted 
to  the  defence  of  their  country  against 
every  foe,  and  who  can  go  for  twenty- 
four  hours   on   a    drink    of    water ! " 
From    Serajevo    the  Baron    continued 
his    journey    to    Mitrovitza    by   Novi 
Bazar,  stopping  at  various  places  on 
the   route  where    he   was   enabled  to 
communicate      with      the      numerous 
agents     of     his    Government.     From 
Mitrovitza    he    travelled    by    special 
train  to  Salonica.     Here  he  remained 
but  three  days  ;  but  during  this  brief 
period  he  was  subjected  to  a  slight  from 
the  Turkish  Yali  or  Governor-General 
of  the  Province.     On  his  making  an 
official  call  on  the  Yali,  who  had  been 
duly  notified  beforehand,  accompanied 
by  the  personnel  of  the  Consulate,  the 
Turkish   functionary   did   not    accord 
him  the  honour  due  to  his  position  by 
meeting  him  at  the  door  of  the  recep- 
tion  room.      An   altercation    ensued, 
which  was  terminated  by  the  offended 
Ba-ron   abruptly    leaving    the   Konak 
with   his    suite.     Explanations   which 
were   accepted    as    satisfactory   were 
made  by  the  Yali,  and  the  difficulty 
was  smoothed  over.     Returning  from 
Salonica  t.he  Austrian  envoy  travelled 
only  as  far  as  Uskub  by  rail.     From 
there  he  took  post  horses  to  Belgrade 
by  way  of  Nisch.     On  the  day  follow- 
ing his  arrival  at  the  Servian  capital 
the  insurrection  in  Bosnia  and  Herze- 
govina broke  out. 

Skilfully  manipulated,  the  telegraph 
wires  under  Austrian  control  conveyed 
to  the  western  capitals  facts  and  state- 
ments calculated  to  impress  the  idea 
that  the  rising  against  the  authority 
of  the  Sultan  was  entirely  due  to 
Russian  emissaries  and  Panslav  com- 
mittees. But  close  observers  saw  be- 
hind Ljubobratich  and  many  others, 


whose    names    the  events   of  the   day 
made   familiar  to  the  English  public, 
the     hands     of     the    Austrian.      The 
thousands  of  refugees  who  found  tem- 
porary shelter    during    the    troublous 
times  on  Austrian  soil  were,  in  most 
cases,  refugees   by  instigation.     Their 
hospitable     reception,    and    the     few 
thousands  of  pounds  expended  in  their 
maintenance,  were  among  the   claims 
for    which    Austria    was    afterwards 
indemnified   at    Berlin  in    1878.     At 
the  same  time,   with  an  impartiality 
for  which  sufficient  credit  can  hardly 
be  awarded  her,  the  way  was   made 
smooth   for   the    suppression    of    the 
insurrection  by  the   Turks ;  and   the 
Salonica-Mitrovitza     railway,    a    line 
owned    in   Austria   and   managed  by 
Austrian  officials,  was  entirely  at  the 
disposition  of  the  Turkish  Government, 
whose  troops,  supplies,  and  stores  were 
carried  over  it  on  credit.     With  evi- 
dence,  ample  and  convincing,  of    the 
aims  of  Austria  before  them,  it  was 
but  a  question  of  time  how  soon  the 
Panslav  party  in  Russia,  and   later  on 
the  Russian  Government  itself,  should 
throw   themselves   into   the    struggle 
which  was  manifestly  impending.    The 
Montenegrin     and    Servian    wars    in 
1876  ;  the  abortive  rising  in  Bulgaria, 
and  the  massacres  south  of  the  Balkans 
in  the  same   year  ;  the  conference  at 
Constantinople,  where  the  peculiar  line 
of  policy  which  characterised  thfl  deal- 
ings  of   Lord    Beaconsh'eld's    Cabinet 
with  the  Porte  up  to  its  overthrow  in 
1880   first   disclosed   itself — were    all 
strands  in  the  thread  of  policy  directed 
from   Yienna   and   woven    at  Berlin. 
Assuredly,  had  the  Emperor  of  Russia 
and  his  advisers  foreseen  the  ultimate 
issue  to  which   events   were  tending, 
they  might  even  at  the  last  moment 
have  stayed  their  hand.     But  it  had 
not  yet  been  made  clear  to  them  that 
the  way  to  Constantinople  lay  through 
Yienna.      The  Panslav  party,  which, 
in  its  hatred  of  the  Turk,  aimed  di- 
rectly at  the  destruction  of  his  detested 
rule    over    their     co-religionists    and 
brothers  in   race,  had  swept  away  by 
its  enthusiasm  what  power  of  resist- 

c  2 


20 


Austria's  Policy  in  the  East. 


ance  there  was  in  the  autocracy.  The 
heart  of  the  Turk  was  hardened  by 
his  pride,  and  the  conflicting  official 
and  non-official  advice  of  England  pre- 
disposed him  to  stiffen  his  neck.  The 
struggle  which  such  conditions  rendered 
inevitable  could  not  be  long  averted, 
and  the  war,  which  was  officially  de- 
clared on  the  twenty-third  of  April, 
1877,  was  in  the  natural  course  of 
events. 

No  one  who  saw  the  Ernperor  Alex- 
ander the  Second  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  review  of  his  troops  on  that 
memorable  day,  on  the  Bessarabian 
plain  of  Ungheni,  when  he  gave 
the  final  orders  for  the  passage  of 
the  Pruth,  could  fail  to  perceive 
how  deeply  he  seemed  to  feel  the  re- 
sponsibility and  importance  of  the 
event.  The  shadow  of  the  future 
appeared  already  to  have  been  cast 
across  his  path  as  he  quitted  the 
group  of  his  generals,  and,  passing 
quickly  between  the  lines  of  people 
who  had  collected  at  the  railway 
station,  entered  the  train  which  was 
to  carry  him  back  to  his  capital. 
Compared  with  previous  wars,  the 
military  circumstances  in  which 
Russia  entered  on  the  last  conflict 
with  Turkey  were  immeasurably 
greater  in  her  favour.  There  were 
then  no  tedious  marches  over  desert 
wastes,  but  railways,  fairly  organised, 
brought  the  invading  army  to  the 
very  banks  of  the  Danube ;  while  the 
alliance  with  Roumania  seemed  to 
guarantee  every  facility  which  the 
situation  demanded  for  a  successful 
and  speedy  issue.  Why,  then,  did 
something  akin  to  paralysis  appear 
to  enfeeble  the  arm  of  Russia?  The 
answer  is  simple.  The  equivocal  atti- 
tude of  Austria  weighed  like  a  night- 
mare on  the  counsellors  of  the  Emperor. 
It  is  true  Prince  Bismarck  had  declared 
that  the  Eastern  Question  did  not  call 
for  the  active  intervention  of  Ger- 
many ;  and  that  Austria  had  virtually 
thrown  over  Turkey  in  refusing  to 
carry  out,  in  conjunction  with  Eng- 
land and  France  (who  also  repudiated 
her  engagement),  the  tripartite  treaty 


of  1856,  which  guaranteed  the  in- 
tegrity and  independence  of  the  Otto- 
man Empire.  Nevertheless,  the  hand 
of  Austria  pressed  heavily  on  the  arm 
of  the  Czar.  Very  soon  after  the 
declaration  of  war,  Austria  had  made 
it  clear  to  the  Russian  Government 
that  their  operations  were  to  be 
strictly  confined  to  Turkish  territory. 
Any  attempt  of  Servia  to  take  up 
arms  in  aid  of  Russia  was  frus- 
trated by  the  threat  of  an  occupation 
of  Belgrade  by  Austrian  troops,  and 
Roumanian  soil  was  to  be  respected 
on  condition  that  the  Roumanian  ter- 
ritory west  of  the  Aluta  was  not  made 
the  base  of  active  operations  against 
the  Turks  in  Bulgaria.  The  effect  of 
this  was  doubly  favourable  to  the 
Turks,  who,  relieved  from  menace  to 
their  left  flank,  were  enabled,  leaving 
but  twelve  thousand  men  to  hold 
Widdin,  to  concentrate  the  whole  of 
their  strength  on  the  centre  and  right 
of  their  line  of  defence.  Indecision 
was  perceptible  in  the  Russian  con- 
duct and  counsels  throughout  the 
whole  campaign.  Doubts  of  Germany, 
and  absolute  distrust  of  Austria,  hin- 
dered vigorous  action  on  the  part  of 
the  Russian  generals  ;  while  the  Turk, 
stimulated  to  resistance  by  false  assur- 
ances of  English  support,  and  buoyed 
up  by  deceitful  promises,  was  bleeding 
at  every  pore.  When,  finally,  with 
Russia  well-nigh  exhausted  and  Turkey 
prostrate,  Servia  was  released  from 
the  leash,  it  was  because  Austria's  end 
was  served,  and  neither  combatant 
could  be  much  benefited  or  more 
gravely  injured  by  withholding  the 
feeble  principality.  The  aim  of  Austria 
was  but  to  prevent  Servia  from  being 
employed  as  a  base  for  the  operation  of 
Russian  influence  on  the  Slavs  of 
Bosnia,  Herzegovina,  Montenegro,  and 
Macedonia — those  provinces  on  which 
her  covetous  eye  had  been  so  long  fixed. 
The  fall  of  Plevna,  the  subsequent 
passage  of  the  Balkans,  the  complete 
and  irretrievable  collapse  of  the  Turk- 
ish defence,  and  the  appearance  of 
Skobeleff's  division,  reduced  and  fever- 
stricken  as  it  was,  before  Constant!- 


Austria's  Policy  in  the  East. 


21 


nople,  were  but  details  in  the  hastening 
of  the  crisis  which  brought  into  play 
the  combinations  resulting  in  the  Con- 
gress of  Berlin.  In  these  combinations 
we  now  know  the  predominating  force 
was  exercised  by  the  Austro-German 
and   English  plenipotentiaries.     Con- 
stantinople lay   within   reach  of   the 
hand  of  Russia,  but  that  hand   was 
powerless.      Englishmen    have    been 
pleased   to   believe   that   the   British 
fleet  at  Constantinople  and   Gallipoli 
was  what  deterred  the  Russians  from 
entering  the   capital   of    the    Sultan  ; 
but  the   belief   was   a  fond  and  nat- 
tering delusion.       The  invisible  cord 
which  withheld    the    hand  of  Russia 
was  drawn  in  Berlin  through  Vienna. 
The    certainty   of    the   entry   of    an 
Austrian    army    into   Moldavia    and 
Bessarabia  was   the  real   obstacle  to 
the     Russian     advance,     which     the 
British   fleet   alone   was  impotent   to 
prevent.    The  Russian  army  was  ever 
compelled  to  look  behind   it,  always 
seeing   the   shadow  of  the  concealed 
hand  it  had  cause  to  dread.  The  writer 
vividly  calls  to  mind  an  incident  which 
occurred  at   Constantinople  while  the 
Russian    troops   were    bivouacked   in 
sight  of  its  minarets.     He  paid  a  visit 
one    evening,    in   the   company   of    a 
friend,  to  Skobeleff,  who  was  confined 
to  his    bed    by   an    attack    of   fever. 
Despite    his  malady,  the  general  was 
deep  in  the  study   of   some  military 
work,  but   on  the   names  of  his  visi- 
tors being  announced  he  sprang  up  in 
his  couch  to  receive  them,  and  almost 
the  first  question  he  put  to  the  writer 
was  "  What    is    Austria   doing  1 " — a 
sufficient  indication  of  the  apprehen- 
sions   disturbing    the     counsels    and 
paralysing  the  action  of  Russia.     In- 
formation of  a  trustworthy  character 
had  just  then  been  received  at  Con- 
stantinople, and  it  was  known  both 
at  the  Russian  headquarters  and  at  the 
Sublime  Porte  that  a  partial  mobili- 
sation   of    the   Austrian    army    was 
imminent,  and  that  the  occupation  of 
Bosnia  and  Servia  on  one  hand,  and  of 
Jassy  and  various  points  in  Moldavia 
on  the  other,  were  contemplated.     So 


serious  a  menace  was  one  the  Russian 
army,  crippled  though  victorious,  was 
unable  to  despise ;  and  so  it  came 
to  pass  that,  under  the  pressure  of 
Austria  and  Germany,  Russia  submit- 
ted to  enter  the  congress  chamber  at 
Berlin,  to  sacrifice  all  that  nigh  a 
century  of  intrigue  and  war  had  gained. 
With  the  details  and  results  of  the 
Berlin  settlement  all  who  followed 
the  reports  of  the  proceedings  of  the 
Congress  are  familiar.  Of  the  fact 
that  what  was  believed  to  be  a  settle- 
ment is  proving  but  a  truce,  most,  if 
they  had  not  already  foreseen  it,  are 
now  becoming  convinced.  Races  and 
communities  delivered  from  an  inert 
barbaric  despotism  were  partitioned 
and  carved  out  to  suit  the  -selfish 
ambitions  of  certain  governments, 
and  the  political  exigences  of  the 
moment.  A  condition  of  things  fore- 
doomed to  perish  was  created  from 
the  Danube  to  the  ^Egean  and  from 
the  Black  Sea  to  the  Adriatic.  The 
opportunity  of  settling  the  Eastern 
difficulty  on  a  just  and  stable  basis 
was  thrown  away  with  a  recklessness 
inconceivable  except  by  those  who 
understood  that  a  sense  of  right  and 
political  morality  were  absent  from 
the  council  board  over  which  Prince 
Bismarck  presided.  The  opportunity 
of  re-integrating  each  race  within  its 
rights  vanished.  The  Bulgarians  were 
divided  into  three  sections.  The  Greeks 
were  betrayed,  while  false  hopes  were 
dangled  before  their  eyes*  Albania, 
distracted  by  intrigue  of  every  kind, 
was  left  a  prey  to  anarchy  and  mis- 
rule. Bosnia  and  Herzegovina,  against 
the  will  and  in  spite  of  the  heroic 
resistance  of  their  peoples,  were  given 
over  to  Austria,  who  virtuously  pre- 
tended bashful  compliance  with  the 
"will  of  Europe,"  conscious  that  it 
was  her  own  action  which  had  pro- 
duced the  "disorder"  which  she  was 
called  in  by  accomplices  to  put  down. 
Montenegro,  which  had  maintained 
for  centuries  its  independence  against 
the  Turk,  was  virtually  handed  over  to 
Austria  by  the  twenty-ninth  Article 
of  the  Berlin  Treaty.  Macedonia  was 


22 


Austria's  Policy  in  the 


left,  with  its  conglomerate  population 
of  Serb,  Albanian,  Bulgarian,  Greek, 
Wallach,  and  Moslem,  to  ferment  to  a 
degree  of  anarchy  sufficient  to  require 
the  orderly  hand  of  the  Austrian 
bureaucracy  to  restore  tranquillity 
and  cover  it  with  their  "civilising 
influences." 

The  creation  of  the  autonomous  pro 
vince  of  East  Roumelia  was  the  fruit 
of  the  Treaty  of  San  Stefano,  trimmed 
and  reduced  at  Berlin.      The  elabora- 
tion of  its  organic  statutes  and  form 
of    government    was    entrusted    to  a 
mixed    international  body  called  the 
East  Roumelia  Commission,  the  guid- 
ing   spirit    of  which  was    Herr    von 
Kallay,   the   Austro- Hungarian    dele- 
gate.      A    zealous    partisan    of    the 
Andrassy  policy  in  the  East,  Herr  von 
Kallay    had    passed    many    years   at 
Belgrade,   working    industriously    for 
the   advancement   of  Austrian   influ- 
ence in  Servia  by  means  of  the  press 
and     the     diplomatic    service.       He 
brought,    then,    to    the   work    of    his 
mission    at    Philippopolis,  where    the 
commission  sat,   an  accurate    concep- 
tion   of     the     end     to    be    attained, 
and    a    complete    knowledge    of    the 
means   necessary   to  further   the  de- 
signs   of    his    Government.       Consis- 
tently supported  by  his  German  and 
English  colleagues,  he  was  enabled  to 
override  all  opposition  raised  by  the 
Russian    or    Turkish    delegates.      It 
was  during  the    sitting  of  the  East 
Roumelia    Commission,    towards    the 
end    of    1878,    that    Austria    openly 
showed  her   hand — somewhat  prema- 
turely  it    seems    to    have    been,    for 
even     Lord     Beaconsfield's     Cabinet, 
with  all  its  anti-Russian  proclivities, 
was    not    prepared    to    follow   unre- 
servedly  the   lead  of   its   allies.     In 
brief,    Count    Andrassy    proposed    to 
the  English    Government  that  while 
the  civil  and  financial  administration 
of    East     Roumelia    and     Macedonia 
should    be    undertaken    by    England, 
Austrian    troops  were  to  occupy    the 
two  provinces.      This  was  so    bold  a 
stroke  in  the    forward  policy   that  it 
is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  good 


and  substantial  reasons  were  found 
for  not  at  once  acceding  to  the 
Austrian  request.  Perhaps,  too,  the 
compensations  had  not  been  so  well 
defined  as  they  were  later  on ;  the 
proceeding  savoured,  besides,  too  much 
of  the  iron  and  the  earthen  pot  float- 
ing together  on  the  ruffled  surface  of 
the  water.  The  earthen  pot  of  English 
civil  and  financial  administration  must 
soon  have  disappeared  before  the  iron 
pot  of  Austrian  military  exigences. 
A  British  Parliament  could  hardly 
have  sanctioned  such  proceedings,  even 
if  the  Government  had  entertained  the 
proposal.  The  rejection  of  this  caused 
anger  and  heart-burning  at  Vienna, 
augmented  later  on  by  Lord  Salis- 
bury's reluctance  to  support  the 
Austrian  Government  in  their  effort 
to  compel  the  Russian  evacuation  of 
East  Roumelia  by  the  thirteenth  of 
April,  1879,  which  Count  Andrassy 
declared,  in  addressing  the  delega- 
tions, was  a  point  of  honour  with 
Austria.  The  Treaty  of  Berlin,  in 
the  twenty-second  Article,  had  fixed 
nine  months  from  the  date  of  signa- 
ture of  the  Treaty,'  which  was  the 
thirteenth  of  July,  1878,  as  the  term 
of  the  Russian  occupation  of  the 
conquered  territory ;  and  accordingly 
Count  Andrassy  had  held  the  view 
that  the  last  Russian  should  retire 
from  its  soil  by  the  thirteenth  of 
April;  whereas  the  Russian  Govern- 
ment maintained,  and  maintained  suc- 
cessfully, that  the  complete  occupation 
only  should  cease  on  that  date,  and 
accordingly  did  not  commence  the 
evacuation  before  the  day  called  for 
by  Count  Andrassy  for  its  termination. 
Great  annoyance  was  both  felt  and 
expressed  at  Vienna  on  this  subject, 
and  Lord  Salisbury  was  openly  accused 
of  having  come  to  an  understanding 
with  Russia  over  the  head  of  the 
"old  and  faithful"  ally  of  England. 
Those  who  followed  the  news  of  the 
day  will  call  to  mind  the  pertinacity 
with  which,  by  means  of  the  press, 
the  Vienna  Government  endeavoured 
to  predispose  the  public  mind  in 
Europe  in  favour  of  a  mixed  occupa- 


Austria's  Policy  in  the  East. 


tion   of    East    Rournelia    by   foreign 
troops,  from  which   Russians  were  to 
be  rigorously  excluded.      The  failure 
was  a  sore  trial  to  the  political  temper 
of  the  Austrian  Cabinet.     Without  the 
intervention  of  foreign  arms  the  East 
Roumelia  Commission  at  Philipoppolis 
concluded    its    labours  ;     and  at  the 
banquet  given  by  the  Commission  be- 
fore its  members  separated,  Herr  von 
Kallay  astonished  his  hearers  by  an- 
nouncing that  "  We  [that  is,  Austria] 
do    not    care    now    how    soon    East 
Roumelia  and  Bulgaria  are  united." 
During  the  sitting  of  the  Bulgarian 
Assembly  at  Tirnova,  the  part  played 
by  Austria  was  rather  that  of  an  ob- 
servant spectator.  The  representatives 
of  East  Roumelia  who  went  to  Tirnova 
to  claim  the  right  to  sit  in  the  Con- 
stituante    assembled    to    organise   the 
government  of    the  principality,  were 
refused  admission.     Meeting  with  no 
encouragement  from  the  Russian  Im- 
perial Commissioner,  a  small  number 
of    the    East     Roumelian     delegates 
addressed  themselves  to  Yienna,  and 
implored    the  Austrian    Emperor    to 
save    them    from    being    restored  to 
Turkish   dominion.     But  the  moment 
for  action  was  not  yet  ripe,  and  the 
question    was  left   in  abeyance  to  a 
more  convenient   season.     The  resist- 
ance  in  Bosnia   to   the  execution  of 
the    European    mandate  with    which 
Austria  had  entered  that  province  and 
Herzegovina,  had    been   of   so   much 
more  serious  and  forcible  a  character 
than  anticipated,   that  Austria-Hun- 
gary was  for  the  time  arrested  in  the 
career  of  adventure  on  which  she  had 
launched.      Anything  more,  therefore, 
than  a  formal  expression  of  interest  in 
their  welfare  could  not  be  given  to  the 
East  Roumelians.      The  attention  of 
Austria  was  absorbed  in  consolidating 
her  position  in  the  new  provinces,  and 
securing    the    means    of    preventing 
any   possible    future   joint   action   of 
Servia  and  Montenegro.       The  reluc- 
tance   of   the  Hungarians  to  further 
the   aims   of    the    forward    party   in 
Austria,   and  to  diminish   their   own 
forces  by    the   addition   of   Slavs    to 


the    already    powerful    Slav   element 
in   the  empire -kingdom,   was   a   tem- 
porary    check     to    further    advance. 
The  impolitic  speech  of  M.  Tisza,  in 
which  he  described  the  Austrian  occu- 
pation of  the    Turkish    provinces  as 
destined    to    crush    the  head  of  the 
Slavonic    serpent,  was    rather   calcu- 
lated   to    act    in    the    nature    of    a 
challenge  to  the  whole  Slavonic  race 
than  to  produce  a  reassuring  or  tran- 
quillising  effect  on  minds  still  heaving 
from  their  late  struggles.     The  over- 
haste    also    with    which    the   Roman 
Catholic  propaganda  followed  in  the 
wake     of     the     military     occupation 
could  not  but  be  regarded  with  sus- 
picion by  a  people  of  whom  but  a  fifth 
are  Roman  Catholics  by  religion,  the 
rest    being    either    adherents  of    the 
Eastern  Church  or  Mussulmans.     The 
whole     Austrian    action,    indeed,    in 
the  provinces  snatched  from  Turkey, 
has,  since  the  day  her  troops  crossed 
their     borders    on    their    mission    of 
civilisation,    been   marked  by  all  the 
errors  of  a  military  bureaucracy  ham- 
pered by  Parliamentary  opposition  and 
want  of  funds,  and  a  certain  subjection 
to  outside  opinion,  more  particularly 
to  that  expressed  in  the  foreign  press. 
But   the   many   important   stipula- 
tions of  the  Treaty   of  Berlin  which 
yet   remained    to    be    carried    out   at 
the    end   of    1879,    and   which    there 
is  much  reason  to  believe   were   not 
intended  to  be    carried  out  in   their 
integrity,  called  for  settlement.     The 
Montenegrin  and  the  Greek  questions ; 
the  execution  of  reforms  in  the  Euro- 
pean provinces  of  Turkey,  called  for  by 
the  twenty-third  Article  of  the  Berlin 
Treaty,  and  the  condition  of  Armenia, 
demanded  attention.     The  settlement 
of  these  questions  on  the  basis  of  the 
Treaty  to  which   all   the  Powers   re- 
presented at  Berlin  had    affixed  their 
signatures,  did  not,  however,  meet  with 
the  ulterior  views  of  all  their  govern- 
ments.    The    union    of    interests    so 
ostentatiously      proclaimed      between 
Germany  and  Austria,  and  the  adhe- 
sion of  the  English  Cabinet  to  their 
views  of  the  settlement  of  the  Eastern 


Austria's  Policy  in  the  East. 


Question  as  since  developed,  together 
with  M.  Tisza's  ''crushing  of  the  head 
of    the    Slavonic  serpent,"    were  the 
first  overt  indications  of   the  Drang 
nach  Osten  (pressing  eastward)  policy  of 
the  Austro-German   combination.     It 
was  the  comprehension  of  this  policy 
in  its  full  scope  and  meaning  which 
furnished  the  theme  and  motive  of  the 
speeches   of    Skobeleff   at   Paris   and 
elsewhere,  and  brought  into  renewed 
activity  the  leaders  and  partisans  of 
the    Panslav    cause    in    Russia    and 
among  the  Slavonic   races.     The  dis- 
solution of  Parliament   in  1880,  and 
the  result  of  the  appeal  of  Lord  Bea- 
consfield  to  the  people  of  England  on 
that  occasion,  determined  the  fate  of 
the    combination     which     had     been 
formed  to  inaugurate  a  new  departure 
in  Eastern  affairs,   entirely  and  radi- 
cally at  variance  with  the  spirit  and 
letter  of  the  Berlin  settlement.     Who 
is  there  that  cannot  call  to  mind  the 
almost     frantic     efforts    made    from 
Berlin  and  Vienna,  during  the  excit- 
ing period  immediately  preceding  that 
general  election,  to  influence,  by  alter- 
nate cajolery  and  menace,  the  public 
sentiment    of    England   in   favour   of 
Lord    Beacon  sfield's    Administration  ? 
And  who  does  not  remember  the  wail  of 
anger  that  went  up  when  the  accession 
to  power  of  the  Liberal  party  was  an- 
nounced 1    Under  the  determined  lead 
of  that  party,  England,  acting  on  the 
Powers    whose    recalcitrancy    to    the 
Berlin   Treaty    menaced    a    complete 
disruption   of  the    European   concert, 
has  obtained  settlements  of  the  Monte- 
negrin and  Greek  questions,  unsatis- 
factory indeed,  and  not  without  great 
difficulty,  and  in  spite  of    a  want  of 
loyalty  where  the  opposite  might  have 
been  expected.     But  such  harmony  as 
it  was   possible  to  create  among  the 
discordant  elements  of  which  the  Euro- 
pean concert  is  composed,  could  not  be 
obtained  for  the  settlement  of  the  con- 
ditions  of    the    twenty-third   Article 
of    the    Berlin    Treaty.     It    is     true 
delegates  were  despatched  in  1880  to 
Constantinople  to   elaborate   a  series 
of  statutes  for  the  government  of  the 


provinces  remaining    under    the  mis- 
rule of  the  Pashas.      But  the  whole 
performance  was  a  hollow  mockery  of 
the    crying    wants    of    the  oppressed 
people    of     Thrace,    Macedonia,    and 
Epirus.     Propositions  tending  to  pro- 
mote   uniformity    of    method   in   the 
government    of    each    province    were 
strenuously  opposed  by  the  Austrian 
delegates,  on  the  plea  that  the  cha 
racter  and  local  peculiarities  of  each 
district  must  be  first  considered,  but 
with   the    real    design    of    preventing 
any    solid     bond     of     union     among 
the    diverse    peoples.      The    statutes, 
however,  have  remained  a  dead  letter, 
for     their     execution     is     supported 
neither  by  Germany,   Austria,   Italy, 
France,  nor  Russia.     Alone   England 
could    do,    and   the   immovable   Turk 
would  do,  nothing.     The  observation 
of    Herr    von    Kallay,    then    Under 
Secretary    for     Foreign     Affairs     at 
Vienna,  when  his   opinion  of  the  or- 
ganic statutes  was  asked  by  one  of  the 
foreign  delegates   on  the  revived  East 
Roumelia  Commission,  was  on  a  parallel 
with  the  Austrian   action  all  through 
the    recent    phases  "of    the    Eastern 
difficulty.     "  We  have  a  more  serious 
solution    than   that,"    said  Herr  von 
Kallay — a  clear  implication  that  re- 
formed   government,  by    the    aid    of 
Austria  and  her  supporter  Germany, 
was  not  to  be  established  in  the  un- 
emancipated   provinces    of    European 
Turkey,  nor  even  contemplated.     The 
efforts  of  Austria  to  obtain  the  con- 
sent   and    recognition   of    Europe   to 
her  formal  annexation  of  Bosnia  and 
the    Herzegovina     showed     the     em- 
barrassing nature  of  the   position    in 
which  her  Government   found    itself. 
At    the    same    time    they    indicated 
to    both    the    Turkish    and    Russian 
Governments  that  the  time  was  not 
far  off  when  a  decisive  move  must  be 
made   on   the    part   of    Austria.      To 
abandon  the  provinces  again  to  Turk- 
ish misrule  was  impossible ;  to  grant 
them  anything    in    the   shape  of    an 
autonomous    government    equally    so, 
seeing  the  encouragement  this  would 
give  the  Czech  autonomous  party,  and 


Austria's  Policy  in  the  East. 


25 


the  opposition  which  the  idea  met  from 
the  Hungarians.-]  The  alternative  was 
the  complete  subjugation  of  the 
country ;  subjugation  in  a  military 
sense,  for  there  was  no  probability  of 
the  Mussulman  inhabitants  willingly 
accepting  the  rule  of  Austria,  after 
so  many  thousands  had  lost  their 
lives  in  opposing  the  transfer  of  an 
allegiance  which  had  brought  them 
nothing  but  the  rigid  exaction  of 
augmented  taxes,  and  would  impose 
military  service  to  an  alien  sove- 
reign. To  the  Christians,  the  taxa- 
tion to  which  they  were  subjected  by 
Austrian  officials  was  as  onerous  as  to 
the  Mussulmans  ;  while  the  agrarian 
grievances,  which  were  the  ostensible 
cause  of  their  rising  against  the 
Turkish  rule,  remained  without 
redress. 

The  difficulty  the  Austrian  Govern- 
ment had  to  face  was  extreme.  The 
expenses  of  the  occupation  and  ad- 
ministration of  the  provinces  were  in 
excess  of  the  revenues,  and  the  com- 
pact by  which  the  Austrian  and  Hun- 
garian Governments  were  not  to  be 
called  on  to  contribute  could  not  be 
broken  without  sufficient  and  weighty 
reason.  Indecision  was  not  less  peril- 
ous than  action  ;  it  was  necessary  to 
hasten  a  crisis;  and  accordingly  the 
law  of  military  service  was  ordered  to 
be  put  in  force,  not  only  in  the  occu- 
pied provinces,  but,  to  give  it  the  air 
of  impartiality,  as  well  in  those  parts 
of  Dalmatia  which  had  hitherto  suc- 
cessfully resisted  the  conscription,  and 
with  the  inhabitants  of  which,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Crivoscians,  a  special 
compact  of  exemption  existed.  The  in- 
surrection of  the  Crivoscians  and  Her- 
zegovinians  was  the  answer.  Whether 
the  conscription  was  the  direct  cause  of 
the  insurrection,  or  whether  the  Aus- 
trian authorities  profited  by  their 
knowledge  of  what  was  in  prepara- 
tion to  bring  on  the  crisis,  cannot 
be  confidently  determined.  The  locali- 
ties in  which  the  bands  made  their 
appearance  in  most  force  seem  to 
indicate  a  pre-arranged  line  of 
action.  Those  whose  knowledge  of 


the  country  and  people  entitled  their 
opinions  to  consideration  had  for 
some  time  held  the  view  that  a 
rising  against  Austrian  rule  was 
imminent,  and  that  Christians  and 
Mussulmans  would  be  found  fighting 
side  by  side  in  the  struggle.  The  end 
in  Eastern  politics  has  generally  been 
held  to  justify  the  means,  and  there  is 
no  reason  to  believe  that  a  higher 
political  moral  tone  is  prevalent  in  the 
East  to-day  than  at  any  other  time. 

The  co-operation  of  Austria  and  Ger- 
many with  Italy  in  the  settlement  of 
the  Greek  frontier  question  forms  an 
interesting  chapter  in  the  history  of 
the  Eastern  difficulty,  which  has  yet 
to  be  written.  But  it  is  so  linked 
with  all  Austrian  policy  in  the  East, 
that  it  is  but  an  additional  indication 
of  what  is  contemplated  by  Austria 
and  Germany,  with  the  tacit  adher- 
ence of  Italy.  Skilfully  as  Prince 
Bismarck  masked,  German  views  of 
predominance  in  the  East  behind  his 
Pomeranian  grenadier,  it  is  clear  that, 
whatever  interests  in  the  settlement 
of  the  oriental  difficulty  it  may  once 
have  pleased  him  to  express,  his 
pretensions  are-  now  of  a  solid  and 
substantial  gravity  which  must  be 
the  cause  of  uneasiness  to  more  than 
one  of  the  Western  Powers  and  to 
Russia.  It  requires  but  a  glance  at 
the  map  of  Europe  to  perceive  what 
the  accomplishment  of  the  Austro- 
German  programme  in  the  east  of 
Europe  signifies.  Skilfully  and  per- 
severingly  has  the  telegraph  and  print- 
ing press  been  worked  until  the  idea 
of  the  Russian  at  Constantinople  has 
been  made  a  nightmare  which  has 
cost  England  millions  of  money  and 
thousands  of  precious  lives.  It  has 
been  used  to  pervert  the  moral  sense 
of  her  people  and  her  rulers  till  she  has 
come  now  to  be  almost  invariably  found 
on  the  side  of  the  oppressor  against 
the  oppressed.  And  the  same  agencies 
are  still  busily  at  work  to  persuade 
this  country  that  there  is  no  other 
alternative  to  the  blessings  of  Austro- 
German  rule  for  the  nationalities 
of  the  East  than  subjugation  to 


26 


Aiistria's  Policy  in  the  East. 


a  barbarous  Russian  despotism.      The 
great   question,  and    one  worth   con- 
sidering   before    it    may  be  too   late, 
is,  Is  this  true  ?     In  the  first  place  has 
it  been  shown  that  any  of  the  libe- 
rated nationalities  of  the  East  have 
expressed,  diplomatically  or  otherwise, 
a  desire  to  be  placed  under  the  rule  of 
either  Austria  or  Russia,  or  of  one  of 
them  rather  than  of  the  other  1     Have 
the    Greeks,    the    Bulgarians,    or   the 
Servians,  at  any  time  before  or  since 
their  emancipation  exhibited  a   desire 
to  be  annexed  or  protected  by  either 
Russia  or  Austria?     Has  it  not  rather 
been  the  contrary?     Have  not  these 
peoples,  so  far  as  their  feeble  voices 
have    been  able  to    make  themselves 
heard   above   the  gong-beating  of  di- 
plomacy,   invariably  and  consistently 
pleaded    for    national     independence, 
and  for  scope  and  time  to  work  out 
their  own  career  in  peace  and  security  1 
But,  say  some,  they  are   not   yet  fit 
for    self-government,  and,    if   left   to 
themselves,  they  will  only  fly  at  each 
other's   throats.       Let    it    be  granted 
that  these  two  reasons  (if   true)  are 
serious   enough     to    militate    against 
giving  unlimited  liberty  to  the  Greek, 
the  Bulgarian,  and  the  Servian.  Would 
it  not  be  the  duty  of  the  Powers,  sup- 
posing always  their  policy  to  be  disin- 
terested, to  prevent  conflicts,  and  so,  in 
a  word,  to  train  up  these  smaller  na- 
tionalities until  they  could  recognise 
that  their  true  interests  and  chances 
of  prosperity  lay  in  pursuing  a  course 
of  mutual  conciliation  and  goodwill  ? 
There  hardly  seems  ground  for  dispute 
here.     What,  then,  is  the  inevitable 
conclusion  ?     Surely  this,  that  some  of 
the  governments  are  preparing,  owing 
to  their  unwillingness  or  inability  to 
effectually  oppose  others,  to  seize  or 
bring  into  subjection  portions  of  Turkey 
to  which  they  are  under  a  solemn  pledge 
to  give  good  government  and  security 
for  life,  honour,  and  property,  not  only 
without,   but  against  the  consent,  of 
their   inhabitants.       The   prospect    is 
not   reassuring,  nor   is   the    spectacle 
edifying.        Yet    all   that     has    been 
here  said  or  indicated  is  a  near  and 


possible  contingency.    Whatever  those 
who  endeavour  to  quiet  or  mislead  the 
public  mind  may  assert,  the  Eastern 
Question  is  fast  quitting  the  lines  for 
its  settlement  which  were  traced  out 
at  Berlin  in   1878,   as  well  as  those 
contemplated  by  the  British  Austro- 
German    understanding     before     the 
general  election  of  1880.       The    sup- 
pression    of      the      insurrection      in 
Herzegovina      and    Bosnia     has     en- 
tirely   altered  the  status  of  Austria, 
both     towards    those     provinces    and 
towards      Europe.       In     the     nature 
of    things,     the    absurd    position    in 
which  Austria    was    placed   with  her 
own     consent     cannot     be     re-estab- 
lished.    Backed  by  Germany,  Austria 
will  very  reasonably,  as   it   seems,  de- 
mand   to   be    allowed    to  incorporate 
those  provinces  into  the  empire-king- 
dom ;  but  whatever  their  relationship 
is  to  be,   they  cannot  but  prove  the 
apple  of  discord  between  the  two  sec- 
tions of  the  dual  empire.       The  pre- 
dominance, however,   which  Germany 
holds  in  the   combination   with  Aus- 
tria,  constitutes    the    danger  of    this 
method     of     solving'    the     difficulty, 
rouses  the  sensibility  of  the  Slavonic 
world,    and    menaces    the     peace    of 
Europe.       Russia    and    the    Slavonic 
races  at  large  might  contemplate  with 
equanimity  the  formation  of  a  Slavonic 
empire  in  the  south-east  of  Europe, 
which,  from  the  affinity  of  race  and 
religion  of  its  populations,  could  be  no 
menace  to  herself ;  but  the  prospect  of 
Slavonic   races    subjected    to    the    in- 
fluence and  rule  of  the  Teuton,  and  in- 
vaded by  the  Papal  propagandists,  and 
serving   to   aggrandise  and  enrich    a 
great  rival,  can  only  but  precipitate  the 
struggle    between   Teuton    and    Slav 
which  both  believe  to  be  impending. 

Looking  at  the  question  dispassion- 
ately, the  solution  most  favourable 
to  the  interest  of  England  is  that 
which  seems  to  have  been  the  least 
considered — the  independence  of  the 
nationalities  of  the  Balkan  peninsula. 
The  subjection  of  the  races  inhabiting 
the  valley  of  the  Danube  and  the 
Balkan  country  to  either  Russia  or 


Austria's  Policy  in  the  East. 


Austro-Germany  cannot  be  regarded 
with  indifference  by  the  Western 
Powers,  least  of  all  by  England. 
Austria  on  the  ^Egean,  with  Germany 
behind  her,  means  the  creation  of  a 
great  naval  power  in  the  Eastern 
Mediterranean,  disposing  of  the  mari- 
time resources  of  the  Greeks.  The 
Power,  or  combination  of  Powers, 
which  aims  at  the  subjugation  of 
what  was  once  Turkey  in  Europe, 
cannot  be  relied  on  to  respect  the 
independence  of  Greece  after  that  it 
shall  have  brought  the  other  races 
under  its  sway.  The  harbours  of  the 
^Egean,  the  countless  islands  which 
cover  its  expanse,  will  afford  shelter 
to  fleets  which  at  any  moment  may  de- 
scend on  the  flank  of  our  road  to  India 
through  the  Mediterranean,  and  forbid 
us  the  right  of  way  through  the  Suez 
Canal.  Behind  such  fleets  are  the  magni- 
ficent port  of  Yolo  and  the  Dardanelles, 
affording  refuges  against  attack  and 
for  refit.  It  may  be  that  it  is  now 
too  late  to  repair  the  errors  in  policy 
of  which  successive  administrations  in 
this  country  have  been  guilty,  and 
that  events  are  themselves  shaping  a 
course  to  which  England,  either  of 
design  or  from  indifference,  will  have 
largely  contributed.  A  vigorous  policy, 
which  would  have  given  to  the  op- 
pressed nationalities  of  the  East  their 
independence  of  all  foreign  control, 
would  have  saved  us  from  our  present 
disquietude.  On  the  Danube  we  see 
Roumania,  Servia,  and  Bulgaria  threat- 
ened by  Austria.  In  Macedonia,  Al- 
bania, and  Epirus,  the  negative  policy  of 


Germany  and  Austria  has  left  these 
countries  a  prey  to  anarchy  and  mis- 
rule, while  Montenegro  has,  in  fact, 
become  an  Austrian  vassal.  The  set- 
tlement of  the  Greek  frontier  dispute, 
though  adding  to  Greece  a  valuable 
and  not  inconsiderable  tract  of  terri- 
tory, has  left  the  principle  for  which 
she  and  her  friends  contended  prac- 
tically as  far  from  settlement  as  ever. 
Even  across  the  new  Greek  frontier 
the  baleful  apprehensions  of  Austrian 
influence  are  felt.  The  nomination  of 
Herr  von  Kallay  to  the  position  of 
chief  administrator  of  Bosnia  and 
Herzegovina  was  more  suggestive  of 
danger  to  the  independence  of  the 
Balkan  nationalities  than  the  mere 
jack  -  boot  government  which  had 
hitherto  mismanaged  those  provinces. 
It  was  the  first  step  in  the  "more 
serious  solution "  to  which  reference 
has  already  been  made,  the  first  to  a 
radical  departure  from  the  lines  of 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin. 

An  attentive  observer  will  readily 
perceive,  by  the  light  of  the  events  of 
the  past  six  years,  the  goal  to  which 
things  are  tending — an  Austrian  pre- 
dominance, backed  by  Germany, 
throughout  the  whole  of  South-east- 
ern Europe,  alike^on  the  .ZEgean  and 
the  Bosphorus  as  on  the  Danube. 
What  may  be  the  import  of  this  pre- 
dominance of  a  powerful  politico- 
military  combination,  animated  by 
no  sentimental  regard  for  the  sus- 
ceptibilities or  interests  of  other 
States,  cannot  remain  long  hidden. 


28 


ON    CLASSIC   GROUND. 


THEY  say  you  may  get  a  shrewd  notion 
of  a  man's  character  by  a  glance  at 
his  book-shelves  ;  but  for  my  part  I 
would  sooner  ask  what  books  a  man 
read  in  certain  conditions  of  time  and 
place,  in  certain  accidents,  certain 
changes  and  chances  of  his  affairs  ; 
when  sick,  or  sorry,  or  glad  ;  harassed, 
or  at  leisure  ;  fresh  in  the  morning 
light,  or  tired  in  the  gray  hours  of  the 
evening ;  in  the  first  surprise  of  new 
scenes,  or  renewing  the  memory  of  old 
ones. 

Consider,  for  example,  a  man,  who 
had  worn  the  gown  there  in  his  youth, 
revisiting  Oxford  after  a  long  lapse  of 
years ;  not  in  the  time  of  term,  when 
all  the  place  would  be  gay  with  a  life 
he  had  no  share  in,  and  like  some 
forlorn  ghost  he  would  wander  silent 
and  puzzled,  and  perchance  something 
sad — 

"Among  new   men,    strange  faces,    other 
minds." 

But  let  his  visit  be  in  the  time 
of  vacation — in  the  long  vacation,  say. 
when  it  is  some  three  weeks  or  so 
old,  and  when  "the  high  midsummer 
pomps  are  on,"  as  he  probably  has 
never  seen  them  there.  Then  Oxford 
is  his  own ;  the  Oxford  he  knew  in  the 
days  before  the  flood,  when  gowns 
were  only  worn  by  men,  when  no 
blatant  tramway  desecrated  the  High 
Street,  and  no  chattering  nursemaids 
broke  the  sacred  stillness  of  Magdalen 
groves.  Then  the  old  gray  quadrangles 
are  alive  once  more  with  the  forms 
he  knew,  with  voices  long  silent  to 
.  his  ears,  but  unforgotten  still.  Every 
step  awakes  some  echo  of  the  past ; 
every  echo  stirs  some  fresh  remem- 
brance. Even  the  old  scouts  who  come 
grinning  up  to  him — mines  of  incon- 
venient memories,  old,  battered,  but- 
tery-worn bodies — have  a  grace  about 


them  more  than  nature  mostly  gives 
their  kind. 

' '  Comrades  of  his  past  were  they, 
Of  that  unreturning  day." 

Above  all,  as  Lamb  says,  he  can  fetch 
up  past  opportunities.  Ah,  those  past 
opportunities  !  Oxford  is  a  soil  which 
grows  that  sort  of  grain  in  rich  pro- 
fusion, and  our  friend  would  be  a  Tom 
of  ten  thousand  indeed  if  he  had  not 
a  liberal  crop  of  them. 

Surely  the  books  a  man  in  such  a 
place  and   time  would  turn   to  would 
illustrate  the  bent  of  his  mind  more 
vividly   than  the   everyday  aspect  of 
his  shelves.     If  he  had  a  friend  with 
him,  a  comrade  of  those  old  years,  he 
would  read  no  books.  Then  they  would 
talk  :   ye  gods,  how  they  would  talk  ! 
But  if  he  were  alone — and,  unless  he 
had  provided  himself    with  company, 
he  would  probably  be  very  much  alone 
• — he    would    almost    inevitably    seek 
some  moments    of    companionship  in 
books,  and  in   books  redolent  of  this 
or  that  of  the  many  perfumes  of  the 
place.     And  from  his  choice  a  curious 
assayer   of    the   great    human   riddle 
might  amuse  himself  much  in  framing  a 
scheme  of  that  man's  life,  its  past  and 
its  present,  its  dreams  and  its  realities. 
"  In  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  Bodley  " 
he    might  be   found    solacing   himself 
with  the  old  folios  of  Anthony  "Wood, 
or  still  more  venerable  relics.     "Were 
he  one   who   in    his  day  had  walked 
delicately  and  along  well-ordered  paths, 
he  might  now  "  fetch  up  past  opportu- 
nities "  by  a  study  of  the   adventures 
of  Mr.  Verdant  Green,  or  Mr.  Drys- 
dale,  or  of  that  still  more  audacious 
volume  (as  I  have  heard)  which  retails 
the  experiences  of  one  Peter  Priggins, 
a  scout.     Had  he,  on  the  other  hand, 
been  one  wont   to   lean   his   ear  too 
closely  to  the  chimes  of  midnight,  or 


On  Classic  Ground. 


29 


too  profuse  in  his  consumption  of 
ginger,  it  is  probable  that — having 
been  long  forced  to  forswear  both 
those  and  all  kindred  delights — he 
would  be  something  of  an  ascetic,  at 
least  in  theory  ;  musing  over  the  great 
vanished  era  of  plain  living  and  high 
thinking,  as  we  imagine  it  to  have 
been.  Then  would  the  Apologia  be 
in  his  hands  ;  then  would  he  relieve 
with  the  livelier  chatter  of  the  brothers 
Mozley  the  sour  egotism  of  Mark 
Pattison.  Then  would  he  walk  into 
Trinity  to  see  if  the  snap-dragon  still 
grew  on  its  walls,  as  it  grew  in  the 
Fre.shmanhood  of  John  Henry  New- 
man ;  then,  pacing  the  gravelled 
quadrangle  of  Oriel,  would  he  strive 
to  catch  in  the  echoes  of  his  solitary 
steps  some  memories  of  that  mighty 
band  of  reformers,  who  pulled  down 
so  much,  and  built  up  so  little ;  or, 
peering  still  further  into  the  abysm  of 
time,  would  he  linger  round  that 
glorious  old  library  of  Merton — the 
oldest,  probably,  and  most  perfect 
book-retreat  in  the  world — if  haply 
on  the  ear  of  imagination  might  fall 
the  ghostly  footsteps  of  Duns  Scotus 
still  restlessly  pacing  the  bricked 
floor  as  he  meditated  some  shrewd 
retort  on  the  Dominican.  And  surely, 
Nominalist  or  Realist,  Stoic  or  Epicu- 
rean, whatever  he  has  been  or  be,  if  he 
be  a  true  son  of  Oxford  some  part  of 
his  time  at  least  will  .  be  spared  to 
his  old  friends,  the  Scholar  Gipsy  and 
Thyrsis. 

It  happened  that  in  the  course  of 
this  summer  I  found  myself  at  Oxford, 
in  much  the  same  circumstances  as 
the  visitor  thus  foreshadowed.  I  had 
not  set  foot  in  the  place  for  very  many 
years,  and  I  was  alone.  As  this  is  no 
autobiography,  nor  designed  as  a 
posthumous  bombshell  for  my  friends, 
there  is  no  need  to  specify  the  nature 
of  my  reflections,  nor  the  books  I 
found  most  congenial  to  them.  But 
as  the  weather  during  all  my  visit 
was  superlatively  fine,  day  succeeding 
day  of  blue  sky  and  sunshine  and 
breeze,  a  great  deal  of  my  time  was  natu- 
rally passed  in  the  open  air ;  and  after 


the  first  rapture  of  memory  among  the 
gray  old  buildings  had  been  satisfied, 
it  was  no  less  natural  that  I  should 
turn  to  that  "  loved  hill-side  "  whereon 
Thyrsis  and  his  friend  had  first  assayed 
their  shepherd  pipes.  It  had  long 
been  a  wish  of  mine  to  stand  under 
the  shade  of  the  elm- tree — 

' '  The  signal-elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  downs, 
The  Vale,  the  three  lone  weirs,  the  youthful 
Thames  :  " 

the  tree  whose  life  was  fondly  fancied 
by  the  two  friends  to  be  co-existent 
with  that  of — 

"  The  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 
Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door, 

One  summer-morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy-lore, 
And  roam'd    the    world    with    that    wild 

brotherhood, 
And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little 

good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more." 

From  hunting  with  the  Berkshire 
hounds  that  "  rude  Cumnor  ground  " 
had  once  been  tolerably  familiar  to  me  ; 
but  really  to  know  a  country  you  must 
traverse  it  on  your  own  legs,  and  we 
were  no  great  pedestrians  in  my 
Oxford  days ;  at  least  those  whom  I 
saw  most  of  were  not.  We  preferred 
horse-exercise  ;  and  though  the  statutes 
of  the  college,  within  whose  venerable 
walls  we  pursued,  with  moderation, 
the  study  of  polite  learning,  had  much 
to  say  against  that  pastime,  we  man- 
aged to  gratify  our  preference  not 
illiberally.  My  main  dependence  was 
the  small  pocket  volume,  one  of  the 
Golden  Treasury  Series,  containing 
the  two  poems — 

"  Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth 

farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm-tree 

crowns 
The  hill  behind  whose   ridge  the    sunset 

flames  ? " 

That  was  all  the  compass  I  had  to 
steer  by ;  and  where  this  farm  lay  I 
knew  no  more  than  readers  of  the 
morning  papers  knew  till  the  other 
day  where  Yap  might  be.  Somewhere 
between  the  two  Hinkseys  the  path 


30 


On  Classic  Ground. 


must   lie ;    so   much   was    clear,    but 
nothing  more. 

One  burning  July  day  my  quest 
began.  I  went  out  of  the  town,  under 
the  railway  bridge,  past  Oseney,  and 
up  through  the  water  meadows  to 
Ferry  Hinksey,  which  had  been  selected 
as  the  base  of  my  first  operations.  In 
which  of  the  two  Hinkseys  swung  the 
sign  that  bore  Sibylla's  name  I  do  not 
know,  nor  which  of  their  little  streets 
boasted  the  haunted  mansion.  But 
I  do  know  that  the  name  of  George 
Scott  is  on  the  signboard  of  "  The 
Fishes,"  at  Ferry  Hinksey,  and  that 
he  sells  only  that  sort  of  bastard 
ginger-beer  which  is  compact  of  some 
vile  powder,  or  so-called  essence,  and 
stored  in  glass-bottles.  And  so  it  was 
in  nearly  all  the  ale-houses  throughout 
the  country  side.  The  good  old  brew 
that  sprang  after  the  bursting  cork  out 
of  the  squat  brown  stone  bottles  has 
gone ;  gone  with  Sibylla  and  her  sign, 
and  with  the  girl  by  the  boatman's 
door,  and  with  the  mowers  \vho  stayed 
their  scythes  among  the  river-grass  to 
watch  the  friends  steering  their  course 
through  the  Wytham  flats — 

".They  all  are  gone,  and  thou   art  gone  as 
well !  " 

This  "  Fishes "  inn  is  well-named, 
though  the  "  Fishers "  had,  perhaps, 
been  better.  Never  were  there  such 
Ushers  as  these  Oxford  folk.  Man, 
woman,  and  child,  the  fields  are  full 
of  them  ;  each  sedged  brook  is  alive 
with  their  floats,  and  round  every  pond 
they  crowd,  solemn,  silent,  earnest, 
like  adjutant  birds  beside  some  In- 
dian tank.  In  all  my  walks  I  never 
saw  a  fish  landed,  nor  so  much  even  as 
a  bobbing  float.  But  the  fishers  fished 
on  for  ever.  I  verily  believe  the  old  vil- 
lage patriarchs,  when  too  weak  to  hobble 
to  the  brooksides,  woo  the  imported 
minnow  from  the  tubs  outside  their 
doors.  As  I  crossed  the  ferry  that 
day,  the  little  boy  who  worked  the 
rope  entertained  me  with  legends  of  a 
vast  jack,  believed  to  have  its  home 
under  a  tree  close  by  the  punt's  moor- 
ngs.  Each  time  I  crossed  that  ferry, 


and  I  crossed  it  many  times,  that  jack 
grew,  till  the  sturgeon  Nahma,  king 
of  fishes,  can  have  been  but  a 
stickleback  to  him.  And  there  he 
lies  (the  jack),  for  aught  I  know,  to 
this  day. 

Across  the  ferry,  then,  past  the  new 
inn  and  the  old  church,  up  the  grassy 
hill-side,  and  through  a  bean-field, 
sweeter  than  all  the  perfumes  of 
Araby,  I  went,  till  I  came  out  where 
a  wide  plain  of  yellowing  corn  sloped 
upward  to  the  sky,  and  from  out  the 
further  hedgerow  rose  a  likely  tree. 
Might  this  be  the  elm  1 

No  ;  for  it  was  an  oak,  and  the  view 
from  it  was  not  the  view  prescribed. 
No  downs  of  Ilsley  were  in  sight,  and 
only  half  the  vale.  Yet  it  was  a  noble 
view.  It  was  not  August  :  the  corn 
was  not  yet  ready  for  the  reapers  ;  the 
lindens  were  missing.  Yet  it  was  not 
hard  to  fancy  it  the  very  spot  where 
he  who  strove 

*'  To  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus,  from  the 
dead," 

waited  for  the  shepherd  that  summer 
day  long  ago. 

"  Screeu'd  is  this  nook   o'er  the  high,  half- 

reap'd  field, 
And  here  till  sundown,  shepherd  !  will  I 

be. 
Through  the  thick   corn    the    scarlet 

poppies  peep, 
And  round  green    roots    and   yellowing 

stalks  1  see 
Pale  pink  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep  ; 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  per- 
fumed showers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am 

laid, 
And  bower  me   from  the  August  sun 

with  shade  ; 

And   the   eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's 
towers." 

On  through  the  gate  into  the  farther 
field,  and  then,  on  the  fronting  ridge 
rose  Cumnor  Hurst,  with  its  little 
wind-swept  clump  of  firs  guarded  by 
the  solitary  elm — not  my  elm,  for  the 
Hurst  has  its  own  place  in  the  elegy. 
As  is  the  case  with  most  Englishmen, 
my  knowledge  of  England  is  curiously 
limited,  and  my  praise  is  therefore 
little  worth ;  but  I  cannot  remember 


On  Classic  Ground. 


31 


any  English  scene  to  be  compared  with 
that   you    get    from   Cumnor   Hurst. 
Two  noble  views    come  before  me  as 
I    write ;    the    well-known    one   from 
Leith  Hill,  and  one  from  the  garden- 
terrace  of  Duncombe  Park  in  York- 
shire ;  but  neither  of  these  in  my  eyes 
ranks  with  the  wide  Oxfordshire  pros- 
pect.      In  the  two  former  the  scene 
lies  flat  and  straight  before  you;  in 
the  last,  it  lies  all  round  you.     There, 
on  that  little  knoll,  with  the  breeze 
singing  through  the  pines  overhead — 
for  how  still  soever  it  be  elsewhere, 
there    is    always    a    breeze     on    the 
Hurst — while    "the  bleating    of    the 
folded    flocks "    conies    faintly    from 
the  distant  uplands,  mixed   with  yet 
fainter    sounds   of   human   labour   in 
the  hay-fields  below  ;  there  you  stand, 
like  the  eagle,  "  ringed  with  the  azure 
world."       The  open   air  is  all  round 
you  ;  turn  where  you  will,  the  ever- 
lasting hills  make  your  horizon.     To 
the  north-east  rise  the  Chilterns,  and 
below  them,  in  more   distinguishable 
tints,  the  wooded  range   which  over- 
looks Oxford,  the  range  of  Headington 
and  Shotover.     Oxford  herself  lies  full 
and  fair  before  you  \  her  staring  new  red 
suburbs  reaching  away  like  unlovely 
wings   on    either   side    the    immortal 
group  of  "  dreaming  spires,"  along  Port 
Meadow  almost    to    Godstow    on  the 
one  side,  and  nearly  touching  Iffley  on 
the  other.     There  is  the  tower  of  Iffley 
church,  and  the  immemorial  poplars. 
Northwards  rise  the  woods  of  Wytham, 
their  dark  green  masses  glorified  into 
orange  by  the  vivid  sunlight.     Below 
them   Ensham,    and  all    "  the  grassy 
harvest  of  the  river  fields,"  threaded 
by   the    shy    silver    of    the    youthful 
Thames,  from  whose  farther  bank  the 
slender  spire  of  Cassington  soars  into 
the  golden  air.      Westward,  beneath 
your  feet,  lies  Cumnor,  half  hidden  in 
its  leafy  nest ;  and  above  Cumnor,  and 
all  away  to  the  west  and  south-west, 
the  Berkshire   moors   go   rolling   on, 
down  after  down,  to  the  far  blue  line 
of  the  Cotswolds.     Many  a  time  in  my 
month's  holiday  did  I  look  over  that, 
scene,  and  in  many  a  change  of  light 


and  shade,  beneath  blue  skies  and 
gray,  and  once  even  through  the  driving 
rain,  but  its  infinite  variety  never  grew 
stale  to  my  eyes. 

Still,  there  was  the  amari  aliquid, 
of  course.  On  the  Cumnor  side  of  the 
slope,  marring  all  the  western  view,  a 
tall  red  chimney,  vomiting  smoke  from 
its  black  mouth,  marks  a  brick  kiln  of 
the  lords  of  Abingdon.  Gratifying, 
no  doubt,  as  another  sign  of  the  tire- 
less industry  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  ; 
but  not  beautiful.  And  there  must  be 
so  many  ugly  spots  which  a  wilderness 
of  chimneys  could  make  no  uglier  i 

It  was  a  hot  day,  and  the  spirit  of 
Giles  Gosling  called  to  me  from  out 
the  trees  of  Cumnor.  So  down  the 
slope  I  went,  and  through  the  kilns, 
and  after  a  dusty  tramp  along  the 
white  high  road  came  into  the  village 
by  its  rare  old  church. 

Immediately  behind  the  church  is 
a  grass  field,  surrounded  by  a  rough 
stone  wall,  and  in  that  wall  lies  all 
that  the  neighbourhood  now  holds  of 
Cumnor  Hall.  Many  an  oak  still 
grows  thereby,  but  the  Hall  itself 
has  vanished,  as  the  hall  of  Balclutha, 
or  that  "  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and 
drank  deep."  In  1811  the  skeleton  of 
the  house,  which  can  have  been  no 
great  thing,  was  still  standing ;  but 
in  that  year  the  Lord  Abingdon  of  the 
day  carried  off  the  windows  and  door- 
ways to  adorn  his  new  church  at 
Wytham.  For  some  while  longer  three 
bare  stone  arches  still  marked  the  spot ; 
but  now  they  too  are  gone,  and  nothing 
remains  but  the  close,  some  fine  old 
trees — relics,  let  us  believe,  of  the 
avenue  beneath  which  Amy  and  the 
faithful  Janet  hurried  on  that  midnight 
flight — and  the  stone  wall. 

And  yet  there  was  no  midnight 
flight  to  Kenilworth ;  no  Kenil- 
worth  for  Amy  to  fly  to,  for  it  was  not 
Leicester's  till  after  her  death ;  and 
while  she  lived  Robert  Dudley  was  not 
Leicester,  and  poor  Amy  was  no 
countess.  Tony  Fire-the-Faggot  was 
Anthony  Forster,  gent.,  a  worthy  mem- 
ber of  a  good  old  Shropshire  family, 
a  cultivator  of  the  fine  arts,  and 


32 


On  Classic  Ground. 


possessed  of  as  many  virtues  as  Bishop 
Berkeley.  "  Villain  "  Yarney  was  Sir 
Richard  Yerney,  of  Compton  Yerney 
in  Warwickshire,  high-sheriff  for  the 
county,  and  heaven  and  the  antiquaries 
only  know  what  else  of  great  and  good. 
There  was  no  flight  from  the  old 
Devonshire  home,  no  clandestine  mar- 
riage, no  broken-hearted  father.  Mis- 
tress Amy  Robsart  and  her  lord  were 
married  in  open  day,  at  Sheen  in 
Surrey,  in  the  presence  of  little  King 
Edward  and  a  goodly  company,  with 
marriage  settlements  and  festivities, 
and  everything  handsome  about  them. 
There  was  no  murder.  Lady  Dudley 
died,  it  is  true;  and  here,  it  is  also 
true,  the  champions  of  the  fact  are  a 
little  at  loss ;  for  how  the  lady  died, 
by  her  own  hand  or  sheer  accident — 
murder  we  are  forbidden  to  call  it — 
no  one  rightly  knows.  She  was  found 
one  September  evening,  when  all  the 
servants  had  at  her  own  bidding  been 
packed  off  to  Abingdon  Fair,  and  Dud- 
ley (who,  for  all  his  affection,  seems  to 
have  given  her  very  little  of  his  com- 
pany) was  with  the  court  at  Windsor- 
she  was  found  in  the  lonely  house 
lyiDg  dead  at  the  foot  of  "a  pair  of 
stairs."  That  was  all  that  was  ever 
known,  or  ever  will  be,  till  the  grave 
in  St.  Mary's  gives  up  its  dead.1 

Yes,  it  is  all  a  myth  ;  and  Sir  Wal- 
ter was  a  heedless  traducer  of  most 
honourable  men,  palming  off  a  paltry 
novel  as  history  on  the  idle  public. 
Truly,  a  most  reprehensible  deed.  And 
yet  I  think  not  all  the  antiquarians  in 
the  world  will  be  able  to  pull  down 
what  Sir  Walter  has  builded.  Shrewdly 
does  the  east  wind  of  fact  nip  these  old 
flowers  of  romance.  But  somehow  they 
survive ;  renewed,  like  the  Bed  Rose 
of  Lancaster,  "  for  everlasting  blossom- 
ing," when  once  the  sun  of  genius  has 
touched  them  with  its  liberal  warmth. 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  proved  the  Yenice  of 

1  Lady  Dudley  was  buried  with  great  cere- 
mony, in  the  presence  of  her  husband,  many 
of  his  court  friends,  a  large  company  of 
ladies,  and  several  of  the  University  dignitaries, 
in  the  chancel  of  St.  Mary's  Church,  Oxford, 
September,  1560. 


Childe  Harold  to  be  "a  mere  efflores- 
cence of  decay,"  nothing  but  "a  stage- 
dream,  which  the  first  ray  of  daylight 
must  dissipate  into  dust  "  ;  yet  it  is  a 
dream  which  will  outlast  the  histori- 
cal Yenice  of  Mr.  Ruskin.  Not  all  the 
pamphleteers  in  either  hemisphere  will 
silence  villain  Yarney's  fatal  whistle, 
or  give  Tony  Fire -the- Faggot  decent 
burial  in  Cumnor  church.  He  has  yet 
to  be  born  who  shall  be  man  enough  to 
"  burke  Sir  Walter  !  " 

The  Black  Bear  still  rears  itself 
against  the  ragged  staff  in  Cumnor, 
and  the  sign  still  bears  the  name 
Giles  Gosling.  But  it  is  a  beast  of 
modern  breed,  and  the  Gosling  is  but 
a  pretty  piece  of  sentiment.  Mine 
host  of  to-day  rejoices  in  the  name  of 
Bunsby  —  a  noticeable  name,  too  ! 
Still,  whatever  its  age,  the  place 
has  a  fine  old  air  about  it,  and  for 
the  sentiment  of  the  signboard,  I 
called  for  a  cup  of  Master  Bunsby's 
ale,  and  drank  it  to  the  health  of  Sir 
Walter.  I  drank  it  in  a  quaint  half- 
moon-shaped  room,  with  narrow,  high- 
backed,  oaken  settles  ranged  round 
the  walls,  rare  to  l6ok  at,  but  a  very 
Siege  Perilous  for  the  weary  traveller. 
Miss  Bunsby — if  Miss  Bunsby  it  was 
who  served  my  ale — fills  pretty 
Cicely's  part  not  unworthily.  But  the 
grace  granted  Tressilian  was  not  mine. 

My  Hebe  had  told  me  of  a  conveni- 
ent way  on  to  the  range  again,  through 
the  village  of  Wootton ;  but  it  in- 
cluded a  mile  or  so  of  the  high  road, 
and  I  had  not  come  out  to  tramp  the 
high  road.  So,  when  Cumnor  was 
fairly  left  behind,  T  essayed  to  make  a 
way  for  myself.  It  was  not  well 
made.  After  some  very  rough  walk- 
ing, unrelieved  by  hedges  of  amazing 
consistency,  I  got  into  a  wood  ;  in  that 
wood  was  a  bog,  and  I  got  into  that 
bog;  and  as  I  floundered  in  its  Ser- 
boniaii  depths  some  confounded  dog 
kept  baying  through  the  wood,  and 
awful  memories  of  bloodhounds  and 
dismal  swamps  came  thronging  into 
my  hot,  midge-tormented  head.  Those 
midges,  by  the  way,  or  whatsoever 
else  be  the  winged  buzzing  beasts  that 


On  Classic  Ground. 


33 


encircle  one's  head  on  a  summer  day's 
walk, — are  those  which  attach  them- 
selves to  you  on  your  first  start,  the 
same  which  go  with  you  to  the  end  ? 
From  the  moment  I  got  fairly  into  the 
fields  that  day  till  I  re-entered  Oxford, 
"a  host  of  insects,"  as  with  Words- 
worth's traveller,  went  "  ever  with  me 
as  I  paced  along."  Save  for  the  few 
minutes  passed  in  the  inn  parlour  they 
never  left  me.  There  was  no  appreci- 
able moment  of  relieving  guard  ;  and 
yet  it  seems  hard  to  suppose  a  gnat 
would  travel  so  far  for  the  sheer 
pleasure  of  tormenting  one  wretched 
head. 

A  very  hot,  dishevelled  creature  at 
last,  after  a  wasted  hour,  stumbled 
into  Wootton.  The  history  of  this 
parish  dates  from  the  middle  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  but  to  me  it  is,  or 
was,  chiefly  remarkable  for  possessing 
not  a  single  ale-house  !  In  those  strug- 
gles in  the  wood  the  virtue  of  John 
Bunsby's  cheer  had  gone  from  me,  and 
needed  renewing.  It  could  not  be 
done  in  Wootton.  Five  hundred  souls, 
or  thereabouts,  are  there  in  the  village, 
but  not  one  ale-house  I  There  was  the 
"Fox,"  indeed,  but  the  "Fox"  was 
"over  the  hills  and  far  away."  Still 
it  was  truly  a  case  of  Fox,  et  prceterea 
nihil,  and,  after  all,  the  blessed  animal 
lay  in  my  homeward  track.  The  tongue 
of  the  Berkshire  peasant  is  not  easily 
understanded  of  the  stranger,  and  my 
inquiries  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  this 
house  of  call  resulted  in  no  certain 
knowledge.  Like  the  Mulligan's  Lon- 
don home,  it  was  tJiere — there  repre- 
senting an  indefinite  portion  of  the 
Cumnor  range.  It  was  clear,  however, 
that  my  way  was  up  the  hill,  and  to 
that  hill  a  pretty  path  stretched  out 
through  a  mile  or  so  of  grass  fields 
and  over  sundry  primeval  stone  stiles. 
Along  that  path  accordingly,  and  over 
those  stiles,  I  went,  till  half  way  up 
the  hill  there  rose  a  little  cluster  of 
cottages,  which  betokened  some  form 
of  civilisation ;  but  signs  of  entertain- 
ment for  man  or  beast  there  were 
none.  Again  I  sought  to  fathom  the 
mysteries  of  the  native  dialect,  and 

No.  313.— VOL.  LIII. 


this  time  there  came  with  them  a 
gesture  clearly  pointing,  or  so  it 
seemed,  to  some  chimneys  rising  from 
a  small  clump  of  trees  a  few  hundred 
yards  distant.  They  were  soon  reached. 
The  house  was  perched  on  a  little  ledge 
overlooking  a  glorious  landscape — a 
most  picturesque  position,  but  not  too 
convenient  for  a  house  of  call  ambitious 
of  much  custom.  A  mere  track  led  up 
to  it,  nor  was  there  any  signboard, 
nor  customary  inscription  detailing 
the  privileges  of  him  who  is  licensed 
to  inspirit  the  weary  traveller.  But 
over  the  doorway  grinned,  in  stuffed 
similitude  of  life,  a  noble  fox — an  un- 
conventional form  of  signboard  in  har 
mony  with  the  romance  of  the  situation. 
I  entered ;  all  was  still ;  no  welcome 
bar  greeted  my  longing  eyes.  I 
coughed,  scraped  with  my  feet,  and 
beat  with  my  stick  upon  the  floor, 
till,  having  in  vain  exhausted  the 
signs  by  which  a  modest  man  notifies 
his  presence,  I  was  fain  to  lift  up  my 
voice.  Thereat,  from  a  parlour  on  my 
left,  bounced  out  a  matronly  but  not 
merciful-seeming  dame,  who  somewhat 
tartly  demanded  my  wants.  I  an- 
swered, with  perfect  truth,  that  I 
only  wanted  something  to  drink,  and 
my  tone  also  had  perhaps  a  touch  of 
petulance  in  it.  "  Then,"  was  the 
startling  reply,  "I  don't  think  you 
can  have  it."  What  a  hostess  !  But, 
of  course,  the  place  was  no  inn;  it 

was  a  private  house,  the  house  of , 

some  name  I  could  not  catch,  and  was 
not  interested  in,  for,  as  I  could  not 
drink  there,  it  might  have  been  a 
lunatic  asylum  for  all  I  cared.  Pro- 
fuse were  my  apologies,  but  the  good 
dame  still,  like  Nell  Cook,  "looked 
askew."  Perhaps  she  took  me  for 
the  scholar  -  gipsy,  and  feared  for 
her  spoons  :  my  coat  was  of  grey,  and 
my  hat  of  undeniably  antique  shape, 
and  she,  of  course,  could  not  tell  I 
was  no  scholar.  Well,  she  would  do 
nothing  for  me  but  direct  me  to  the 
real  Fox,  which  was  still  some  half 
mile  further  on ;  and  thither,  like  a 
Young  Marlow  who  had  missed  his 
cue,  I  departed.  I  thought  she  might 


On  Classic  Ground. 


have  been  more  liberal,  and  I  think 
so  still. 

However,  the  goal  was  reached  at 
last,  and  the  Fox  proved  more  cordial 
than  the  Vixen.  The  sun  was  slop- 
ing fast  now  to  the  western  hills, 
and  as,  my  refreshing  over,  I  came  out 
on  the  high  level  of  the  range  before 
the  road  begins  its  downward  sweep 
into  Oxford,  there  was  little  of  him 
left  but  his  light  in  the  sky.  It  was 
here,  at  this  place  and  time,  that  I 
saw  the  "  dreaming  spires "  in  their 
most  perfect  loveliness.  I  stood  at 
the  meeting  of  four  roads.  Before 
me  sloped  away  to  the  north-east  a 
vast  amphitheatre  of  corn,  burnished 
by  the  liberal  sun  before  its  time. 
Dark  belts  of  wood  encircled  it,  but 
at  the  summit  of  the  arc  the  woods 
dipped,  and  in  the  space  thus  left, 
from  out  a  little  sea  of  silver  mist, 
rose  Oxford.  From  out  that  silver  sea 
she  rose  over  the  golden  corn.  Spire 
and  tower  and  dome,  each  rose  up 
clear  and  white  against  the  purple 
hills  to  take  the  last  kiss  of  the  dying 
day.  The  woods  on  either  side  shut 
out  the  staring  horrors  of  the  new 
town  ;  all  was  pure  Oxford. 

"  By  the  skirts  of  that  grey  cloud, 
Many-domed  Padua  proud, 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
'Mid  the  harvest  shining  plain." 

On  such  a  picture  I,  who  am  an  un- 
travelled  man,  had  never  looked 
before  ;  and  far  indeed  must  I  travel 
ere  I  shall  see  one  to  better  it. 

And  I  had  never  found  the  tree  ! 
Had  never  even  stumbled  on  the  right 
track,  for  I  had  seen  no  Childsworth 
Farm.  Truth  to  tell,  I  was  so  filled 
with  delight  at  my  ramble  and  all  its 
memories,  so  rejoiced  in  the  sheer 
possession  of  the  open  air,  the  fresh 
sunlight,  and  the  breeze,  after  so 
many  months  of  our  accursed  Babylon, 
that  the  particular  purpose  of  my 
quest  had  rather  passed  out  of  my 
mind.  But  what  mattered  it  ?  There 
were  many  days  still  to  run ;  and  there 
was  the  "loved  hill-side"  all  before 
me,  with  Providence  and  that  "good 
survivor  "  for  my  guide. 


Many  a  time  was  the  quest  renewed, 
and  many  a  glorious  day  passed  on 
those  "  warm,  green-muffled  Cumnor 
hills."  One  particular  day  there  was 
when  they  were  warm  with  a  ven- 
geance. South  Hinksey  was  the  base 
of  operations  that  time,  and  as  I  crossed 
the  high  wooden  bridge  that  spans  both 
railway  and  reservoir,  and  went  along 
the  causeway  (then  anything  but 
"chill" !),  my  eye  had  marked  on  a  ridge 
immediately  over  the  village  a  "  lone 
sky-pointing  tree  "  which  looked  much 
like  that  I  sought.  The  path  led  up 
through  the  Happy  Valley — though 
why  this  particular  valley,  by  no 
means  the  happiest  in  the  range  for 
natural  beauty,  should  monopolise  that 
title  I  know  not — and  over  the  hill 
beyond  lay  Childsworth  Farm.  Chils- 
well  they  call  it  now,  and  a  very 
sufficient,  comfortable  homestead  it  is, 
with  a  spacious  stone  barn,  queerly 
loop-holed  as  though  for  musketry. 
The  road  to  Cumnor  runs  past  its 
gate  and  over  the  hills  to  the  right : 
but  the  possible  tree  lay  to  the  left, 
up  a  steep  grass-field  liberally  studded 
with  thistles.  A  ragged  hedge  crowned 
the  top,  and  at  its  western  end  was 
the  tree. 

An  elm,  no  doubt  of  that  :  a  tall, 
slender  elm,  with  some  exotic  growth 
clustering  round  the  lower  trunk. 
There,  too,  was  the  "  high  wood," 
with  a  persistent  ringdove  calling 
from  its  cool  depths.  But  no  Ilsley 
downs  were  in  sight.  The  view  over 
the  Thames  valley  was  as  it  should 
be,  though  some  envious  intervening 
trees  rather  robbed  Oxford  of  her  fair 
proportions.  The  towers  of  Merton 
and  Magdalen  stood  up  in  conspicuous 
beauty,  and  the  pomps  of  Christ  Church ; 
but  the  spire  of  St.  Mary's  was  want- 
ing, and  the  dome  of  the  Radcliffe. 
On  the  other  side  view  there  was 
none,  save  of  the  intervening  valley, 
in  which  nestled  one  lone  little  home- 
stead, and  the  next  ridge,  the  high 
table-land  of  the  range.  However, 
this  was  the  most  satisfactory  issue 
my  search  vouchsafed  me.  It  was 
an  elm ;  it  stood  "  bare  on  its  lonely 


On  Classic  Ground. 


35 


ridge ; "  and  behind  that  ridge  the 
sunset  would,  in  proper  time  and  due 
atmospheric  conditions,  most  assuredly 
iflame.  More  than  that,  without  the 
jftat  of  its  first  discoverer,  I  could  not 
say. 

Pho3bus,  what  a  day  that  was ! 
There  was  a  certain  August  day  last 
year,  the  day  when  the  English  and 
Australian  cricketers  met  at  Kenning- 
ton  Oval,  one  the  former  are  little 
likely  to  forget.  That  perhaps  was 
hotter,  but  only  that  of  all  the  days 
have  passed  over  my  head  in  England. 
Yet  it  was  a  generous  heat,  born  of  the 
sun  only,  unmixed  with  any  stifling 
tropical  steam.  The  air  was  fresh  and 
pure,  and  though  breeze  there  was 
none,  to  breathe  it  was  a  liberal 
pleasure.  Past  the  Fox  again, 
and  down  the  hill-side  through 
abstemious  Wootton,  out  on  to  the 
high  road  I  went  by  the  path  the  lass 
of  the  Bear  had  designed  for  my  steps 
that  other  time.  But  then,  instead  of 
turning  up  the  road  to  Cumnor,  or 
down  it  to  Abingdon,  I  held  on  across 
some  grass  lands,  where  the  panting 
cows  had  barely  strength  to  chew  the 
customary  cud,  and  through  a  noble 
field  of  quick-yellowing  corn,  out  again 
on  to  the  public  way — the  way  which 
led  to  Besilsleigh  and  Fyfield.  In 
July,  and  such  a  July,  there  was  small 
likelihood  of  finding  any  maidens 
dancing  round  the  Fyfield-tree  ;  more- 
over, my  purpose  was  to  cross  "  the 
stripling  Thames  at  Bablock-hythe." 
So  turning  to  the  right,  I  set  my  face 
for  Eaton,  and  a  fiery  stretch  of  blind- 
ing white  road.  No  traveller  was  on 
that  road  save  my  perspiring  self  :  the 
fields  on  either  side  were  silent  and 
empty  :  even  in  the  village  itself  no 
sign  of  humanijty  was  visible  save  here 
and  there  some  listless  mother  lulling 
her  uneasy  brat  in  the  shade  of  a 
doorway.  It  was  as  though  all  human 
life  had  shrunk  away  in  the  presence 
of  that  imperious  sun.  But,  indeed, 
my  walks  were  not  rich  in  social 
charm  :  it  was  rare  (and  the  rarity  was 
borne  with  patience)  to  meet  with  any 
of  my  kind  outside  the  villages,  and  in 


them  life  seemed  neither  large  nor 
brisk.  Queer  old  sleepy  hollows. are 
those  villages :  unchanged  through 
all  the  change  at  work  in  the 
great  intellectual  centre  so  near 
them.  Curious  it  is  from  the  stir 
of  the  quick  spreading  city  to  pass 
at  one  step  into  this  old-world  region, 
there  at  her  very  gates.  And  yet, 
perhaps  to  some  minds  it  might  seem 
more  typical  of  Oxford  than  Oxford 
herself !  After  a  lapse  of  twenty  years 
the  friend  of  Thyrsis  found  that 
"  nothing  keeps  the  same."  Another 
term  of  twenty  years  has  flown  since 
a  feebler  foot  first  trod  these  hills,  and 
yet  to  me  everything  seems  to  have 
kept  strangely  the  same.  There  are 
the  old  sign-posts,  fossils  of  the  coaching 
age,  still  in  dumb  reproach  enjoining 
man  to  go  to  Bath  by  this  road,  or  by 
that  to  Cheltenham.  There  are  still 
the  huge  ungainly  stiles,  and  the 
rough  broken  paths — surely,  as  Buck- 
stone  used  to  say  in  the  Overland 
Route,  the  "nubbliest  spots  in  the 
whole  of  the  island."  The  bare,  hard- 
benched  little  ale-houses,  whence  the 
clattering  boors  drove  out  the  shy 
gipsy-scholar,  are  standing  still.  The 
thatched  rough-plastered  cottages  are 
all  unchanged,  with  their  tiny  stone- 
walled garden  plots,  ablaze  with 
old-time  blossoms,  heavy  crimson  roses, 
homely  sweet-william  and  gaudy 
marigold,  stocks  and  the  musk 
carnation,  "gold -dusted"  snapdragon 
and  tall  white  nodding  lilies.  The 
recluse  of  Walden  Pond  might  have 
made  even  his  fastidious  soul  in  the 
simple  quiet  of  these  Oxford  villages. 

A  little  way  outside  Eaton,  toiling 
up  the  slope  from  the  river  meadows,  I 
met  an  old  man,  the  oldest  man  I  ever 
saw  still  following  the  fortunes  of 
labouring  humanity.  So  old  was  he 
that  he  seemed  bent  not  double  but 
treble  with  age.  Over  his  shoulders 
fell  thin  silver  festoons  of  hair,  and 
the  skin  of  his  face  was  as  the  rind  of 
a  water-melon.  A  rude  staff,  taller 
than  himself — no  great  height — 
propped  his  slow  steps,  and  at  his  back 
hung  a  wallet  that  might  have  been 

r.  2 


36 


On  Classic  Ground. 


the  wallet  of  Time.  Old  enough  he 
looked  to  have  been  born  in  those  far 
off  days — 

"  When  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames  ;" 

Though  life  had  run,  one  fears,  with 
little  gaiety  for  him  !  He  piped  out 
a  feeble  answer  to  my  greeting, 
and  added  the  welcome  news  that  the 
ferry  was  barely  a  mile  before  me. 
Heaven  help  that  old  man  if,  on  the 
very  threshold  of  the  grave,  he  had 
paused  to  deceive  the  stranger !  It  was 
the  longest  mile  I  ever  walked. 

At  last,  the  stripling  Thames ;  not 
running  gaily — what  could  run  in 
that  fierce  heat,  save  this  too  solid 
flesh ! — but  basking  in  the  burning 
light,  a  still  sheet  of  molten  gold, 
shrinking  from  its  thirsty  banks 
as  though  in  very  shame  to  see  the 
drooping  grasses  it  had  not  strength  to 
save.  The  huge  punt  stretched  half 
across  the  stream;  a  little  knot  of 
should-be  workmen  were  resting  at  the 
farther  end,  lazily  contemplating 
through  the  smoke  of  their  short  black 
pipes  the  young  walls  of  a  hideous  brick 
tenement  they  might  finish  at  some 
more  convenient  time.  In  the  next 
meadow  was  the  inevitable  fisherman — 
poor  fool,  he  might  as  well  have 
whipped  the  turnpike  road !  My  de- 
mands for  a  passage  were  grudgingly 


granted,  and  hardly  a  piece  of  silver, 
instead  of  the  customary  copper  toll, 
reconciled  the  grumbling  Charon  when 
he  found  I  had  made  the  passage  in 
sheer  wantonness.  What  were  my 
memories  to  him  ?  Twenty  years  ago 
I  had  crossed  that  stream,  an  eager 
Freshman,  bound  for  my  first  college 
steeplechase,  in  the  company  of  one 
who  has  since  too  early  crossed 
that  other  "  unpermitted  ferry's  flow." 
Clearly  the  scene  came  back  to  me. 
The  moist,  fresh-smelling  fields  smiling 
under  the  dappled  February  sky  ;  the 
gray  brimming  current ;  the  slow  punt 
packed  full  with  thronging  lads  and 
shy  horses  ;  the  laugh,  the  jest,  and 
all  the  high  anticipation  of  the  fun ; 
and  he,  my  friend,  the  earliest  and  the 
best — 

"  But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with  sad 

eyes, 
Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth. " 

Here  it  is  fit  to  drop  these  poor 
"coronals  of  that  unforgotten  time." 
Perhaps  I  never  found  the  tree :  per- 
haps it  is  gone,  and  the  gipsy-scholar 
dead.  But  the  recollection  of  those 
pleasant  summer  days  will  never  go — 
of  that  so  sweet  renewal  of  youth. 
Next  year  may  I  take  up  the  search 
again, 

"  Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade  "  ! 


37 


THE   DEPRESSION  OF   "ENGLISH." 


IF  to  the  Royal  Commission  on  the 
Depression  of  Trade  could  be  added 
one  to  consider  the  causes  of  the  de- 
pression of  the  literature  and  history 
of  our  own  country,  some  interesting 
and  suggestive  evidence  might  be  forth- 
coming. And  if  only  impartial  wit- 
nesses were  selected,  the  labours  of 
such  a  commission  would  be  finished 
within  a  week.  To  such  impartial 
witnesses  might  be  recommended  the 
scrutiny  of  the  various  changes  intro- 
duced of  late  years  in  the  regulations 
for  the  examination  of  aspirants  to 
various  of  the  higher  branches  of  the 
services. 

Rather  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago  an  edict  went  forth  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  public  business,  the 
full  effect  of  which  could  not  have 
been  anticipated  at  the  time.  It  em- 
bodied a  tentative  scheme,  matured 
after  much  patient  thought  and  deli- 
beration by  a  syndicate  of  represen- 
tative men,  prominent  amongst  whom 
were  the  late  Lords  Macaulay  and 
Derby. 

Matter-of-fact  and  simple,  carefully 
considered  in  point  of  light  and  shade, 
and  weighed  with  scrupulous  care, 
this  scheme,  though  not  absolutely 
perfect,  was  fraught  with  the  best 
intentions.  The  chief  promoters  did 
not  live  to  witness  the  salutary  revo- 
lution it  occasioned ;  and  they  are 
not  here  to  protest  against  the  cruel 
mutilation  of  their  work.  The  pur- 
port of  this  new  project  was  ap- 
parently fourfold  :  to  legislate  for  the 
benefit  of  India ;  to  claim  proper 
recognition  in  the  future  for  all  the 
leading  branches  of  learning,  and 
notably  of  those  then  absolutely  ne- 
glected—English literature  and  his- 
tory; to  appeal  to  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  youths — not  to  youths 


of  an  uniform  mental  pattern  turned 
out  like  bullets  from  a  mould,  but  to 
every  shade  of  capacity  and  intelli- 
gence ;  and  lastly,  to  give  an  impetus 
to  the  dormant  energies  of  the  non- 
classical  masses  by  pointing  out  that 
English  and  science  and  modern  lan- 
guages were  also  high  roads  to  em- 
ployment in  the  public  service. 

This  tempting  bait  was  not  thrown 
out  in  vain,  and  very  gradually  a 
change  for  the  better  set  in.  The 
process  was  necessarily  sluggish,  for 
the  reason  that  the  new  class  of  com- 
batants had  no  weapon  sufficiently 
keen  to  wield  in  the  field  of  open  com- 
petition. Still  there  are  records  tell- 
ing that  at  first  hundreds  fought  in 
many  a  forlorn  hope,  and  it  was  just 
this  spirit  of  pugnacity  that  heralded 
a  complete  revolution  in  our  educa- 
tional system. 

" Modern  sides"  and  classes  for 
English  study  in  our  great  public 
schools  were  not  even  dreamt  of  then ; 
University  undergraduates  were  left 
in  comfortable  ignorance  as  to  the 
development  of  the  prose,  the  poetry, 
and  the  history  of  their  own  land,  for 
in  those  days  there  was  no  Early- 
English  Text  Society  for  the  en- 
couragement of  philological  work 
adapted  to  the  wants  of  young  stu- 
dents ;  Professor  Child  had  not  written 
a  line  of  his  Observations  on  the  Lan- 
guage of  Chaucer,  which  settled  for  all 
time,  and  for  all  subsequent  com- 
mentators, the  principles  upon  which 
an  accurate  text  of  this  poet  could  be 
constructed ;  the  Clarendon  Press 
Series,  and  other  kindred  literary 
ventures,  had  not  been  planned ,  while 
such  pioneers  as  Green,  Freeman, 
Stubbs,  Lecky,  Gardiner,  and  Pearson 
were  not  much  beyond  their  teens ; 
and  the  large  proportion  of  the  com- 


The  Depression  of  "English" 


pany  of  scholars  responsible  for  the 
Handbooks,  Primers,  Glossaries,  Synop- 
ses, Epochs,  Studies,  Outlines,  Digests, 
Elements,  and  Specimens,  designed  to 
soften  the  tasks  of  their  younger 
brethren  at  school — these  men  were 
in  their  cradles. 

Books  of  this  class  have  come  "  not 
single  spies  but  in  battalions."  Com- 
mencing with  English  subjects,  they 
have  rapidly  extended  to  the  other 
accepted  branches  of  learning.  Even 
the  old  classical  texts  have  disappeared, 
and  the  annotated  Primer  is  supreme. 
It  will  indeed  be  difficult  to  con- 
jecture what  is  likely  to  come  next, 
for  there  can  be  scarcely  any  author, 
ancient  or  modern,  left  for  the  editor's 
handiwork.  Nearly  every  reign  in  our 
history  hasjbeen  exhaustively  treated  by 
a  master  hand ;  the  biography  of  every 
great  historical  character  has  been 
written ;  and  the  abridgments  (some 
few  exceedingly  good)  of  the  general 
history  of  England,  of  European  his- 
tory, and  of  the  history  of  English 
literature,  are  innumerable.  Such  an 
extraordinary  upheaval  is  unparal- 
leled, not  to  say  appalling.  II  y  en  a 
pour  tons  les  go'dts^  and  from  pence  to 
guineas. 

Every  known  man  has  been  pressed 
into  the  service  according  to  his  lights, 
and  with  the  result  that  a  consider- 
able number  of  these  volumes  has 
been  launched  from  the  Universities 
and  the  Public  Schools.  In  some  cases 
it  may  be  objected  that  editions 
have  contained  twice  as  many  pages 
of  notes  as  of  text,  and  that  youths 
who  should  be  made  to  think  for  them- 
selves are  spoon-fed  with  the  most 
trivial  explanations  and  interpreta- 
tions of '  the  original ;  a  scoffing  public 
has  even  gone  so  far  as  to  assert  that 
people  who  read  these  volumes  other 
than  for  personal  delectation  are 
"  cramming." 

Viewing,  however,  the  work  of  the 
three  last  decades  as  a  whole,  more 
has  been  accomplished  in  aid  of  a 
scholarly  and  critical  appreciation  of 
"  English  "  than  was  done  in  the  three 
centuries  preceding.  It  is  not  too 


much  to  assert  that  Lord  Macaulay 
and  his  colleagues  could  no  more  have 
anticipated  that  so  gigantic  an  edifice 
would  rise  from  their  foundation  stone, 
than  our  Cromwellian  ancestors  could 
have  discerned  in  the  haphazard  Navi- 
gation Act  the  astounding  develop- 
ment of  our  mercantile  marine.  Ii> 
behoves  us  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  on 
this  monument  of  industry  and  cul- 
ture, to  encourage  the  admiration  of 
it,  and  to  check  all  dangerous  reaction. 
It  has  been  tampered  with  already. 

It  is  important  to  bear  in  mind 
that  a  new  department  of  state,  known 
as  the  Civil  Service  Commission,  was 
instituted  at  this  time  to  act  as  an 
examining  body  for  the  public  service, 
and  the  Order  in  Council  in  question 
formed  part  of  the  general  scheme. 
The  history  of  this  body  may  be  de- 
scribed as  a  Thirty  Years'  skirmish 
between  tradition  and  progress,  and 
is  commensurate  with  every  stage  of 
the  literary  movement.  Each  step  in 
advance  taken  by  the  commission  in- 
creased the  vitality  of  the  intellectual 
labour-market,  and  struck  at  the  weak 
point  in  the  education  of  [the  rising 
generation. 

In  course  of  time  a  few  powerful 
schools  agreed  to  accept  the  situation, 
and  their  example  was  followed,  with 
more  or  less  enthusiasm,  by  others. 
The  reaction  extended  to  the  Universi- 
ties, and,  by  means  of  many  "  extension 
schemes,"  has  permeated  every  nook 
and  corner  of  our  educational  system. 
Any  movement,  therefore,  which 
directly  or  indirectly  tends  to  depress 
what  is  termed  the  "  modern  side  "  in 
our  great  schools  —  any  retrograde 
movement,  in  fact — must  inevitably 
lead  to  injustice  and  trouble. 

Two  illustrations  will  be  given  indi- 
cative of  nothing  less  than  the  delibe- 
rate depreciation  of  English  literature 
and  history  in  quarters  where  they 
were  formerly  allowed  to  rank  at  their 
proper  value. 

First,  in  regard  to  candidates  for 
the  Royal  Military  College,  Sand- 
hurst. New  regulations  have  been 
issued  abolishing  the  study  of  English 


The  Depression  of  "  English." 


39 


literature,  and  degrading  history  to 
the  standard  of  a  second-class  optional 
subject.  History,  therefore,  will  be 
shirked  by  any  candidates  who  can 
improve  their  chances  of  success  by 
means  of  better  "paying"  branches; 
so  that  Sandhurst  will  be  recruited  by 
many  a  cadet  absolutely  without  know- 
ledge of  any  branch  even  of  military 
history. 

The  specific  complaint  of  past  years, 
in  regard  to  this  examination,  has  al- 
ways been  that  encouragement  was 
given  to  the  bookworm  at  the  expense 
of  the  more  desirable  athlete ;  and 
that  it  was  ridiculous  to  put  the 
English  officer  of  the  future  through 
his  facings  in  Chaucer  or  Spenser,  or 
indeed  in  any  purely  literary  study. 
In  their  condemnation  of  "  English  " 
these  malcontents  were  helping  to 
undermine  the  very  work  that  was 
the  mainstay  of  youths  who  during 
their  school  career  had  scarcely  at- 
tained mediocrity  in  classics  or  mathe- 
matics. It  was  the  very  branch  by 
means  of  which  they  could  hope  to 
scramble  over  the  last  stileJ 

A  reference  to  the  analyses  of  these 
competitions  will  show  that  no  subject 
was  so  popular  as  "  English ; "  and,  if 
marks  go  to  prove  anything,  in  none 
was  the  general  level  of  proficiency  so 
well  maintained.  Let  it  be  remem- 
bered that  the  great  mass  of  Sand- 
hurst candidates  is  composed  of  those 
whose  peculiar  tastes  and  abilities 
have  been  more  in  the  direction 
of  the  playing-field  than  the  study, 
and  that  public  opinion  persists 
in  pointing  to  such  youths  as  the 
most  desirable  for  our  officers.  Un- 
fortunately for  them  they  have  be- 
longed to  the  less  industrious  of 
schoolboys,  and  when  they  come  to 
see  the  necessity  of  serious  study,  it 
is  only  natural  they  should  lean  'to- 
wards subjects  in  which  they  have  not 
already  been  proved  to  be  wretchedly 
deficient.  There  can  be  no  just  princi- 
ple in  any  competition  which  does  not 
recognise  unreservedly  the  existence 
of  various  degrees  of  ability,  and  many 
distinctions  of  special  aptitude.  It  is 


monstrous  to  assume  that  because  a 
lad  is  not  a  scholar  he  is  fit  for 
nothing;  and  monstrous  to  condemn 
him  for  studying  the  very  books  which 
have  been  written  or  edited  by  some 
of  the  most  capable  men  of  his 
generation. 

Easy  enough  is  it  to  follow  the 
train  of  reasoning  that  has  led  to  the 
abandonment  of  a  course  of  literature 
for  army  students;  but  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  understand  why  at  least 
some  portion  of  history,  embracing  a 
Military  Campaign,  has  not  been  made 
obligatory.  This  was  to  be  looked  for, 
not  only  in  the  interests  of  the  ser- 
vice, but  as  a  preparation  for  future 
studies  at  Sandhurst.  Instead  of  this, 
history  is  classed  as  one  of  the  four 
optional  subjects ;  and  quality  is  to  be 
sacrificed  to  quantity  by  the  vexatious 
introduction  of  a  paper  involving  a 
knowledge  of  facts  from  the  time  of 
the  early  Britons  to  the  present  reign. 
Many  will  therefore  avoid  this  part 
of  the  programme  if  they  possibly 
can,  and  will  enter  Sandhurst  igno- 
rant of  the  names  of  the  great  adver- 
saries of  Marlborough  and  Wellington; 
never  having  seen  or  discussed  the 
plan  of  a  battle,  and  totally  untrained 
to  follow  the  lectures  of  their  military 
instructors.  Shade  of  the  Napiers  ! 
We  know,  at  least,  how  not  to  do  it. 

The  second  illustration  is  a  more 
serious  one,  and  deals,  not  with  a 
larger  body  of  men,  but  with  men  of 
a  different  stamp,  whose  intellectual 
aims  are  higher  and  whose  ambition 
it  is  to  serve  their  country  in  the 
Civil  Service  of  India. 

There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  the 
literary  movement  aforesaid  is  the 
direct  outcome  of  the  different  stages 
of  improvement  in  the  education  of 
candidates  for  this  service  who  were 
examined  under  Lord  Macaulay's 
scheme  of  1855.  This  is  proved  beyond 
all  question  in  each  successive  annual 
report  of  the  Civil  Service  Commis- 
sioners up  to  the  year  1878.  There 
are  the  volumes,  duly  signed  and  de- 
livered to  the  public ;  each  one  marking 
a  stage  of  progress  as  regularly  as  the 


40 


The  Depression  of  "  English!' 


milestone  on  the  Queen's  highway. 
There  is  nothing  theoretical  or  specu- 
lative about  them  ;  nothing  but  facts 
overwhelmingly  convincing  Study 
them  side  by  side  with  the  Publishers' 
Circulars,  and  we  find  the  relation  of 
cause  and  effect  unmistakably  marked. 
To  be  brief,  the  standard  was  gradu- 
ally raised  along  the  entire  range  of 
public  education ;  books  were  published 
with  amazing  rapidity  to  meet  the 
standard ;  and  candidates  in  abund- 
ance met  and  conquered  the  standard. 

English  literature  and  history  were 
encouraged  by  means  of  rewards  in 
marks  suitable  to  their  importance, 
and  with  complete  success.  The  clas- 
sical examination  included  papers  in 
Greek  and  Roman  history,  litera- 
ture, and  antiquities  ;  and  a  fair  know- 
ledge of  the  literature  and  history  of 
France,  Germany,  and  Italy  was  ex- 
pected of  those  who  asked  to  be 
examined  in  the  languages  of  one  or 
other  of  these  countries.  The  stand- 
ard, in  fact,  was  well  adjusted  to  the 
important  prizes  to  be  won;  and, 
except  perhaps  for  the  classification  of 
modern  languages,  the  field  was  a  fair 
one  for  all  comers.  Certainly  the  Eng- 
lish branches  came  to  be  the  most  popu- 
lar. But  just  as  this  literary  and  scho- 
larly movement  had  reached  its  zenith, 
it  was  discovered  we  were  all  wrong. 
An  order  from  the  Secretary  of  State 
for  India  in  Council  decreed  that  every- 
thiDg  must  be  changed,  and  down  came 
the  precious  fabric.  As  to  the  politi- 
cal expediency  of  Lord  Salisbury's 
Minute  there  are  certainly  more  "noes  " 
than  "ayes,"  both  in  England  and  in 
India ;  but  in  regard  to  its  harmfulness 
from  an  educational  point  of  view,  the 
following  facts  must  speak  for  them- 
selves. 

By  the  stratagem  of  lowering  the 
age  an  excuse  was  provided  for  falliog 
back  into  the  old  grooves,  and  of 
practically  reducing  the  standard  of 
prize  winners  to  one  of  grammar  and 
figures.  The  literary  and  historical 
portions  of  the  examination  in  French, 
German  and  Italian,  and  even  in  Latin 
and  Greek,  have  been  lopped  off,  and 


the  test  in  each  restricted  to  fragments 
of  translation  and  composition;  and 
by  way  of  dealing  a  death-blow  to  the 
study  of  English  literature  and  history 
so  few  marks  are  assigned  to  each  that 
already  half  the  candidates  have 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the 
game  is  no  longer  worth  the  candle. 
Indeed,  they  can  no  more  now  afford 
to  give  serious  thought  to  history  and 
literature,  and  neglect  for  a  single 
week  the  orthodox  and  only  remunera- 
tive subjects,  than  a  parliamentary 
candidate  can  at  the  present  moment 
abandon  electioneering  for  ballooning. 
Boys  are  quite  as  self-seeking  and 
alive  to  the  main  chance  as  their 
rulers  who  frame  these  strange  laws. 

It  is  inconceivable  that  so  ripe  an 
English  scholar  as  Lord  Salisbury  can 
have  signed  this  decree  for  the  depres- 
sion of  English  with  a  full  know- 
ledge of  what  was  likely,  nay  sure, 
to  happen.  There  must,  indeed,  have 
been  some  most  plausible  and  alluring 
arguments  at  work  to  have  induced 
him  to  do  in  1878  what  he  himself 
denounced  with  so  much  force  only 
eighteen  months  ago. 

During  a  discussion  in  the  House  of 
Lords  early  last  year  on  the  question, 
proposed  by  the  War  Office,  for  changes 
in  the  scheme  of  examination  for  milit- 
ary students  (the  scheme  already  men- 
tioned), his  lordship  appeared  as  the 
champion  of  English  studies,  and  elo- 
quently condemned  the  proposal  as 
impolitic  and  shortsighted.  Curiously 
enough,  there  was  no  Liberal  peer 
present  able  to  play  a  trump  card 
in  the  game  of  party-politics  by  re- 
minding the  former  Secretary  for 
India  of  a  measure  identical  in  purport 
with  that  before  the  House,  for 
which,  though  not  responsible  for  its 
inspiration,  he  was  there  to  answer. 
But  let  that  pass.  The  full  effect  of 
the  mischief  that  has  set  in  will  be 
imperfectly  understood  without  a  few 
statistics  :  they  shall  be  as  few  as 
possible. 

We  will  take  the  four  conventional 
subjects  : — Latin,  Greek,  French  trans- 
lation and  composition,  and  Mathe- 


The  Depression  of  "  English!' 


matics,  and  see  how  they  answered 
the  purposes  of  the  forty-one  selected 
candidates  for  India  last  June  : — 


Maximum 
Marks. 

lit 

Gross  total  of 
the  Successful 
Candidates. 

i 

Greek          

600 

32 

8  494 

265 

Latin 

800 

39 

16  941 

434 

French  i  

500 
1  000 

41 
41 

8,849 
16  236 

216 
396 

Some  other  branches  will  give  the 
following : — 


£  8,3  . 

^~ 

& 

3    02 

HII 

•3  S3 

-U    <U  £ 

03 

%£ 

o3p 

i°°  i 

N, 

OS's 

o|° 

1 

500 

15 

3  540 

236 

Italian  

400 

22 

2  807 

128 

English  History  
,,        Literature  .... 

300 
300 

21 
21 

1,637 
1,711 

H 

Chemistry  

500 

10 

1  358 

136 

Electricity  and  Mag-) 
netisin    / 

300 

7 

282 

40 

Heat  and  Light  

300 

2 

39 

19 

Mechanical    Philoso-) 
phy  and  Astronomy/ 

300 

2 

61 

30 

Logic    

300 

3 

240 

80 

Political  Economy  .... 

300 

22 

1,631 

74 

Sanskrit  

500 

o 

Science,  it  will  be  observed,  is  in  a 
deplorably  bad  way ;  but  I  am  con- 
cerned here  only  with  the  English 
side. 

Everybody,  of  course,  takes  his 
chance  with  the  English  essay;  but, 
as  regards  history  and  literature,  we 
find  that  already  fifty  per  cent,  of  the 
candidates  are  avoiding  them ;  whereas, 
in  the  old  day,  before  the  marks  were 
reduced,  all  were  glad  to  be  examined 
in  them.  The  statistics  show  not  only 
deliberate  depression  in  the  estimate 
of  the  relative  value  of  history  and 
literature  to  other  subjects,  but  posi- 
tive injustice  in  applying  this  estimate. 
How  comes  it  that  Latin,  which  is  set 

tat  nearly  three  times  the  value  of  Eng- 
lish history  or  literature,  is  made  to  pro- 
duce six  times  the  value  of  each,  and 
mathematics  five  times  the  value  ? 
Who  shall  say  that  lads  are  not 


actually  invited  to  stand  aloof  from 
self -culture  in  their  mother-tongue, 
when  such  facts  as  these  are  printed 
for  their  guidance  1 

If  any  reader  be  disposed  to  repeat 
the  old  old  cry  that  history  is  but  a 
"  cram  "  subject,  easily  "  got  up,"  I 
would  bid  him  know  this — that  not 
only  is  there  a  paper  on  the  entire 
range  of  history,  but  a  paper  on  the 
following  special  periods  as  well,  in 
any  one  of  which  candidates  are 
examined  ;  and  that  by  way  of  "  indi- 
cating the  character  and  amount  of 
reading  that  would  be  regarded  as 
satisfactory,"  this  leaflet  is  distributed. 

1.  A.i).  1066— 1307.   Stubbs's  Select  Charters  ; 

Stubbs's  Constitutional  History ;  Free- 
man's Norman  Conquest,  vol.  v. 

2.  A.D.  1461 — 1588.     Hallam's  Constitutional 

History  of  England  ;  Fronde's  History  of 
England  ;  Brewer's  Henry  the  Eighth. 

3.  A.D.  1603 — 1715.     Hallam's  Constitutional 

History  of  England  ;  Macaulay's  History 
of  England  ;  Gardiner's  History  of  Eng- 
land ;  Wyon's  Reign  of  Queen  Anne. 

4.  A.D.  1715—1805.       Lord  Stanhope's  His- 

tory ;  Sir  T.  E.  May's  Constitutional  His- 
tory ;  Seeley's  Expansion  of  England  ;  and 
Massey's  Reign  of  George  the  Third. 

And  all  this  for  what  may  be  got 
out  of  three  hundred  marks,  from 
which  one  hundred  are  docked  for 
"  superficial  knowledge  !  "  If  students 
cannot  steer  clear  of  superficiality 
on  such  works  as  these,  where  can 
they  turn  for  safety  ?  Could  any- 
thing be  more  likely  to  depress  the 
study  of  history  among  boys  between 
the  ages  of  seventeen  and  nineteen 
than  a  challenge  of  this  forbidding 
nature  ?  Of  course  they  will  prefer  to 
turn  to  anything,  even  to  a  few  books 
of  Euclid,  than  face  a  task  weighted 
with  so  heavy  a  premium ;  especially 
when  they  ascertain  that  Mr.  Freeman's 
volume  consists  of  nine  hundred  large 
and  closely-printed  pages  of  learned 
comments  on  the  Norman  and  Angevin 
kings  ;  that  Professor  Stubbs's  great 
works  must  be  hard  reading  even  to 
University  schoolmen ;  that  the  handi- 
est edition  of  Mr.  Froude's  History  is  in 
twelve  volumes  covering  six  thousand 
pages, — though,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Froude's 


The  Depression  of  "English'' 


six  thousand  pages  are  easier  reading 
than  half  that  number  from  most 
other  hands  ;  that  Brewer  means  two 
ponderous  tomes  in  one  thousand  pages 
of  equally  ponderous  records  of  the  life 
of  Henry  the  Eighth  to  the  death  of 
Wolsey;  and  that  Mr.  Gardiner's 
monumental  work  on  the  Personal 
Government  of  Charles  the  First  and 
the  fall  of  the  monarchy  is  not  a  mere 
handy  text-book  ;  when,  in  short,  they 
cast  about  for  selecting  a  "  special 
period "  to  supplement  the  general 
paper  for  which  Mr.  Green's  or  Mr. 
Bright's  History  must  be  read,  and  yet 
find  that  black-mail  is  levied  in  all 
directions,  they  naturally  will  not 
imperil  their  chances  by  undertaking 
so  much  unremunerative  labour. 

But  let  it  be  assumed  that  a  candi- 
date shall  know  his  history  of  Period 
I.  as  completely  as  Professors  Stubbs 
and  Freeman,  or  of  Period  II.  as  com- 
pletely as  Mr.  Froude  or  Dr.  Brewer ; 
he  can  obtain  no  more  than  full  marks. 

Then  let  it  be  likewise  assumed 
that  the  same  candidate  shall  have 
reached  the  level  of  a  Warton  or  a 
Craik  in  the  history  of  English  litera- 
ture, how  would  he  fare  in  contrast 
with  a  rival  who  in  the  mathematical 
papers,  beginning  with  arithmetic  and 
ending  with  the  differential  and  in- 
tegral calculus  (not  a  very  high 
standard),  shall  also  make  full  marks'? 
This  would  be  the  result : — 

Deduct  for 

Maxi-      Marks      superficial 
mum.      gained,    knowledge.    Total. 

.  /History  300     ...      300     ...       100       =       200 

A'\Literature ...      300     ...      300    ...      100      =      200 


400 


B.  Mathematics    1,000  ...  1,000 

If,  again,  this  same  mark-test  be 
applied,  and  Latin  and  Greek  be 
substituted  for  mathematics,  we  shall 
find— 


/Greek  ......... 

•  (Latin  .......... 


total«  400'  as  before- 

Maxi-      Marks 

mum      gained.        Deduct. 


600 
800 


600 
800 


Total. 
100  •  =  500 
100  =  700 

1,200 


This    table    presupposes    the    pos- 


sibility of  a  perfectly  accurate  adjust- 
ment of  the  relative  standard  that 
is  considered  equitable ;  but  the 
previous  tables  show  that  in  the  actual 
process  of  distributing  marks  "  Eng- 
lish "  is  made  to  fall  yet  another  fifty 
per  cent.  Need  more  be  said  1 

The  old  argument  that  classics  and 
mathematics  should  take  precedence, 
owing  to  the  length  of  time  that  is 
spent  on  them,  is  only  an  argument  in 
favour  of  the  comparatively  few  who 
are  blessed  with  classical  or  mathemati- 
cal ability.  Almost  the  same  amount 
of  school-time  has  to  be  given  to 
them,  will  he  nil  he,  by  lads  of  no  real 
aptitude  for  them,  whose  abilities,  in- 
deed, lean  in  a  diametrically  opposite 
direction.  Ought  they  to  pay  a  double 
penalty  for  their  misfortune  by  being 
practically  excluded  from  all  chance 
of  preferment  in  the  public  service? 
By  all  means  welcome  loyally  and 
liberally  the  best  classical  and  mathe- 
matical students,  for  they  are  the 
representatives  of  the  best  teaching  in 
all  our  chief  seats  of  learning ;  but  do 
not  let  us  any  longer  wilfully  shelve 
well-disposed  workers  in  other  useful 
directions. 

Yery  tardily  we  are  recognising 
responsibilities  that  are  unspeakably 
important  by  giving  increased  en- 
couragement to  the  study  of  modern 
languages.  With  our  country  swarm- 
ing with  German  clerks  (they  are  here 
in  their  tens  of  thousands),  bringing 
with  them  a  competent  knowledge  of 
French  and  English,  doing  excellent 
work  at  a  low  rate  of  wage,  claiming 
and  readily  obtaining  priority  of 
choice  over  less  useful  Englishmen  in 
our  own  houses  of  business,  we  are 
sadly  in  need  of  this  crumb  of  comfort. 
Why  are  we,  then,  taking  away  with 
one  hand  what  we  are  giving  with  the 
other?  Surely  our  resources  are  not 
so  scanty  that,  in  order  to  provide  for 
the  necessities  of  embryonic  modern 
linguists,  we  must  contrive,  after  all 
that  has  been  done  for  them,  to  thrust 
the  history  and  literature  of  England 
into  the  background  ! 

W.  BAPTISTE  SCOONES. 


SOME   AMERICAN  NOTES. 


THE  following  pages  record  some  first 
impressions  of  the  United  States 
during  a  short  visit  in  the  autumn 
of  last  year.  It  is  with  not  a  little 
misgiving  that  they  are  offered  to 
the  public.  So  many  eminent  men 
have  been  to  that  country  lately,  so 
much  has  been  said  and  written  of 
their  experiences,  by  themselves  and 
others,  that  the  question  must  almost 
inevitably  arise,  What  can  be  left  for 
one,  who  boasts  none  of  their  eminence, 
to  say?  Indeed,  I  fear,  very  little. 
Yet  I  try  to  console  myself  with  the 
reflection  that  no  object  looks  quite 
the  same  to  different  eyes,  and  that 
there  are  many,  very  many,  objects  in 
America. 

In  the  company  of  two  friends  I 
sailed  from  Liverpool  one  Saturday 
evening  in  the  windy  month  of  Sep- 
tember, and  early  on  the  ninth  morn- 
ing of  our  voyage  we  made  the 
harbour  of  New  York.  The  sun  was 
rising  in  the  orange-coloured  east ;  on 
the  western  horizon  grey  level  banks 
of  mist  brooded  over  the  still  sleeping 
city.  Its  towers  and  pinnacles,  indis- 
tinctly seen  through  the  dim  vapour, 
looked  full  of  majesty ;  the  city  itself 
on  the  bosom  of  the  still  waters  might 
have  been  a  home  of  beauty  and  poetry. 
Soon  some  fishing  craft  came  out  of 
the  harbour  trimming  their  white  sails 
to  the  breeze  ;  then  a  tender  followed, 
on  board  of  which  we  steamed  to  the 
custom-house  quay. 

About  two  hours  after  landing  the 
examination  of  our  luggage  was  com- 
pleted, and  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
commodious  two-horsed  cab  in  which 
we  were  jolted  slowly  along  what  must, 
I  suppose,  in  courtesy  be  called  the 
paved  streets  of  New  York.  In  the 
matter  of  street  paving  in  America 
the  resources  of  civilisation  are  by  no 
means  exhausted.  Nothing  worse  than 


the  state  of  the  roadway  in  New  York 
is  easily  conceivable  \  nothing  more 
hideous  than  the  general  aspect  of  the 
city  on  close  inspection  is  humanly 
possible.  Great  square,  clean,  ugly 
blocks  of  buildings  present  themselves 
in  uniform  and  tasteless  repetition 
throughout  the  wearisome  monotony  of 
the  "  long,  unlovely  streets."  The 
side-walks  are  disfigured  with  tele- 
graph-posts; the  sky  is  almost  dark- 
ened with  the  dense  net-work  of  the 
wires  interlacing  overhead.  New  York 
is  nothing  but  half-a-dozen  streets 
running  north  and  south  for  twelve  or 
fifteen  miles,  and  no  streets  in  the 
civilised  world  are  less  attractive  or  so 
ill  adapted  for  the  purpose  of  swift 
and  easy  transit.  A  few  hours  in  New 
York  is  sufficient  to  enable  you  to 
do  adequate  justice  to  its  deformi- 
ties ;  a  little  longer  time  is  required 
if  you  wish  to  examine  the  most 
characteristic  product  of  America,  the 
humanity  which  is  found  in  its  streets. 
No  type  of  national  life  is  more 
distinct  than  that  of  the  American. 
You  cannot  mistake  a  genuine 
Yankee  for  the  representative  of 
any  other  nationality  under  the  sun. 
In  spite  of  the  immense  influx  of 
emigrants  from  Europe  this  remains 
true.  The  country  has  an  omni- 
vorous appetite  for  fresh  colonists, 
and  a  digestion  which  absorbs  and 
assimilates  them  all.  It  takes  an 
Irishman  or  a  German  landed  in  the 
States  perhaps  a  shorter  time,  an 
Englishman  or  Scotchman  perhaps  a 
longer  time,  to  become  an  American ; 
but  they  are  all  transformed  at  last. 
It  is  not  so  easy  to  tell  in  what  the 
change  consists,  as  it  is  to  remark  the 
difference.  Physically  there  is  dete- 
rioration. The  climate  withers  all ; 
the  face  becomes  dry  and  pinched, 
the  movements  slow  and  languid  ;  the 


44 


Some  American  Notes. 


speech  drawls.  There  is  no  greater 
mistake  than  to  imagine  that  the 
typical  American  is  an  energetic 
being,  vivid  and  versatile  in  mind, 
restlessly  eager  in  the  active  reali- 
sation of  his  ideas ;  for  in  truth  he 
is  the  slowest,  most  lethargic  of  men. 
I  remember  an  American  friend  telling 
me  a  story  of  a  fellow-student  in  their 
college  days.  One  of  the  professors 
found  this  youth  one  day  seated  in  an 
attitude,  familiar  enough  to  us  through 
pictorial  representations,  which  is  un- 
deniably comfortable  but  scarcely  con- 
ducive to  study.  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,  professor,"  said  the  student,  "  I 
was  cut  out  for  a  loafer."  The  pro- 
fessor regarded  him  for  a  moment 
with  half  compassionate  contempt : 
"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  guess  the  man 
who  cut  you  out  knew  his  business." 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  Ameri- 
can is  naturally  cut  out  for  a  loafer, 
but  I  do  say  that  he  has  a  languid 
and  faded  look.  The  enterprise  of  the 
States  is  largely  in  the  hands  of  new 
settlers.  It  is  they  who  people  the 
distant  west  where  new  territories  are 
born  in  a  day.  The  native  American 
looks  as  if  he  would  stop  altogether. 
When  he  does  exert  himself  it  is  for 
the  discovery  of  some  new  means  of 
avoiding  trouble.  He  is  a  great  me- 
chanical inventor,  but  he  perfects 
nothing.  He  is  not  without  literary 
and  artistic  sensibility,  but  he  has 
produced  no  great  work  of  genius. 
The  sustained  effort  such  work  de- 
mands is  beyond  the  compass  of  his 
powers.  That  "artistic  anaemia,"  of 
which  Dr.  Holmes  half  deprecatingly, 
half  deploringly,  speaks  as  a  recog- 
nised characteristic  of  the  American 
man  of  genius,  is  but  an  illustration 
in  one  department  of  life  of  a  na- 
tional apathy  and  bloodlessness. 

Morally  there  is  a  great  deal  to 
admire  in  the  American.  I  like  his 
tolerance,  his  frankness,  his  friendli- 
ness, his  familiarity,  his  independence. 
He  is  uniformly  polite.  He  will  go 
out  of  his  way  to  put  you  into  yours. 
I  am  afraid,  however,  he  is  just  a 
little — I  hardly  dare  to  say  it — snob- 


bish. It  is  a  notorious  fact,  observed 
since  society  was  first  divided  into 
classes,  that  those  who  claim  most 
eagerly  to  be  ladies  and  gentlemen 
are  precisely  those  to  whom  Prudence, 
if  she  were  allowed  to  speak,  would 
suggest  silence.  Everybody  in  America 
is  a  lady  or  a  gentleman,  and  must 
be  styled  accordingly.  "  Are  you  the 
gentleman  to  whom  I  gave  my  order  ? " 
you  ask  the  waiter  in  the  hotel.  The 
position  of  a  nation  which  repudiated 
all  social  distinctions  in  defence  of  the 
simple  and  wholesome  truth  of  our 
common  manhood  and  womanhood  is 
intelligible ;  but  not  so  intelligible  is 
this  national  advocacy  of  a  common 
gentlemanhood  and  ladyhood.  No 
doubt,  however,  the  practice  is  designed 
to  raise  the  standard  of  manners. 
The  freedom  with  which  you  can  speak 
to  strangers,  and  are  spoken  to  by 
them,  is  delightful ;  and  if  you  go  to 
the  country  for  information,  and  as  a 
student  of  its  life,  it  is  of  priceless 
advantage.  One  word  more — what  is 
best  in  the  American  character,  the 
real  sensibility  and  'tenderness  which 
vibrate  beneath  the  surface,  and  stir 
now  and  then  a  naturally  languid 
and  self-indulgent  race  till  it  thrills 
with  a  generous  enthusiasm, — this  the 
American  does  his  best  to  conceal. 

From  New  York  our  first  move  was 
in  the  direction  of  Niagara,  which  we 
approached  by  way  of  the  Hudson 
River.  We  sailed  up  this  fine  river 
as  far  as  Albany.  The  colours  of  the 
fall  glowed  along  the  wooded  banks 
and  down  the  shoulders  of  the  Catskill 
Mountains.  In  our  moist  atmosphere 
the  foliage  of  summer  withers  from  the 
trees  in  smouldering  hues  of  dusky 
brown  and  copper ;  in  the  dry  air  of 
the  States  it  flames  with  scarlet  and 
crimson.  No  lovelier  gradation  of 
variegated  tints  in  a  scale  of  warm 
colour  was  well  conceivable.  A  breeze 
as  soft  as  the  balmiest  of  midsummer 
breathed  gently  in  our  faces.  We 
passed  West  Point,  with  its  military 
Academy  perched  airily  on  the  rock 
overlooking  the  river ;  we  passed  the 
spot  where  Henry  Hudson  anchored 


Some  American  Notes. 


45 


on  its  stream;  we  passed  Jay  Gould's 
house.  Each  spot  was  brought  to  our 
notice  by  our  guide-book  with  equal 
and  undiscriminating  emphasis. 

We  arrived  at  Albany,  the  capital 
of  New  York  State,  about  six  o'clock. 
Strolling  down  the  principal  street  we 
saw  a  door,  as  of  a  shop,  open.  There 
appeared  to  be  nothing  on  the  premises 
save  a  number  of  curious  uniforms 
hung  round  upon  the  wall.  "  Come 
in,  come  right  in,"  said  a  man  at  the 
door,  as  he  saw  us  look  in  and  hesitate 
to  enter.  "  We're  all  Republicans  here. 
I  guess  we  won't  hurt  anybody." 
"But  what  is  all  this?"  we  asked. 
"This  is  the  head-quarters  of  the 
Republican  Unconditionals,"  replied 
the  man.  And  then  he  went  on  to 
explain,  that  two  or  three  months 
before  a  presidential  election  each  of 
the  rival  parties  organises  clubs  all 
over  the  country  for  electioneering 
purposes,  and  that  this  was  the  head- 
quarters of  one  of  the  clubs  of  the 
Republican  party.  The  uniform  of 
this  particular  organisation  of  politi- 
cians consisted  of  a  white  pasteboard 
helmet  and  a  white  oilskin  tunic  with 
red  facings,  and  each  member  of  it 
owned  and  carried  a  torch  on  parade. 
A  demonstration  or  march-out  took 
place  two  or  three  times  a  week.  The 
clubs  do  nothing  but  demonstrate — 
this  activity  exhausts  their  political 
functions.  We  saw  enough  of  these 
strange,  boyish,  good-humoured,  and 
rather  vulgar  displays  throughout  our 
journey.  Wherever  we  went,  north, 
south,  east,  and  west,  merchants, 
lawyers,  doctors,  artizans,  were  career- 
ing through  the  streets  beneath  a 
flutter  of  flags  and  flicker  of  torches  in 
costumes  such  as  might  clothe  the 
"  supers "  for  an  imposing  procession 
on  the  provincial  stage.  "  Backwards," 
says  the  song, 

"roll  .backwards,  0  Time,  in  your 
flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night." 

During  the  autumn  of  every  fourth 
year  this  wish  is  more  than  fulfilled 
for  the  American,  who  is  made,  and 


continues  to  be,  a  child  until  he  gets 
a  new  president. 

The  Republican  "Unconditionals" 
did  not  parade  the  evening  we  were  at 
Albany,  but  fit  was  a  great  occasion 
with  the  Democrats.  About  nine 
o'clock  we  strolled  through  the  town 
and  up  to  the  capitol — an  immense 
building,  erected  regardless  of  expense, 
and  not  yet  completed  or  paid  for. 
All  the  American  State-houses  have 
an  open  passage  running  through 
them,  with  offices  on  either  side. 
Entering  at  one  approach  we  saunt- 
ered through  the  long  corridor  and 
found  that  the  door  at  the  other  side 
opened  out  on  a  wide  flight  of  steps 
which  descended  to  the  street.  This 
street  was  crowded  by  an  immense 
concourse  of  people,  which  lined  the 
pavement  and  surged  up  to  the  steps  of 
the  capitol  on  which  we  stood.  Rockets 
hissed  in  the  air,  and  coloured  lights 
flared  from  the  windows  of  the  houses. 
A  minute  or  two  afterwards  a  gentle- 
man came  out  and  stood  bare-headed 
on  the  steps  beside  us.  We  quickly 
recognised  him,  by  his  portraits,  to  be 
Grover  Cleveland.  Then  drums  sounded 
and  the  martial  tread  of  American 
politicians,  and  all  the  Democratic 
clubs  in  Albany  demonstrated  before 
their  chosen  candidate  for  the  presi- 
dential chair.  The  procession  was  com- 
posed of  such  fantastic  creatures  as  I 
have  already  described.  One  club, 
however,  disdaining  the  meretricious 
ornament  of  oil-skins  and  coloured 
cloth,  rested  their  claim  to  public 
sympathy  exclusively  upon  the  posses- 
sion of  white  hats.  They  all  wore 
white  hats,  and  the  advancing  column 
was  followed  by  a  cart  in  which  was 
placed  an  apparatus  which  threw  a 
strong  beam  of  limelight  along  the 
line  of  the  moving  heads.  Grover 
Cleveland  stood  impassive  and  silent 
till  the  whole  display  was  at  an  end. 
A  large  strong-built  and,  for  an 
American,  close-jointed  man,  with  high 
forehead  and  dull  heavy  look,  his  face 
would  be  quite  uninteresting  save  for 
a  certain  firmness  of  purpose  which  is 
conveyed  by  the  lines  of  its  lower  half. 


Some  American  Notes. 


Clever  or  brilliant  he  cannot  possibly 
be.  Strong  and  capable  as  an  admin- 
istrator he  well  may  be.  One  thing 
is  noteworthy,  he  is  an  American 
politician  who  doesn't  talk.  He  never 
opened  his  lips  that  evening — he  never 
does  if  he  can  help  it — and  he  can 
generally  help  it.  Mr.  Froude  and 
Mr.  Carlyle  tell  us  that  democratic 
electors  will  always  choose  for  their 
leader  the  eloquent  man  who  can 
flatter  them,  and  that  as  eloquence  is 
incompatible  with  statesmanship  de- 
mocracies must  founder.  This  rule 
has  been  broken  for  once.  Last 
November,  America  had  to  choose  be- 
tween the  most  brilliant  talker,  the 
greatest  flatterer  and  most  restless 
in  intellectual  vitality  of  all  her  poli- 
ticians, and  this  grave,  phlegmatic, 
silent  man  who  stood  beside  us  on  the 
steps  of  the  capitol  at  Albany;  and 
she  chose  the  latter.  As  Cleveland 
retired,  which  he  did  rapidly,  a  great 
crowd  swarmed  up  the  steps  and 
pressed  into  the  building.  Children 
anxious  to  shake  hands  with  him 
followed  in  great  numbers.  "Which 
way  did  Cleveland  go  1  "  said  an  ex- 
cited little  maiden  to  me,  and  added 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  "  I 
say,  hurrah  for  Cleveland  !  "  Perhaps, 
on  the  whole,  we  may  say  so  too. 

From  Albany  a  night's  journey  by 
rail  brought  us  to  Niagara ;  of  its 
famous  falls  I  do  not  propose  to  speak. 
To  me  they  were  disappointing.  I 
am  told  that  if  you*  stay  a  week  at 
Niagara  you  grow  to  think  them  sub- 
lime ;  I  stayed  only  two  days,  so  the 
fitting  emotions  may  not  have  had 
time  to  develop.  These,  it  should  be 
remembered,  are  only  first  impressions. 

Boston  came  next  on  the  pro- 
gramme. I  liked  Boston.  The  newer 
portion  of  the  town  is  handsome  and 
orderly,  and  the  quaint  red  -  brick 
houses,  sheltered  and  beautified  by 
neighbouring  trees,  which  clamber  up 
the  rising  ground  of  the  Tremont  quar- 
ter, are  truly  picturesque.  In  the 
centre  of  the  town  is  a  well-kept  space 
devoted  to  horticulture,  and  adjoining 
.this  is  the  " common" — a  hilly  enclo- 


sure of  shady  walks  and  open  grass. 
It  was  the  longest  of  the  former, 
stretching  from  Joy  Street  to  Boylston 
Street,  which  was,  you  may  remember, 
the  scene  of  one  of  the  daintiest  pieces 
of  love-making  recorded  in  American 
fiction — the  inimitable  sequel  to  the 
story  of  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast 
Table. 

When  we  arrived  in  Boston  we 
hired  a  cab,  and  told  the  driver  to 
show  us  the  principal  sights.  He 
jumped  up  on  his  box  with  alacrity. 
"  I'll  take  you  first,"  he  said,  "  to  see 
J.  L.  Sullivan's  house."  "Who  is 
he  ? "  we  inquired.  "  Never  heard  of 
J.  L.  ?  "  responded  cabby.  "Why, 
where  do  you  hail  from?"  "From 
England,"  was  the  reply.  "Never 
heard  of  him  there?  why,  he's  our 
great  fighting  man."  "  Rubbish  !  " 
said  my  friend,  impatiently ;  "  we  come 
to  see  Boston,  a  great  intellectual  centre, 
and  the  first  thing  you  propose  to  show 
us  is  the  house  of  a  brutal  prize-fighter." 
Cabby  muttered  that  the  house  in 
question  was  a  fine  ojie,  and  then  sug- 
gested driving  us  to  the  market.  After 
this  second  proposal  we  had  to  take  the 
matter  into  our  own  hands  and  make 
our  own  selection.  We  had  a  long 
and  pleasant  drive — first,  to  the  busy 
centre  of  the  town,  to  the  Old  South 
Church,  to  the  old  State  House,  to 
Faneuil  Hall,  with  their  historic 
memories ;  then  round  the  suburbs — 
through  the  cluster  of  red  buildings 
which  forms  the  University  of  Har- 
vard, past  the  tree  beneath  whose 
shadow  Washington  assumed  com- 
mand of  the  Republican  forces,  to 
the  house  which  was  for  so  long  the 
quiet  home  of  Longfellow — to  the  dock- 
yards and  arsenal,  to  Bunker's  Hill. 

At  Boston,  for  the  first  time  on 
American  soil,  you  forget  that  you  are 
in  a  new  country  with  a  short  history, 
for  the  dust  of  heroes  has  mingled  with 
the  earth  on  which  we  tread.  Moses  at 
the  Red  Sea,  Leonidas  at  Thermopylse, 
to  these  landmarks  in  the  history  of 
freedom  age  can  add  nothing,  from  them 
it  can  take  nothing  away ;  and  Pres- 
cott,  with  his  "embattled"  townsmen 


Some  American  Notes. 


at  Bunker's  Hill,  inaugurated  a  new 
social  experiment  among  men  as  well 
as  a  new  epoch  in  the  annals  of  their 
liberties.  The  great  experiment, 
made  for  the  first  time  on  an  ade- 
quate scale,  whether  a  people  can 
govern  itself  has  been  so  far  suc- 
cessful. And  yet  I  think  the  success 
might  have  been  steadier,  and  would 
certainly  have  had  a  wider  influence 
abroad,  if  America  had  escaped  from 
that  metaphysical  stage  of  national 
existence  in  which  she  still  remains. 
It  will  be  a  great  day  for  that  country 
when  her  popular  orators  and  Cali- 
fornian  economists  have  learned  that 
it  is  a  mistake  to  mix  metaphysic  with 
politics  and  economics,  and  that,  whe- 
ther the  question  at  issue  be  one  of 
land  nationalisation  or  electoral  privi- 
lege, all  vapouring  about  "  human 
rights,"  "  natural  rights  of  man," 
and  so  forth,  is  as  much  beside  the 
question  as  if  nowadays  one  were  to 
introduce  the  doctrine  of  the  divine 
right  of  kings  into  an  inquiry  concern- 
ing the  relative  advantages  of  mo- 
narchy and  republicanism.  We  also, 
it  may  be,  are  not  without  need  to  learn 
the  same  lesson.  The  questions  be- 
tween rival  forms  of  government,  as 
indeed  all  others  of  high  political  im- 
portance, can  be  safely  discussed  only 
on  the  broad  humane  ground  of  social 
expediency. 

From  Boston  we  returned  to  New 
York,  where  I  parted  temporarily  from 
my  friends  and  proceeded  to  Phila- 
delphia and  Baltimore.  I  must  pass 
briefly  over  my  visits  to  these  cities — 
not  because  they  were  less  interesting 
than  those  I  have  already  described, 
but  because  both  these  places  have  the 
characteristics  of  other  northern  towns, 
and  there  is  still  much  I  wish  to  say 
about  the  south  and  west.  You  all 
know  what  is  to  be  seen  in  Phila- 
delphia ;  you  all  know  that  the  Decla- 
ration of  Independence  was  first  read 
from  the  steps  of  Independence  Hall, 
and  that  its  noble  words  are  inscribed 
in  the  vestibule  of  that  building.  In 
spite  of  the  grandeur  and  imposing 
magnificence  of  portions  of  the  town, 


it  is  still  in  some  degree  rustic.  The 
"  pleasant  woodland  names "  of  the 
streets,  Chestnut  Street,  &c.,  remind  us 
of  the  country  breezes  which  rocked  its 
cradle.  It  is  perhaps  to  the  influence 
of  these  breezes  that  the  women  of 
Baltimore  and  Philadelphia  look  so 
much  healthier,  as  certainly  they 
seemed  to  me  to  look,  than  their 
sisters  of  New  York  and  Boston. 

From  Baltimore  I  went  to  Washing- 
ton. Washington  is  laid  out  on  an 
extensive  scale,  but  it  is  no  more 
than  a  skeleton  city.  The  buildings 
are  what  the  Americans  call  "elegant." 
It  is  a  well-ordered  and  well-kept  city, 
artifically  endowed  with  objects  of  in- 
terest, only  Providence  has  not  fallen 
in  with  the  designs  of  its  founders. 
There  is  little  trade,  and  a  small, 
purposeless  population.  I  went  of 
course  to  the  Capitol,  where  it  seems 
to  me  internal  comfort  and  convenience 
are  rather  sacrificed  to  general  effect. 
The  rooms  in  actual  use  are  small. 
But  it  is  something  for  an  insignificant 
mortal  to  have  stood  in  such  a  large 
building.  Size  counts  for  something. 
Even  Mr.  Ruskin  admits  that  it  is 
impossible  to  be  quite  indifferent  to 
St.  Peter's  when  you  know  that  the 
acanthus  leaves  on  the  capitals  are 
measured  by  feet. 

I  rejoined  my  two  companions  at  a 
place  than  which  none  is  more  inter- 
esting in  later  American  history, 
Harper's  Ferry.  The  busy  activities 
of  that  little  town  are  silent  now,  its 
streets  are  dirty  and  deserted,  and  the 
appearance  of  their  squalor  and  neglect 
disfigures  one  of  the  fairest  scenes  of 
nature.  The  government  arsenal,  so 
famous  once,  has  been  long  disused, 
and  the  ground  on  which  it  stood 
was  advertised  for  sale.  John  Brown's 
fort  is  an  unsightly  ruin.  And  yet  I 
should  not  have  liked  to  omit  a  visit 
to  a  place  so  closely  associated  with 
famous  names  and  inspiring  deeds.  I 
crossed  the  river  and  climbed  the  steep 
sides  of  the  Maryland  heights.  From 
that  eminence  a  panorama  is  spread 
before  the  eye,  unrivalled  in  interest 
and  beauty.  To  the  north  and  north- 


48 


Some  American  Notes. 


west  stretches  a  wide  billowy  cham- 
paign to  the  confines  of  Pennsylvania, 
rich,  fruitful,  and  beneficent.  Beneath 
our  feet  the  Potomac  makes  music 
among  the  rough  stones  which  served 
so  often  the  passage  of  armies,  whilst 
southwards,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
overlooked  by  the  strong  guardianship 
of  the  Blue  Ridge  to  the  left  and  the 
Great  North  Mountains  to  the  right, 
gleamed  like  a  braid  of  silver  the 
waters  of  the  Shenandoah.  as  they 
flow  through  the  fair  Virginian  valley 
to  which  they  lend  their  name.  No 
mountain  guardianship  could  preserve 
that  quiet  valley  from  the  "  red  rain  " 
which  fell  not  to  make  its  harvests 
grow.  From  1860  to  1864  the  tide  of 
war  ebbed  and  flowed  through  it  inces- 
santly. In  the  great  struggle  between 
the  Northern  and  Southern  forces,  the 
strategical  importance  of  the  Shenan- 
doah valley  was  immense.  It  runs  for 
nearly  two  hundred  miles  in  a  south- 
westerly direction,  with  scarcely  a  gap 
in  the  protecting  bulwark  of  its  moun- 
tain barriers.  But  the  egress  from  the 
valley  to  the  north  would  bring  an  in- 
vading army  sixty  miles  in  the  rear  of 
Washington,  and  would  therefore  out- 
flank the  capital  of  the  Union ;  the 
passage  of  a  northern  army,  on  the 
other  hand,  through  the  valley  would 
be  a  march  away  from  Richmond.  It 
was  necessary  for  the  troops  of  the 
Union  to  command  the  Shenandoah ; 
it  was  the  object  of  the  Confederates  to 
prevent  this.  So  rich  was  the  valley 
in  its  "  well-filled  barns,  its  cattle,  and 
its  busy  mills,"  that  southern  armies 
lived  on  it  for  years,  till  at  last  the 
decree  went  forth  that  it  must  be 
cleared  not  of  rebels  alone  but  of 
the  means  it  furnished  for  their  sub- 
sistence ;  and  Grant  sent  out  the  me- 
morable word  to  "eat  out  Virginia 
clear  and  clean,  so  that  the  crows 
flying  over  it  for  the  balance  of  this 
season  will  have  to  carry  their  pro- 
vender with  them." 

We  had  intended  to  drive  through 
this  valley,  but  the  road  was  so  dusty 
we  preferred  the  train.  We  stopped 
at  Charleston,  the  little  town  where 


John  Brown  met  his  death.  We  went 
into  the  State  House  where  the  trial 
took  place,  and  heard  the  details  of  it 
re-told  by  a  Southerner  with  passionate 
antagonism  against  the  outlaw.  A 
little  distance  off  had  been  raised  the 
gallows  where  the  brave  spirit  of  the 
"grizzly  fighter"  left  its  body,  but 
only  to  animate  and  inspire  the  friends 
of  freedom,  and  to  march  with  their 
armies  to  victory. 

Through  the  whole  of  the  Southern 
States,  but  notably  through  Virginia, 
everything  dates  from  the  war.  The 
change  which  it  effected  was  not  so 
much  a  change  as  a  revolution.  The 
old  Virginia  has  disappeared,  never  to 
return.  We  can  hardly  now  recover  by 
imagination  a  picture  of  the  Southern 
planter  in  the  days  of  his  ascendency. 
Proud,  careless,  and  at  ease,  born  not 
to  produce  but  to  consume,  he  lived 
upon  his  broad  domains  as  a  king  over 
his  dusky  troops  of  slaves.  In  a  land 
where  free  labour  was  degraded,  too 
haughty  or  too  indolent  to  work,  he 
trained  his  sons,  as  he  was  trained 
himself,  to  despise  the  exertion  of- 
honourable  toil.  Rich,  and  firmly 
rooted  in  his  position,  his  influence 
determined  for  generations  the  policy 
of  his  country,  till  the  election  of  the 
first  Republican  president,  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago,  startled  him  in  his 
thoughtless  security.  When  the  waves 
of  the  war  which  followed  had  ebbed 
away,  he  raised  his  head  a  ruined  and 
discredited  man.  His  fortune  was  all 
but  annihilated.  Perhaps  he  might 
have  recovered  something -of  his  old 
position  had  he  remained  on  his  an- 
cestral soil.  But,  too  proud  to  suffer 
the  humiliation  of  being  seen  to  work 
where  he  had  long  lived  at  ease,  he 
parted  with  what  remained  of  his  pos- 
sessions, and,  seeking  a  new  fortune 
in  other  lands,  bade  an  indignant 
farewell  to  the  rich  valleys  and  proud 
heights  of  his  beautiful  state.  The 
descendants  of  the  few  planters  who 
remained  soon  broke  through  the  old 
lines  of  social  cleavage  by  inter- 
marriage with  the  mean  whites — the 
po'  white  trash — with  whom  their 


Some  American  Notes. 


49 


fathers   would   not    have   deigned   to 
associate,  and  the  mischievous  social 
ascendency  of  pre-secession  days  was 
at  an  end  for  ever.     Last  November, 
for    the   first   time   since   before   the 
great   days   of    Lincoln,    a    candidate 
representing  the  policy  of  the  South 
was  elected  to  the  presidential  chair. 
A  fear   has   been  expressed   in  some 
quarters   that    this    (recent)    election 
may  bring  back  with  it  the  dangerous 
rule  of  the  past ;  and  it  was  not  the 
least  unworthy   of  the   many  pitiful 
electioneering    devices    of    the    rival 
candidate   that  he  sought,   as  it  was 
not  too  euphemistically  described,  to 
"wave  the  bloody  shirt,"   and  excite 
the  old  feelings  of  antagonism  between 
North   and   South.     But  the   fear   is 
baseless  as  a  dream.     The   past   can 
never   be   restored.      In  my   journey 
through  the  old  area  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy  I  saw  enough,  indeed,  of 
the  attitude  and  temper  of  the  people 
to  let  me  know  that  those  feelings  are 
by  no  means  dead  which  awoke  into 
passionate  life  during  the  long  war  of 
the    secession.      The    embers    of    its 
furious  fires   still   burn   with   a  dull 
red  glow,  but  the  points  of  concentra- 
tion have  long    since   disappeared  to 
which  they  might  once  have  been  col- 
lected  to   revive   by  mutual   contact 
into  flame.    To  restore  the  ascendency 
of  the  South  to-day  would  be  just  as 
impossible  as  it  was  found  impossible 
in  the  eighteenth  century  to  reseat  the 
Stuart   princes    upon    their   forfeited 
throne.     Analyse  the  outbreak  of  the 
rebellion  of  the  Slave  States   as  you 
please,  it  was,  after  all,  but  the  con- 
tinuance, and  the  close,  of  that  great 
conflict  whose  commencement  for  the 
last  time  reddened  our  English    soil 
with   blood.     It   was    the   despairing 
struggle  of  authority  against  freedom, 
of  privilege  against  democracy,  when 
the  lineal  descendants  of  the  old  Cava- 
liers  matched  bravely  their   unequal 
arms  against  the  full-grown  strength 
of  that  gaunt  but  mighty  Titan  who 
lay  two  centuries  ago  in  the  loins  of 
Puritanism.    The  questions  first  raised 
at  Edgehill  were  at  last  conclusively 
No.  313.— VOL.  LIII. 


settled  for  the  whole  English-speaking 
race  when  Lee  had  been  routed  at 
Gettysburg  and  Sherman  had  marched 
through  Georgia  to  the  sea. 

Luray,  in  the  Shenandoah  valley, 
is  being  made  famous  by  a  lime- 
stone cave,  one  of  those  vast  sub- 
terranean caverns  which  seem  to 
honeycomb  the  whole  region.  Not 
so  large  as  the  Mammoth  Caves  of 
Kentucky,  where  one  may  wander 
for  a  whole  day  without  retracing 
a  single  step,  the  cave  at  Luray 
is  excelled  by  none,  so  I  am 
told,  in  the  extent  and  variety  of 
its  formations.  I  went  to  visit  it 
with  a  stranger  who  was  staying  at 
the  same  hotel.  The  guide  received 
us  at  the  entrance,  and  shook  hands 
with  that  amiable  frankness  which 
makes  transatlantic  life  so  pleasant. 
We  wandered  through  the  vast  and 
beautiful  chambers ;  some  of  the  lime- 
stone deposits  delicate  almost  to  tran- 
sparency, like  the  texture  of  the  lightest 
shawl ;  others  solid  stalagmites  or  sta- 
lactites, which  may  have  endured  for 
a  millennium. 

My  stranger  companion  stopped 
suddenly.  "  So  God  Almighty  made 
all  this  in  six  days,"  he  said.  "  Devil 
a  bit,"  retorted  the  guide;  " we've 
got  mixed  up  somehow  about  that." 
These  remarks  started  a  conversation 
which  was  carried  on  till  it  embraced 
abstruse  points  of  divinity.  Both  the 
guide  and  the  stranger  were  strong 
advocates  of  free-agency,  and  repu- 
diated the  hyper -Calvinism  of  some 
of  the  American  sects.  "But  what 
beats  me,"  said  the  guide,  "is  why 
God  made  the  devil."  "  He  had  no 
business  to  do  so,"  said  the  stranger 
frankly;  "I  can't  excuse  my  Maker." 
I  humbly  objected  that  if  he  credited 
the  Bible  story  at  all  he  would  find 
that  God  did  not  create  a  devil  but  a 
great  angel,  and  that  if  my  friend 
held  to  the  doctrine  of  free-agency,  he 
could  not  complain  if  the  issue  of  that 
creation  had  turned  out  worse  than 
was  expected.  My  remark  provoked 
a  loud  laugh  from  the  guide,  a  clap  on 
the  shoulder  and  a  dig  in  the  ribs, 


50 


Some  American  Notes. 


which  I  regarded  as  so  many  tributes 
to  my  skill  in  theological  dialectic. 
"  Boys,"  he  said,  "it  does  me  good  to 
have  a  conversation  like  this." 

This  incident  occurred  on  Sunday, 
and  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day 
I  attended  an  African  service.  The 
barber  of  the  hotel,  a  coloured  man, 
was  a  deacon  of  the  little  church,  to 
which  he  guided  me  with  a  lantern  on 
one  of  the  darkest  nights  I  was  ever 
abroad  in.  There  is  a  college  for  the 
training  of  coloured  preachers  at 
Harper's  Ferry  where  the  officiating 
minister  of  this  evening  had  been 
trained.  He  had  been  a  slave  in  his 
youth,  and  learned  to  read  by  stealth 
when  it  was  penal  for  a  negro  to  pos- 
sess a  book.  If  his  style  was  a  little 
rambling,  his  address  was  frank  and 
earnest.  "  Love  your  enemies "  was 
the  text  j  it  was  not  easy,  but — "  the 
Saviour  done  it,"  he  said  with  quiet 
simplicity.  An  interesting  feature  of 
the  service  was  the  method  by  which 
the  collection  was  obtained.  After  the 
sermon  was  over,  two  deacons  got  up 
and  stood  behind  a  table  placed  im- 
mediately below  the  pulpit.  The  men 
sat  together  on  the  right  side  of  the 
church  and  the  women  on  the  left. 
One  deacon  then  said,  "Now  I  want 
five  dollars  from  the  men  "  ;  and  the 
other  added,  "And  I  want  the  same 
from  the  women."  Then  they  all 
began  to  sing  a  hymn.  Still  no  one 
moved.  They  sang  another  hymn,  and 
at  the  close  of  it  I  rose  and  started 
the  collection  with  a  ten- dollar  bill. 
'•  We're  getting  on  pretty  well  this 
side,"  said  the  deacon  of  the  males, 
knowingly.  Another  hymn  was  sung 
without  much  effect;  but  later  on  a 
stirring  melody  about  "seeing  de  fine 
white  horses  when  de  bridegroom 
comes,"  broke  down  the  reserve,  and 
when  they  came  to  the  verse — 

"Drive  'em  down  to  Jordan  when  de  bride- 
groom comes," 

the  dimes  and  nickels  rattled  down 
uron  the  collection  table  with  agree- 
able music.  The  sum  collected  was 
large  for  the  resources  of  the  congre- 


gation, and  reflected   credit   upon  the 
dark-skinned  worshippers. 

I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  negro  in 
the  southern  states.  Not  a  white  man 
south  of  the  Potomac  can  be  found  to 
say  a  good  word  for  his  coloured 
neighbour,  who  in  his  eyes  is  stupidly 
lazy  and  deceitful.  I  did  not  find  him 
so.  Wherever  I  met  the  negro  I  found 
him  obliging,  intelligent,  and,  on  the 
whole,  a  steady  worker.  I  attended  his 
services,  I  examined  his  schools,  I  saw 
him  at  work  on  the  railway,  and  in 
the  fields,  I  followed  him  to  the  public 
courts,  and  I  can  say  confidently  that 
he  is  not  the  degraded  outcast  he  is 
sometimes  pictured.  "  Go,"  said  one 
Southerner  in  Savannah,  "to  the  police 
court  on  Monday  morning,  and  see 
how  the  niggers  spend  their  Sunday." 
"At  what  time?"  I  asked.  "At 
eight  o'clock,"  said  my  informant.  I 
went  at  eight  o'clock.  There  were 
eight  convictions  for  the  offences  of 
previous  day  ;  four  of  the  culprits  were 
white,  and  four  were  coloured.  I  never 
saw  a  brighter  lot  of  children  than  the 
dusky  little  figures  sitting  in  the  school- 
room at  Asheville,  North  Carolina,  and 
slowly  spelling  out  the  not  inspiriting 
words  "a  hog  can  run."  The  negro 
is  eager  to  learn,  and  is  steadily  im- 
proving his  position.  But  the  old  an- 
tagonism of  the  races  is  as  strong  as 
ever,  if,  indeed,  not  stronger  than  ever. 
Relations,  unjustifiable  enough,  but 
equally  natural  in  che  old  days  of 
negro  bondage,  which  led  often  to  a 
southern  planter  ^having  to  number 
his  sons  and  daughters  among  his 
slaves,  no  longer  fuse  the  races  into 
one.  The  black  man  is  despised  as  of 
old,  and  no  one  hails  him  as  a  brother. 
His  children  must  go  to  separate 
schools — he  must  travel  by  separate 
cars  on  the  railway.  Will  it  be  so' 
always  with  these  six  millions  of  free 
citizens  of  the  American  Republic? 
It  is  a  grave  and  difficult  question. 
Ductile,  plastic,  impressionable,  the 
negro  takes  the  mould  of  his  sur- 
roundings. In  the  north  he  is  a 
Yankee,  in  Florida  he  is  half  a  Spa- 
niard, in  Louisiana  he  is  almost  wholly 


Some  American  Notes. 


51 


French.  In  an  alien  land,  at  least, 
he  has  not  the  independent  vitality 
which  gains  respect  for  its  originality 
and  strength ;  at  best  he  is  but  a  weak 
imitator  of  his  old  enslavers.  What 
may  be  the  future  of  the  dark  conti- 
nent and  its  inhabitants  is  one  of  the 
great  problems  of  the  world.  But  it 
is  my  own  conviction  that  the  tribes 
and  peoples  which  have  been  sold  from 
it  into  slavery  will  never  reach  the 
height  of  perfect  manhood  in  the 
countries  of  their  exile  until  the  race 
from  which  they  spring  develops  a 
new  endemic  civilisation  in  Africa. 
And  if  ever  the  curse  is  to  be  lifted 
which  has  lain  so  long  upon  those 
thick-lipped  sons  of  Ham,  the  new  ex- 
periment with  the  African  must  be 
made  in  his  own  magnificent  home. 

From  the  Shenandoah  valley  we 
crossed  the  fine  highlands  of  North 
Carolina,  and  reached  the  sea-board  of 
the  Southern  States  at  Charleston. 
Charleston  is  an  attractive  place.  It 
lies  so  low  that  seen  from  the  harbour 
it  appears  to  float  upon  the  ocean,  and 
reminds  one  of  Venice.  The  harbour 
is  protected  by  the  formidable  rock  of 
Fort  Sumter  at  its  mouth,  and  the 
sandy  bulwark  of  Sullivan's  Island. 
Walking  along  the  shore  of  the  latter 
the  resemblance  to  Venice  is  com- 
pleted in  our  minds  as  we  recall  the 
delightful  stretches  of  the  Lido.  We 
drove  round  Charleston  and  its  pretty 
surroundings.  One  point  of  interest 
is  the  famous  magnolia  cemetery,  about 
two  miles  from  the  town.  All  the  trees 
along  the  southern  sea-board  are  draped 
with  long  festoons  of  a  dry  grey  moss, 
so  that  the  branches  of  even  the 
stiffest  appear  to  droop  with  a  tender 
and  sorrowful  grace.  And  here  we 
see  what  we  see  in  so  many  towns  of 
the  Union,  and  on  a  greater  scale  in 
the  national  buryiDg  places  at  Wash- 
ington, Gettysburg,  or  Vicksburg,  a 
spot  kept  sacred  and  separate  for  the 
graves  of  those  who  lost  their  lives  in 
the  war.  Here  at  Charleston  is  a  wide 
inclosure  where  rest  the  remains  of 
the  Confederate  dead.  A  simple 
soldiers'  monument  j  and  to  right  and 


left  of  it,  with  narrow  headstones  to 
mark  the  name  and  regiment  and 
death-date  of  each,  are  ranged  the  long 
lines  of  the  slain.  Side  by  side  they 
lie,  as  close  almost  as  once  they  stood 
in  the  serried  ranks  of  battle.  It  is 
a  touching  and  memorable  sight.  I 
know  nothing  quite  like  it  in  any  other 
country.  Long  hence,  when  the  tra- 
vellers of  a  later-born  generation  spell 
out  the  letters  on  the  crumbling  stones 
which  seem  still  so  fresh  to-day,  they 
will  know  that  through  all  the  years 
of  their  civil  strife,  in  south  as  well 
as  north,  the  citizens  of  the  American 
Republic  never  allowed  the  coarse 
brutality  of  war  to  weaken  the  noble 
sentiment  which  guards  the  sanctity 
of  human  life,  but  that  for  them  the 
memory  of  each  fallen  soldier  was 
precious,  and  his  name  not  to  be 
forgotten. 

The  aspect  of  the  country  from 
Charleston  southwards  is  interest- 
ing, but  scarcely  noteworthy.  Huge 
stretches  of  uncleared  forest  of  live- 
oak  and  pine  alternate  with  the  soft 
snow  of  the  cotton  fields,  in  which  the 
dark-skinned  gatherers  of  the  wool 
stand  out  in  pleasing  contrast,  and  the 
marshy  savannahs  of  the  rice  planta- 
tions. All  trains  in  America  are  slow, 
like  the  movements  of  the  people,  but 
in  the  south  they  wriggle  like  wounded 
snakes  along  the  ill- jointed  and  uneven 
tracks.  The  dust  was  intolerable, 
and  the  heat  began  to  be  oppressive ; 
but  in  spite  of  these  drawbacks  to 
locomotion  in  the  Southern  States  we 
pushed  still  southwards  to  obtain 
at  least  a  glimpse  of  Florida.  After 
spending  a  Sunday  in  Savannah  we 
moved  on  to  Jacksonville,  crossed 
the  St.  John's  River  and  took  the 
train  to  St.  Augustine.  In  Florida  a 
breath  from  the  tropics  warms  the 
air.  The  line  from  Jacksonville  to  St. 
Augustine  is  a  narrow-gauge  line  cut 
through  the  primeval  forest.  The 
journey  is  like  passing  through  the 
palm-house  at  Kew  Gardens,  the 
breezes  are  so  heavy  with  the  scent  of 
sub- tropical  vegetation.  The  cleared 
soil  is  still  matted  with  palmy  growths, 

E  2 


52 


Some  American  Notes. 


and  palms  and  palmettos  spring  up  side 
by  side  with  live-oak  and  pine.  When 
we  returned  by  the  same  route  it  was 
evening,  and  the  fire-flies  sailed  through 
the  silent  southern  night. 

In  St.  Augustine  we  stand  within 
the    limits   of   the    oldest    European 
settlement,  with  the  doubtful  exception 
of  Santa  Fe,  in  the  United  States.      I 
had  wished  to  see  it.      It  is  unlike 
anything  else  in  America.      Memories 
of  Europe  linger  here.     The  old  world 
is  face  to  face  with  the  new,  and  the 
ghosts    of    its     dead     passions     and 
departed    glories    haunt   the   streets. 
You  wander  into  the  old  Huguenot 
churchyard,    and    look    sadly    at    the 
indecipherable  slabs  ;    you  stand  upon 
the  fort  raised  by  the  strong  hand  of 
Spain,  still  bearing  the  name  and  arms 
of  her  king.     There  is  a  Moorish  tower 
upon  the  cathedral,  where  the  Catholic 
worship  which  superseded  the  Protes- 
tantism of  the  annihilated  colony  of 
France  still   survives.        There  is   no 
other  spot  upon  American  soil  which 
"  gathers  the  ages  and  nations  in  its 
wide  embrace,"  or  reads  to  us  in  the 
irony  of  its  history  so  many  lessons 
upon  the  fate  which  awaits  alike  the 
faiths   and  the  fame  of  men.       Dis- 
covered by  the  devout  Catholic  on  the 
festival  of  St.  Augustine,  first  settled 
under  the  inspiration,  if  not  by  the 
advice,    of    the   austere    autocrat   of 
Geneva    himself,   it  became  a  centre 
of  Castilian  chivalry   in  the  greatest 
days  of   Spain.       And  now  what  re- 
mains?      Of    the     proud     might     of 
Catholic  Spain,  a  few  stones  remaining 
one  upon  another  ;    of  the  passionate 
faith  of  the  Huguenot,  a  few  nameless 
graves  ;    whilst  above  these  desolate 
memorials  of  so  much  that  once  was 
great  and  strong  tower  the  luxurious 
hotels   in    which   the   pleasure-loving 
descendants  of   the   Puritans    fritter 
away  their  idle  hours,  or  seek  vainly  a 
renewal  of  the  health  they  have  ruined 
in  excess. 

We   returned  to  Jacksonville,  and 

thence  along  the  coast  line  of  Florida, 

stopping  at  Pensacola,  to  New  Orleans. 

Here  I  parted  from  my  friends,  and 


started  alone  for  Chicago.     It  took  me 
from  Monday  afternoon  until  Wednes- 
day morning  by  uninterrupted  travel- 
ling to  get  there.       As  the  distance 
is     only    nine    hundred    and    fifteen 
miles,    you    can    judge   of    our    rate 
of   progression.      The    first    night  of 
our   journey   was  hot  with  southern 
closeness,  and  throughout  the  sleeping 
car   the    mosquitos   hummed   fiercely 
round  the  berths;    the  last  morning 
the  frost  lay  crisp  and  hoar  upon  the 
ground,  as  the  train   swept   past  the 
trim  suburb  Mr.  Pullman  has  honoured 
with  his  own  name,  and  glided  into  the 
station  at  Chicago.     Nothing  I  saw  in 
America  impressed  me  more  than  this 
city.     I  had  not  conceived  of  anything 
so    fine,    so   really    inspiriting    in   its 
greatness  and  enterprise.     Beautiful  it 
is  not,  for  nothing  that  the  craft  or 
enterprise  of    man   has   reared    upon 
American  soil  is  truly  beautiful ;    but 
there  is  dignity  in  the  long  lines  of  the 
tree- bordered  avenues,  and  the  vistas 
of  the  stately  streets.      And  to  think 
of  the  activity  displayed  in  the  great 
reconstruction  !     Fourteen  years  ago, 
when  fire  laid   the   city   in   ruins,    a 
population  of  three  hundred  thousand 
souls  was  rendered  homeless ;  to-day 
the     population     of     Chicago,     with 
its     suburbs,    must    approach    three- 
quarters    of    a     million.       There     is 
no  one — no  American — who  does  not 
take   pride    in    Chicago,   and    regard 
with    as    much    awe    as    an    Ameri- 
can is  capable  of  feeling,  the  spectacle 
of    its    prodigious    and     unexampled 
development.       And    yet    it    is    not 
America  alone  which  should  be  proud  ; 
for  it  was  not  America  alone,  it  was 
the  whole  civilised  world,  which  raised 
this  phoenix  city  from  the  ashes  of  the 
old.    To-day  the  population  of  Chicago 
is  not  yet  American:  it   is  German, 
Scandinavian,    Irish,    English.       You 
hear  all  Teutonic  tongues  in  the  streets. 
The  first  person  who  spoke  to  me  after 
my  arrival  was  a  woman,  who  asked 
for  a  direction,  and  addressed  me  in 
Norwegian.      The    names   above   the 
stores    are  two-thirds   German.     The 
women  have  still  the  round  freshness 


Some  American  Notes. 


53 


and  bloom  of  the  Teutonic  type  ;  the 
sap  of  the  Old  World  is  not  yet  dried 
out  of  the  faces  of  the  men.  The  in- 
evitable change  no  doubt  will  come. 
The  men  will  soon  wither  into  Ameri- 
cans, and  the  beautiful  women  of 
Chicago  will  learn  to  eat  five  meat 
meals  a  day. 

But  at  the  present  hour  nothing  is 
more  amazing  than  this  queen  of  the 
West,  and  her  immense  and  unwearied 
activities.       Thirty  trunk  lines,  with 
their    countless    affluents    and   tribu- 
taries, empty  and  refill  their  cars  in 
her  depots.     As  in  the  days  of  her  im- 
perial dominion  all  roads  in  the  civil- 
ised world  led  to  Rome,  so  do  all  the 
new  highways  of  American  civilisation 
lead   to  Chicago.      Along   these   iron 
arteries  of  commerce  the  Wealth  of  a 
whole  nation  is  poured  into  her  lap. 
The  forests  of  the  north  pile  high  her 
quays  with  timber  ;  the  prairies  of  the 
west  fill  her  store-houses  with  grain ; 
the  cattle  from  a  thousand  plains  are 
gathered    in    her   yards.       Her   wide 
arms  are  ever  open  ;    she  receives  and 
distributes  all.       Upon  the  sands  of 
her  storm-swept  mere  she  sits  a  queen, 
waiting  only  the  crown  of  sovereignty. 
From    Chicago   I  went  back  direct 
to  New  York,  arriving  just  in  time  to 
witness  a  final    Republican  effort  on 
behalf   of   Mr.    Elaine.      Through    a 
dense  crowd  a  procession  such   as   I 
have  already  described  commenced  to 
march  past  my  hotel  about  half  past 
nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  ;  I  heard 
dreamily  the  shouts  of  the  last  files  of 
the  processionists  from  my  bed-room  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning.     It  seems 
to  me  that  the  old  political  divisions  in 
America  are  rapidly  giving  place  to 
new,  and   a   popular    appeal    on    the 
question  of  free-trade,  if  not  imminent, 
cannot  long  be  delayed.     "  What  we 
want   in  America,"   said  a   manufac- 
turer, "  is  farmers.     We  have  enough 
manufacturers."     "  Yes,   my  friend,  " 
I  replied ;    "  and  when  the   immense 
west    is    peopled    and    your   farmers 
control  the  elections,  they  will  not,  to 
enrich  you,  consent  to  pay  six  hundred 
per  cent,  duty  for  every  blanket  on 


their  bed,  or  three  hundred  per  cent, 
for  every  button  on  their  coat."  There 
will  then  be  only  two  alternatives — 
free-trade,  or  rupture  of  the  Union. 

Before  the  next  evening  had  closed 
in  I  was  on  my  way  home.  I  first 
saw  New  York  beneath  an  orange 
glow  of  dawn,  I  saw  it  last  against 
a  crimson  blaze  of  sunset.  As  far  as 
the  sun  which  kindled  those  skies 
had  travelled  since  he  bade  good-night 
to  England,  so  far  would  he  again 
travel  ere  he  said  good- morning  to 
San  Francisco.  No  thought  brings 
with  it  a  keener  sense  of  the  extent  of 
the  American  continent,  of  its  im- 
mense, its  almost  limitless,  resources. 

What    will   be    the   future   of   the 
United  States  ?     Who  can  tell «     The 
veil  of  Isis  is  drawn  across  the  destiny 
of  that  vast  and   busy  commonwealth 
in  heavy  and  impenetrable  folds.     The 
history  of  the  American    people    ex- 
hibits   such    strong  and  baffling  con- 
trasts as  must  surely  disturb  the  most 
reckless  adventurer    in   the   field    of 
amateur      prophecy.         No       nation 
ever   presented   to  the   world   a   less 
united  front,   or    seemed    to     inclose 
elements  more  diverse  and  irreconcil- 
able,    yet     none     has    defended    its 
national  unity   with   more    stubborn 
and     indomitable      resolution.         No 
nation    has  produced  for   its  highest 
posts   men  more  pure,  or  greater  in 
the  prime  elements  of  simple  manhood 
— none  has  been  disgraced  by  states- 
men more  corrupt.     No   nation   ever 
lavished   upon  those  who   have   min- 
istered to  its  progress  in  the  arts  of 
war  and  peace  more  abundant  honour 
— none  has  dismissed  and  degraded  its 
public  servants  with  more  ungenerous 
and  petulant  impatience.     No  nation 
ever  fought  for    a   great  cause  with 
loftier  or  more  unselfish  courage — it 
is  the  same  nation  which  has  developed 
from  its  own  experience  a  word  which 
has  enlarged  our  Anglo-Saxon  vocabu- 
lary with  a  new  name  for  craven  and 
white-livered  panic.     No  nation  ever 
taught  the  world  a  deeper  lesson  in 
what  constitutes  the  true  dignity  and 
greatness  of  a  state — none  has  allowed 


Some  American  Notes. 


its  own  politics  to  degenerate  into 
such  a  mixture  of  vulgarity  and  child- 
ishness. No  nation  has  produced 
jurists  who  have  done  more  to  animate 
the  form  of  law  with  the  spirit  of  hu- 
manity and  truth — in  none  have  the 
guardians  of  justice  bartered  it  for 
gold  in  more  shameless  or  cynical  be- 
trayal. No  nation  has  a  shorter  his- 
tory— none  is  more  mature.  It  is  the 
same  with  the  individual  and  the 
race.  The  young  American  has  no 
childhood,  the  race  has  had  no  youth; 
new  without  freshness,  old  without 
antiquity.  Who  would  care  to  forecast 
the  future  of  a  country  and  a  people 
of  which  such  things  must  be  said  ? 

And  yet  when  criticism  has  done 
its  worst,  and  the  faults  of  the 
American  Republic  have  been  most 
unsparingly  exposed,  of  one  thing  its 
history  assures  us  well — that  the  same 
patient  and  unwearied  Spirit,  who  has 
guided  the  toilsome  march  of  mankind 
from  its  eastern  birth-place,  and 
touched  with  heroic  fire  the  souls  of 
men  when  there  was  work  for  heroes 
to  accomplish,  has  not  forsaken 
our  race  in  the  confused  and  novel  life 
of  its  western  home.  In  the  great 


crises  of  its  destiny  America  has  not 
yet  failed.  When  brave  hearts  have 
been  called  for  to  resist  and  tender 
hearts  to  suffer,  the  courage  and  the 
sacrifice  have  not  been  called  for  in 
vain.  The  history  of  America  for 
another  hundred  years  no  one  would 
venture  to  anticipate.  It  may  be  that 
the  West  will  struggle  with  the  East 
as  the  North  has  struggled  with  the 
South,  not  in  the  like  sanguinary  con- 
flict, but  with  equal  and  more  suc- 
cessful determination  to  be  separate. 
Or  it  may  be  that  the  manifest  des- 
tiny of  the  Great  Republic  will  con- 
solidate its  rule,  and  enlarge  its  do- 
minion, until  one  law  prevails  from 
Panama  to  Labrador.  Yet  whatever 
be  the  changes  of  the  future,  if  its 
citizens  are  but  true  to  the  splendid 
principles  on  which  their  state  was 
founded,  and  choose,  like  their 
"  symbol-bird,"  the  clear,  upper  air 
of  purity  and  freedom — which  na- 
tions neither  rise  to  without  struggle, 
nor  fall  from  without  death — then  the 
political  and  social  evolution  of  the 
new  world  may  still  guide  the  old 
towards  finer  issues  of  beneficence 
and  peace. 


55 


GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS  AND  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


RIVAROL,  Malouet,  Gouverneur  Morris, 
and  Mallet  du  Pan,  these  are  the  four 
men  whom  M.  Taine  has  distinguished 
as  the  most  competent  observers  of 
the  French  Revolution.  Of  these  four, 
who  are  alike  in  having  been  led  from 
the  liberal  point  of  view  to  condemna- 
tion of  the  Revolution,  the  last  two, 
from  the  independence  of  their  posi- 
tion and  the  range  of  their  political 
experience,  are  perhaps  the  most  re- 
markable. The  one  an  American,  the 
other  a  Genevese,  both  were  foreigners 
and  republicans,  both  had  had  practi- 
cal experience  of  domestic  revolution, 
and  both  had  learnt  the  lesson  of  free- 
dom in  self-governing  communities.  If 
Mallet  du  Pan,  the  fellow  citizen  of 
Rousseau  and  protege  of  Voltaire,  had 
enjoyed  the  advantage  of  passing  his 
life  in  contact  with  the  great  world 
of  European  thought;  Morris,  one  of 
the  founders  of  the  American  Repub- 
lic, had  played  a  highly  honourable 
and  responsible  part  in  the  greatest 
event  of  the  eighteenth  century.  And 
if  Mallet  du  Pan,  with  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  social  and  political 
condition  of  European  states,  realised 
more  profoundly  and  with  ever  deepen- 
ing dejection  the  significance  of  the 
Revolution,  which  appears  rather  as 
an  episode  in  the  pages  of  Morris,  it  is 
possible  that,  in  view  of  the  mighty 
predominance  of  the  Western  Repub- 
lic, history  may  justify  the  American 
statesman's  unconscious  estimate  of 
the  relative  importance  of  that  event. 
Born  at  the  family  estate  of  Mor- 
risiana,  in  the  State  of  New  York,  of 
ancestors  not  undistinguished  as  citi- 
zens, he  arrived  at  manhood  at  the 
moment  when  the  struggle  of  Inde- 
pendence began ;  he  was  elected  at  the 
age  of  twenty-three  to  the  legislature 
pf  his  own  state,  when  he  powerfully 


advocated  independence  and  took  a 
prominent  part  in  the  debates  on  the 
Constitution  of  New  York.  Delegated 
in  1778  to  the  Continental  Congress 
he  became  one  of  the  most  active 
agents  of  the  system  of  government 
by  committees,  and  distinguished  him- 
self especially  in  the  departments  of 
the  organisation  of  the  army,  in  the 
foreign  negotiations,  and  in  finance. 
The  reputation  he  early  gained  in  the 
last  branch  of  administration  designat- 
ed him  for  the  post  of  Assistant  Super- 
intendent of  the  Finances.  His  public 
career  was  crowned  by  his  participa- 
tion in  the  work  of  the  convention  for 
the  formation  of  the  constitution  of 
the  United  States,  which,  according  to 
his  friend  Madison,  owed  its  shape 
and  finish  to  his  hand.  He  then  de- 
voted himself,  in  conjunction  with  the 
great  financier  Robert  Morris,  to  com- 
mercial operations,  in  which  he  realised 
a  large  fortune  and  acquired  the  kind 
of  experience  most  useful  to  an  econo- 
mist. It  was  in  connection  with 
private  and  semi-official  matters  of 
this  nature,  and  not  at  first  as  minister 
of  his  country,  that  he  arrived  in 
France  in  February  1789. 

Morris  had  fully  profited  by  the  best 
training  for  statesmanship,  for  he  was 
thoroughly  competent  in  law,  finance 
and  politics.  His  personal  and  social 
qualities  were  no  less  remarkable.  His 
features  are  described  as  having  been 
regular  and  expressive,  his  demeanour 
frank  and  dignified,  and  his  figure  tall 
and  commanding,  in  spite  of  a  wooden 
leg  which  an  accident  in  early  life 
obliged  him  to  use.  Of  a  sanguine 
and  ambitious  temperament,  his  chief 
characteristic  in  society  was  a  daring 
self-possession,  and  he  was  often  heard 
to  declare  that  in  his  intercourse  with 
men  he  never  knew  the  sensation  of 


56 


Gouverneur  Morris  and  the  French  Revolution. 


inferiority  or  embarrassment.  His 
liveliness,  tact,  and  common  sense  made 
him  a  most  agreeable  companion,  but 
in  conversation  upon  politics,  zeal,  he 
says,  always  got  the  better  of  prudence. 
His  keenest  interest  was  in  the  study 
of  men,  and  like  George  the  Third, 
who  once  remarked  that  the  most 
beautiful  sight  he  ever  beheld  was 
the  colliery  country  near  Stroud,  his 
attention  in  travelling  was  always 
directed  less  to  the  beauties  of  nature 
than  to  the  details  and  economy 
of  the  various  manufactures,  to  the 
agriculture  of  the  country,  and  to  all 
that  concerned  the  comfort  and  con- 
dition of  the  people.  With  such  a 
disposition  he  soon  became  a  favourite 
in  the  salons  of  Paris,  where  to  be  an 
American  was  at  that  time  almost  a 
sufficient  introduction.  He  speaks 
with  but  little  enthusiasm  of  the 
society  of  that  vaunted  epoch.  At 
one  house  he  observed  that  each 
person  "  being  occupied  either  in  say- 
ing a  good  thing  or  in  studying  one 
to  say,  it  is  no  wonder  if  he  cannot 
find  time  to  applaud  that  of  his  neigh- 
bour." He  availed  himself,  however, 
of  his  opportunities  of  making  the 
acquaintance  of  men  of  many  shades 
of  opinion,  and  his  judgments  upon 
them  are  full  of  acuteness  and  sense. 
His  connection  with  Lafayette  intro- 
duced him  at  once  to  the  revolutionary 
leaders.  Lafayette  himself  received 
him  with  an  hospitality  which  in  this 
case  was  amply  repaid  by  the  efforts 
made  in  later  years  by  Morris  to 
obtain  his  release  from  the  Austrian 
Government.  He  very  soon  indeed 
found  himself  in  opposition  to  La- 
fayette's ideas.  At  their  first  interview 
Morris  saw  him  to  be  "  too  republican 
for  the  genius  of  his  country."  When 
the  latter  showed  him  the  draft 
of  the  Declaration  of  Rights,  he 
suggested  amendments  "  tending  to 
soften  the  high-coloured  expressions 
of  freedom."  He  did  not  spare  his 
warnings  or  his  criticism  either  in 
conversation  or  in  writing,  but  when 
he  told  him  in  plain  words  that  the 


"thing  called  a  constitution"  which 
the  Assembly  had  passed  was  good 
for  nothing,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  a  certain  coldness  grew  up  be- 
tween them.  "  He  lasted  longer  than 
I  expected,"  was  Morris's  remark, 
when  his  friend  was  crushed  by  the 
wheel  which  he  put  in  motion.  Talley- 
rand impressed  him  at  first  sight  as 
a  "  sly,  cool,  cunning,  ambitious  man  ; " 
and  he  put  his  finger  upon  the  pre- 
vailing characteristic  of  the  mind  of 
Sieyes  when  he  observed  of  him  that 
he  despised  all  that  had  been  said  or 
sung  on  the  subject  of  government  be- 
fore him. 

His  criticism  of  Mirabeau,  if  not 
profound,  is  instructive  as  illus- 
trating the  side  of  his  character 
which  most  impressed  contemporaries. 
The  greatest  figure  of  the  Revolu- 
tion— except  Bonaparte  —  Mirabeau 
united  genius  and  patriotism  with  de- 
grading faults  of  character.  His  own 
cry  of  regret,  perhaps  the  most 
pathetic  ever  uttered  by  a  public  man, 
is  the  explanation  of  the  contradiction 
of  his  life  : — "  Combien  V immoralite  de 
ma  jeunesse  fait  de  tort  a  la  chose  pub- 
lique."  The  invincible  repugnance 
of  the  world  was  shown  by  the  fact, 
noted  by  Morris,  that  he  was  received 
with  hisses  at  the  opening  of  the 
States -General.  His  past  made  him 
enter  on  the  great  struggle  not  as  a 
philosopher  or  a  statesman,  but  as  a 
malcontent  and  a  declasse.  His  pecu- 
niary embarrassments  destroyed  his 
personal  independence,  and  sold  him, 
in  the  words  of  his  enemies,  to  the 
court.  His  personal  ambition,  his 
want  of  temper,  his  necessity  for  self- 
assertion,  his  "  insatiate  thirst  for  ap- 
plause," led  the  great  orator  to  en- 
deavour to  maintain  his  ascendency 
by  thundering  against  the  enemies  of 
the  Revolution  and  inflaming  popular 
passion;  while  he  was  secretly  working 
for  the  cause  of  the  monarchy.  And 
not  in  secret  only.  He  clearly  saw 
that  the  annihilation  of  the  executive 
power,  the  paralysis  of  administration, 
would  deliver  over  his  country  to  the 


Grouverneur  Morris  and  the  French  Revolution. 


57 


»  violence  of  foreign  enemies,  and   the 
worse  misfortune  of  anarchy  at  home. 
He   turned   to  the   monarchy  as   the 
only  anchor  of  safety.     He  considered 
that  to  restore  to  the  king  power,  at 
least  equal  to  that  nominally  exercised 
by  the  King  of  England,  was  the  only 
way  to  avert  disaster.     His  opposition 
to  the  declaration  of  rights,  his  absten- 
tion from  the  work  of    the  abolition 
of  feudalism  on  the  day  of  the  fourth 
of  August,  his  contention  for  investing 
the  king  with  the  right  of  peace  and 
war  and  with  an  absolute  veto,  with- 
out which  he  would   "  rather  live  in 
Constantinople  than  in  Paris  ";  above 
all,  his  effort  to  induce  the  Assembly  to 
give  a  seat  in  their  body  to  the  minis- 
ters of  the  crown,  the  constitutional 
pivot   on  which   the  fortunes  of   the 
Revolution  may  be  said  to  have  turned, 
were  all  public   actions    which  might 
have  won  for  him   the   confidence  of 
moderate  men  of  all  parties.     In  such 
a  union  under  such  leadership  lay  the 
only  hope,  and  with  the  presumption 
of  genius  he  felt  and  proclaimed  that 
he  was  the  only  man  who  could  recon- 
cile the  monarchy  with  freedom.     Yet 
Morris  only  echoed  the  sentiment  of 
the  best  men  of  his  time  when  he  said 
11  that  there  were  in  the  world  men 
who  were   to    be    employed   but   not 
trusted,"  "that  virtue  must  ever  be 
sullied  by  an  alliance  with  vice,"  "that 
Mirabeau  was  the  most  unprincipled 
scoundrel  that  ever  lived." 

The  man  to  whose  lot  it  fell  to  initi- 
ate the  Revolution,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  guide  it,  the  man  for  whom  Mira- 
beau could  find  no  words  strong  enough 
to  express  his  contempt,  met  with  the 
following  judgment  from  Gouverneur 
Morris.  "  M.  Necker  has  obtained  a 
much  greater  reputation  than  he  had 
any  right  to.  An  unspotted  integrity 
as  minister,  and  serving  at  his  own 
expense  in  an  office  which  others  seek 
for  the  purpose  of  enriching  them- 
selves, have  acquired  for  him,  very 
deservedly,  much  confidence.  Add  to 
this  that  his  writings  on  finance  teem 
with  that  sort  of  sensibility  which 


makes  the  fortune  of  modern  romances, 
and  which  is  exactly  suited  to  this 
lively  nation,  who  love  to  read  but 
hate  to  think.  Hence  his  reputation. 
He  is  without  the  talents  of  a  great 
minister  ;  and  though  he  understands 
man  as  a  covetous  creature,  he  does 
not  understand  mankind  ;  he  is  utterly 
ignorant  of  politics,  by  which  I  mean 
politics  in  the  great  sense.  .  .  From 
the  moment  of  convening  the  States- 
General  he  has  been  afloat  upon  the 
wide  ocean  of  incidents." 

Necker  was,    in   fact,   without  the 
highest    qualities    of     statesmanship. 
And  when  this  is  said,  all  is  said.     It 
was  unjust,  as  a  friend  and  contempo- 
rary writer  truly  observed,  to  reproach 
a  minister  for  not  leading  an  assembly 
which  refused  to  be  led,  which  at  every 
turn  insisted  on  giving  lessons  to  its 
instructor.     The  finances  could  not  be 
re-established  when  anarchy  was  uni- 
versal,   and    authority     non-existent, 
without    credit,  taxes,  or  public  con- 
fidence.    But    although    it    was    "  as 
unjust  to  accuse  him  of  the  ruin  of 
the    finances    as    to    accuse    him    of 
the  loss  of   the  battle  of   Ramillies," 
Morris  was  on  no   uncertain  ground 
when  he  condemned  Necker  as  a  very 
poor  financier,  and  nothing  can  be  more 
luminous  than  his  exposition  of  the 
fallacy   of   the    system    of   borrowing 
from  the  caisse  d'escompte,  or  the  farce 
of  the  patriotic  contribution,  than  his 
prediction    of    the   ruin   which   must 
ensue    from    the    issue    of    assignats. 
Morris  had  early  realised  the  fact  that 
the  study  of  economic  questions  is  the 
foundation    of     statesmanship.       His 
writings  had  instructed    his    country- 
men in  liberal  theories  of  commerce, 
and  enlightened  them  on  the  abstruser 
questions  of  the  nature  of  money  and 
the   sources  and  foundation    of  credit. 
In  an  official  position  he  had  done  much 
to  restore  public  and  private  credit, 
and  introduce  order  into  the  financial 
administration,  upon  which,  as  he  said, 
"  the  preservation  of  our  federal  union 
greatly  depends."     It  is  interesting  to 
note  in  how  many  points  he  had  criti- 


58 


Grouvemeur  Morris  and  the  French  Revolution. 


cised  by  anticipation  the  economic 
fallacies  which  distinguished  the  re- 
volutionary epoch.  He  had,  for  in- 
stance, combated  the  regulation  of 
prices  by  law,  an  expedient  which 
became  famous  during  the  Terror 
under  the  name  of  the  maximum 
laws,  on  the  ground  of  the  injustice 
of  taxing  a  community  by  depre- 
ciation :  he  had  condemned  taxes  on 
money,  which  merely  drew  it  from 
circulation  and  rendered  the  collection 
of  taxes  more  difficult.  The  outcry 
against  monopolists  and  forestallers 
which  had  arisen  in  the  American 
colonies  during  the  war,  found  its 
counterpart  in  the  popular  resentment 
during  the  whole  course  of  the  Revolu- 
tion against  the  sangsues  publiques, 
who  saved  the  community  from  starva- 
tion by  buying  up  and  storing  provi- 
sions and  money.  Morris  had  justified 
the  operations  of  the  capitalists  by  the 
economy  which  was  thus  introduced 
into  consumption,  the  activity  imparted 
to  commerce,  and  the  steadiness  esta- 
blished in  price.  The  well-to-do  classes 
shared  with  the  monopolists  the  exe- 
cration of  the  mob  ;  Morris  had  pointed 
out  the  impossibility  of  an  economic 
distinction  between  luxuries  and  neces- 
sities, and  ventured  the  remark  that 
"  there  was  a  less  proportion  of  rogues 
in  coaches  than  out  of  them."  The 
spirit  in  which  he  watched  the  great 
socialistic  experiment  of  the  Reign  of 
Terror — the  complete  and  even  scien- 
tific character  of  which  M.  Taine  has 
pointed  out  in  the  ablest  chapters  of 
his  latest  volume — may  be  gathered 
from  a  question  he  put  to  Hamilton, 
"How  long  a  supposed  society  can 
exist,  after  property  shall  have  been 
done  away,"  and  the  answer  which  he 
gave,  "  that  government  being  esta- 
blished to  protect  property  is  respected 
only  in  proportion  to  the  fulfilment  of 
that  duty,  and  durable  only  as  it  is 
respectable." 

If  his  previous  experience  had  given 
Morris  competence  in  finance,  it  had 
given  him  also  in  a  high  degree  a  mas- 
tery of  constitutional  questions.  His 


criticism  of  the  constitution  of  1791 
was  worthy  of  the  man  to  whose  hand 
much  of  the  American  constitution 
was  due,  of  the  man  whom  Hamilton 
and  Madison  had  invited  to  join  in  the 
writing  of  the  Federalist.  In  his  own 
country  he  had  been  unjustly  accused  of 
a  leaning  towards  monarchy,  so  strong 
had  been  his  dread  of  the  "  anarchy 
which  would  lead  to  monarchy." 
Among  a  people  without  the  educa- 
tion or  instincts  of  free  government 
characteristic  of  English  communities, 
he  early  saw  his  worst  fear  realised. 
"Despotic  states  perish  for  want  of  des- 
potism, as  cunning  people  for  want  of 
cunning."  The  suddenness  of  the  col- 
lapse of  the  monarchy  shows  how  true 
was  the  insight  which  led  Mallet  du 
Pan  to  say,  in  speaking  of  the  various 
causes  assigned  for  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, the  quarrels  of  the  parlements, 
the  assembling  of  the  notables,  the 
deficit,  the  ministry  of  Necker,  the  as- 
saults of  philosophy — "None  of  these 
things  would  have  happened  under  a 
monarchy  which  was  not  rotten  at  the 
core."  By  the  end  of  July  Morris  ob- 
served that  "  France  was  as  near  anar- 
chy as  a  society  could  be  without  disso- 
lution." The  government  of  the  country 
fell  suddenly  into  the  hands  of  an  As- 
sembly ignorant  and  inexperienced  in 
public  affairs,  and  Morris  deplored 
that  they  had  "all  that  romantic 
spirit,  and  those  romantic  ideas  of 
government  which,  happily  for  Ame- 
rica, we  were  cured  of  before  it  was 
too  late."  In  a  passage  which  has  a 
reminiscence  of  the  Reflections,  he  cha- 
racterised the  situation  as  it  existed 
in  November  1790  : — 

"  This  unhappy  country,  bewildered 
in  the  pursuit  of  metaphysical  whim- 
sies, presents  to  our  moral  view  a 
mighty  ruin.  Like  the  remnants  of 
ancient  magnificence,  we  admire  the 
architecture  of  the  temple,  while  we 
detest  the  false  god  to  whom  it  was 
dedicated.  Daws  and  ravens,  and  the 
birds  of  night,  now  build  their  nests  in 
its  niches.  The  sovereign,  humbled 
to  the  level  of  a  beggar's  pity,  without 


Gfouverneur  Morris  and  the  French  Revolution. 


59 


resources,  without  authority,  without 
a  friend.  The  Assembly,  at  once  a 
master  and  a  slave,  new  in  power,  wild 
in  theory,  raw  in  practice.  It  engrosses 
all  functions,  though  incapable  of  exer- 
cising any,  and  has  taken  from  this 
fierce  ferocious  people  every  restraint 
of  religion  and  of  respect.  Sole  execu- 
tors of  the  law,  and  therefore  supreme 
judges  of  its  propriety,  each  district 
measures  out  its  obedience  by  its 
wishes,  and  the  great  interests  of  the 
whole,  split  up  into  fractional  morsels, 
depend  on  momentary  impulse  and 
ignorant  caprice.  Such  a  state  of 
things  cannot  last." 

It  was  in  no  spirit  of  unfriendly 
criticism,  either  towards  the  French 
people  or  their  aspirations,  that  Morris 
wrote  these  words.  "  I  wish  very 
much,"  he  had  said,  "the  happiness 
of  this  inconstant  people.  I  love 
them.  I  feel  grateful  to  them  for 
their  efforts  in  our  cause,  and  I  con- 
sider the  establishment  of  a  good 
constitution  here  as  the  principal 
means,  under  Divine  Providence,  of 
extending  the  blessings  of  freedom  to 
many  millions  of  my  fellow  country- 
men." But  he  saw  very  clearly  that 
the  so-called  work  of  reconstruction 
was  but  the  first  step  in  a  course  of 
constitutional  experiments  during 
which  France  was  to  pass  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other — from  the  omni- 
potence of  a  legislative  assembly  to 
the  absolutism  of  a  despotic  executive. 
The  speech  which  Morris  put  into  the 
mouth  of  the  king  on  the  occasion  of 
his  acceptance  of  the  constitution  of 
1791  is  a  state  paper  of  the  highest 
importance.  The  opening  words,  "  It 
is  no  longer  a  king  who  addresses  you, 
Louis  the  Sixteenth  is  only  a  private 
individual,"  strike  the  key-note  of  a 
criticism  which  condemns  point  by 
point  the  concentration  of  power  in 
the  hands  of  an  unwieldy  assembly, 
the  destruction  of  the  principle  of 
authority  in  government,  the  exagge- 
rated decentralisation  which  created 
forty-four  thousand  sovereign  bodies, 
and  made  it  possible,  as  M.  Taine  has 


shown,  for  one  of  them  to  "besiege, 
mutilate,  and  govern  the  National 
Convention,  and  through  it  the  whole 
of  France." 

His  warnings,  like  so  many  others, 
fell  upon  deaf  ears.  The  moment, 
inevitable  in  every  despotism,  had 
arrived  when  an  incapable  ruler  was 
called  upon  to  grapple  with  a  de- 
moralised administration.  "  An  able 
man  would  not  have  fallen  into  his 
situation."  The  retrospect  in  which 
Morris  pointed  out  the  occasions  on 
which  a  "  small-beer  character  "  threw 
away  one  by  one  his  chances  of  avert- 
ing revolution  proves,  with  irresistible 
force,  that  a  strong  sovereign  might 
even  at  the  last  moment  have  saved 
his  country  from  anarchy  and  his  own 
house  from  the  fate  which  Mirabeau 
prophesied  for  them  at  the  hands  of 
the  populace  in  the  terrible  words, 
"  Ilsbattront  le  pave  de  leurs  cadavres." 

It  was  not  as  Minister  of  the  United 
States  that  Governeur  Morris  had  so 
freely  taken  his  part  in  passing  events, 
had  criticised  and  advised  the  king 
and  his  ministers.  He  did  not  receive 
his  appointment  until  Jefferson's  re- 
call in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1792. 
At  that  time  his  intervention,  even 
had  his  position  allowed  of  it,  would 
have  been  useless,  and  it  was  limited 
to  an  attempt  to  enable  the  royal 
family  to  escape  just  before  the  cata- 
strophe of  the  tenth  of  August.  After 
that  event,  unlike  other  foreign  re- 
presentatives, he  remained  an  eye- 
witness of  the  Revolution  until  the 
end  of  the  Reign  of  Terror.  The  diffi- 
culty and  even  danger  of  the  times — 
for  he  was  subjected  to  arrest  and 
search,  followed,  of  course,  by  minis- 
terial apologies — made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  remove  to  a  country  house 
twenty  miles  from  the  capital.  His 
official  duties  were  confined  to  re- 
monstrances against  decrees  affecting 
American  commerce,  to  the  protec- 
tion of  American  shipping,  and  of 
American  citizens.  His  correspond- 
ence, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  every 
letter  "bore  marks  of  patriotic 


60 


Gouverneur  Morris  and  the  French  Revolution, 


osity,"  remained  full  and  interesting. 
The  situation  of  the  finances  and 
the  impending  bankruptcy  formed 
the  subject  of  exhaustive  comment ; 
and  he  noticed  the  expenditure  of 
blood  and  money,  the  rarity  of  artisans 
and  labourers  of  every  description, 
without  blinding  himself  to  the  im- 
mense resources  possessed  by  an  ad- 
ministration to  whom  war  was  a 
necessity  and  bankruptcy  but  a  start- 
ing point  for  fresh  efforts.  He  truly 
observed  that,  once  the  debt  of  France 
had  been  liquidated  by  depreciation, 
she  would  present  a  rich  surface 
covered  with  above  twenty  millions  of 
people  who  loved  war  better  than 
labour  ;  and  that  the  Administration 
would  continue  "to  find  war  abroad 
necessary  to  preserve  peace  at  home." 
Anticipating,  as  he  did,  the  inevitable 
close  in  a  military  despotism,  he  won- 
dered that  *'  four  years  of  convulsion 
among  four -and -twenty  millions  of 
people  had  brought  forth  no  one,  either 
in  civil  or  military  life,  whose  head 
would  fit  the  cap  which  fortune  had 
woven." 

His  recall  from  a  post  in  which,  as 
he  said,  he  felt  himself  degraded  by 
the  communication  he  was  forced  into 
with  the  worst  of  mankind,  was  partly 
owing  to  the  disfavour  with  which 
his  anti-revolutionary  sentiments  were 
viewed  by  some  of  his  countrymen. 
It  inspired  a  remark  which  is  full  of 
meaning.  "  Oliver  Cromwell  well 
understood  the  value  of  mob  senti- 
ment when  he  replied  to  his  chaplain, 
vain  of  the  applauding  crowds  which 
thronged  round  his  master's  coach, 
'  There  would  be  as  many  and  as  glad 
to  attend  me  at  the  gallows.'  I  do 
not  believe  that  a  good  man  in  America 
can  feel  all  the  force  of  that  expres- 
sion, and  therefore  I  believe  it  is  very 
difficult  to  form  on  certain  subjects  a 
just  opinion."  Had  Morris  lived  until 
1830  he  might  have  added  that  the 
full  force  of  that  expression  could 
only  be  felt  by  those  who  witnessed 
the  results  of  the  identification  of  the 
principles  of  Jacobinism  with  those  of 


political  freedom ;  for  the  temporary 
triumph  of  reaction  in  Europe,  and 
the  equally  illogical  apotheosis  by 
liberal  writers  of  the  revolutionary 
.  party,  both  sprang  from  this  confusion 
of  thought. 

A  "  high-toned  "  Monarchy,  an  As- 
sembly less  numerous  and  elected  for 
a  longer  period  than  was  provided  in 
the  constitution  of  1791,  and  an  here- 
ditary Second  Chamber — such  was  the 
constitution  which  Gouverneur  Morris 
considered  as  the  only  government 
which  would  consist  with  the  physical 
and  moral  state  of  France.  These 
were  the  opinions  of  Malouet,  of 
Mounier,  of  Mallet  du  Pan,  and,  with 
the  exception  that  he  would  have  dis- 
pensed with  a  Second  Chamber  and 
given  even  greater  power  to  the  Mo- 
narchy, of  Mirabeau.  Of  these  men 
Morris  was,  perhaps,  the  most  distin- 
guished for  his  freedom  from  doctri- 
naire views.  Surrounded  on  his 
arrival  in  France  by  politicians  cla- 
mouring for  the  immediate  application 
of  English  constitutional  forms  to  their 
own  country,  he  was  one  of  the  fore- 
most to  insist  on  the  differences  of 
national  character  which  made  such 
ideas  chimerical.  "  A  republican,"  he 
said,  "  and  just  as  it  were  emerged 
from  that  assembly  which  has  formed 
one  of  the  most  republican  of  all 
republican  constitutions,  I  preach  in- 
cessantly respect  for  the  prince,  atten- 
tion to  the  rights  of  the  nobility,  and 
moderation  not  only  in  the  object,  but 
also  in  the  pursuit  of  it."  "  They 
want  an  American  Constitution,  with 
the  exception  of  a  king  instead  of  a 
president,  without  reflecting  that  they 
have  not  American  citizens  to  support 
that  constitution."  "  Every  country 
must  have  a  constitution  suited  to  its 
circumstances,  and  the  state  of  France 
requires  a  higher-toned  government 
than  that  of  England."  These  seem- 
ingly obvious  statements  were  sup- 
ported by  the  irresistible  argument 
drawn  from  the  political  ignorance, 
incapacity,  and  immorality  of  the  new 
citizens  of  France.  "  The  materials 


Gouverneur  Morris  and  the  French  Revolution. 


61 


for  a  revolution,"  he  wrote,  "  are  very 
indifferent.  Everybody  agrees  that 
there  is  an  utter  prostration  of  morals, 
but  this  general  position  can  never 
convey  to  an  American  mind  the 
degree  of  depravity.  It  is  not  by  any 
figure  of  rhetoric  or  force  of  language 
that  the  idea  can  be  communicated. 
A  hundred  anecdotes  and  a  hundred 
thousand  examples  are  required  to 
show  the  extreme  rottenness  of  every 
member.  It  is,  however,  from  such 
crumbling  matter  that  the  great  edifice 
of  freedom  is  to  be  erected  here." 
Morris,  in  short,  did  not  believe  that 
a  nation  demoralised  by  despotism 
could  be  prepared  for  the  full  exercise 
of  the  privileges  of  freedom.  He  told 
Lafayette  that  it  was  from  regard  to 
liberty  that  he  was  opposed  to  the 
democracy,  and  in  this  opinion  he  was 
in  accord  with  the  most  advanced 
English  statesmen  of  that  time,  for 
Fox  himself  had  expressly  disclaimed 
any  leaning  to  democracy.  The 
Liberals  of  the  Revolution  whom 
Morris,  with  his  clear  good  sense, 
his  knowledge  of  affairs,  and  his 
devotion  to  the  principles  of  con- 
stitutional freedom,  so  admirably  re- 
presents, have  met  until  recent  times 
with  little  respect  from  philosophic 
historians,  but  their  aims  were  at  least 
plausible,  and  the  realisation  of  them 
could  not  have  proved  less  conducive 
to  free  government  than  the  actual 
course  of  events.  They  possessed, 
moreover,  the  virtue  of  consistency  ; 
they  were  never  brought,  like  the 
Jacobin  leaders,  to  acquiesce  in  the 
destruction  of  their  hopes,  and  they 
had  never  been  partisans  of  the  old 
monarchical  system  of  government.  A 
passage,  which  is  worth  quoting,  shows 
that  Morris,  at  any  rate,  candidly  re- 
cognised the  advantages  secured  by 
what  in  his  opinion  was  the  worst 
kind  of  change.  He  thus  summarises 
the  consequences  of  the  Revolution  in 
1790  :— 

"  (1).  The  abolition  of  those  different 
rights  and  privileges  which  kept  the 
provinces  asunder,  occasioning  thereby 


a  variety  of  taxation,  increasing  the 
expenses  of  collection,  impeding  the 
useful  communication  of  commerce, 
and  destroying  that  unity  in  the  sys- 
tem of  distributive  justice  which  is 
one  requisite  to  social  happiness. 
(2).  The  abolition  of  feudal  tyranny, 
by  which  the  tenure  of  real  property 
is  simplified,  the  value  reduced  to 
money,  rent  is  more  clearly  ascertained, 
and  the  estimation  which  depended 
upon  idle  vanity,  or  capricious  taste, 
or  sullen  pride,  is  destroyed.  (3).  The 
extension  of  the  circle  of  commerce  to 
those  vast  possessions  held  by  the 
clergy  in  mortmain,  which,  conferring 
great  wealth  as  the  wages  of  idleness, 
damped  the  ardour  of  enterprise,  and' 
impaired  that  ready  industry  which 
increases  the  stock  of  national  riches. 
(4).  The  destruction  of  a  system  of 
venal  jurisprudence,  which,  arrogating 
a  kind  of  legislative  veto,  had  estab- 
lished the  pride  and  privileges  of  the 
few  on  the  misery  and-  degradation  of 
the  general  mass.  (5).  Above  all,  the 
promulgation  and  extension  of  those 
principles  of  liberty,  which  will,  I 
hope,  remain  to  cheer  the  heart  and 
cherish  a  nobleness  of  soul  when  the 
metaphysical  froth  and  vapour  shall 
have  been  blown  away.  The  awe  of 
that  spirit  which  has  been  thus  raised 
will,  I  trust,  excite  in  those  who  may 
hereafter  possess  authority  a  proper 
moderation  in  its  exercise,  and  induce 
them  to  give  to  this  people  a  real 
constitution  of  government  fitted  to 
the  natural,  moral,  social,  and  political 
state  of  their  country." 

But  although  he  might  cherish  the 
hope  that  from  the  "  chaos  of  opinion 
and  the  conflict  of  its  jarring  elements 
a  new  order  might  at  length  arise," 
he  might  well  despair  of  the  immediate 
future.  That  opinion  was  shared  by 
others  conspicuous  in  the  cause  of 
freedom.  Washington,  who,  as  ap- 
pears from  his  correspondence  with 
the  American  Minister,  early  mis- 
trusted the  course  of  events,  and 
Romilly,  who  hoped  against  hope 
until  the  September  massacres  drew 


62 


Grouverneur  Morris  and  the  French  Revolution. 


from  him  the  exclamation,  "One 
might  as  well  think  of  establishing 
a  republic  of  tigers  in  some  forest  of 
Africa  as  of  maintaining  a  free  go- 
vernment among  such  monsters,"  were 
among  those  who  were  one  by  one 
brought  to  Morris's  conclusion — "  The 
glorious  opportunity  is  lost,  and  for 
this  time  at  least  the  Revolution  has 
failed." 

The  conclusion  of  the  life  of  Gou- 
verneur  Morris  was  no  less  useful  and 
prosperous  than  his  previous  career. 
After  his  recall  from  his  post  he 
remained  four  years  in  Europe,  during 
which  time  he  visited  the  various 
capitals  and  formed  connections  with 
the  prominent  men  of  every  country. 
In  1799,  ten  years  after  his  arrival  in 


France,  he  returned  to  the  United 
States  where,  as  he  said,  he  was 
received  "as  if  he  were  not  an  un- 
welcome guest  in  his  native  country." 
He  was  almost  immediately  elected  to 
the  Senate,  where  he  served  his  term 
with  vigour  and  effect;  and  gave  his 
support  to  the  party  of  the  Federalists. 
In  possession  of  an  ample  fortune 
and  numerous  friends,  he  delighted  in 
the  exercise  of  hospitality,  and  occu- 
pied himself  for  li»e  rest  of  his  life  in 
agriculture  and  the  management  of 
his  property,  while  retaining  an 
active  interest  in  public  affairs.  He 
married  late  in  life,  and  died  seven 
years  afterwards,  in  1816,  at  his  own 
estate  at  Morrisiana. 


63 


MRS.  DYMOND. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 


BED    COMES    INTO    FASHION. 

"With  your  hands  and  your  feet  and  your 
raiment  all  red." — MACAULAY. 

Du  PARC  was  still  at  his.  work  late 
that  evening  when  he  heard  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  he  cried  "  Come  in," 
without  looking  up. 

He  was  bending  over  his  plate  with 
the  gas  jet  flaring  above  his  head,  his 
black  curly  hair  was  in  the  light,  his 
brown  face  in  shadow.  He  had  taken 
off  his  worn  uniform,  and  was  dressed 
in  an  old  velvet  coat,  shabby  enough 
for  any  Communist.  His  dog  was 
lying  at  his  feet. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  looking  up 
half  blinded.  "  Is  it  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  It  is  I,  Susanna  Dymond,"  said 
Susy,  standing  in  the  doorway  and 
hesitating  to  come  in  ;  "I  want  you  to 
help  me,  Mr.  Max.  I  am  in  great  per- 
plexity, and  I  want  you  to  advise  me," 
and  as  she  spoke  she  came  forward 
into  the  light.  "  I  have  been  expect- 
ing Mr.  Marney,  but  he  has  not  come 
yet,"  continued  Susy,  with  a  faltering 
voice.  "  I  fear  it  will  kill  mamma 
outright  to  be  moved  to  England ;  I 
think  it  will  be  best  to  take  her 
somewhere  into  Paris,  where  she  can 
be  safer  than  here ;  and  meanwhile 
your  mother  must  not  be  delayed 
by  us." 

"My  mother  had  better  go,"  said 
Maxwell,  after  a  moment's  thought ; 
"I  will  see  to  that.  I  would  not 
urge  Mrs.  Marney's  departure  ;  but  if 
the  Federals  make  a  stand  at  Neuilly, 
this  place  may  be  in  flames  at  any 
moment.  You  know  I  am  in  their  coun- 
sels," he  said  with  a  shrug.  "  You  see 
I  am  working  all  night  to  finish  up 
my  plates.  I  have  already  tried  to  talk 
to  Madame  Marney,"  he  continued, 
putting  down  his  point  and  rising  from 


his  seat.  "You  must  act  for  her, 
pack  everything  in  readiness,  and  I 
will  make  arrangements  and  have  a 
carriage  here  to-morrow.  I  know  of 
a  house  in  Paris  where  she  will  be 
safe  for  the  present.  And  we  must 
get  hold  of  Marney,"  he  added. 

l(  Thank  you,"  said  Susy.  It  seemed 
to  ease  her  heart  to  say  the  words 
which  are  so  meaningless,  but  which 
sometimes  mean  so  much — almost 
everything,  at  some  moments. 

Susy  lingered  still.  She  had  said 
what  she  meant  to  say ;  but  there  was 
something  more  she  longed  to  say,  as 
she  stood  with  her  true  eyes  fixed 
uponkMax,  while  the  words  failed  her. 
"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that, 
Madame  1 "  he  asked,  smiling  gravely, 
and  yet  not  without  some  feeling  per- 
haps of  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"  Ah  !  Max  !  "  she  answered  in  a 
low  voice,  "  I  am  trying  to  find  cour- 
age to  ask  you  to  come  away.  You 
tell  us  to  go,  and  we  are  going ;  why 
do  you  yourself  remain?  What  can 
you  do  ?  These  Communists  are  no  fit 
associates  for  you.  I  have  here  learnt 
enough  in  the  last  few  days  to  know 
something  of  the  truth.  What  part 
can  an  honest  man  take  in  this  ter- 
rible confusion  except  that  of  his  own 
simplest  duty?  Oh,  leave  these  mad 
people  !  Your  mother  is  your  first 
duty  now.  For  her  sake,  for  my  sake, 
if  my  wishes  still  touch  you,  come 
away." 

"  Your  wishes  must  always  touch 
me,"  he  said,  simply  and  gravely ; 
"but  you  do  not  understand:  my 
mother  can  get  on  without  me.  I 
mean  I  am  not  necessary  to  her,"  he 
said,  looking  steadily  at  Susy  as  he 
spoke;  "but  my  poor  mother-country 
wants  me.  It  is  true  I  am  only  one 
man  in  a  stupid  crowd  \  but  if  I  go 
with  that  crowd  I  may  hope  perhaps 


64 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


to  lead  it  in  some  measure,  or  to 
help  at  least  to  lead  it.  For  I  ask 
you,  Madame,"  and  his  eyes  began  to 
flash  as  he  went  on,  "  if  all  the  honest 
men  continue  to  desert  their  posts,  to 
take  their  tickets  by  every  train,  as 
they  have  done  for  the  last  few  days, 
leaving  Paris  at  the  mercy  of  the  un- 
disciplined mob,  who  will  be  to  blame 
for  whatever  desperate  encounter  may 
arise  ?  I  should  like  you,  at  least,  to 
think  of  me  as  an  honest  man,  and 
not  as  a  coward,  even  though  I  tell 
you  I  am  afraid  to  go,  afraid  to  aban- 
don a  party  where  I  imagine  my  pre- 
sence may  be  of  use,  for  another 
faction  whose  acts  and  deeds  I  repro- 
bate with  all  my  heart.  Caron  has 
elected  to  stay,  and  my  convictions  will 
not  let  me  abandon  him,  alone,  to  face 
the  storm  which  is  ready  to  break. 
Our  place  is  here  at  our  posts,  even  if 
we  cannot  keep  back  the  horrible  burst- 
ings of  the  flood-gates,  the  hopeless 
reprisals,  which  must  follow."  He  had 
almost  forgotten  Susy's  presence ;  he 
was  growing  more  excited  every 
moment,  while  she  turned  paler  and 
paler,  and  at  last  sank  down  trembling 
on  one  of  the  overturned  cases. 

"I  have  frightened  you,"  he  said, 
stopping  short,  melting.  "  Ah,  forgive 
me.  There  is  nothing  for  people  to 
fear  who  are  doing  their  duty  as  best 
they  can.  You  are  in  the  same  danger 
as  I  am.  You  are  not  afraid  for 
yourself,"  and  as  he  spoke  he  took  her 
cold  hand  in  his.  She  could  not 
answer  ;  her  reluctant  sympathy,  her 
utter  goodwill,  her  generous  love  were 
his ;  but  never,  never  again  should 
she  speak  of  her  feeling  to  him.  She 
could  only  faintly  press  his  hand  ;  and 
then  she  got  up  from  the  wooden 
case,  and,  walking  slowly  across  the 
room,  opened  the  door  upon  the 
garden,  dim  with  the  night  and  star- 
lit ;  then  she  stopped — "  Ah  !  what  is 
that,"  said  she  starting.  The  muffled 
sound  of  a  distant  gun  came  bursting 
through  the  darkness  with  a  dull 
vibration.  It  was  followed  by  a 
second  and  a  third. 

"  It  is  the  cannon  from  the  batteries 


of  Chaumont,"  said  Max,  following  her 
to  the  door  and  looking  out ;  "  the 
fight  has  begun."  As  he  spoke  two 
or  three  figures  came  up  crossing  the 
dark  garden.  "  Good  night,  Madame ; 
be  without  fear ;  all  will  arrange 
itself,"  said  Max,  speaking  very  loud 
and  distinct.  He  pushed  Susy  away 
with  a  gentle  violence  as  he  spoke,  so 
anxious  did  he  seem  that  she  should 
be  gone. 

She  went  back  agitated  but  calmed 
by  her  talk.  It  was  not  what  he 
had  said  which  comforted  her,  but 
his  voice,  his  bright  dominant  looks 
breaking  through  the  occasional 
glooms  and  moods  she  knew  so  well, 
the  sense  of  capability  and  restrained 
power  he  threw  into  the  most  trivial 
details,  all  seemed  to  her  full  of  help 
and  life.  He  was  no  visionary,  no 
utterer  of  professions  ;  of  such  men  she 
had  an  instinctive  horror.  But  he 
had  told  her  his  meaning,  his  aims,  his 
thoughts,  about  which  he  was  generally 
silent,  and  his  looks  spoke  the  truth 
from  his  honest  heart. 

"We  are  all  suspect,  we  upper 
classes,"  says  Mademoiselle  Fayard 
next  morning,  as  she  sat  there  in  her 
skimp  gown  and  limp  gloves,  clasping 
her  old  split  parasol,  the  victim  of  the 
German  Empire.  She  had  come  up  to 
take  leave  of  Madame  du  Pare,  to 
talk  over  the  horrible  news  of  the  out- 
break, of  the  dreadful  report  of  the 
murder  of  the  generals.  "  So  Susy  and 
her  mother  were  also  going  ?  Had 
they  secured  their  passports  ?  It  was 
as  well  to  have  passports  in  such 
times,"  said  Mademoiselle  Fayard. 

"  Mr.  Jo  must  go  and  ask  for  them," 
says  Madame,  pouring  out  the  coffee, 
and  shaking  her  head  continually. 

But  where  was  Jo?  No  one  had 
seen  him  since  the  early  morning.  He 
had  been  up  betimes  and  had  started 
for  the  station  to  look  for  his  bag,  so 
Denise  reported. 

"  I  would  offer  to  go  for  your  passe- 
port,  madame,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Fayard,  "  but  they  will  see  at  a  glance 
that  I  am  not  a  British  subject." 


Mrs  Dymcnd. 


"I  am  a  British  subject,"  cries 
Madame  with  dignity.  "  I  will  ac- 
company Susy." 

"  Your  complexion  alone,  madame, 
is  enough  to  convince  them  of  your 
nationality,"  says  Mademoiselle  polite- 
ly. Max  came  in  while  they  were  all 
discussing  their  complexions  over  their 
breakfast;  he  looked  fagged  and 
anxious,  and  seemed  more  and  more 
preoccupied;  he  also  came  in  to  ask 
for  the  missing  Jo. 

"  Ah !  those  yong  men  !  "  cries 
Madame  du  Pare,  "  they  are  always 
onpunctual ;  he  leave  me  and  his 
inamma  to  get  the  passeports.  Why 
do  you  notj  come  with  us,  Max?  I 
am  going  onto  see  Caron  afterwards." 

Max  looked  doubtful ;  "he  could 
only  accompany  them  as  far  as  the 
Barriere,"  he  said,  "  if  they  would 
start  at  once  ;  "  and  they  accordingly 
set  out  walking  along  the  broad  avenue 
that  leads  to  the  Arc.  Madame  du 
Pare  and  Mademoiselle  Fayard  were 
ahead.  Once  more  Susy  found  her- 
self walking  beside  her  friend,  but  he 
seemed  busy,  hurried,  scarcely  con- 
scious of  her  presence.  A  double  supply 
of  soldiers  were  mounting  guard  at  the 
gates  of  Paris,  and  an  officer  followed 
by  an  orderly  came  forward  to  interro- 
gate them.  To  this  officer  Madame 
immediately  addressed  herself  with 
dignity. 

"  We  come  to  demand  passes,  mon- 
sieur," said  Madame  ;  "I  am  the  pro- 
prietress of  the  Villa  du  Pare,  where  I 
have  dwelt  respected  for  nearly  thirty 
years,  and  now  that  I  am  driven  from 
my  home  by  those  who  .  .  .  .  " 

But  here  her  son  hastily  interposed, 
fearing  lest  one  of  his  mother's  out- 
bursts of  eloquence  might  bring  them 
all  into  difficulty  :  "  This  officer  is  busy, 
mamma,"  he  said,  interrupting  and 
laughing  at  the  same  time ;  "  he  has 
not  time  to  listen  to  all  your  reasons  for 
leaving  home.  Madame  is  residing  in 
Paris,"  Max  goes  on,  pointing  to  Made- 
moiselle Fayard,  "  and  is  returning 
to  her  domicile,  and  Madame,"  says 
he,  pointing  to  Susy,  "  is  English ; 
she  is  going  to  the  English  Embassy  to 

No.  313. — VOL.  LIII. 


demand  a  passeporl  for  herself  and  her 
mother  who  is  ill.  I  will  answer  for 
these  ladies.  You  know  me,  my 
lieutenant." 

"  Pass,  mesdames,"  says  the  officer, 
politely  saluting,  and  he  turns  away 
and  goes  into  his  little  wooden  hut. 

As  he  was  turning  away,  Maxwell 
came  close  to  his  mother,  and  said  in 
a  low  voice,  not  laughing  any  more, 

"Mother,  I  conjure  you  to  re- 
member that  if  you  say  things  to 
people  in  the  street  you  will  not  only 
bring  trouble  upon  yourself,  but  en- 
danger every  one  of  us.  Be  silent,  I 
beseech  you." 

"  This  is  a  pretty  country,  indeed," 
says  Madame,  with  a  grunt,  "  where 
sons  can  impose  silence  on  the  mothers 
who  brought  them  into  the  world. 
So  much  for  your  liberty." 

"  Come,  along,  dear  madame,"  said 
Susy,  slipping  her  arm  into  the  old 
lady's. 

Max  looked  after  them  for  an  in- 
stant as  the  three  walked  away,  the 
sturdy  old  mother  still  protesting ;  the 
limp  one-sided  member  of  the  upper 
classes  fluttering  vaguely  after  her ; 
and  Susy,  straight,  majestic,  walking 
steadily  on  with  her  long  black  folds 
flowing  round  her  upright  figure.  They 
turned  a  corner  and  were  gone. 

The  streets  of  Paris  seemed  strangely 
changed  to  Susanna  from  that  chill 
morning  only  a  few  days  ago  when 
she  first  arrived.  The  city  seemed 
suddenly  awakened  to  an  angry  mood, 
noisy,  excited.  The  sad  women  in 
their  mourning  were  still  coming  and 
going  about  the  streets,  but  there  were 
also  others  whom  she  had  not  seen 
before — strange  -  looking  figures,  like 
old-fashioned  pictures  of  Jerome  or 
Horace  Vernet. 

"  How  the  red  has  come  into 
fashion ;  how  much  it  is  worn,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Fayard,  stopping  breath- 
less to  look  about.  Indeed,  it  was 
remarkable  that  so  many  people  should 
have  suddenly  changed  their  looks  and 
their  mourning  clothes. 

Men  and  women  too  wore  bards  of 
crimson  round  their  waists  and  across 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


their  shoulders  ;  one  or  two  people 
passed  in  red  pointed  caps  of  liberty, 
and  presently  coming  up  the  street  ap- 
peared a  figure  like  one  of  Gilray's 
caricatures.  A  huge  man,  with  a  long 
tufted  beard,  with  an  enormous  neck- 
tie tied  in  a  huge  bow,  swaggering 
along  as  if  all  Paris  belonged  to  him, 
with  wide  coat  flaps,  a  tricolor  rosette 
in  his  peaked  hat.  Into  his  sash  he 
had  stuck  two  pistols  and  a  dirk,  in 
his  hand  he  carried  a  cane  with  a  long 
tassel.  As  he  advanced  puffing  and 
strutting  up  the  road,  Susy  pressed 
Madame' s  arm  in  terror  lest  she 
should  address  herself  to  this  im- 
posing apparition. 

"  Oh  the  abominable  monkey,"  mut- 
ters the  old  lady  between  her  teeth. 

The  man  scowled  at  her  as  she  passed, 
but  fortunately  did  not  heed  what  she 
said. 

They  parted  from  poor  Mademoiselle 
at  a  street  corner;  she  had  various 
commissions  of  her  own  on  her  mind, 
and  Susy  and  her  companion  went 
on  to  the  embassy  in  the  Rue  St. 
Honore.  A  friendly  Union  Jack  was 
hanging  over  the  British  lion  upon  the 
gate.  The  tall  English  porter,  with 
his  brooms  and  pails  was  washing  out 
the  court-yard.  There  was  a  peaceful 
and  reassuring  aspect  about  the  place, 
which  restored  their  somewhat  trou- 
bled spirits.  The  porter  pointed  up  a 
narrow  staircase  leading  to  the 
"  bureau,"  in  a  side  lodge. 

"  The  clerk  would  be  back  imme- 
diately," he  said,  and  he  left  them  in 
a  little  inner  room  with  a  stove  and  a 
pen  and  a  half  dried-up  inkstand. 

It  was  an  entresol ;  the  low  window 
opened  to  the  yard,  so  that  they  could 
see  nothing  of  the  streets  outside. 

When  the  clerk  came  in  at  last,  the 
two  ladies  had  told  him  their  business. 
He  said  he  must  consult  a  superior. 
Mrs.  Dymond,  of  course  could  have  a 
passport  for  herself.  He  thought 
there  would  be  no  difficulty  about  her 
mother.  As  for  Madame  du  Pare  he 
did  not  know  how  far  she  was  still 
entitled  to  be  considered  a  British  sub- 
ject. He  would  inquire. 


" Is  M.  Bagginal  still  here?"  Susy 
asked.  "  He  knows  my  name." 

"  M.  Bagginal  is  away  on  leave  for 
a  few  days ;  he  left  immediately  after 
the  siege.  We  expect  him  back 
daily." 

Then  the  young  man  signed  to  them 
to  come  into  the  second  room,  of  which 
the  windows  looked  upon  the  street. 

How  quickly  events  arise  when  the 
time  is  ripe  for  them  ! 

In  those  few  minutes  while  they 
waited  in  the  back  room,  the  whole 
place  had  been  transformed ;  the  dull 
street  was  now  crowded  and  alive  with 
people  ;  every  casement  was  open  and 
full  of  heads,  women  peeped  from  the 
garret  windows,  men  crowded  to  the 
shop  doors.  Where  was  the  gloom  of 
yesterday,  the  mourning  sadness  of  a 
conquered  nation? 

Mr.  Bagginal' s  representative  entered 
the  room  at  this  minute  with  Susanna's 
card  in  his  hand.  He  was  another 
young  man  of  the  Bagginal  type,  well 
dressed,  well  bred.  He  knew  Mrs. 
Dymond's  name,  he  said,  while 
Madame,  as  usual,  began  her  state- 
ment ;  she  gave  a  retrospect  of  her  past 
life,  her  marriage,  her  early  difficul- 
ties, she  was  proceeding  to  give  her 
views  upon  the  politics  of  the  day 
when  a  sudden  cry  from  the  street 
distracted  the  polite  attache. 

Madame  exclaimed,  and  left  off  in 
the  midst  of  her  harangue  and  ran  to 
the  window,  and  Susy  turned  pale  as 
she  followed  her. 

Up  the  centre  of  the  street  came  a 
mad-looking  dancing  procession.  A 
great  red  flag  was  borne  ahead  by  a 
man  in  a  blouse  and  a  scarlet  Phrygian 
cap.  Then  followed  a  wild  bacchanalian 
crew,  headed  by  a  dishevelled  woman 
also  crowned  with  the  cap  of  liberty, 
and  dressed  entirely  in  red  from  head  to 
foot,  followed  by  some  others  dancing, 
clapping  their  hands,  and  beating  time 
to  a  drum  and  a  tambourine  ;  half-a- 
dozen  men  with  pistols  in  their  belts, 
with  huge  boots,  and  a  scarlet  figure, 
carrying  a  second  flag,  wound  up  the 
procession.  The  whole  band  swept  on 
like  some  grim  vision;  it  was  there,  it 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


67 


was  gone,  the  window  closed  up?  the 
street  was  empty  again.  The  sight 
seemed  so  ominous  of  past  terror,  of 
new  disaster,  that  even  Madame  was 
silent  for  once. 

"  Oh,  come,  my  child,"  she  said  to 
Susy,  who  was  now  standing  with  her 
passeports  in  her  hand.  "  We  have 
much  to  do ;  we  must  not  delay.  This 
city  is  no  place  for  quiet  people." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ONE    OLD   FRIEND    TO    ANOTHER. 

MADAME  had  very  much  at  heart  her 
desire  to  say  good-bye  to  Monsieur 
Caron.  "  He  and  I  are  old  people  ;  we 
may  not  meet  again  in  this  world," 
she  said.  "He  has  tilled  my  son's 
head  with  many  mad  ideas,  but  he  has 
shown  himself  a  good,  true  friend. 
Are  you  afraid  to  come,  Susy  ?  " 

She  looked  pleased  when  Susy  said 
she  should  be  glad  to  go  with  her,  she 
was  not  afraid. 

Monsieur  Caron  lived  some  way  off 
in  the  Rue  du  Bac,  and  Mrs.  Dymond, 
seeing  a  chance  carriage  in  the  road, 
signed  to  it,  and  got  in  with  her  friend. 
As  they  rolled  along,  they  passed  the 
head  of  a  second  procession  coming 
up  some  side  street,  and  preceded  by 
a  blue  flag  carried  by  a  man  like 
a  beadle. 

This  procession,  unlike  the  other, 
was  not  on  tip-toe ;  it  came  steadily 
and  quietly  along,  and  consisted  al- 
most entirely  of  well-dressed  and  re- 
spectable -  looking  people,  civilians, 
National  Guards,  and  others,  walking 
five  or  six  abreast,  with  folded  arms 
and  serious  faces,  talking  as  they  went. 

"That  is  a  deputation  going  to 
parley  with  the  Federals,"  shouted 
the  coachman,  turning  round  upon 
his  seat.  "  Everybody  has  a  proces- 
sion ;  you  will  see  the  Federals  with 
their  barricade  in  the  Place  Yendome ; 
these  gentlemen  are  going  to  mediate ; 
that  is  why  they  are  not  armed." 

The  carriage  jogged  on,  and  pre- 
sently they  passed  two  stacks  of  guns, 
piled  at  the  entrance  of  the  Place 


Yend6me,  where  the  column  still  rose 
supreme  above  the  heads  of  the  en- 
camped Federals. 

"  Do  you  see  the  cannons  ?  "  said  the 
coachman,  a  little  old  man,  who  seemed 
of  a  military  turn  of  mind.  "  Oh,  they 
are  strong,  ceux-lct  !  " 

"It  is  all  nonsense,"  cries  Madame, 
very  angrily,  "  all  childish  nonsense." 

One  of  the  sentries  looked  up  at  her 
as  she  spoke. 

It  was  a  glorious  spring  morning, 
and  the  sweetness  and  the  sunshine 
seemed  to  be  on  the  side  of  peace  and 
happier  promise.  The  stacked  guns 
gleamed,  the  mediators  and  the  sol- 
diers alike  seemed  enjoying  the  beauty 
of  the  morning. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  they  were 
crossing  the  Pont  Neuf,  from  whence 
they  could  see  all  Paris  and  its  glories 
shining  along  the  river  banks,  and 
soon  they  reached  Monsieur  Caron' s 
house  on  the  far  side  of  the  Seine, 
where  he  lived  in  a  high-perched 
lodging. 

The  coachman  would  not  wait  for 
them ;  they  paid  him  and  let  him  go, 
and  walked  in  to  the  stone-paved 
court,  where  a  porter,  as  usual,  was 
collecting  the  broken  fragments  scat- 
tered by  the  Prussian  bomb-shells. 
The  house  in  which  Caron  lived  was 
well-known  to  the  world.  Many  mes- 
sengers of  good  and  evil  tidings  had 
passed  up  its  old  stone  nights.  Cha- 
teaubriand had  once  lived  there, 
faithful  to  his  poor  blind,  beautiful 
friend  of  earlier  days.  Madame  Re- 
camier  had  lived  there,  and  her  friend 
and  disciple.  Wise  men  had  climbed 
those  flights,  and  mighty  men  belong- 
ing to  the  world  of  action ;  there  had 
come  the  Amperes  and  Mathieu  de 
Montmorency — that  loyal  gentleman 
— all  the  shifting  splendours  of  those 
early  days  and  ministers,  and  kings 
and  queens  deposed,  and  courtiers  in 
the  ascendant :  the  place  still  seems 
haunted  by  those  familiar  ghosts  of 
the  first  half  of  the  century. 

Madame,  who  knew  the  way,  panted 
up,  followed  up  by  Mrs.  Dymond.  They 
rang  the  bell  of  a  door,  which  was 

F  2 


63 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


presently  opened  by  an  old  woman- 
servant  in  a  country  dress,  who  nodded 
recognition,  and  showed  them  through 
the  dining-room  to  Caron's  study. 

How  peaceful  it  all  seemed,  after 
the  tumult  of  the  streets  full  of  the 
signs  of  war,  of  party  strife,  and  con- 
fusion. The  old  man  sat  reading  the 
paper  in  his  dressing-gown  and  velvet 
toque.  He  sat  with  his  back  to  the 
warm  flood  of  light  that  came  from 
the  open  window.  He  rose  to  meet  them, 
looking  surprised  but  pleased  at  their 
visit :  his  bright  blue  eyes  shone  like 
a  young  man's  beneath  his  grey  hair. 
"  How  good  of  you,  mesdames,  to  take 
the  trouble,"  said  he,  courteously,  in 
his  pretty  slow  English,  "  and  to  find 
me  out  in  my  nest.  It  is  a  long  way 
up,  as  I  fear  you  have  discovered. 
Will  you  have  some  refreshment — 
coffee  or  sirop?  Madeline  will  be 
proud  to  serve  you." 

"  Oh  no,  nothing  of  the  sort,"  says 
Madame,  putting  up  her  hand.  "  We 
come  to  take  leave,  Monsieur  Caron. 
I  did  not '  wish  to  go  without  seeing 
you  once  more.  You  and  I  are  too 
old  friends  to  part  without  a  good 
hand-shake,  although  our  opinions 
differ,  and  you  know  that  I  shall 
always  detest  yours." 

Caron  smiled.  "And  so  you  are 
driven  out1?"  he  said.  "  It  is  hard  on 
you,  my  poor  lady.  It  would  take  a 
great  deal  to  tear  me  from  my  quiet 
corner  here.  You  see  the  Prussians 
have  had  some  grace  ;  they  sent  an 
enormous  canon-ball  into  our  court- 
yard, but  it  has  done  no  great  harm. 
Those  are  Chateaubriand's  trees,"  he 
said  to  Susy,  who  was  looking  about 
with  some  interest  and  surprise.  "  He 
used  to  walk  there  in  that  avenue, 
and  compose  his  sentimental  poetry, 
his  impossible  idylls.  Will  you  like 
to  come  out  on  the  balcony?"  and  as 
he  spoke  he  stepped  out  into  the  sun- 
shine. A  sweet,  peaceful  sight  met 
their  eyes ;  the  old  gardens  were 
shining  green  among  walls  and  gables 
and  peeps  of  distant  places  far  away. 
As  Susy  leant  over  the  rails  the 
twitter  of  the  birds  was  in  the  air, 


and  with  it  all  the  sweet  spring 
fragrance  of  the  hour.  "  That  is  the 
priests'  garden  next  door,"  Caron  said, 
pointing  to  a  beautiful  old  garden, 
with  lilacs,  beyond  a  wall.  "They 
have  just  come  back  with  their  semi- 
narists ;  there  is  one  of  them  reading 
his  breviary.  He  is  dreaming  away 
his  time,  poor  fellow  !  I  fear  he  does 
not  know  what  an  awakening  is  before 
him." 

Alas !  the  old  man  spoke  prophetic- 
ally, not  knowing  what  he  said.  Only 
a  few  weeks  more  and  the  silent  young 
priest  was  heroically  giving  up  his  life 
for  his  breviary. 

"  One  can  hardly  realise  that  this  is 
also  Paris,"  said  Susy,  "  as  one  comes  in 
straight  from  the  streets,  and  from 
hearing  the  clamour  and  cries  of  those 
horrible  people." 

"  Ah !  my  dear  young  lady,  do  not 
call  them  horrible  people,"  said  the 
old  man  with  a  sigh.  "They  want 
good  things,  which  pleasant  and  well- 
mannered  people  withhold  from  them 
and  their  children.  They  are  only 
asking  for  justice,  for  happiness.  They 
ask  rudely,  in  loud  voices,  because 
when  they  ask  politely  they  are  not 
listened  to." 

"  Excuse  me,  Monsieur  Caron,"  cries 
Madame,  stoutly,  "  I  cannot  help  con- 
tradic.  They  imposes  on  you;  they 
asks,  they  takes,  they  gets  rations, 
they  runs  away,  but  they  will  not 
work,  they  cannot  learn,  they  will 
not  fight  ;  you  will  never  teach 
them  anything  except  to  drink  and 
shout.  .  .  .  But  I  forgot;  I  did 
not  come  to  argue,  I  came  to  shake 
your  hand,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a 
touch  of  real  feeling.  "  I  go  to-morrow  ; 
Max  will  follow  as  soon  as  he  has  de- 
spatched his  work.  He  will  come 
after  me  if  you  do  not  detain  him. 
Caron,  my  old  friend,  I  am  here  to 
ask  this  of  you — do  not  keep  him 
from  me,  do  not  lead  him  into  dan- 
gers." Two  tears  stood  in  her  little 
gray  eyes,  winking  with  emotion. 
"  Would  that  you,  too,  were  coming 
into  safety,"  she  said  ;  that  you  were 
coming  with  me  —  or  even  with 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


69 


Susanna — she    go    back    to  England, 
and  there  you  would  be  safe. 

"  Will  you  come  ? "  Susanna  cried, 
blushing  up  eagerly.  "  Dear  Monsieur 
Caron  !  Jo  and  I  would,  oh  so  gladly  ! 
bring  you  home  with  us.  Indeed  our 
house  is  always  open  to  you — any 
time,  any  day." 

The  old  man  looked  touched  and 
pleased  by  her  eagerness.  "I  thank 
you  warmly,"  he  said,  "  but  my  work 
is  here.  Dear  lady,  what  would  you 
think  of  me  if  I  abandoned  it — my 
ateliers,  my  employes,  my  half-finished 
schemes  ? "  Then  he  turned  to  Madame 
du  Pare,  and  took  her  old  brown  hand 
in  his  with  the  same  gentle,  courtly 
respect  that  he  might  have  shown  to 
a  primate,  to  a  beautiful  lady.  "  You 
must  trust  me  as  you  have  always 
done  hitherto,"  he  said.  "  Max  shall 
run  no  danger  if  I  can  help  it — none 
that  I  do  not  share  myself,"  and  as  he 
spoke  a  bright  and  almost  paternal 
look  was  in  his  face.  "  Only  you 
must  remember,"  he  added  gravely, 
"  there  are  some  chances  which  an 
honest  man  must  face  in  times  like 
these,  and  Max  is  an  honest  man." 

His  words  struck  Susy ;  they  re- 
minded her  of  her  own  talk  with  Du 
Pare. 

Madame  turned  red,  snorted,  jerked, 
tried  to  speak,  failed,  choked.  "  Where 
is  Madeleine  ?"  she  said  at  last.  "I 
will  ask  Madeleine  for  some  sugar  and 
water,"  and  she  left  the  room  very 
quickly. 

Caron  shook  his  head  gently  as  he 
looked  after  her ;  then  he  turned  his 
blue  eyes  on  Susanna,  who  stood  silent 
with  her  pale  face.  Still  without 
speaking  Caron  went  to  a  table, 
opened  a  drawer,  and  came  slowly  back 
to  her,  holding  a  packet  in  his  hand. 

"I  have  something  to  ask  of  you," 
he  said.  "  It  has  just  occurred  to  me, 
that  I  have  some  papers  here  which  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  of  in  a  place 
of  safety.  Will  you  take  them  back 
to  England  with  you  1  and  if  anything 
should  happen  to  me  send  for  Max, 
and  he  will  know  what  to  do  with  them. 
They  are  papers  relating  to  my  works," 
he  added,  and  some  private  memoranda 


for  my  friend  Max.  I  left  another 
parcel  in  my  old  lodging  in  the  Broinp- 
ton  Road  with  Mrs.  Barry,"  he  added, 
smiling.  "  It  is  only  an  unfinished 
article  about  my  society,  but  Max  may 
like  to  finish  it  some  day." 

Susy  knew  that  for  some  time  past 
Caron  had  been  try  in  g  to  apply  his  social- 
ism to  his  paper-mills,  and  that  he  had 
turned  the  whole  concern  into  a  com- 
pany, of  which  the  shareholders  were  the 
workmen  themselves.  It  was  a  society 
conducted  on  the  same  plan  as  that  of 
Leclair,  which  had  proved  so  successful. 
The  workmen  gave  zeal,  care,  thrift,  as 
their  share  of  the  capital ;  Caron  ad- 
ministered the  whole,  and  re-invested 
the  profits  in  graduated  shares  at  the 
end  of  the  year. 

"You  have  heard  of  my  factories," 
he  said  to  Susy.  "  Do  you  know  the 
story  of  the  slave  who  fell  with  the 
•bowl  of  grain,  and  of  the  swallows 
who  flew  to  fetch  each  other  to  share 
and  share  alike  ?  My  work-people  are 
my  swallows,  and  if  anything  were  to 
happen  to  me,  Max  must  be  able  to 
supply  them  with  grain.  Do  not  look 
distressed,  my  dear  lady,"  said  the  old 
man,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  death 
must  come  to  us  all.  I  care  not  by 
what  name  it  comes;  but  I  want  to 
know  that  my  children  are  provided 
for.  I  know  that  I  can  trust  you, 
and  for  the  present  will  you  keep  my 
little  confidence  ? " 

"  You  know  you  can  trust  me,"  Susy 
said  with  a  sigh,  and  as  she  spoke 
Madame  came  back  with  hurried  steps 
and  with  red  eyes.  "  Well  then,  good- 
bye, Monsieur  Caron.  Madeleine  gave 
me  all  I  wanted,"  cried  the  old  lady. 
"  Come,  Susy,  come." 

Caron  followed  them  in  silence  to 
the  door.  "  Good-bye,  good-bye  ;  take 
care  of  yourself,  Monsieur  Caroo," 
Madame  kept  repeating,  as  she 
stumped  down  stairs. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

PAST   THE   CHURCH   OP    ST.    ROCH. 

THEY  came  away  into  the  street 
again,  and  walked  in  silence  for  a 
time.  Madame  went  ahead,  inco- 


70 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


herently  grunting  and  grumbling  to 
herself,  quieting  down  by  degrees,  and 
finding  some  comfort  in  checking  off 
her  many  plans  upon  her  fingers. 
"  Luncheon,  necessaries  for  the  journey, 
a  carriage  to  be  commanded,  then  the 
omnibus,  and  so  home."  They  crossed 
the  bridge  and  went  into  the  Tuileries 
Gardens.  The  first  thing  that  struck 
them  was  that  the  sentries  had  been 
changed  since  they  passed  before.  Two 
hideous  little  men,  with  straw  in  their 
boots,  were  keeping  guard,  and  as 
they  crossed  each  other  in  their  zig- 
zaging  lines  they  occasionally  stopped 
and  whispered  together.  A  dirty- 
looking  officer,  with  a  calico  sash  tied 
round  his  waist,  came  strutting  up, 
and  rebuked  the  sentries  in  a  loud, 
familiar  voice.  Many  people  were  about, 
staring  at  the  strange-looking  soldiers 
established  in  the  customary  places. 
Most  of  the  shops  seemed  to  have  put 
up  their  shutters  again.  Madame's 
purchases  pre-occupied  her,  and  she 
crossed  the  street  to  one  of  the  few 
shops  which  still  remained  open.  Just 
as  she  came  up  to  the  counter,  the 
shopwoman  suddenly  put  down  the 
handful  of  things  she  was  folding 
away  and  looked  at  the  door.  There 
was  a  crowd  of  voices  outside,  a  mur- 
mur rather  than  a  cry ;  one  or  two 
people  came  rushing  by  the  swinging 
glass  door  ;  a  man  burst  in,  whispered 
something  across  the  counter,  and  the 
woman,  with  a  pale  scared  face,  turned 
to  Madame. 

"  They  are  shooting  down  the  people 
in  the  Place  Vendome,"  she  said 
quietly ;  "we  must  put  up  our  shutters. 
Will  you  remain?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  Let  us  go  home  to 
mamma,"  cried  Susy,  running  to  the 
door  with  a  first  terrified  impulse  of 
flight,  and  in  an  instant  she  and 
Madame  found  themselves  one  of  a 
tide  of  human  beings  running  along 
the  street.  A  minute  brought  them 
to  the  turning  up  the  Rue  St.  Roch, 
that  narrow  defile  where,  near  a  cen- 
tury before,  the  young  Napoleon,  Dic- 
tator, had  ordered  his  troops  to  fire  on 
the  mob ;  along  which  the  young  com- 
municants had  crowded  that  day  last 


year  Susy  thought  of  it,  even  at  that 
moment,  flying  with  the  flying  stream 
— children,  women  in  their  mourning 
dresses,  couples  arm-in-arm.  An  omni- 
bus, turning  out  of  its  way  in  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli,  began  madly  galloping  up 
the  steep  ascent,  along  which  every 
door,  every  shop,  seemed  closed  al- 
ready, whereas  the  great  church  gates 
flew  ppen  wide,  and  something  like  a 
black  wave  of  people  came  sweeping 
down  the  great  flight  of  steps  into  the 
street  below,  flowing  and  mingling 
with  the  crowd.  One  or  two  people 
were  standing  outside  their  doors, 
watching  this  flight. 

"  Let  us  get  out  of  the  crowd,"  said 
Madame,  coolly,  as  she  hurried  along. 
"  Once  across  out  of  the  Rue  St. 
Honor 6  we  shall  be  safe  enough." 

Susanna  in  those  few  moments  of 
time  seemed  to  see  more  of  life  than 
in  as  many  years  of  an  ordinary  exist- 
ence. The  people  running,  the  groups 
rallying,  the  terrified  women  dragging 
their  children  into  shelter.  She  saw 
a  group  of  hateful  young  dandies  lean- 
ing over  a  balcony  with  opera-glasses 
in  their  gloved  hands,  and  laughing 
at  the  diverting  sight  of  fellow- 
citizens  flying  for  their  lives.  She 
saw  a  man  in  plain  clothes  suddenly 
attack  a  little  man  in  a  National 
Guard's  uniform,  clutch  at  him  by  the 
collar,  with  an  oath  :  "  Ah,  you  hide 
away  in  your  shops  and  corners,  and 
this  is  why  we  are  abandoned  to 
these  wretches  ! "  cries  the  assailant. 
Then  a  few  steps  further  on,  a 
door  burst  open,  a  middle-aged  man, 
dressed  in  the  uniform  of  the  National 
Guard  and  evidently  prepared  for 
action,  sallies  forth,  to  be  as  suddenly 
dragged  back  by  one  of  those  huge 
and  powerful  megeres  for  which  Paris 
is  famous.  "Do  you  think  that  I 
shall  let  you  go  1 "  she  shrieks,  as  she 
hurls  her  husband  back,  and  the  door 
bangs  upon  the  struggling  pair.  As 
they  were  crossing  the  Rue  St.  Honore 
Madame  said  "  Ah ! "  in  a  peculiar 
voice,  and  a  couple  of  bullets  whistled 
by.  The  insurgents  were  still  firing 
from  their  barricade  at  the  unarmed 
masses,  at  the  formidable  children,  the 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


71 


dangerous  nursemaids  and  servant 
girls.  Once  across  the  Rue  St. 
Honore,  as  Madame  said,  they  were 
in  comparative  safety  ;  but  one  more 
alarm  was  reserved  for  them.  In  the 
street  leading  to  the  Boulevard  they 
suddenly  found  themselves  surrounded 
by  soldiers.  In  a  moment  they  saw 
that  these  were  not  insurgents,  but 
National  Guards  belonging  to  the 
party  of  order,  with  broad  blue  sashes 
round  their  waists.  One  of  them,  a 
big,  fair  young  man,  stopped  short, 
and  stamped  his  foot  in  furious  help- 
less rage  and  indignation  as  he  looked 
up  at  the  lounging  young  men  in  the 
balcony  overhead.  "  The  country  in 
ruin,  and  not  one  of  you  cowards  to 
answer  her  call/'  he  cried,  shaking  his 
list  at  them  with  impotent  fury.  An 
older  officer  said  something,  pointed 
somewhere,  and  the  little  band  hurried 
on,  glittering,  clanking,  helpless  against 
the  great  catastrophe. 

On  the  Boulevards  everything  was 
quiet  and  silent.  The  place  seemed 
almost  deserted ;  a  few  people  were 
resting  on  the  benches,  the  sun  shone, 
the  surly  women  were  selling  their 
newspapers  in  the  little  kiosks,  upon 
which  the  various  placards  and  appeals 
of  the  day  were  fluttering.  Susy  saw 
one  despairing  cry  from  a  friend  of 
order,  headed — 

"  LIBERTY,  FRATERNITY,  EQUALITY. 

"  I  appeal  to  the  manhood,  to  the 
patriotism  of  the  population,  to  those 
desiring  tranquillity  and  respect  for 
law.  Time  presses  ;  a  barrier  is  ab- 
solutely needed  to  stem  the  tide  of 
revolution ;  let  all  good  citizens  give 
me  their  support. 

"  (Signed)     A.  BONNE, 

"  Captain  Comm.,  1st  Company,  253  Batt" 

Alongside  of  this,  and  indefinitely 
multiplied,  were  the  Federal  mani- 
festos in  their  official  type  and  paper — 

"Citizens!  the  day  of  the  18th  of 
March  will  be  known  to  posterity  as 
the  day  of  the  justice  of  the  people ! 
The  government  has  fallen,  the  entire 
army,  rejecting  the  crime  of  fratricide, 


has  joined  in  one  cry  of  'Long  live 
the  Republic,  long  live  the  National 
Garde  !  '  No  more  divisions  ;  perfect 
unity,  absolute  liberty  are  before  us." 

"  Come,  come ;  do  not  waste  your 
time  upon  that  barbouillage,"  cries 
Madame  ;  "  here  is  our  omnibus."  And 
as  she  spoke  she  hailed  a  yellow  omni- 
bus that  was  quietly  jogging  in  the 
direction  of  Neuilly. 

Everything  was  as  usual  when  they 
got  back  to  the  Yilla,  but  Susy  found 
to  her  dismay  that  Jo  was  still  away. 
Max  came  in  almost  immediately  after 
them ;  he  seemed  to  have  been  chiefly 
concerned  for  their  safety. 

"  Jo  could  take  care  of  himself,"  he 
said.  "  He  must  follow  them  later  in 
the  day  if  he  did  not  get  home  before 
they  left."  The  carriage  was  ordered 
at  five  o'clock,  and  the  porter  of  the 
house  they  were  going  to  had  been 
forewarned. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

FUNERALIA. 

"  Seul  avec  sa  torche/'— V.  HUGO. 
THERE  was  a  great  deal  to  be  done 
before  the  time  which  Susanna  had 
agreed  upon  with  Max,  when  her 
mother  was  to  be  removed  into  Paris. 
Everything  had  to  be  quietly  prepared ; 
but  the  boxes  were  packed,  and  all  was 
in  readiness  at  the  time  appointed. 
Adolphe  was  outside  waiting  to  help 
to  carry  Mrs.  Marney  in  his  strong 
maimed  arms,  Susy  anxiously  came 
and  went,  looking  out  for  the  carriage. 
She  gathered  a  last  bunch  of  lilac  and 
brought  it  up  to  her  mother's  room. 
She  felt  her  heart  sink  as  she  thought 
of  the  pain  she  must  give. 

"  Let  me  tie  the  flowers  up  for  you," 
cried  Denise,  meeting  her  in  the  door- 
way, and  anxious  to  show  her  good- 
will. 

"  Susy,"  said  Mrs.  Marney,  as  her 
daughter  came  into  the  room,  fol- 
lowed by  Denise  carrying  the  lilac, 
"  come  and  sit  down  here  beside  me, 
dear.  Michael  has  been  here.  He  is 
coming  again."  She  spoke  gently;  a 


72 


Mrs.  Dymoni 


very   sweet    expression   was    in    her 
:ace. 

"  When  was  he  here,  mamma  ? "  said 
Susy,  surprised.  "I  have  only  been 
away  a  few  minutes."  And  then  in 
a  moment  she  knew  that  it  was  all  a 
sick  woman's  hallucination. 

"He  left  as  you  came  i~ito  the 
room.  He  wanted  to  see  me.  He 
came  and  stood  by  my  bedside,"  said 
Mrs.  Marney.  "  He  comes  when  I  am 
alone.  I  tell  him  he  must  not  neglect 
his  work  for  me  ;  but  he  knows  I  like 
him  to  come." 

Her  expression  was  so  sweet,  so 
strange,  that  Susy  was  still  more 
frightened  —  she  took  her  mother's 
hand  ;  it  was  very  cold. 

"  How  sweet  those  lilacs  are,"  Mrs. 
Marney  went  on.  "  The  hot  weather 
is  here ;  I  have  been  thinking  the  boys 
will  be  wanting  their  summer  clothes. 
Susy,  will  you  see  to  them  when  you 
go  back?  You  must  not  stop  away 
any  longer  with  me,  dear.  It  is  a 
rest  to  my  heart  to  know  my  boys 
are  in  your  care." 

Susanna  could  not  speak.  She  heard 
the  wheels  stop  at  the  gate  outside, 
and  the  thought  of  tearing  her  dying 
mother  away  seemed  to  her  so  cruel, 
so  unnatural,  that  suddenly  she  felt, 
whatever  happened,  Mrs.  Marney  must 
be  left  in  peace.  It  was  at  this  moment 
that  the  door  opened,  and  Du  Pare 
came  in  quietly,  followed  by  Adolphe, 
prepared  to  carry  the  poor  lady  away. 
Susy  put  up  a  warning  hand  as  they 
approached. 

Mrs.  Marney  smiled,  seeing  Max. 
"Ah,  Max,"  she  said,  "have  you 
come  for  us?  Take  her  away;  take 
care  of  her.  I  have  no  strength  to  go 
with  you,  my  dears.  I  shall  stay 
quiet  now,  Susy,"  she  said,  putting 
out  her  hand.  As  Susy  caught  her  in 
her  arms  she  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and 
her  head  fell  upon  Susy's  shoulder — 
Max  sprang  to  the  bedside. 

"She  is  gone!"  said  Adolphe,  in  a 
whisper.  "Poor  lady  !  poor  lady !  " 

She  was  quiet  at  last,  lying  with 
closed  eyes,  with  her  hands  crossed 


above  the  heart  which  ached  no  more. 
Susanna  had  sat  all  night  long  by  her 
mother's  bed.  She  had  ceased  to  weep 
when  morning  came.  She  sat  almost 
as  quiet  as  her  dead  mother.  Only 
yesterday,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  she 
had  watched  by  another  death -bed. 
Here  again  the  awful  hand  had  come 
across  her  path,  dividing  those  living 
still  from  those  who  had  lived.  Susy 
was  a  child  to  no  one  any  more — all 
her  past,  all  her  childhood,  was  gone. 
The  room  was  in  order.  Madame  and 
Denise  had  helped  to  put  it  straight ; 
there  were  more  flowers  out  of  the  gar- 
den, a  mass  of  spring  blossom,  which 
Max  had  brought  to  the  door  in  his 
arms  and  given  to  his  mother.  Every- 
thing was  put  straight  for  ever.  There 
would  be  no  more  work  done,  though 
the  work-basket  was  still  heaped ;  no 
more  travelling,  though  Mary's  boxes 
were  packed  ;  no  more  talks,  no  more 
troubles.  Marney 's  strange  trade  of 
pen  and  ink,  had  travelled  elsewhere ; 
so  had  the  cheerful  noises  and  shouts 
of  the  little  boys  that  she  had 
so  loved  to  hear.  Mary  wanted  no- 
thing any  more.  She  had  longed  for 
her  husband,  and  she  had  seen  him, 
though  he  had  not  come  to  her ;  her 
daughter  was  by  her  side  and  held  her 
hand,  and  death  cannot  seem  anything 
but  peaceful  to  a  mother  with  her 
child  to  tend  her  to  the  end. 

A  sort  of  altercation  on  the  landing 
outside  seemed  strangely  at  variance 
with  the  stillness  of  the  room.  Ma- 
dame's  indignant  "  Oh  !  no,  no,  you 
cannot  pass  like  that,"  aroused  Mrs. 
"Dymond.  She  went  to  the  door  and 
opened  it  quietly.  "What  is  it?" 
she  said  as  she  did  so,  and,  not  for  t  he 
first  time  in  her  life,  she  came  face  to 
face  with  Marney,  heated,  excited  — 
strangely  excited. 

"  I  have  travelled  all  night,  and 
this  old  devil  would  keep  me  away 
from  my  poor  Polly,"  he  cried.  "  She 
wants  me,  alive  or  dead,  my  poor,  poor 
Polly !  and  that  is  why  I  am  here," 
he  went  on.  "D'ye  hear,  Mrs.  Dy- 
mond ?  For  all  your  money  and 
grandeur,  ye  didn't  love  your  husband 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


73 


as  your  mother  loved  me.  Don't 
bear  malice  !  "  he  cried,  more  and  more 
wildly.  "  You  can  give  me  a  kiss, 
though  you  always  hated  me,"  and  he 
caught  Susy  in  his  arms,  and  then 
pushed  her  roughly  away,  and  went 
up  to  the  coffin  with  a  reeling  step. 
"  Polly!"  he  said,  "why  didn't  you 
wait  for  me? — you  knew  I  should 
come  if  I  could !  Ah  !  it's  the  first 
time  you  ever  failed  me,  my  poor 
girl !  I  travelled  all  night.  I  could 
not  have  got  through  the  night  but 
for  a  dram,"  he  cried,  excitedly. 

While  he  was  still  speaking  thus 
incoherently,  standing  by  the  coffin, 
the  sound  of  music  outside  came  into 
the  room  through  the  open  windows. 
It  was  the  funeral  march  of  a  military 
band  following  some  famous  patriot 
to  his  grave.  To  Susy,  in  her  highly- 
strung  condition,  the  sound  seemed 
almost  supernatural.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  Marney's  arm,  then,  with  one 
look  at  her  mother's  face,  she  burst 
into  tears,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
She  met  Max  on  the  stairs  hurrying 
up  with  a  pale  face ;  the  thought  of 
her  trouble  quite  unnerved  him. 

"  My  mother  sent  me  for  you,"  he 
said.  "Is  Marney  there?  Has  he 
frightened  you  ? " 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 
"No,"  she  said,  "but  I  cannot  stay 
with  him  alone." 

They  could  hear  him  walking  up 
and  down  excitedly,  talking  and  call- 
ing piteously  for  some  one  to  come  to 
him.  Then  the  steps  ceased,  the  music 
went  dying  up  the  street,  other  steps 
came  sounding  on  the  wooden  stairs. 
Madame' s  friend,  the  young  under- 
taker and  his  man,  came  tramping  up 
the  wooden  stairs,  and  all  the  dreary 
preparations  for  the  funeral  went  on. 

The  patriot's  procession,  meanwhile, 
travelled  on  its  way,  the  car,  covered 
with  flags,  slowly  winding  through 
the  streets  of  Paris;  people  looked 
on,  or  fell  into  its  train.  For  two 
hours  it  paraded  thus,  amid  cries 
and  shouts,  and  in  time  to  the  beat 
of  the  muffled  drums  and  to  the 


crashing  music  of  a  band  which  was 
conducted,  so  it  was  said,  by  the  great 
Bergeret  himself.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  before  it  reached  the  gates 
of  Montmartre,  where  the  women 
were  selling  their  wreaths  and  immor- 
telles. The  great  funeral  had  hardly 
passed  on  its  way  when  a  second 
humble  procession  appeared — a  bier, 
drawn  by  a  single  horse,  and  driven 
by  Madame's  friend,  the  young  under- 
taker, followed  by  a  carriage  with 
some  travelling  cases  on  the  top. 
Marney  was  sitting  on  the  box  by  the 
driver  of  the  carriage ;  Madame  du 
Pare,  her  son,  and  her  servant  and 
Susanna  were  inside.  The  carriage 
drew  up  by  the  roadway;  Adolphe, 
who  had  come  upon  the  bier,  now 
joined  them,  and  they  all  passed  in 
together  along  an  avenue  of  graves 
and  lilacs.  The  place  was  looking 
beautiful  in  the  setting  sunlight — for 
miles  around  they  could  see  the  country 
lighted  by  its  rays.  They  came  to  the 
quiet  corner  where  poor  Mary's  grave 
had  been  dug  under  the  golden 
branches  of  an  acacia  tree.  As  they 
all  stood  by  the  open  grave,  united 
together  for  the  last  time  by  their 
common  feeling  for  the  woman  who 
was  gone,  the  muffled  drums  and 
funeral  strains  from  the  patriot's  grave 
still  reached  them  from  a  distance. 
When  Mary  Marney  was  laid  to  her 
last  rest,  and  the  prayers  were  over, 
the  officiating  clergyman  turned  aside, 
pulling  off  his  surplice  and  carrying  it 
on  his  arm,  and  went  and  mingled  with 
the  crowd  round  about  the  hero's  grave. 
The  end  of  his  funeral  eulogium  was 
being  pronounced — his  last  words  had 
been  "Vive  la  Commune!"  said  a  man 
in  a  black  tail  coat  and  a  red  sash, 
and  suddenly  all  the  people  round 
about  took  up  the  cry.  Susy  heard 
them  cheering  as  she  stood  by  her 
mother's  grave,  she  was  still  very 
calm,  awe- stricken,  and  silent ;  she 
had  stayed  alone  after  the  others  had 
all  gone  on.  When  she  reached  the 
iron  gates  by  which  they  had  come 
in,  she  found  her  stepfather  waiting 
for  her.  His  hat  was  over  his  eyes; 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


it  may  have  been  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun  which  dazzled  him.  He 
did  not  look  round,  but  he  spoke  as 
she  came  up  to  him. 

"  You  will  go  and  see  the  boys  and 
tell  them,"  he  said.  "  I  know  that  for 
her  sake  you  will  be  a  good  friend  to 
them.  As  for  me,  do  not  fear  that  I 
shall  trouble  you.  You  can  write  to 
the  office  if  you  have  anything  to  say. 
I  will  send  remittances  from  time  to 
time." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  take  care  of 
the  boys  altogether? "  Susy  asked. 

"Just  as  you  like,"  said  he,  turn- 
ing away  with  a  sigh.  "  Your  mother 
would  have  wished  it  so.  You  are 
more  fit  than  I  am."  A.  minute  more 
and  he  was  gone.  It  was  the  last  time 
they  ever  met.  Susy  parted  from  him 
with  something  more  like  charity  in 
her  heart  than  she  could  have  be- 
lieved possible.  He  had  made  no  pro- 
fessions, he  had  left  his  boys  in  her 
charge ;  and  while  Susy  had  Dermy 
and  Mikey  to  care  for  she  still  seemed 
able  to  do  something  for  her  mother. 
Madame  du  Pare,  who  had  stood  wait- 
ing a  little  way  off,  now  also  came  up 
to  take  leave. 

"  I,  too,  must  say  farewell,  my 
child,"  said  the  old  lady  with  some 
solemnity ;  "  I  can  delay  no  longer, 
and  you  are  returning  to  your  home. 
My  son  will  see  you  off.  Ah !  Susy, 
we  shall  miss  you  sorely." 

Susy  could  not  speak  ;  she  bowed  her 
head,  took  her  old  friend's  hand  in 
hers,  and  suddenly  flinging  her  arms 
round  her  neck  she  burst  into  tears 

**  God  bless  you,  my  dear  child. 
Write  very  soon  and  tell  me  of  your- 
self, of  your  safe  return,"  said  the  old 
lady.  Then  looking  about  for  the 
coachman,  "  Ah  !  it  is  insupportable  ! 
That  man  is  not  there.  I  shall  miss  my 
train ; "  and  madame,  with  renewed 


animation,  trotted  off  towards  the 
crowd.  She  came  back  a  minute  after- 
wards, followed  by  the  coachman  and 
her  friend  the  undertaker.  Max  and 
Adolphe  arrived  at  the  same  minute 
with  a  second  carriage  for  Susanna, 
which  they  had  been  in  search  of.  As 
the  ^undertaker  helped  madame  into 
the  carriage,  there  came  a  parting 
cheer  from  the  friends  of  the  fallen 
patriot. 

"  Listen  to  them,"  said  the  man, 
shutting  the  door  with  a  bang,  "as  if 
it  were  not  better  to  die  ore's  proper 
natural  death  (sa  belle  mort  naturelle) 
than  to  be  shot  and  shouted  over  like 
this  !  "  Max  had  delayed  a  moment  to 
say  a  word  to  Susanna, 

"  I  must  see  my  mother  off,"  he 
said.  "It  is  more  than  likely  you 
may  find  the  Neuilly  road  blocked  up  ; 
if  you  cannot  get  home,  drive  to  this 
address,  and  wait  till  I  come,"  and  he 
wrote  something  on  a  card  and  gave 
her  a  key.  "  It  is  the  house  to  which 
I  hoped  you  might  have  taken  her  for 
safety,  it  is  that  of  a  friend  ;  you  will 
find  no  one  there,"  he  added. 

Susy  was  anxiously  hoping  to  get 
back  and  to  find  Jo  at  the  villa,  but 
when  they  reached  the  Avenue  de 
Neuilly,  she  found  that  Max's  warning 
was  well  advised.  The  way  was  im- 
passable, a  barrier  had  been  erected; 
the  Federals  had  established  them- 
selves; it  was  hopeless  to  try  to  re- 
turn to  the  villa. 

"  Don't  fear,  madame.  I  will  get 
through  the  line,"  said  Adolphe,  see- 
ing her  look  of  disappointment.  "  I 
will  find  Mr.  Jo  and  bring  you  news 
of  him  later."  And  when  Susy  faintly 
exclaimed,  "I  show  them  my  hands, 
and  they  always  let  me  pass,"  said  the 
poor  fellow  laughing  ruefully,  and 
before  she  could  say  another  word  he 
was  gone. 


To  be  continued. 


75 


AN  INDIAN  VILLAGE. 


A  STEEP  incline  leads  down  the  side 

of   a   hill   to   the   village   of   K . 

The  road  is  ankle-deep  in  loose 
sand,  ruddy  as  the  flesh  tints  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  country.  The 
fronds  of  the  palms  and  the  leaves  of 
the  tamarind  trees,  yellow  and  sear 
with  the  first  heats  of  summer,  fall 
fast  to  the  earth.  Every  now  and 
again  a  gust  of  scorching  hot  wind 
stirs  thick  clouds  of  blinding  dust,  as 
thick  almost  and  as  suffocating  as 
those  of  the  simoon.  Bank  and 
dyke  are  gay  with  verdant  cactus, 
flowering  thorn,  festoons  of  air-roots 
hanging  in  garlands,  gigantic  feather 
grasses  with  flossy  plumes,  and  field 
flowers  bright  with  all  gorgeous  hues. 
Crows  caw  querulously  from  the  boughs 
of  banyan  and  peepul  tree,  preening 
their  wings  in  solemn  convocation. 
There  is  a  rustle  of  insect  life  in  the 
scrubby  underwood.  Ruby  -  tailed 
dragon-flies  float  lazily  by.  Bright 
green  parrots  with  scarlet  beaks  circle 
in  the  hot,  quivering  air.  The  tan- 
gled gossamer  skeins  of  the  spider  still 
sparkle  with  the  heavy  dews  of  the 
tropical  night.  The  bee  drones  out 
his  unending  tune,  and  swarms  of 
gnats  circle  ceaselessly  under  the  cas- 
sei'ina  trees. 

The  rocky  bluffs  of  the  surrounding 
amphitheatre  of  hills  glitter  in  the 
blinding  glare  of  the  sun,  but  the 
deep  gullies  and  ravines,  where  the 
torrents  of  the  rainy  seasons  have 
worked  their  furious  will,  are  filled 
with  cool  blue  shadows.  As  their 
jagged,  tormented  slopes  spread  up- 
wards into  flat  table-lands,  each  peak 
and  crag  and  swelling  buttress  tells 
its  tale  of  the  wars  and  convulsions  in 
Nature's  history.  At  their  feet  a 
trembling  mist  slowly  creeping  sky- 
wards heralds  the  fierce  heat  of  the 
full  day. 


A  few  herds  of  goats  and  cows 
have  already  clambered  up  the  rocky 
spurs  to  browse  on  grass  white  as  flax, 
or  earn  a  scanty  and  precarious  subsis- 
tence from  the  sun-lit  jungle,  or  the 
famished  verdure  of  the  last  monsoon. 
In  charge  of  these  poor  brutes  are  wild 
country  folk,  slightly  made,  with  thick 
lips,  coarse  hair,  and  skins  that  almost 
rival  the  negro's  in  blackness.  They 
wear  no  other  garment  than  a  coloured 
rag  round  the  loins.  The  unkempt 
locks  of  the  girls  fall  on  to  their 
shoulders  in  a  glorious  tangle ;  neck- 
laces of  coarse  blue  beads  and  armlets 
are  their  ornaments,  and  huge  nose- 
rings bob  over  their  gaping  mouths. 

The  village  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  hills, 
by  the  side  of  a  tank,  partly  lined 
with  walls  of  rude  masonry,  and 
fringed  with  cocoa-nut  palms,  planted 
in  quincuncial  fashion  and  growing 
marvellously  straight.  Over  its 
shallow  waters,  glittering  in  the 
morning  light  like  a  huge  emerald, 
float  reeds  and  sedges  and  shiny  pond 
weeds.  The  shore — a  zone  of  deep 
mud— is  pitted  with  the  hoofs  of 
goats,  cows,  and  buffaloes ;  two  or 
three  of  the  latter  are  even  now  at 
their  bath,  their  square  nostrils  and 
black  humps  just  peeping  above  the 
water.  Women  are  scrubbing  their 
brass  pots  and  pans  with  dirt  and 
sand,  or  washing  their  own  gay 
clothes,  whilst  the  men  are  engaged 
in  more  personal  ablutions,  removing 
the  oil  from  their  bodies  or  the 
dust  from  their  feet.  A  Brahmin  is 
putting  up  his  prayers  and  muttering 
Sanscrit  mantras,  which  he  does  not 
understand,  before  a  small  temple 
with  conical  roof.  Through  the  dirty 
green  surface  a  water  snake  is  wrig- 
gling his  way ;  some  rats  are  out 
foraging  ;  a  bald  -  headed  adjutant- 
bird,  balancing  on  one  leg,  mounts 


76 


An  Indian  Village. 


guard  over  the  lizards  basking  on  the 
shelving  bank ;  the  heron  and  the 
kingfisher  add  their  share  of  life  to 
the  strange  scene.  Women  and  girls, 
with  noiseless  steps  but  loud  chatter- 
ing tongues,  pass  to  and  fro  from  the 
tank  to  the  village,  bearing  on  their 
heads  water-pots  of  all  sizes  and 
shapes.  When  one  remembers  that 
the  village  water  supply  is  entirely 
dependent  on  this  general  bathing- 
place,  where  mud  and  water  mix  in  about 
equal  proportions,  the  frequent  pre- 
sence of  the  cholera  is  not  surprising. 
The  huts  of  the  village,  amounting  to 
perhaps  two  hundred  little  homesteads, 
stretch  in  irregular  lines  on  either 
side  of  the  high  road  without  any 
topographical  justification,  and  are 
separated  from  each  other  by  ill- 
defined  muddy  tracks,  or  hedges 
of  prickly  pear,  which  are  but  feeble 
defences  against  the  wild  beasts  of 
the  jungle.  Very  rough  structures 
are  these  huts.  The  peaked  roof  is 
wrought  of  interlaced  logs  and 
branches,  thatched  either  with  straw 
or  palm  leaves,  or  covered  with  ruddy 
clay  tiles.  The  walls  are  mostly  of 
caked  mud  or  matting,  but  here  and 
there  one  sees  a  stronger  support  of 
stone  or  brick.  They  rarely  stand 
more  than  eight  feet  high,  and  the 
eaves  of  the  projecting  roofs  form  a 
verandah  on  all  sides.  The  floor  is 
either  of  the  bare  earth,  or  concrete 
called  chunam ;  a  wooden  floor  would 
be  more  expensive,  less  durable,  and  be, 
moreover,  a  too  convenient  harbourage 
for  insects.  One  hut  is  in  process  of 
building.  Bamboos,  full  of  knots,  and 
brambles  are  being  reared  to  form  an 
unsubstantial  roof — a  frail  defence 
against  the  deluges  of  rain,  the  tor- 
nadoes of  wind,  and  other  formidable 
operations  of  tropical  nature.  Women 
in  a  circle,  with  light  wooden  rammers, 
are  laying  down  the  concrete  floor, 
and  lightening  their  labours  with  the 
nasal  strains  of  some  country  song. 
A  white  bullock  stalks  gravely  round 
and  round,  crushing  mortar  in  a 
primitive  press  with  a  pre-adamite 
cylindrical  roller. 


All  the  huts  are  one  storied,  and 
they  are  as  squalid  and  untenantable 
as  the  shanties  and  cabins  of  the  Irish 
poor.  The  roofs  are  strewn  about 
with  baskets,  damaged  hen-coops,  and 
cotton  cloths  fifteen  to  twenty  feet 
long.  Tufts  of  weed  and  coarse  grass 
and  spiky  brambles  grow  out  of  every 
available  cranny  in  the  thatch  or  in 
the  tiles,  but  there  are  no  lovely 
lichens  or  mosses  as  in  the  Emerald 
Isle.  Here  and  there  a  rude  attempt 
to  decorate  these  dirty,  ragged  tene- 
ments appears  to  have  been  made,  for 
grotesque  figures  in  chalk  and  ver- 
milion are  daubed  on  either  side  of 
the  doors,  and  in  several  walls 
are  whitewashed,  with  empty  niches 
for  idols  and  gods.  A  few  have  open 
holes,  which  do  double  duty  as  win- 
dows and  chimneys.  These  apertures 
are  barred  and  closed  in  the  cold  or 
rainy  season  with  boards  or  shutters 
of  country  manufacture.  Glass  is  ap- 
parently unknown  in  the  village,  and 
if  it  were  known  would  probably  be  a 
luxury  above  the  pockets  of  the  vil- 
lagers ;  nor  are  windows  necessary  in 
a  tropical  country,  except  during  the 
monsoon.  Bolstered  up  with  sticks 
and  stakes,  the  walls,  of  matting,  mud, 
or  stone,  are  so  cracked  and  torn  that 
one  can  see  into  the  lives  of  the  people 
within,  and  it  is  a  marvel  how  the 
buildings  continue  to  hold  together. 
The  inmates  of  each  homestead  herd 
in  patriarchal  fashion,  and  in  a  fashion, 
it  may  also  be  said,  sadly  irreconcilable 
with  health.  Each  dismal,  dirty  abode 
contains,  for  furniture,  a  few  stools,  a 
native  bed  or  two,  a  few  brass  vessels, 
and  articles  of  dress  worth  perhaps 
ten  to  fifteen  shillings,  which  do  occa- 
sional duty  as  carpets.  It  will  be 
centuries  yet  before  the  family  ex- 
penses of  the  Hindu  ryot  come  up  to 
those  of  the  English  landed  proprietor  I 
The  sacred  little  shrub  dedicated  to 
Yishnu,  sprouts  from  a  blue  and  white 
pot  in  front  of  some  of  these  family 
hives. 

About  fifty  of  these  huts  constitute 
the  village  bazaar,  or  market.  One 
general  dealer's  store  succeeds  that  of 


An  Indian  Village. 


77 


another.  The  shopkeeper  squats  amid 
his  miscellaneous  wares,  cross-legged, 
like  a  big  grasshopper,  on  the  raised 
floor.  Baskets  of  cane  or  bamboo,  con- 
taining onions,  millet,  peas,  seeds  of 
all  sorts,  and  the  simple  vegetable 
food  of  an  Eastern  people,  are  piled 
up  in  rows  behind  him.  Strings  of 
plantains  hang  in  front  of  the  stall, 
and  of  glutinous  sweetmeats,  in  the 
form  of  wheels,  elephants,  elephant- 
headed  gods,  and  a  thousand  more 
devices,  which,  with  other  lollipops, 
are  consumed  in  large  quantities  by 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the 
village.  The  display  of  fruit  is  limited 
to  water-melons,  jack-fruit,  pummeloes, 
and  plantains,  and  in  front  seeds  are 
spread  out  to  dry  on  gunny-bags. 
Unlike  the  town  dealer,  the  rural 
shopkeeper  does  not  decorate  his  store 
with  gold  and  silver  tissue  paper,  nor 
does  he,  even  on  holidays,  hang  yellow 
flowers  on  his  dirty,  treacherous,  little 
scales.  In  a  wooden  bowl,  or  in  his 
loin  cloth,  he  keeps  his  stores  of  copper 
money — ill- shaped  pice,  and  cowries 
or  shell  money — and  in  some  secret 
cranny  in  the  walls  or  floor  of  his  hut 
he  buries  an  occasional  silver  bit. 
Paper  money  rarely,  if  ever,  finds  its 
way  to  his  till. 

From  the  huts  a  stream  of  animal 
life  finds  its  way  into  the  road.  Skinny 
fowls  peck  here  and  there  in  the  refuse 
heaps,  greedily  gobbling  up  an  un- 
savoury variety  of  quaintly-flavoured 
food,  which  renders  them  uneatable  to 
Europeans.  Cattle  saunter  out  from 
the  unventilated  cowsheds  of  matting. 
Long-haired  mangey  curs,  black  and 
white  and  spotted,  yelp  around  the 
miserable  buffaloes  on  their  way  to 
the  arid  deserts  which  represent  their 
pastures.  Not  a  cat  is  to  be  seen  in 
the  village,  but  goats  innumerable. 
A  seedy-looking  parrot,  moulting  in  a 
tumble-down  wooden  cage,  and  a 
monkey,  represent  the  village  pets. 
Hogs  and  pigs  are  as  conspicuous  by 
their  absence  as  butchers'  shops.  Little 
naked  urchins,  their  heads  shaved  ac- 
cording to  the  rules  of  caste,  and  their 
eyes  blackened  with  kohl,  wearing 


charms  round  neck  and  loins,  scamper 
after  their  mothers,  or  hug  them  as 
they  straddle  across  their  hips  like 
little  black  apes.  Cakes  of  cowdung, 
used  for  fuel,  are  drying  in  the  sun- 
light by  the  roadside,  or  against  the 
walls.  It  is  one  of  the  chief  occupa- 
tions of  the  Indian  villager's  wife  to 
make  the  cowdung  into  cakes,  and  she 
may  be  seen  at  every  hour  of  the  day 
gathering  the  precious  ordure  for  the 
family  hearth  into  wicker-work 
baskets. 

The  male  population  are  but  scantily 
clothed.  Round  the  loins  they  wear  a 
cloth,  which  leaves  their  thin  legs  bare. 
Each  man  wears  the  turban,  a  dirty 
sheet  coiled  negligently  round  the  head. 
The  prevalent  taste  appears  to  incline 
to  white,  but  red  and  blue  turbans  are 
also  seen.  Rough  sandals,  or  shoes 
studded  with  brass-headed  nails,  and 
turned  up  at  the  toes,  protect  the  black 
feet  from  the  baking  heat  of  the  earth. 
Few  foreheads  are  marked  with  the 
caste-mark,  but  some  of  the  cultivators 
wear  dirty  little  Brahminical  threads, 
and  charms  are  tied  round  most  necks. 
When  on  a  journey  they  carry  rough 
country  blankets,  or  cumblies,  striped 
in  black  and  white,  which,  when  worn 
over  the  head  and  body,  protect  them 
from  the  chill  dews  of  night.  For  self- 
defence  some  of  them  use  stout  sticks, 
which  they  are  very  expert  in  wielding 
like  quarter  staves;  but  one  never 
sees  here  the  queer  old  swords  and 
cutlasses  that  the  peasantry  carry  in 
some  parts  of  Hindoostan. 

The  females  drape  themselves  in  a 
very  graceful  manner  in  one  long 
cotton  cloth,  with  decorated  borders, 
which,  after  being  wound  round  the 
loins,  so  as  to  leave  the  legs  uncovered 
half  way  up  to  the  thigh,  is  thrown 
over  the  back  and  head,  and  brought 
down  over  the  face  as  a  sort  of  veil. 
A  short-sleeved  bodice  falling  to  the 
waist  is  worn  under  this  cloth.  Ban- 
gles of  glass  and  shell  glitter  on  the 
bare  arms,  and  a  few  girls  wear  rings 
in  their  noses  and  on  their  toes.  These 
ornaments  are  of  the  commonest  mate- 
rial— glass,  brass,  or  tinsel  paper — and 


78 


An  Indian  Village. 


their  clothes  are  purchased  from  the 
itinerant  Mohammedan  hawkers,  who 
carry  their  whole  stock-in-trade,  of 
cotton  prints  and  gaudy  chintzes  and 
handkerchiefs,  under  their  arms.  The 
hair  of  both  women  and  girls  is  worn 
in  the  same  fashion,  parted  in  the 
centre  and  tied  at  the  nape  of  the  neck 
in  a  neat  little  plait.  Cocoa-nut  oil  is 
plentifully  applied  to  keep  the  dark 
tresses  glossy  and  smooth,  and  on  holi- 
days a  wreath  of  yellow  flowers,  or  a 
brass  ornament,  is  added.  The  village 
tank  is  the  great  gossiping  place ;  but 
their  hours  for  unrestrained  gossip  are 
not  many.  To  their  lot  fall  all 
the  domestic  duties,  and  throughout 
the  day  they  are  to  be  seen  winnowing 
corn,  grinding  grain,  husking  rice  with 
pestle  and  mortar,  or  turning  the 
handmill.  They  appear  to  be  exces- 
sively fond  of  their  children,  and  are 
certainly  models  of  industry.  Do- 
mestic drudges,  beasts  of  burden, 
agricultural  labourers,  exposed  to  all 
the  inclemency  of  the  seasons,  none  of 
them  have  any  pretensions  to  beauty. 
They  are  an  ugly,  but  gentle  race. 
Their  carriage,  however,  is  perfect,  and 
they  stride  along  straight  as  arrows — 
a  habit  no  doubt  due  to  the  constant 
balancing  of  burdens  on  the  head. 

The  amusements  of  the  village  are 
simple.  The  favourite  game  of  the 
boys  is  a  kind  of  prisoner's  base. 
Birds'  nesting  enters  not  into  their 
pastimes,  nor  have  the  mysteries  of 
cricket  yet  penetrated  into  this  dis- 
trict. The  men  lounge  on  their  veran- 
dahs, smoking  the  family  hubble- 
bubble  filled  with  bhang  prepared 
from  the  stalks  and  leaves  of  the 
hemp  plant,  or  indulging  in  desultory 
conversation  as  soporific  as  the  social 
atmosphere  of  the  Neapolitan  lazza- 
rone.  The  village  public-house — a 
squalid  structure  with  a  corrugated 
iron  roof,  a  table  laden  with  country 
liquors,  and  a  dirty  little  flag  by  way 
of  signboard — offers  its  solace  to  a  few 
convivial  spirits.  In  the  main  road, 
perhaps,  a  juggler  is  showing  off  the 
tricks  of  his  monkeys  and  cobras  to  a 
crowd  squatting  before  him  in  the 


shape  of  a  half  moon.  He  beats  on  a 
small  drum  with  his  fingers,  or  blows 
through  a  little  pipe  of  reeds,  till  he 
has  got  his  audience  together,  and 
then  proceeds  to  make  mango  trees 
grow,  to  spit  fire,  or  having  hidden  a 
boy  in  a  basket,  rams  his  old  anti- 
quated scimitar  through  the  wicker- 
work,  to  the  intense  delight  of  the 
overgrown  children  jabbering  round 
him.  Naked  urchins  make  mud  pat- 
ties in  the  thoroughfares ;  boys  try  to 
float  their  tiny  paper  kites  in  the  hot 
motionless  air;  girls  swing  little 
babies  to  sleep;  wives  fan  their 
slumbering  lords.  The  noise  of  tom- 
toms and  cattle  bells  never  ceases. 
All,  young  and  old,  male  and  female, 
chew  pan  as  a  sailor  chews  his  quid ; 
the  said  pan  having  the  reputation 
of  an  astringent  and  a  great  strength- 
ener  of  the  gums,  but  most  certainly 
discolouring  the  teeth  very  sadly. 

A  dreary  sing-song  proclaims  the 
whereabouts  of  the  village  school. 
Outside,  in  the  elevated  courtyard, 
the  scholars  are  learning  their  les- 
sons, scrawling  on  the  dust,  on  palm- 
leaves,  or  on  broken  pieces  of  slate, 
or  in  line  repeating  their  tasks.  The 
dominie,  a  Brahmin,  naked  to  the 
waist,  a  little  black  tuft  of  hair  bob- 
bing on  his  shaven  crown,  walks  up 
and  down  inspecting  his  pupils  as  they 
whine  out  arithmetical  puzzles.  The 
primers  are  all  in  the  vernacular,  for 
English  is  not  taught  here  ;  and  as 
female  education  is  still  an  unf elt  want 
in  the  village,  women  grow,  live,  and 
die  here  in  Cimmerian  ignorance.  The 
master  is  paid  by  small  gratuities  of 
coarse  grain,  oil,  or  cloth. 

The  village  boasts  of  only  one  small 
temple.  Peeping  in  at  the  dusky  door 
one  sees  behind  an  iron  grating  a  tiny 
clay  god,  with  the  head  of  an  elephant 
and  two  pairs  of  arms.  This  is  the 
god  Ganesh.  His  tiara  is  of  tinsel 
paper,  and  a  little  doll's  frock  of  crim- 
son silk  hangs  over  his  protuberant 
belly — an  even  more  contemptible 
little  image  than  the  waxen  bambino 
of  poor  Italian  hamlets.  Chaplets  of 
yellow  jasmine  and  other  flowers,  and 


An  Indian  Village. 


79 


small  offerings  of  rice,  are  decaying  in 
front  of  the  shrine.  Outside,  a  kind 
of  obelisk,  studded  with  rows  of  nails, 
serves  to  support  coloured  glasses, 
which  are  filled  with  cocoa-nut  oil 
on  holidays,  and  over  this  spread  the 
branches  of  a  mango  tree,  planted  by 
some  superstitious  villager  with  a 
view  to  a  comfortable  berth  in  the 
next  world. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  village  tiny 
shrines  of  mortar  and  brick,  in  shape 
not  unlike  a  dog's  kennel,  line  either 
side  of  the  way,  each  containing  a 
rude  stone,  carved  with  the  image  of 
a  god  or  goddess,  and  painted  a  bright 
red.  At  the  lower  end,  numerous 
little  white  figures  of  elephants 
are  ranged  on  an  earthen  platform. 
These  are  objects  of  worship  to  the 
rural  population  ;  but  what  is  not  an 
object  of  worship  to  them  ?  Evidently 
the  trees  are,  for  several  of  the  ban- 
yans are  gay  with  streamers  of  coloured 
rag.  Jungle  spirits,  river  spirits,  can- 
nibal spirits,  ghosts,  and  goblins — all 
have  a  place  in  their  creed.  They 
believe  in  witchcraft,  magic,  astrology, 
and  the  exorcism  of  devils  from  the 
bodies  of  possessed  persons.  A  blight 
is  brought  about  by  the  killing  of 
cows,  or  the  eating  of  beef ;  and  the 
irremediable  sterility  of  the  soil  is 
still  ascribed  to  the  operations  of  the 
officers  of  the  survey  some  three-score 
years  ago  ! 

The  lean,  slouching,  ungainly  village 
bullocks  must  be  first  cousins  to 
Pharaoh's  lean  kine.  Dull-eyed,  feeble, 
compact  only  of  skin  and  bone,  brutally 
treated,  they  look,  and  surely  must 
be,  the  very  embodiment  of  animal 
misery.  Superstition,  which  forbids 
their  slaughter,  makes  no  provision 
for  kind  treatment,  and  the  peasantry 
maintain  that  it  is  cheaper  to  work 
them  to  death  than  to 'buy  new  bullocks 
in  order  to  tend  the  old  more  carefully. 
Their  beef  is  naturally  quite  tasteless. 
From  the  jungles  these  poor  brutes 
procure  just  enough  food  to  keep 
themselves  alive.  What  a  contrast 
they  form  to  the  fine  lazy  Brahminical 
bull  with  its  large  meek  eyes,  soft 


dove-coloured  skin,  and  lusty  hump  on 
the  back;  or  to  the^ prize  cattle  now 
and  again  paraded  at  local  exhibitions. 

Buffaloes  are  kept  for  milk,  and  for 
ploughing  the  marshy  lands.  The 
sheep  are  as  hairy  as  the  goats.  The 
ponies  are  hardy,  active,  and  vicious  ; 
and  as  often  as  not  ridden  bare- 
backed. The  community  also  possess  a 
small  breed  of  little  donkeys — animals 
which  a  London  costermonger  would 
spurn,  and  gifted  with  a  dislocat- 
ing roughness  of  action  which  no  lan- 
guage can  describe  to  such  as  have 
never  felt  it. 

No  railway  comes  near  the  place, 
but  there  is  a  constant  stream  of  road- 
traffic.  Bullock-cart  after  bullock- 
cart  goes  by  both  day  and  night,  each 
lumbering  shapeless  vehicle  drawn  by 
two  oxen,  for  cart  horses  may  be  said 
to  have  no  existence  in  India.  These 
carts  are  sometimes  covered  in  with  a 
sort  of  hood  of  matting,  and  under 
this  improvised  shelter  reposes  the 
carter's  wife  and  his  children,  a  little 
knot  of  black  faces  and  black  arms. 
For  the  sake  of  society,  and  by  way 
of  mutual  protection,  the  carters 
travel  in  bands  averaging  from  a 
dozen  to  twenty,  halting  at  nightfall 
and  forming  a  regular  encampment  by 
the  roadside.  The  draught-bullocks  are 
white  or  dun  in  colour,  with  large 
dewlaps  and  big  humps.  Sometimes 
they  are  made  gay  with  rude  necklaces 
and  tassels  of  scarlet  wool,  and  nearly 
all  are  decorated  with  brass  bobs  and 
bells.  If  they  happen  to  be  docile 
Jehu  speaks  to  them  in  the  most 
endearing  terms ;  but  should  they 
prove  intractable  he  indulges  in  a 
flood  of  vituperation  in  which  his 
native  tongue  is  peculiarly  rich.  Every 
ungreased  wheel  seems  to  have  its  own 
peculiar  squeak,  and  the  poor  beasts 
sway  from  side  to  side  as  they  strive 
to  make  the  hard  yoke  easier  to  their 
necks. 

The  agricultural  implements  might 
throw  light  on  the  primitive  agricul- 
ture of  the  Aryans.  The  small  native 
plough  is  carried  afield  by  the  peasant 
on  his  shoulders,  and  he  uses  the  trees 


80 


An  Indian  Village. 


to  store  up  hay  in  untidy  ricks.  Irri- 
gation by  watercourse  or  well  is 
unknown,  and  the  villagers  depend 
solely  on  the  rainfall  for  the  fertility 
of  their  fields.  The  lever  and  bucket 
so  familiar  to  travellers  in  Egypt,  the 
revolving  water-wheel  in  shape  like 
the  paddles  of  a  steamboat  or  the 
treadmill,  are  never  seen,  nor  bullocks 
lifting  water  in  leathern  skins.  The 
fields,  irregular  and  capricious  in  shape, 
of  black  or  deep  brown  earth,  are 
sown  with  barley,  jowaree,  millet,  and 
ragi.  The  cocoa-nut  trees  yield  oil, 
their  husks  make  serviceable  ropes, 
their  leaves  are  used  as  thatch,  the 
wood  serves  for  rafters  of  a  small 
span,  and  the  juice  yields  toddy.  Bulks 
or  raised  ridges,  irregular  and  hard  as 
iron,  divide  field  from  field,  and  paths 
seldom  traversable  by  wheels  lead  to 
and  from  the  village  to  the  irreclaim- 
able jungle.  The  high  road  is  the 
only  metalled  road  in  the  district,  and 
no  where  could  one  find  a  market  or 
ornamental  garden.  Platforms  raised 
in  the  centre  of  the  fields  are  used  as 
observatories,  from  whence  cultivators 
armed  with  slings  scare  off  the  birds 
from  the  ripening  grains. 

The  chief  village  functionary  is  pro- 
bably the  schoolmaster,  who  to  his 
pedagogic  duties  adds  those  of  priest 
and  physician.  After  him  comes  the 
patel  or  headman,  the  mouthpiece  and 
representative  of  the  hereditary  culti- 
vators, of  the  tenants  at  will,  and  of 
the  tenants  by  occupancy.  To  his 
kulkarni  or  clerk  is  committed  the 
drawing  up  of  the  village  deeds — 
documents  written  on  execrable  paper, 
commencing  with  the  name  of  the 
goddess  of  wealth,  and  terminating 
with  the  bangle  marks,  or  other 
pictorial  attestations  of  the  illiterate 
villagers.  He  keeps  the  rural  rent  roll, 
the  accounts  of  every  estate,  a  classi- 
fication of  the  different  soils,  and  of 
the  rights  and  interest  in  them  of  the 
peasants — a  record  which  effectually 
checks  promiscuous  squatting.  The 
village  smith,  seated  before  his  shanty, 


his  primitive  bellows  by  his  side, 
hammers  away  at  bands  of  iron  im- 
ported with  piece  goods.  Justice  is 
administered  by  the  village  pancfiayat 
or  counsel,  and  its  decrees  are  enforced 
by  expulsion  from  caste.  The  mar- 
warree,  or  native  money-lender,  officiates 
as  the  village  capitalist.  This  worthy 
crouches  on  the  floor  of  his  hut  like  a 
beast  of  prey  with  the  face  of  a 
hawk ;  and  once  in  his  debt,  lucky  is 
the  cultivator  who  can  ever  call  him- 
self again  a  free  man.  To  them  he 
makes  advances  on  grain  which  are 
often  repaid  in  kind  on  the  threshing 
floor  of  the  village.  He  has  his  wife 
here,  a  buxom  dame,  who  struts  about 
in  her  petticoats  of  amber  and  crimson 
like  a  peacock — the  only  woman  in  the 
village  who  veils  her  face  whenever 
she  goes  abroad,  and  gifted  with  a 
tongue  shrill  enough  to  make  itself 
heard  from  one  end  of  the  village  to 
the  other.  The  barber  is  the  wag  of 
the  community,  his  wife  its  midwife ; 
and  the  schoolmaster  casts  horoscopes 
and  tells  fortunes. 

At  noon  the  village  enjoys  a  siesta, 
and  at  night  during  the  sultry  season 
the  majority  of  the  villagers  sleep 
outside  their  huts  on  each  side  of  the 
road,  on  the  native  bed,  or  charpoy,  a 
web  of  netting  stretched  on  four  short 
legs.  Dogs  mount  guard  over  the 
cattle,  and  here  and  there  figures 
clothed  in  white  glide  noiselessly  by 
like  sheeted  ghosts.  Through  the  in- 
terstices of  each  hut  glimmers  a 
tiny  light.  The  cricket  chants  in  the 
grass,  and  maybe  a  panther,  or  even 
a  tiger,  slinks  down  to  drink  at  the 
tank,  and  carry  off,  if  luck  favour 
him,  some  unfortunate  cow.  Jackals 
are  prowling  up  and  down  for  stray 
fowls,  and  overhead  the  owls  and  flying 
foxes  hooting  in  the  trees.  Mean- 
while the  rising  moon  is  touching 
rock  and  valley  with  inexpressible 
tenderness,  and  the  mystic  voice  of 
nature  begins  to  whisper  of  things 
unseen. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


DECEMBER,  1885. 


POETRY    AND   POLITICS. 


THE  separation  of  literary  criticism 
from  politics  appears  to  have  been  a 
gain  both  to  politics  and  to  literature. 
If  Mr.  Swinburne,  for  example,  speaks 
unkindly  about  kings  and  priests  in 
one  volume,  that  offence  is  not  re- 
membered against  him,  even  by  the 
most  Conservative  critic,  when  he 
gives  us  a  book  like  'Atalanta/  or 
'  Erechtheus.7  If  Victor  Hugo  applauds 
the  Commune,  the  Conservative  M. 
Paul  de  Saint  Victor  freely  forgives 
him.  In  the  earlier  part  of  the  cen- 
tury, on  the  other  hand,  poems  which 
had  no  tinge  of  politics  were  furiously 
assailed,  for  party  reasons,  by  Tory 
critics,  if  the  author  was  a  Whig,  or 
had  friends  in  the  ranks  of  Whiggery.1 
Perhaps  the  Whiggish  critics  were  not 
less  one-sided,but  their  exploits  (except 
a  few  of  Jeffrey's)  are  forgotten. 
Either  there  were  no  Conservative 
poets  to  be  attacked,  or  the  Whig  at- 
tack was  so  weak,  and  so  unlike  the 
fine  fury  of  the  Tory  reviewers,  that  it 
has  lapsed  into  oblivion.  Assuredly 
no  Tory  Keats  died  of  an  article,  no 
Tory  Shelley  revenged  him  in  a  Con- 
servative '  Adonais/  and,  if  Lord 
Byron  struck  back  at  his  Scotch 
reviewers,  Lord  Byron  was  no  Tory. 
In  the  happy  Truce  of  the  Muses, 
which  now  enables  us  to  judge  a  poet 

1  Compare  Maginn's  brutal  and  silly  attack 
on  Shelley's  '  Adonais,'  recently  reprinted  in 
Maginn's  '  Miscellanies.'  Sampson  Low  and 
Company. 

No.  314. — VOL.  LIII. 


on  his  literary  merits,  Mr.  Courthope 
has  raised  a  war-cry  which  will  not, 
I   hope,  be   widely   echoed.     He  has 
called     his     reprinted     essays     'The 
Liberal  Movement  in  English  Litera- 
ture/ 2   and   has   thus   brought    back 
the  howls  of  partisans  into  a  region 
where    they    had    been    long    silent. 
One    cannot   but    regret    this    intru- 
sion of  the  factions  which  have   "  no 
language  but  a  Cry"  into  the  tran- 
quil regions  of  verse.     Mr.  Courthope 
knows  that  the  title  of  his  essays  will 
be    objected   to,   and  he  tries   to   de- 
fend it.     Cardinal  Newman,  he  says, 
employs   the   term    "  Liberalism "    to 
denote  a  movement  in  the  region  of 
thought.     Would   it  not   be   as  true 
to   say   that   Cardinal  Newman  uses 
"  Liberalism  "  as    "  short  "    for   most 
things  that  he  dislikes  ?     In  any  case 
the  word   "  Liberal "  is  one  of  those 
question-begging,    popular,     political 
terms  which  had  been  expelled  from 
the  criticism  of  poetry.     It  seems  an 
error  to    bring  back   the    word  with 
its  passionate  associations.    Mr.  Court- 
hope   will,  perhaps,    think    that    the 
reviewer  who  thus  objects  is  himself 
a  Liberal.     It  is  not  so ;  and  though 
I  would  fain   escape  from  even   the 
thought  of   party  bickerings,    I   pro- 
bably agree  with   Mr.   Courthope   in 
not  wishing  to  disestablish  anything 
or  anybody,   not   even  the  House   of 
Lords.     None  the  less  it  is  distract- 
3  John  Murray,  London,  1885. 
G 


82 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


ing,  when  we  are  occupied  for  once 
with  thoughts  about  poetry,  to  meet 
sentences  like  this :  "  Life,  in  the 
Radical  view,  is  simply  change ;  and 
a  Radical  is  ready  to  promote  every 
caprice  or  whim  of  the  numerical 
majority  of  the  moment  in  the  belief 
that  the  change  which  it  effects  in  the 
constitution  of  society  will  bring  him 
nearer  to  some  ideal  state  existing  in 
his  own  imagination."  Or  again : 
"How  many  leagues  away  do  they" 
(certain  remarks  of  Mr.  Burke's) 
"  carry  us  from  the  Liberal  Radical- 
ism now  crying  out  for  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  hereditary  branch  of  the 
Legislature?"  and  so  on.  One  ex- 
pects, in  every  page,  to  encounter  the 
deceased  wife's  sister,  or  "  a  cow  and 
three  acres."  It  is  not  in  the  mood 
provoked  by  our  enthusiasm  for  the 
hereditary  branch  of  the  Legislature, 
it  is  not  when  the  heart  stands  up  in 
defence  of  the  game  laws,  that  we 
are  fit  to  reason  about  poetry.  Con- 
sequently, as  it  appears  to  me,  Mr. 
Courthope,  in  his  excitement  against 
Radicalism,  does  not  always  reason 
correctly,  nor,  perhaps,  feel  correctly, 
about  poetry. 

As  far  as  I  understand  the  main 
thesis  of  Mr.  Courthope's  book,  it  is 
something  like  this.  From  a  very 
early  date,  from  the  date  certainly  of 
Chaucer,  there  have  been  flowing  two 
main  streams  in  English  literature. 
One  stream  is  the  Poetry  of  Romance, 
the  other  is  the  Poetry  of  Manners. 
The  former  had  its  source  (I  am  in- 
clined to  go  a  great  way  further  back 
for  its  source)  "  in  the  institutions  of 
chivalry,  and  in  mediaeval  theology." 
The  other  poetical  river,  again,  the 
poetry  of  manners,  "  has  been  fed  by 
the  life,  actions,  and  manners  of  the 
nation."  One  might  add  to  this  that 
the  "life  and  actions"  of  our  people 
have  often,  between  the  days  of  the 
Black  Prince  and  of  General  Gordon, 
been  in  the  highest  degree  "  romantic." 
This  mixture,  however,  would  confuse 
ML.  Courthope's  system.  Dray  ton's 
'  Agincourt,'  Lord  Tennyson's  *  Revenge' 
may  be  regarded  at  will,  perhaps,  as 


belonging  to  the  poetry  of  romance, 
or  the  poetry  of  national  action. 
Mr.  Courthope  does  not  touch  on  this 
fact,  but  the  reader  will  do  well  to 
keep  it  in  mind,  for  reasons  which 
will  appear  later. 

The  fortunes  of  the  two  streams 
of  poetry  have  been  different.  The 
romantic  stream  was  lost  in  the  sands 
of  Donne,  Crashaw,  Cowley,  and  the 
rest,  but  welled  up  again  in  the  begin- 
ning of  our  own  century,  in  Scott, 
Coleridge,  and  others.  The  poetry  of 
manners,  on  the  other  hand,  had  its 
great  time  when  men,  revolting  from 
the  conceits  of  degenerate  romanticism, 
took,  with  Pope,  Dryden,  Thomson, 
and  Johnson,  to  "  correctness,"  to 
working  under  the  "  ethical  impulse." 
Now  the  "  correctness  "  and  the  choice 
of  moral  topics  which  prevailed  in  the 
eighteenth  century  were  "  Conserva- 
tive, "and  the  new  burst  of  romantic  poe- 
try was  "  Liberal,"  and  was  connected 
with  the  general  revolutionary  and 
Liberal  movement  in  politics,  specu- 
lation, and  religion.  Finally,  Mr. 
Courthope  thinks  that  "  the  Liberal 
movement  in  our  literature,  as  well  as 
in  our  politics,  is  beginning  to  lan- 
guish." Perhaps  Mr.  Chamberlain 
and  his  friends  are  not  aware  that 
they  are  languishing.  In  the  interests 
of  our  languishing  poetry,  at  all 
events,  Mr.  Courthope  briefly  pre- 
scribes more  "  healthy  objectivity  " 
(the  words  are  mine,  and  are  slang, 
but  they  put  the  idea  briefly),  and  a 
"revival  of  the  simple  iambic  move- 
ments of  English  in  metres  historically 
established  in  our  literature." 

In  this  sketch  of  Mr.  Courthope's 
thesis,  his  main  ideas  show  forth  as, 
if  not  new,  yet,  perfectly  true.  There 
is,  there  has  been,  a  poetry  of  romance 
of  which  the  corruption  is  found  in  the 
wanton  conceits  of  Donne  and  Cra- 
shaw. There  is,  there  has  been,  a 
poetry  of  manners  and  morals,  of 
which  the  corruption  is  didactic  prosi- 
ness.  In  the  secular  action  and  re- 
action, each  of  these  tendencies  has, 
at  various  times,  been  weak  or  strong. 
At  the  beginning  of  this  century,  too, 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


a  party  tinge  was  certainly  given, 
chiefly  by  Conservative  critics,  to  the 
reborn  romantic  poetry.  Keats  cared 
as  little  as  any  man  for  what  Marcus 
Aurelius  calls  "the  drivelling  of 
politicians,"  but  even  Keats,  as  a 
friend  of  "  kind  Hunt's,"  was  a  sort 
of  Liberal.  But  admitting  this  party 
colouring,  one  must  add  that  it  was  of 
very  slight  moment  indeed,  and  very 
casually  distributed.  Therefore,  one 
must  still  regret,  for  reasons  which 
will  instantly  appear,  Mr.  Courthope's 
introduction  of  party  names  and  party 
prejudices  into  his  interesting  essays. 

It  is  probably  the  author's  preoccu- 
pation with  politics  which  causes  fre- 
quent contradictions,  as  they  seem,  and 
a  general  sense  of  confusion  which 
often  make  it  very  hard  to  follow  his 
argument,  and  to  see  what  he  is  really 
driving  at.  For  example,  Scott,  the 
Conservative  Scott,  whom  Mr.  Court- 
hope  so  justly  admires,  has  to  appear 
as  a  Liberal,  almost  a  revolutionary, 
in  verse.  Mr.  Courthope  quotes  Cole- 
ridge's account  of  the  origin  of 
Lyrical  Ballads  as  "  the  first  note 
of  the  '  new  departure/  which  I  have 
called  the  '  Liberal  Movement  in 
English  Literature.'  "  Well,  but  the 
Tory  Scott  was  an  eager  follower  of 
Coleridge's  ;  he  played  (if  we  are  to  be 
political)  Mr.  Jesse  Collings  to  Cole- 
ridge's Mr.  Chamberlain.  This,  by  it- 
self, proves  how  very  little  the  Liberal 
movement  in  literature  was  a  party 
movement,  how  little  it  had  to  do  with 
Liberalism  in  politics. 

Again,  when  Mr.  Courthope  is  cen- 
suring, and  most  justly  censuring,  Mr. 
Carlyle's  grudging  and  Pharisaical 
article  on  Scott,  he  speaks  of  Carlyle 
as  a  "Radical,"  and  finds  that  "our 
Radical  Diogenes  "  blamed  Scott  "  be- 
cause he  was  a  Conservative,  and 
amused  the  people."  Now  Carlyle, 
of  all  men,  was  no  Radical ;  and  Scott, 
as  a  Conservative,  is  a  queer  figure 
in  a  Liberal  movement.  Another  odd 
fact  is  that  the  leaders  of  the  Liberal 
movement  "  steeped  themselves  "  in 
the  atmosphere  of  feudal  romance. 
Whatever  else  feudal  romance  may 


have  been,  it  was  eminently  anti- 
Radical,  and,  to  poetic  Radicals, 
should  have  been  eminently  uncon- 
genial. Odder  still  (if  the  Liberal 
movement  in  literature  was  a  party 
movement  to  any  important  extent)  is 
Mr.  Courthope's  discovery  that  Macau- 
lay  was  a  Conservative  critic.  Yet  a 
Conservative  critic  Macaulay  must 
have  been,  because  he  was  in  the 
camp  opposed  to  that  of  Coleridge  and 
Keats.  Macaulay  was  a  very  strong 
party  man,  and,  had  he  been  aware 
that  his  critical  tastes  were  Tory,  he 
would  perhaps  have  changed  his  tastes. 
Yet  again,  Mr.  Courthope  finds  that 
optimism  is  the  note  of  Liberalism, 
while  "  the  Conservative  takes  a  far 
less  sanguine  view  of  the  prospects  of 
the  art  of  poetry,"  and  of  things  in 
general.  But  Byron  and  Shelley,  in 
Mr.  Courthope's  argument,  were  Libe- 
ral poets.  Yet  Mr.  Courthope  says, 
speaking  of  Shelley,  "  like  Byron,  he 
shows  himself  a  complete  pessimist." 
For  my  own  part  (and  Mr.  Court- 
hope  elsewhere  expresses  the  same 
opinion),  Shelley  seems  to  me 
an  optimist,  in  his  queer  political 
dreams  of  a  future  where  Prometheus 
and  Asia  shall  twine  beams  and  buds 
in  a  cave,  unvexed  by  priests  and 
kings — a  future  in  which  all  men  shall 
be  peaceful,  brotherly,  affectionate 
sentimentalists.  But  Mr.  Courthope 
must  decide  whether  Byron  and  Shelley 
are  to  be  Conservatives  and  pessimists, 
or  Liberals  and  optimists.  At  present 
their  position  as  Liberal  pessimists 
seems,  on  his  own  showing,  difficult 
and  precarious.  Macaulay,  too,  the 
Liberal  Macaulay,  is  a  pessimist,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Courthope.  All  this 
confusion,  as  I  venture  to  think  it, 
appears  to  arise,  then,  from  Mr.  Court- 
hope's  political  preoccupations.  He 
shows  us  a  Radical  Carlyle,  a  Conser- 
vative Macaulay ;  a  Scott  who  is,  per- 
haps, a  kind  of  Whig ;  a  Byron,  who, 
being  pessimistic,  should  be  Conserva- 
tive, but  is  Liberal ;  a  Shelley,  who  is 
Liberal,  though,  being  pessimistic,  he 
ought  to  be  Conservative.  It  is  all 
very  perplexing,  and,  like  most  mis- 

G  2 


84 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


chief,  all  comes  out  of  party  politics. 
It  is  less  easy  to   demonstrate,  what 
I   cannot   help  suspecting,    that   Mr. 
Courthope's  great    admiration  of  the 
typical  poetry  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury comes  from  his  persuasion  that 
that  poetry,  like  Providence,  "  is  Tory." 
This  may  seem  an  audacious  guess.     I 
am  led  to  make  it  partly  by  observing 
that  Mr.  Courthope's  own  poems,  espe- 
cially the  charming  lyrics  in  *  The  Para- 
dise of  Birds/  have  a  freedom  and  a 
varied  music,   extremely  Liberal,  ex- 
tremely  unlike   Johnson    and   Thom- 
son, and  not  all  dissimilar  to  what  we 
admire  in  the  Red  Republican  verse 
of   Mr.     Swinburne.       Now,    if    Mr. 
Courthope  writes  verse  like  that  (and 
I  wish  he  would  write  more),  surely  his 
inmost  self  must,  on  the  whole,  tend 
rather  to  the  poetry  he  calls  Liberal, 
than  to  that  which  (being  a  politician) 
he  admires  as  Conservative,  but  does 
not  imitate.     All  this,  however,  is  an 
attempt  to  plumb  "  the  abysmal  depths 
of  personality."      We   are    on  firmer 
ground  when  we  try  to  show  that  Mr. 
Courthope    expresses    too      high     an 
opinion  of  the  typical  poetry  of    the 
eighteenth  century.     Now  this  really 
brings  us  face  to  face  with  the  great 
question,  Was  Pope  a  poet  ?  and  that, 
again,  leads  us  to  the  brink  of  a  dis- 
cussion   as  to  What  is    poetry?     On 
these  matters  no   one   will   ever  per- 
suade   his    neighbours    by   argument. 
We  all  follow  our  tastes,  incapable  of 
conversion.     I  must  admit  that  I  am, 
on  this  point,    a   Romanticist  of  the 
most    "dishevelled"    character;    that 
Pope's   verse   does   not   affect   me  as 
what  I  call  poetry  affects  me  ;    that 
I  only  style  Pope,  in  Mr.  Swinburne's 
words,    "  a  poet  with   a    difference." 
This  is  one  of  the  remarks  which  in- 
spire Mr.  Courthope  to  do  battle  for 
Pope,  and  for  Thomson,  and  Johnson, 
and  the  rest.     Mr.  Matthew  Arnold, 
too,   vexes  Mr.  Courthope  by  calling 
Pope   and  Dry  den  "  classics    of    our 
prose."     Why  are  they  not  poets?  he 
asks  \     and    "  Who  is   a  poet  if  not 
Pope?"     Who?     Why   from   Homer 
onwards  there  are  many  poets :  there 


are  "  many  mansions,"  but  if  Pope 
dwells  in  one  of  them  I  think  it  is 
by  courtesy,  and  because  there  are 
a  few  diamonds  of  poetry  in  the  fine 
gold  of  his  verse.  But  it  is  time  to 
say  why  one  would  (in  spite  of  the 
very  highest  of  all  living  authori- 
ties) incline  to  qualify  the  title  of 
"  poet  "  as  given  to  Pope.  It  is  for  a 
reason  which  Mr.  Courthope  finds  it 
hard  to  understand.  He  says  that 
Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  and  Mr.  Swin- 
burne deny  Pope  the  laurel  without 
assigning  reasons.  They  merely  cry, 
in  a  despotic  fashion,  stet  pro  rations 
voluntas.  They  do  not  offer  argu- 
ment, or,  if  they  argue,  their  ar- 
guments will  not  "  hold  water." 
But  Mr.  Courthope  himself  justifies 
the  lack  of  argument  by  his  own  reply 
to  certain  reasonings  of  Words- 
worth's. "  Your  reasoning,  no  doubt," 
says  Mr.  Courthope  to  the  Bard  of 
Rydal,  "is  very  fine  and  ingenious, 
but  the  matter  is  one  not  for  argu- 
ment, but  for  perception." 

Precisely  :  and  so  Mr.  Arnold  and 
Mr.  Swinburne  might  answer  Mr. 
Courthope's  complaints  of  their  lack 
of  argument, — "  The  matter  is  one  not 
for  argument,  but  for  perception." 
One  feels,  or  perceives,  in  reading 
Pope,  the  lack  of  what  one  cannot 
well  argue  about,  the  lack  of  the  in- 
definable glory  of  poetry,  the  bloom 
on  it,  as  happiness  is,  according  to 
Aristotle,  the  bloom  on  a  life  of  good- 
ness. Mr.  Swinburne,  avoiding 
"argument,"  writes,  "the  test  of  the 
highest  poetry  is  that  it  eludes  all  tests. 
Poetry  in  which  there  is  no  element  at 
once  perceptible  and  indefinable  by 
any  reader  or  hearer  of  any  poetic 
instinct  may  have  every  other  good 
quality  .  .  .  but  if  all  its  properties 
can  easily  or  can  ever  be  gauged  and 
named  by  its  admirers,  it  is  not  poetry, 
above  all  it  is  not  lyric  poetry,  of  the 
first  water."  In  fact,  to  employ  the 
terms  of  Mr.  Courthope's  own  reply  to 
Wordsworth,  "  the  matter  is  one  not 
for  argument,  but  for  perception." 
Now  this  "perceptible  and  indefin- 
able" element  in  poetry,  is  rarely 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


85 


present  in  Pope's  verse,  if  it  is  ever 
present  at  all.  We  can  "  gauge  and 
name  "  the  properties  of  Pope's  verse, 
and  little  or  nothing  is  left  unnamed 
and  ungauged.  For  this  reason  Pope 
always  appears  to  me,  if  a  poet  at  all, 
a  poet  "  with  a  difference."  The  test, 
of  course,  is  subjective,  even  mystical, 
if  you  will.  Mr.  Courthope  might 
answer  that  Pope  is  full  of  passages 
in  which  he  detects  an  indefinable 
quality  that  can  never  be  gauged  or 
named.  In  that  case  I  should  be 
silenced,  but  Mr.  Courthope  does  not 
say  anything  of  the  sort.  Far  from 
that,  he  says  (and  here  he  does  as- 
tonish me)  that  "  the-most  sublime  pas- 
sages of  Homer,  Milton,  and  Yirgil, 
can  readily  be  analysed  into  their 
elements."  Why,  if  it  were  so,  they 
would  indeed  be  on  the  level  of  Pope. 
But  surely  it  is  not  so.  We  can  parse 
Homer,  Milton,  and  Yirgil ;  we  can 
make  a  precis  of  what  they  state ;  but 
who  can  analyse  their  incommunicable 
charm  ?  If  any  man  thinks  he  can 
analyse  it,  to  that  man,  I  am  inclined 
to  cry,  the  charm  must  be  definable 
indeed,  but  also  imperceptible.  Take 
Homer's  words,  so  simply  uttered, 
when  Helen  has  said  that  her  brothers 
shun  the  war,  for  her  shame's  sake — 

Qs  <j)aro'  TOVS  ft  ^§77  Kare^ei/  (/>ucri'£boy  ata, 
'Ej/  Aa/Ke&ai'/zoi/i  au$t,  (piXr;  Iv  Trarpidiyair).- 

Who  can  analyse  the  subtle  melan- 
choly of  the  lines,  the  incommunicable 
charm  and  sweetness,  full  of  all 
thoughts  of  death,  and  life,  and  the 
dearness  of  our  native  land  ? 

In  Yirgil  and  Milton  it  is  even 
easier  to  find  examples  of  this  price- 
less quality,  lines  like 


"  Fluminaque     antiques     subterlabentia 
muros,"2 


or 


"Te,  Lari  maxime,  teque 
Fluctibus    et    fremitu    assurgens,    Benace, 
Tnarinn  1  "  3 


"So  spake  she,  but  them  already  the 
mother  earth  possessed,  there  in  Lacedsemon, 
their  own  dear  native  land. " 

"  And  rivers  gliding  under  ancient  walls. " 

"Thee,  mightiest  Laris,  and  thee  Bena- 

cus,  rising  with  waves  and  surge  as  of  the  sea." 


Mr.  Courthope  himself  quotes  lines 
of  Milton's  that  sufficiently  illustrate 
my -meaning — 

"  And  ladies  of  the  Hesperides  that  seemed 
Fairer  than  feigned  of  old  or  fabled  since 
Of  faery  damsels  met  in  forest  wide 
By  Knight  of  Logris  or  of  Lyones, 
Lancelot,  or  Pelleas,  or  Pellenore." 

There  is  something  in  the  very  pro- 
cession and  rhythmical  fitness  of  the 
words,  there  is  a  certain  bloom  and 
charm,  which  defies  analysis.  This 
bloom  is  of  the  essence  of  poetry,  and 
it  is  not  characteristic  of  the  typical 
verse  of  Mr.  Courthope' s  Conservative 
eighteenth  century.  He  enters  into 
argument  with  Mr.  Swinburne,  who 
quotes,  as  an  example  of  the  inde- 
finable quality — 

"  Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago." 

Mr.  Swinburne  says  that  "if  not 
another  word  was  left  of  the  poem 
in  which  those  two  last  lines  occur, 
those  two  lines  would  suffice  to  show 
the  hand  of  a  poet  differing,  not  in 
degree,  but  in  kind,  from  the  tribe 
of  Byron  or  of  Southey  " — the  Con- 
servative singer  of  Wat  Tyler.  As  to 
Byron  I  do  not  speak ;  but  certainly 
the  two  lines,  like  two  lines  of 
Sappho's,  if  they  alone  survived, 
would  give  assurance  of  a  poet  of 
the  true  gift,  of  the  unimpeachable 
inspiration.  Such  a  line  as 


'Hpos  ayyeXos  Ififpofjywvos  dr)da>v}* 
cos  de  Trals  TreSa  juarepa 


or 


is  not  a  more  infallible  proof  of  the 
existence  of  a  true  poet. 

Mr.  Courthope  does  not  see  this  in 
the  case  of  Wordsworth.  He  says 
the  beauty  of  the  fragment  depends 
on  the  context.  I  quote  his  remark, 
which  proves  how  vain  it  is  to  argue 
about  poetry,  how  truly  it  is  "a 

4  "The   dear  glad    angel    of   spring,    the 
Nightingale." — BEN  JONSON. 

5  "Even  as  a  child  to  its  mother  I  flutter 
to  thee. "     Both  these  passages  are  fragments 
of  Sappho. 


86 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


matter  of  perception."  Mr.  Court- 
hope  says,  "The  high  quality  of  the 
verses  depends  upon  their  associations 
with  the  image  of  the  solitary  High- 
land reaper  singing  unconsciously  her 
'melancholy  strain'  in  the  midst  of 
the  autumn  sheaves;  detached  from 
this  image  the  lines  would  scarcely 
have  been  more  affecting  than  our 
old  friend,  'Barbara,  celarent,  &c.' " 
By  an  odd  coincidence,  and  personal 
experience,  I  can  disprove  (in  my  own 
case)  this  dictum  of  Mr.  Courthope's. 
When  I  was  a  freshman,  with  a  great 
aversion  to  Wordsworth,  and  an  almost 
exhaustive  ignorance  of  his  poetry,  I 
chanced  to  ask  a  friend  to  suggest  a 
piece  of  verse  for  Latin  elegiacs.  He 
answered,  "Why  don't  you  try 

*  Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago.'  " 

I  did  not  attempt  to  convert  the  lines 
into  blundering  elegiacs.  I  did  not 
even  ask  for  the  context,  but  the 
beauty  and  enchantment  of  the  sounds 
remained  with  me,  singing  to  me,  as 
it  were,  in  lonely  places  beside  the 
streams  and  below  the  hills.  This  is, 
perhaps,  evidence  that,  for  some  hear- 
ers, the  high  quality  of  Wordsworth's 
touch,  "  when  Nature  took  the  pen 
from  him,"  does  not  depend  on  the 
context,  though  from  the  context 
even  that  verse  gains  new  charms. 
For  what  is  all  Celtic  poetry  but  a 
memory 

"  Of  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  "  ? 

In  the  long  run,  perhaps,  as  Mr. 
Courthope  says,  Mr.  Swinburne  "  only 
proves  by  his  argument  that  the 
poetry  of  Byron  is  of  a  different 
kind  from  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth 
and  Shelley,  and  that  he  himself 
infinitely  prefers  the  poetry  of  the 
two  latter."  Unluckily  argument 
can  prove  no  more  than  that  the 
poetry  which  we  "infinitely  prefer" 
is  of  a  different  kind  from  the  poetry 
of  Pope  and  Johnson,  and  even  from 
most  of  Thomson's.  One  cannot  de- 


monstrate that  it  is  not  only  of  a 
different  kind  but  of  an  infinitely 
higher  kind.  That  is  matter  for  per- 
ception. But  this  one  may  say,  and 
it  may  even  appear  of  the  nature  of 
an  argument,  that  the  poetry  of  "  a  dif- 
ferent kind,"  which  I  agree  with  so 
much  more  competent  a  judge  as  Mr. 
Swinburne  in  preferring,  is  not  pecu- 
liar to  any  one  people,  or  time,  or 
movement.  It  is  quod  semper,  quod 
ubique,  quod  ab  omnibus.  I  find  this 
flower  on  the  long  wild,  frozen  plains 
and  steppes,  the  tundras,  of  the  Finnish 
epic,  the  '  Kalevala  ' : — "  The  cold  has 
spoken  to  me,  and  the  rain  has  told 
me  her  runes ;  the  winds  of  heaven, 
the  waves  of  the  sea,  have  spoken  and 
sung  to  me,  the  wild  birds  have 
taught  me,  the  music  of  many  waters 
has  been  my  master."  So  says  the 
Runoia,  and  he  speaks  truly,  but  wind 
and  rain,  and  fen  and  forest,  cloud 
and  sky  and  sea,  never  taught  their 
lesson  to  the  typical  versifiers  of  the 
Conservative  eighteenth  century.  I 
find  their  voices,  and  their  enchant- 
ment, and  their  passion  in  Homer  and 
Yirgil,  in  Theocritus,  and  Sophocles, 
and  Aristophanes,  in  the  volkslieder 
of  modern  Greece,  as  in  the  ballads  of 
the  Scottish  border,  in  Shakespeare 
and  Marlowe,  in  Ronsard  and  Joachim 
du  Bellay,  in  Cowper  and  Gray,  as  in 
Shelley  and  Scott  and  Coleridge,  in 
Edgar  Poe,  in  Heine,  and  in  the  Edda. 
Where  I  do  not  find  this  natural 
magic,  and  "element  at  once  per- 
ceptible and  indefinable,"  is  in  the 
'  Rape  of  the  Lock,' '  The  Essay  on  Man,' 
'  Eloisa  to  Abelard,' « The  Campaign,'- 
is  in  the  typical  verse  of  the  classical 
and  Conservative  eighteenth  century. 
Now,  if  I  am  right  in  what,  after  all, 
is  a  matter  of  perception,  if  all  great 
poetry  of  all  time  has  this  one  mark, 
this  one  element,  and  is  of  this  one 
kind,  while  only  the  typical  poetry  of 
a  certain  three  generations  lacks  the 
element,  and  is  of  another  kind,  can 
I  be  wrong  in  preferring  quod  semper, 
quod  ubique,  quod  ab  omnibus  ? 

The  late  Rector  of  Lincoln  College 
(a  Liberal,  to  be  sure,  alas  !)  has  defined 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


87 


that  which  we  consciously  miss  in 
Pope  and  Johnson  as  "  the  element  of 
inspired  feeling."  Perhaps  we  can- 
not define  it,  and  perhaps  it  is  going 
too  far  to  say,  with  the  Rector,  that 
"  it  is  by  courtesy  that  the  versifiers 
of  the  century  from  Dryden  to 
Churchill  are  styled  poets."  Let  us 
call  them  "  poets  with  a  difference," 
for  even  Mr.  Courthope  will  probably 
admit  (what  he  says  Mr.  Swinburne 
has  "proved  "  about  Byron)  that  they 
are  poets  "  of  a  different  kind."  Then 
let  us  prefer  which  kind  we  please, 
and  be  at  rest.  We,  who  prefer  the 
kind  that  Homer  began,  and  that 
Lord  Tennyson  continues,  might  add, 
as  a  reason  for  our  choice,  that  our 
side  is  strong  in  the  knowledge 
and  rendering  of  Nature.  Words- 
worth, in  a  letter  to  Scott,1  remarked 
that  Dryden'  s  was  "  not  a  poeti- 
cal genius,"  although  he  possessed 
(what  Chapelain,  according  to  Theo- 
phile  Gautier,  especially  lacked),  "  a 
certain  ardour  and  impetuosity  of 
mind,  with  an  excellent  ear."  But,  said 
Wordsworth.  "  there  is  not  a  single 
image  from  nature  in  the  whole  body 
of  his  works,"  and,  "  in  his  translation 
from  Yirgil,  wherever  Yirgil  can  be 
fairly  said  to  have  had  his  eye  upon 
his  object,  Dryden  always  spoils  the 
passage."  So,  it  is  generally  confessed, 
does  Pope  spoil  Homer,  Homer  who 
always  has  his  eye  on  the  object.  I 
doubt  if  Chapman,  when  he  says  — 

"  And  with  the  tops  lie  bottoms  all  the  deeps, 
And  all  the  bottoms  in  the  tops  lie  steeps," 

gives  the  spirit  of  a  storm  of  Homer's 
worse  than  Pope  does,  when  he 
remarks  — 

"  The  waves  behind  roll  on  the  waves  before." 

Or  where  does  Homer  say  that  the 
stars  — 

"  O'er  the  dark  trees  a  yellower  verdure  shed, 
And  tip  with  silver  every  mountain  head  ?  " 


says  Homer,  and  it  is  enough.     The 
"  yellower  verdure,"    and   the  silver, 

1  Lockhart's    '  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,'  ii.  89. 
2   "  And  all  the  stars  show  plain." 


and  the  rest  of  this  precious  stuff  come 
from  Pope,  that  minute  observer  of 
external  nature.  Mr.  Courthope  num- 
bers Dryden,  with  Shakespeare, 
Chaucer,  and  Scott,  among  poets  with 
"  the  power  of  reproducing  the  idea 
of  external  nature."  It  may  be  my 
unconscious  Liberalism,  but  I  prefer 
the  view  of  that  eminent  Radical, 
William  Wordsworth.  Mr.  Courthope 
elsewhere  asserts  that  the  writers  of 
the  best  poetry  of  the  eighteenth 
century  (meaning  Pope,  I  presume, 
and  the  rest),  "  faced  nature  boldly, 
and  wrote  about  it  in  metre  directly 
as  they  felt  it."  Probably,  by 
"  nature,"  Mr.  Courthope  means 
"human  nature,"  for  I  cannot  believe 
that  Pope,  boldly  facing  Nature  on  a 
starlit  night,  really  saw  a  "  yellower 
verdure  "  produced  by  "  that  obscure 
light  which  droppeth  from  the  stars." 
Before  leaving  the  question  of  the 
value  of  typical  eighteenth  century 
poetry,  one  would  recall  Mr.  Court- 
hope's  distinctions  between  the  poetry 
of  manners  and  national  action,  and  the 
poetry  of  romance.  I  said  that  there 
was  much  romance  in  our  national 
actions.  Now,  outside  the  sacred 
grove  of  Conservative  and  classical 
poetry,  that  romance  of  national 
action  has  been  felt,  has  been  fittingly 
sung.  From  the  Fight  of  Brunan- 
burh,  to  Dray  ton's  '  Agincourt,'  from 
Agincourt  to  Lord  Tennyson's  '  Re- 
venge,' and  Sir  Francis  Doyle's  '  Red 
Thread  of  Honour,'  we  have  certain 
worthy  and  romantic  lyrics  of  national 
action.  The  Cavalier  poets  gave  us 
many  songs  of  England  under  arms, 
even  Macaulay's '  Armada '  stirs  us  like 
'  Chevy  Chase,'  or  '  Kinmont  Willie.' 
The  Conservative  and  classical  age  of 
our  poetry  was  an  age  of  great  actions. 
What,  then,  did  the  Conservative 
poets  add  to  the  lyrics  of  the  romance 
of  national  action?  Where  is  their 
*  Battle  of  the  Baltic/or  their  'Mariners 
of  England  '  ?  Why,  till  we  come  to 
Cowper  (an  early  member  of  "  the 
Liberal  movement,")  to  Cowper  and  the 
'  Loss  of  the  Royal  George,'  I  declare 
I  know  not  where  to  find  a  poet  who 


88 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


has  discovered  in  national  action  any 
romance  or  any  inspiration  at  all ! 
What  do  we  get,  in  place  of  the 
romance  of  national  adventure,  in 
place  of  '  Lucknow'  and  '  The  Charge  of 
the  Light  Brigade/  from  the  classical 
period  T  Why,  we  get,  at  most,  and 
at  best, 

"  Though  fens  and  floods  possessed  the  middle 

space 
That  unprovoked  they  would  have  feared  to 

pass, 
Nor  fens  nor  floods   can  stop   Britannia's 

bands, 
When  her  proud  foe  ranged  on  their  border 

stands."  * 

I  recommend  the  historical  and  topo- 
graphical accuracy  of  the  second  line, 
and  the  musical  correctness  of  the 
fourth.  Not  thus  did  Scott  sing  how — 

"  The  stubborn  spearsmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood," 

and  I  doubt  if  Achilles  found  any 
such  numbers,  when  Patroclus  entered 
his  tent,  aeiSe  S'apa  K/Vea  oh/Span/.2  The 
Conservative  age,  somehow,  was  less 
patriotic  than  the  poets  of  *'  the 
Liberal  movement." 

Space  fails  me,  and  I  cannot  join 
battle  with  Mr.  Courthope  as  to  the 
effect  of  science  on  poetry,  and  as  to 
the  poetry  of  savage  times  and  peoples, 
though  I  am  longing  to  criticise  the 
verses  of  Dieyries  and  Narrinyeries, 
and  the  karakias  of  the  Maoris,  and 
the  great  Maori  epic,  so  wonderfully 
Homeric,  and  the  songs  of  the 
Ojibbeways  and  Malagasies.  When 
Macaulay  said,  "as  civilisation  ad- 
vances, poetry  almost  necessarily  de- 
clines," I  doubt  if  much  Dieyri  or 
Narrinyeri  verse  was  present  to  his 
consciousness.  But  this  belongs  to  a 
separate  discussion. 

I  have  tried  to  show  that,  by  intro- 

1  Of  course  there  are  better  things  than  this 
in  the  'Campaign'  of  the  inspired  Mr.  Addison. 

2  "  And  he  was  singing  of  the  glorious  deeds 

of  men." 


ducing  political  terms  into  poetical 
criticism,  and  by  having  his  eye  on 
politics  when  discoursing  of  poetry, 
Mr.  Courthope  has  not  made  obscure 
matters  clearer,  and  has,  perhaps, 
been  betrayed  into  a  strained  affec- 
tion for  the  Conservative  and  classical 
school.  His  definition  of  what  gives 
a  poet  his  rank,  "his  capacity  for 
producing  lasting  pleasure  by  the 
metrical  expression  of  thought,  of 
whatever  kind  it  may  be,"  certainly 
admits  Pope  and  some  of  his  fol- 
lowers. But,  as  a  mere  matter  of 
perception,  I  must  continue  to  think 
them  "  poets  with  a  difference,"  dif- 
ferent from  Homer,  Sappho,  Theocritus, 
Virgil,  Shelley,  'Keats,  Coleridge,  and 
Heine.  This  is  the  conclusion  of  a 
romanticist,  who  maintains  that  the 
best  things  in  Racine,  the  best  things 
in  Aristophanes,  the  best  things  in 
the  Book  of  Job,  are  romantic.  But  I 
willingly  acknowledge  that  the  classi- 
cal movement,  the  Conservative  move- 
ment, the  movement  which  Waller 
began  and  Pope  completed,  was  in- 
evitable, necessary,  salutary. 

I  am  not  ungrateful  to  Pope  and 
Waller ;  but  they  hold  of  Apollo  in 
his  quality  of  leech,  rather  than  of 
minstrel,  and  they  "  rather  seem  his 
healing  son,"  Asclepius,  than  they 
resemble  the  God  of  the  Silver  Bow. 
As  to  the  future  of  our  poetry,  whether 
poets  should  return  to  "the  simple 
iambic  movements  "  or  not,  who  can 
predict  ?  It  all  depends  on  the  poets, 
probably  unborn,  who  are  to  succeed 
Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  and  Lord  Tenny- 
son. But  I  hope  that,  if  our  innumer- 
able lyric  measures  .are  to  be  deserted, 
it  may  be  after  my  time.  I  see 
nothing  opposed  to  a  moderate  Conser- 
vatism in  anapaests,  but  I  fear  Mr. 
Courthope  suspects  the  lyric  Muse 
herself  of  a  dangerous  Radicalism. 

ANDREW  LANG. 


89 


ON   LOVE'S   LABOUES   LOST. 


LOVE'S  LABOURS  LOST  is  one  of  the 
earliest  of  Shakspere's  dramas,  and 
has  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  his 
poems,  which  are  also  the  work  of  his 
earlier  life.  The  opening  speech  of 
the  King  on  the  immortality  of  fame — 
on  the  triumph  of  fame  over  death — 
and  the  nobler  parts  of  Biron,  have 
something  of  the  monumental  style 
of  Shakspere's  Sonnets,  and  are  not 
without  their  conceits  of  thought 
and  expression.  This  connection  of 
the  play  with  his  poems  is  further 
enforced  by  the  insertion  in  it  of  three 
sonnets  and  a  faultless  song  ;  which, 
in  accordance  with  Shakspere's  prac- 
tice in  other  plays,  are  inwoven  into 
the  action  of  the  piece  and,  like  the 
golden  ornaments  of  a  fair  woman,  give 
it  a  peculiar  air  of  distinction.  There 
is  merriment  in  it  also,  with  choice 
illustrations  of  both  wit  and  humour ; 
a  laughter  often  exquisite,  ringing, 
if  faintly,  yet  as  genuine  laughter 
still,  though  sometimes  sinking  into 
mere  burlesque,  which  has  not  lasted 
quite  so  well.  And  Shakspere  brings 
a  serious  effect  out  of  the  trifling  of 
his  characters.  A  dainty  love-making 
is  interchanged  with  the  more  cumbrous 
play ;  below  the  many  artifices  of 
Biron's  amorous  speeches  we  may 
trace  sometimes  the  "  unutterable 
longing ; "  and  the  lines  in  which 
Katherine  describes  the  blighting 
through  love  of  her  younger  sister  are 
one  of  the  most  touching  things  in  older 
'literature.1  Again,  how  many  echoes 
seem  awakened  by  those  strange  words, 
actually  said  in  jest! — "The  sweet 
war-man  (Hector  of  Troy)  is  dead  and 
rotten ;  sweet  chucks,  beat  not  the 
bones  of  the  buried  :  when  he  breathed, 
he  was  a  man " — words  which  may 
remind  us  of  Shakspere's  own  epitaph. 
In  the  last  scene,  an  ingenious  turn  is 
given  to  the  action,  so  that  the  piece 
1  Act  v.,  scene  ii. 


does  not  conclude  after  the  manner 
of  other  comedies — 

"  Our  wooing  doth  not  end  like  an  old  play  ; 
Jack  hath  not  Jill :  " 

and  Shakspere  strikes  a  passionate 
note  across  it  at  last,  in  the  entrance 
of  the  messenger,  who  announces  to 
the  Princess  that  the  King  her  father 
is  suddenly  dead. 

The  merely  dramatic  interest  of  the 
piece  is  slight  enough — only  just  suf- 
ficient, indeed,  to  be  the  vehicle  of  its 
wit  and  poetry.  The  scene — a  park 
of  the  King  of  Navarre — is  unaltered 
throughout ;  and  the  unity  of  the  play 
is  not  so  much  the  unity  of  a  drama 
as  that  of  a  series  of  pictorial  groups, 
in  which  the  same  figures  reappear,  in 
different  combinations,  but  on  the 
same  background.  It  is  as  if  Shak- 
spere had  intended  to  bind  together, 
by  some  inventive  conceit,  the  devices 
of  an  ancient  tapestry,  and  give  voices 
to  its  figures.  On  one  side,  a  fair 
palace  ;  on  the  other,  the  tents  of  the 
Princess  of  France,  who  has  come  on 
an  embassy  from  her  father  to  the 
King  of  Navarre ;  in  the  midst,  a 
wide  space  of  smooth  grass.  The  same 
personages  are  combined  over  and 
over  again  into  a  series  of  gallant 
scenes — the  Princess,  the  three  masked 
ladies,  the  quaint,  pedantic  King — one 
of  those  amiable  kings  men  have  never 
loved  enough,  whose  serious  occupa- 
tion with  the  things  of  the  mind  seems, 
by  contrast  with  the  more  usual  forms 
of  kingship,  like  frivolity  or  play. 
Some  of  the  figures  are  grotesque 
merely,  and,  all  the  male  ones  at  least, 
a  little  fantastic.  Certain  objects  re- 
appearing from  scene  to  scene — love- 
letters  crammed  with  verses  to  the 
margin,  and  lovers'  toys — hint  ob- 
scurely at  some  story  of  intrigue. 
Between  these  groups,  on  a  smaller 
scale,  come  the  slighter  and  more 


90 


On  Love's  Labours  Lost. 


homely  episodes,  with  Sir  Nathaniel 
the  curate,  the  country-maid  Jaque- 
netta,  Moth  or  Mote  the  elfin-page, 
with  Hiems  and  Ver,  who  recite  "  the 
dialogue  that  the  two  learned  men 
have  compiled  in  praise  of  the  owl 
and  the  cuckoo."  The  ladies  are 
lodged  in  tents,  because  the  King, 
like  the  princess  of  the  modern  poet's 
fancy,  has  taken  a  vow 

"To  make  his  court  a  little  Academe," 

and  for  three  years'  space  no  woman 
may  come  within  a  mile  of  it ;  and  the 
play  shows  how  this  artificial  attempt 
was  broken  through.  For  the  King  and 
his  three  fellow-scholars  are  of  course 
soon  forsworn,  and  turn  to  writing 
sonnets,  each  to  his  chosen  lady. 
These  fellow- scholars  of  the  King — 
"quaint  votaries  of  science."  at  first, 
afterwards,  "  affection's  men-at-arms  " 
— three  youthful  knights,  gallant, 
amorous,  chivalrous,  but  also  a  little 
affected,  sporting  always  a  curious 
foppery  of  language — are  throughout 
the  leading  figures  in  the  foreground ; 
one  of  them,  in  particular,  being  more 
carefully  depicted  than  the  others,  and 
in  himself  very  noticeable — a  portrait 
with  somewhat  puzzling  manner  and 
expression,  which  at  once  catches  the 
eye  irresistibly  and  keeps  it  fixed. 

Play  is  often  that  about  which 
people  are  most  serious ;  and  the 
humorist  may  observe  how,  under 
all  love  of  playthings,  there  is  almost 
always  hidden  an  appreciation  of  some- 
thing really  engaging  and  delightful. 
This  is  true  always  of  the  toys  of 
children ;  it  is  often  true  of  the  play- 
things of  grown-up  people,  their  vani- 
ties, their  fopperies  even — the  cynic 
would  add  their  pursuit  of  fame  and 
their  lighter  loves.  Certainly,  this  is 
true  without  exception  of  the  play- 
things of  a  past  age,  which  to  those 
who  succeed  it  are  always  full  of 
pensive  interest  —  old  manners,  old 
dresses,  old  houses.  For  what  is 
called  fashion  in  these  matters  occu- 
pies, in  each  age,  much  of  the  care  of 
many  of  the  most  discerning  people, 
furnishing  them  with  a  kind  of  mirror 


of  their  real  inward  refinements,  and 
their  capacity  for  selection.  Such 
modes  or  fashions  are,  at  their  best, 
an  example  of  the  artistic  predomin- 
ance of  form  over  matter;  of  the 
manner  of  the  doing  of  it  over  the 
thing  done ;  and  have  a  beauty  of 
their  own.  It  is  so  with  that  old 
euphuism  of  the  Elizabethan  age — 
that  pride  of  dainty  language  and 
curious  expression,  which  it  is  very 
easy  to  ridicule,  which  often  made 
itself  ridiculous,  but  which  had  below 
it  a  real  sense  of  fitness  and  nicety ; 
and  which,  as  we  see  in  this  very  play, 
and  still  more  clearly  in  the  Sonnets, 
had  some  fascination  for  the  young 
Shakspere  himself.  It  is  this  foppery 
of  delicate  language,  this  fashionable 
plaything  of  his  time,  with  which  Shak- 
spere is  occupied  in  '  Love's  Labours 
Lost.'  He  shows  us  the  manner  in  all 
its  stages  ;  passing  from  the  grotesque 
and  vulgar  pedantry  of  Holofernes, 
through  the  extravagant  but  polished 
caricature  of  Armado,  to  become  the 
peculiar  characteristic  of  a  real  though 
still  quaint  poetry  in  Biron  himself — 
still  chargeable,  even  at  his  best,  with 
just  a  little  affectation.  As  Shak- 
spere laughs  broadly  at  it  in  Holo- 
fernes or  Armado,  he  is  the  analyst  of 
its  curious  charm  in  Biron ;  and  this 
analysis  involves  a  delicate  raillery 
by  Shakspere  himself  at  his  own 
chosen  manner. 

This  "  foppery  "  of  Shakspere's  day 
had,  then,  its  really  delightful  side,  a 
quality  in  no  sense  "  affected,"  by 
which  it  satisfies  a  real  instinct  in  our 
minds — the  fancy  so  many  of  us  have 
for  an  exquisite  and  curious  skill  in 
the  use  of  words.  Biron  is  the  per- 
fect flower  of  this  manner — 

"A  man  of  fire-new  words,  fashion's  own 
knight " 

— as  he  describes  Armado,  in  terms 
which  are  really  applicable  to  him- 
self. In  him  this  manner  blends  with 
a  true  gallantry  of  nature,  and  an 
affectionate  complaisance  and  grace. 
He  has  at  times  some  of  its  extra- 
vagance or  caricature  also,  but  the 
shades  of  expression  by  which  he 


On  Love's  Labours  Lost. 


91 


passes  from  this  to  the  "golden 
cadence"  of  Shakspere' s  own  chosen 
verse,  are  so  fine,  that  it  is  sometimes 
difficult  to  trace  them.  What  is  a 
vulgarity  in  Holofernes,  and  a  carica- 
ture in  Armado,  refines  itself  in  him 
into  the  expression  of  a  nature  truly 
and  inwardly  bent  upon  a  form  of  deli- 
cate perfection,  and  is  accompanied  by 
a  real  insight  into  the  laws  which  deter- 
mine what  is  exquisite  in  language, 
and  their  root  in  the  nature  of  things. 
He  can  appreciate  quite  the  opposite 
style — 

"  In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes ;  " 
he   knows   the   first   law    of    pathos, 
that — 

"  Honest  plain  words  best  suit  the  ear  of 
grief." 

He  delights  in  his  own  rapidity  of 
intuition;  and,  in  harmony  with  the 
half-sensuous  philosophy  of  the  Son- 
nets, exalts,  a  little  scornfully,  in 
many  memorable  expressions,  the 
judgment  of  the  senses,  above  all 
slower,  more  toilsome  means  of  know- 
ledge, scorning  some  who  fail  to  see 
things  only  because  they  are  so  clear — 

"  So  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies, 
Your  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  your 
eyes  " — 

as  with  some  German  commentators 
on  Shakspere.  Appealing  always  to 
actual  sensation  from  men's  affected 
theories,  he  might  seem  to  despise 
learning ;  as,  indeed,  he  has  taken  up 
his  deep  studies  partly  in  play,  and 
demands  always  the  profit  of  learning 
in  renewed  enjoyment;  yet  he  sur- 
prises us  from  time  to  time  by  intui- 
tions which  can  come  only  from  a 
deep  experience  and  power  of  obser- 
vation; and  men  listen  to  him,  old 
and  young,  in  spite  of  themselves. 
He  is  quickly  impressible  to  the 
slightest  clouding  of  the  spirits  in 
social  intercourse,  and  has  his  mo- 
ments of  extreme  seriousness ;  his 
trial-task  may  well  be,  as  Rosaline 
puts  it — 

"  To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile." 
But  still,  through  all,  he  is  true  to  his 
chosen  manner;  that  gloss  of  dainty 


language  is  a  second  nature  with  him  ; 
even  at  his  best  he  is  not  without  a 
certain  artifice ;  the  trick  of  playing 
on  words  never  deserts  him ;  and  Shak- 
spere, in  whose  own  genius  there  is  an 
element  of  this  very  quality,  shows 
us  in  this  graceful,  and,  as  it  seems, 
studied,  portrait,  his  enjoyment  of  it. 
As  happens  with  every  true  drama- 
tist, Shakspere  is  for  the  most  part 
hidden  behind  the  persons  of  his  crea- 
tion. Yet  there  are  certain  of  his 
characters  in  which  we  feel  that  there 
is  something  of  self-portraiture.  And 
it  is  not  so  much  in  his  grander, 
more  subtle  and  ingenious  creations 
that  we  feel  this — in  Hamlet  and 
King  Lear — as  in  those  slighter  and 
more  spontaneously  developed  figures, 
who,  while  far  from  playing  principal 
parts,  are  yet  distinguished  by  a  cer- 
tain peculiar  happiness  and  delicate 
ease  in  the  drawing  of  them — figures 
which  possess,  above  all,  that  winning 
attractiveness  which  there  is  no  man 
but  would  willingly  exercise,  and 
which  resemble  those  works  of  art 
which,  though  not  meant  to  be  very 
great  or  imposing,  are  yet  wrought  of 
the  choicest  material.  Mercutio,  in 
'Romeo  and  Juliet,'  belongs  to  this 
group  of  Shakspere's  characters — ver- 
satile, mercurial  people,  such  as  make 
good  actors,  and  in  whom  the 

"Nimble  spirits  of  the  arteries," 

the  finer  but  still  merely  animal 
elements  of  great  wit,  predominate. 
A  careful  delineation  of  little,  charac- 
teristic traits  seems  to  mark  them 
out  as  the  characters  of  his  predilec- 
tion ;  and  it  is  hard  not  to  identify 
him  with  these  more  than  with  others. 
Biron,  in  'Love's  Labours  Lost,'  is 
perhaps  the  most  striking  member 
of  this  group.  In  this  character, 
which  is  never  quite  in  touch  with, 
never  quite  on  a  perfect  level  of  under- 
standing with  the  other  persons  of  the 
play,  we  see,  perhaps,  a  reflex  of  Shak 
spere  himself,  when  he  has  just  be- 
come able  to  stand  aside  from  and 
estimate  the  first  period  of  his  poetry. 

WALTER  PATER. 


92 


IRISH    SHOOTINGS. 


IN  the  month  of  November,  1883,  I 
was  on  a  visit  to  a  relative  who  lived 
in  a  remote  district  in  the  south-west 
of  Ireland;  and  as  my  host  was  an 
invalid  and  his  two  sons  were  at 
school  I  was  thrown  pretty  much  on 
my  own  resources  for  amusement. 

One  morning  I  started  after  break- 
fast with  a  couple  of  dogs  to  explore 
a  distant  coom,  or  mountain  valley, 
where  I  was  promised  the  chance  of 
five  or  six  brace  of  woodcock,  and  the 
certainty  of  a  fine  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding hills  and  distant  sea. 

The  morning  was  dark  and  lower- 
ing, but  the  barometer  stood  high,  and 
there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  danger 
of  rain.  I  found  the  coom  more 
distant  than  I  had  expected,  and 
also  lost  a  good  deal  of  time  in 
looking  for  snipe  in  a  promising  bog 
which  lay  a  little  off  my  road.  The 
birds  were  wild,  and  the  bogs  so 
full  of  water  after  recent  rains  that 
I  could  not  get  near  them ;  as  a 
countryman  whom  I  met  informed  me, 
"  Ye  won't  get  widin  the  screech  of  a 
jackass  of  them,  for  ye  makes  as  much 
nize  as  a  steamer  paddlin'  through  all 
that  wather;"  so  I  abandoned  the 
chase  after  securing  three  or  four 
couple.  The  man  was  friendly,  and 
seemed  inclined  for  a  talk. 

"  Where  are  ye  goin'  now,  yer 
honour  ?  if  I  might  make  so  bould," 
he  asked  as  I  turned  away. 

"I'm  going  up  to  Coomeana,"  I 
replied. 

"Why  thin?  What  to  do  there, 
yer  honour,  might  I  ax,  if  it's  plazin' 
to  ye?" 

"  To  look  for  a  cock.  Are  there 
any  about  ? " 

"Cocks  is  it,  why  wouldn't  they? 
Begor,  it  do  be  crawlin'  wid  them 
sometimes.  Ye  wouldn't  have  the 
laste  taste  of  tibbacky  about  ye,  yer 


honour  ?  I  hadn't  a  shough  (pull)  of 
the  pipe  wid  three  days,  and  I'm  just 
starved  for  the  want  of  it." 

"All  right,"  said  I.  "Here  you 
are,"  and  I  pulled  out  my  tobacco 
pouch  and  gave  him  a  couple  of 
ounces  of  cavendish.  He  bit  it  with 
the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  and  his  not  . 
very  attractive  countenance  bright- 
ened. 

"  Oh,  glory  !  "  said  he,  "  why  thin 
long  life  to  you  !  "  and  he  "  let,"  as  he 
would  have  expressed  it,  "a  lep  out 
himself,"  and  sitting  down  on  a  stone, 
proceeded  to  charge  an  almost  stem- 
less  dkudheen  without  loss  of  time. 
I  wished  him  good  morning,  whistled 
to  the  dogs  and  went  my  way. 

Presently  I  heard  the  steps  of  one 
running  behind  me,  and  turning  back 
was  aware  of  my  friend  pursuing. 
When  he  overtook  me,  he  civilly 
removed  his  pipe,  which  was  now  all 
aglow,  and  after  eying  it  lovingly, 
said, 

"  Whisper,  yer  honour.  Ye'll  be 
the  sthrange  gintleman  that's  stoppin' 
wid  Misther  Bourke  over  yondher  ?  " 
"Yes,"  I  replied.  "  What  of  that  ?  " 
"  Oh,  nothin'  at  all,  sir.  I  thought 
so  meself.  The  byes  (boys)  were 
tellin'  me  that  ye  was  the  civil  gintle- 
man to  the  poor  people,  and  that  ye 
has  great  nature,  and  so  1  finds  ye, 
be  Job.  And  " — after  a  pause,  "  ye're 
goin'  up  Coomeana  afther  the  cocks? 
Well,  good  sport  to  yer  honour — 
another  pause.  "  Don't  ye  be  out  too 
late.  Them  mountains  is  lonesome 
about  nightfall,"  he  added  musingly. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  fairies," 
I  replied. 

"Whisht,  sir,"  said  he,  this  time 
with  real  concern.  "  'Tisn't  looky 
(lucky)  to  be  talkin'  of  the  good 
people,"  touching  his  hat,  "out  in 
these  bogs.  'Tisn't  thim  I  manes  at 


Irish  Shootings. 


93 


all,  only  ye  know,"  said  he  insinuat- 
ingly, -"the  little  mountain  paths  is 
crass  (cross,  difficult)  to  a  sth ranger, 
and  ye  might  lose  yer  way  or  fall  into 
a  bog-hole.  That's  a  purty  gun  ye 
has,"  said  he  admiringly ;  "  does  she 
scatter  well  now  ? " 

"  No,  I  should  hope  not,"  said  I. 

"  Och,  that's  a  pity,"  he  replied ; 
for  an  Irish  peasant  not  being  gene- 
rally a  good  shot,  except  at  landlords, 
policemen  and  such  big  game,  his 
ideal  of  a  shot-gun  is  a  weapon  which 
will  scatter  well,  and  give  him  most 
chances. 

"  Well,  good  evenin'  to  yer  honour, 
and  good  look  anyways,"  and  as  I  was 
turning  away  he  added  carelessly, 
"  don't  ye  be  out  too  late." 

1  thought  his  manner  strange,  but 
did  not  attach  any  significance  to  his 
warning.  Mr.  Bourke  was  on  fair 
terms  with  his  tenants,  and  though  the 
times  were  troublous  he  had  never  even 
received  a  threatening  letter ;  besides 
I  was  known  to  be  a  stranger,  with 
no  stake  in  the  country,  and  was  also, 
as  my  friend  said,  a  favourite  with  the 
boys. 

It  was  a  weary  way  up  the  moun- 
tain side  and  the  afternoon  was  well 
advanced  before  I  reached  my  desti- 
nation. The  view  down  the  mountain 
gorge  was  very  fine,  and  under  a  fair 
sky,  with  the  hill  sides  in  alternate  light 
and  shadow,  must  have  been  magnifi- 
cent. But  as  I  saw  it  then,  range  after 
range  stretched  away  in  gloomy  loneli- 
ness to  the  ocean,  which  lay  dull  and 
leaden  some  miles  away,  with  a  hooker 
or  coasting  craft,  dark  and  solitary, 
lying  becalmed  or  at  anchor  close  in 
shore.  I  did  not,  however,  waste  time 
in  studying  the  view,  for  I  soon  came 
upon  the  birds,  though  this  was  cer- 
tainly not  one  of  the  days  quoted  by 
my  friend  below,  when  the  place  was 
"  crawlin'  with  them."  They  lay  close 
too ;  and  as  Irish  dogs  are  generally 
better  at  snipe  than  cock,  and  there 
was  no  wind,  they  often  got  up  behind 
me,  making  me  lose  much  time  in 
following  them  ;  so  that  the  evening 
was  closing  in  before  I  had  shot  more 


than  four  couple,  and  as  my  host  had 
told  me  not  to  show  my  face  with  less 
than  six,  I  determined  to  bestir  myself, 
and  calling  the  dogs  I  started  for  a 
little  valley  about  half  a  mile  away 
into  which  I  had  marked  several 
birds,  and  which  I  had  been  told 
before  starting  was  the  surest  find  on 
the  mountain. 

This  valley  was  not  more  than  half 
a  mile  away  as  the  crow  flies ;  but  then 
I  am  not  a  crow,  and  I  had  to  go  up 
one  little  hill  and  down  another,  and 
to  make  a  long  circuit  round  a  shaking 
bog,  so  that  by  the  time  I  had  got  to 
my  hunting  ground,  and  had  shot  one 
bird,  the  night  was  coming  on  apace ; 
and  to  make  matters  worse,  a  mist 
came  sweeping  up  from  the  sea,  which 
grew  thicker  every  instant,  so  that 
when  I  at  last  made  up  my  mind  to 
turn  my  face  homewards,  I  was  at  a 
loss  which  way  to  turn  it. 

The  hill-tops  were  by  this  time 
hidden  in  mist,  so  that  in  the  fading 
light  I  could  make  out  no  landmarks. 
I  knew  that  the  wind  had  sprung 
up  from  seaward,  but  it  was  very 
light,  and  seemed  shifty  and  uncer- 
tain. I  hit  at  last  upon  a  path,  which 
seemed  like  that  by  which  I  had 
come  up ;  but  after  following  it  for 
more  than  a  mile,  it  led  me  to  a 
brawling  stream,  which  I  had  not  met 
before,  and  I  began  to  suspect  that 
I  had  been  following  it  away  from 
home  instead  of  homewards. 

I  then  tried  back  for  a  mile  and  a 
half  or  more,  by  which  time  it  was 
nearly  dark,  and  then  I  lost  the  path 
altogether.  I  took  a  pull  at  my  flask, 
and  ate  the  remains  of  a  piece  of  oat- 
cake which  I  had  brought  with  me  in 
the  morning.  I  called  the  dogs  and 
spoke  to  them,  and  encouraged  them 
to  make  a  show  of  their  wonderful 
instinct  and  lead  me  home ;  but  they 
only  sat  on  their  tails,  and  whimpered 
and  shivered,  looking  at  me  sadly,  as 
though  to  ask  why  I  had  got  them  into 
such  a  mess. 

I  shouted  and  shouted,  but  no  an- 
swer came  back  upon  the  wind.  I 
was  tired  and  wet  and  wretched ;  so  I 


Irish  Shootings. 


lit  my  pipe,  which  gave  me  some  little 
comfort,  and  made  up  my  mind  to 
walk  on  till  I  came  somewhere,  or  till 
I  found  a  convenient  heap  of  stones, 
which  would  give  me  some  shelter 
from  the  wind  and  now  thickly  falling 
rain,  till  morning. 

The  moon  would  not  rise  for  some 
hours,  so  there  was  no  use  in  waiting 
for  her.  I  therefore  plodded  on  slowly, 
taking  comfort  from  the  thought  that 
things  could  not  be  worse,  as  I 
brought  to  mind  the  great  poet's 
words,  "  the  worst  is  not,  as  long  as 
we  can  say,  This  is  the  worst."  But 
soon  I  found  my  mistake ;  for  after 
walking  about  another  mile  I  put 
my  foot  into  a  hole  and  fell  and 
wrenched  my  ankle,  so  that  walking, 
which  was  before  ;only  tiring,  now  be- 
came painful,  and  having  come  to  a 
good  high  cairn  of  those  great  ice- 
borne  boulders  so  common  in  the 
south  and  west,  I  crept  into  a  hollow 
between  two  of  them  and,  with  the 
dogs  lying  close  beside  me  for  warmth 
and  company,  soon  dozed  oft'  to  sleep, 
being  very  weary. 

I  may  have  slept  for  an  hour  or 
more,  when  I  was  awakened  by  the 
barking  of  one  of  the  dogs.  He  was 
seated  on  a  hillock  outside,  bark- 
ing, and  looking  into  the  distance, 
where  I  could  see  nothing,  though  the 
rain  had  ceased  and  the  stars  were 
now  shining.  But  I  soon  discovered 
that  he  was  answering  another  dog,  for 
after  listening  intently  I  heard  in  the 
distance,  far  below  me,  that  measured 
yap,  yap,  yap,  followed  by  intervals  of 
silence,  which  is  so  hard  to  bear  when 
one  wants  to  sleep,  and  the  watch- 
dog's dishonest  bark  either  "  bays  the 
whispering  wind,"  or  holds  distant 
converse  with  a  neighbour.  So  I  got 
up,  and  though  my  ankle  was  swollen 
and  painful,  I  girded  myself  and 
went  my  way,  guided  by  the  sound. 
After  stumbling  wearily  along,  and 
falling  many  times,  I  at  last  arrived 
at  what  seemed  to  be  a  farm-house  of 
the  better  sort,  through  the  window  of 
which  I  saw  with  great  joy  a  cheerful 
fire  blazing. 


The  dog  who  had  led  me  thither 
was  seated  on  a  dunghill  outside  the 
door,  and  was  soon  waging  fierce 
battle  with  both  my  dogs,  and  the 
noise  which  they  made,  and  my  cries 
whilst  striving  to  part  them,  soon 
roused  the  inmates.  The  door  was 
opened,  and  a  girl's  voice  was  heard 
calling,  "  Taypob,  Taypot,  ye  blaggard, 
come  in  out  of  that !  "  whilst  a  deeper 
voice  in  the  background  asked — 

"Who's  there?  Come  in  whoever 
ye  are,  in  the  name  of  God." 

The  girl  who  was  standing  at  the 
door  started  back  on  seeing  the  gun, 
but  being  aware  of  "  the  smell-dogs," 
as  our  American  cousins  call  them, 
and  noting  my  sporting  gear,  she  said 
in  a  pleasant  voice,  "  Come  in  out  of 
the  could,  sir,  sure  it's  late  ye're  out. 
Och  !  'Tis  desthroyed  with  the  wet  ye 
are.  He's  lame  too,  the  crayture," 
she  added  kindly.  '"  Is  it  the  way  ye 
hurted  yerself,  sir  %  " 

"  Put  a  chair  for  the  gintleman, 
Mary.  Have  ye  no  manners  ? "  said 
an  old  man  who  was  crouching  on  a 
settle  in  the  ingle  nook.  "I  can't 
stir  meself,  sir,"  he  added ;  "  I'm 
fairly  bate  wid  the  rheumatism.  May- 
be 'tis  the  way  ye  got  lost  on  the 
mountain,  sir  ?  I  seen  the  fog  comin* 
up  and  'tisn't  the  first  time  I  seen 
that  same  to  happen  to  a  gintleman 
in  that  very  shpot.  That  mountain  is 
very  vinimous  to  them  that  isn't  well 
acquainted  wid  it." 

So  I  told  him  my  tale  and  asked 
him  if  I  could  stop  for  the  night,  for 
he  let  me  know  that  Mr.  Bourke's 
house  was  "  a  matther  of  seven  Irish 
mile  away,"  and  he  replied, 

"  Why  then  to  be  sure  !  and  wel- 
come, only  it's  a  poor  place  for  the 
likes  of  yer  honour,  but  if  ye're  any 
relation  of  Misther  Bourke  ye  can't 
help  bein'  a  rale  gintleman,  and  ye 
won't  mind  it.  'Tis  only  them  half 
sirs  and  the  likes  that's  conthrary  in 
themselves,  and  that  the  divil  himself 
couldn't  plaze ;  and  Mary,  sure  his 
honour  will  be  hungry,  small  blame 
to  him  !  We'll  have  the  praties  biled 
in  a  brace  of  shakes,  and  a  rasher  of 


Irish  Shootings. 


95 


bacon,  and  a  basin  of  milk;  sure  that's 
betther  than  the  hunger  anyways, 
though  'tisn't  what  ye're  used  to." 

Here  I  may  remark  that  the  Irish 
peasant  is  essentially  a  well-bred 
person,  and  might  set  an  example  of 
good  manners  to  many  who  look  upon 
themselves  as  his  social  superiors.  An 
Irishman,  even  of  the  poorest,  will 
give  you  the  shelter  of  his  roof  and 
all  that  his  poor  house  contains  with 
perfect  hospitality,  and  with  a  true 
welcome,  and  having  once  and  for  all 
apologised  for  the  shortcomings  of  his 
menage,  will  not  (as  he  considers  it) 
insult  your  good  feeling  by  further 
excuses  \  but  will  take  it  for  granted 
that  you  will  accept  the  best  which  he 
can  give  you,  be  it  good  or  bad,  in 
the  same  kindly  spirit  in  which  he 
offers  it. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  I  was 
sitting  down  to  a  smoking  dish  of 
excellent  potatoes,  and  an  appetising 
rasher,  which  Mary  deftly  cooked, 
having  learned  (as  she  informed  me) 
cooking  and  other  accomplishments  at 
the  convent  school.  Now  that  I  had 
time  to  look  at  her,  I  discovered  that 
she  was  an  uncommonly  handsome  and 
attractive  girl,  about  nineteen  years 
of  age,  dark-haired,  with  large  merry 
blue  eyes,  "put  in  with  a  dirty 
finger" — a  distinctly  Spanish  type  of 
face  and  figure,  such  as  you  meet 
now  and  then  in  the  west  and  south, 
in  remarkable  contrast  to  the  abori- 
ginal type,  which  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, is  the  reverse  of  attractive. 
It  is  strange  how  traces  of  the  old 
Spanish  connection  crop  up,  and  how 
the  young  people  sometimes  "  throw 
back  "  to  the  southern  ancestor.  One 
also  lights  upon  other  links  of  the 
broken  chain  now  and  then,  in  out-of- 
the-way  places.  Thus  to  my  great 
surprise  I  happened  on  a  little  boy 
not  long  ago  in  a  southern  county 
whose  Christian  name  •  was  Alfonso, 
though  his  surname  was  only  Egan. 
His  parents  told  me  that  he  was  called 
after  his  great-grandfather,  but  they 
had  no  tradition  of  any  Spanish  con- 
nection, and  of  a  truth  they  bore  no 


outward  token  of  any  such  strain  of 
foreign  blood. 

Mary's  father,  too,  was  to  all  ap> 
pearance  a  Celt.  He  was  a  big,  black- 
bearded  man,  well  past  middle  age. 
He  must  have  been  a  strong  able 
man  in  his  day,  but  he  now  seemed 
bowed  down  with  pain  and  sickness. 
The  family  consisted,  in  addition  to 
these  two,  of  an  active,  bright-eyed 
boy  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  two 
younger  children,  and  a  stout,  red- 
legged  servant  maid. 

After  I  had  finished  a  hearty  meal, 
seasoned  with  the  best  of  sauce,  I 
produced  my  flask,  into  which  I  had 
dipped  but  modestly,  and  Mary  having 
brought  glasses  and  the  "  matarials," 
I  proceeded  to  mix  a  couple  of  stiff 
tumblers  for  her  father  and  myself ; 
and  having  persuaded  him  after  due 
apology  to  join  me  in  a  pipe,  we  drew 
round  the  blazing  fire  of  turf  and 
bog-deal  into  the  cosy  ingle  nook,  and 
laid  ourselves  out  for  a  chat. 

The  old  man  seemed  delighted  to 
break  the  monotony  of  his  life  by 
conversation  with  a  stranger,  and  I 
interested  them  all  by  giving  them  an 
account  of  the  United  States,  where 
I  had  been  travelling  a  short  time 
before,  and  to  which  many  of  their 
relations  and  friends  had  emigrated. 
Then  we  began  to  talk  about  the  state 
of  the  country,  concerning  which  they 
were  much  more  reticent. 

"  It  was  purty  quiet  in  these  parts, 
glory  be  to  God  ! "  said  the  old  man, 
u  though  I'm  tould  there's  bad  work 
elsewhere." 

He  said  his  own  farm  was  a  good 
one,  with  "  the  grass  of  fifteen  cows," 
for  the  extent  of  farms  in  the  wild 
west  is  measured  by  their  grazing 
capabilities,  not  by  the  acreage.  His 
rent  was  fair,  and  the  times  he  ad- 
mitted were  pretty  good. 

"Were  there  any  bad  characters 
about  I"  I  asked. 

"  Well,  no,  not  many  ;  barrin'  wan, 
and  he  was  on  the  run  (flying  from 
justice),  and  a  good  job  too." 

"  Who  was  he,  and  what  had  he 
done'4" 


96 


Irish  Shootings. 


"He  was  wan  Murty  O'Hea,  a 
broken  farmer,  and  a  bad  mimber 
everyways,  and  there  was  a  warrant 
out  agin  him,  along  of  a  dacent  boy 
of  the  O'Connors  that  he  kilt,  and 
that  swore  informations  agin  him 
accordingly." 

"  Yes,  and  there's  no  fear  he'd  bate 
him — no,  nor  two  like  him — only  he 
got  a  vacancy  on  him  (got  inside  his 
guard)  by  chance,  and  gave  him  a 
conthrary  (foul)  sthroke,  wan  dark 
night,"  said  Mary. 

"  Oho  ! "  said  I,  "  you  seem  to  know 
all  about  it,  Mary.  It  wasn't  about 
you  that  they  were  fighting,  was 
iU" 

At  which  Mary  blushed  and  hung 
her  head  and  showed  her  long  eye- 
lashes, and  looked  quite  pretty  enough 
to  have  been  the  cause  of  one  of  those 
dreadful  wars  which  we  are  told  did 
not  begin  with  Helen. 

"  But  was  that  the  only  reason  he 
had  for  running  away  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Och,  no,"  replied  the  father.  "  He 
owed  five  years'  rent  to  the  masther, 
and  his  credit  was  bate  wid  all  the 
shopkeepers,  and  what  he  owed  for 
whiskey  is  unknownst ;  and  the 
masther  ejected  him  a  year  ago,  and 
nobody  would  take  the  farm  for  fear 
of  him  and  of  his  faction,  that's  sthrong 
in  these  parts,  till  meself  tuk  the 
grazin'  of  half  of  it  for  six  months, 
for  I  has  more  cattle  than  I  can  feed ; 
but  nobody  will  go  to  live  there." 

"  Yes,  and  sorry  I  am  ye  ever  had 
anything  to  say  to  it,  and  'twould  be 
betther  for  ye  a  dale  if  ye  tuk  my 
advice  and  left  it  alone.  'Tisn't  looky," 
said  Mary. 

"  Why  thin,  maybe  ye're  right,  and 
I'm  thinkin'  I'll  be  said  by  ye,  Mary, 
and  give  it  up  next  week,  for  ye  has 
a  dale  of  sinse — sometimes — for  a 
shlip  of  a  girl.  Come  hether  to  me. 
Whisper,"  said  he  ;  and  after  a  short 
colloquy  Mary  lighted  a  candle  and 
went  out. 

"  I  sees  ye're  sleepy,  sir,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  Ye  had  a  long  day.  Is 
the  fut  bad  wid  ye  now,  yer  honour?" 

"Oh,    no,"  said   I.     "It's   a  little 


swollen,  but  I  can  walk  all  right,  at 
any  rate  with  my  boot  off." 

"Well,  Mary  will  have  the  bed 
ready  in  the  room  for  ye  prisintly, 
and  though  it's  a  poor  place  for  the 
likes  of  ye,  ye're  young,  God  bless  ye, 
and  ye're  tired ;  ye'll  get  a  good  sleep. 
Och  hone  !  'tis  many's  the  night  since 
I  had  the  good  sleep,  wid  me  joints, 
and  a  toothache  in  every  knuckle  of 
them !  " 

Here  we  were  interrupted  by  the 
loud  barking  of  the  house-dog,  to 
which  my  two  pointers  responded  with 
growlings.  The  latch  was  raised,  and 
a  countryman  burst  in.  He  had 
neither  coat  nor  hat,  and  he  looked 
wild  and  distraught,  his  clothes  drip- 
ping with  water  as  though  he  had 
fallen  into  some  dyke  or  bog-hole. 

"Oh,  Paddy,"  he  cried,  "ye  un- 
fortunate crayture !  Run !  Hun  for 
yer  life !  They're  comin'  to  ye  to- 
night, and  if  they  ketches  ye,  ye're  a 
dead  man.  Didn't  I  tell  ye  how 
'twould  be,  when  ye  was  so  covatious 
and  couldn't  let  that  farm  alone  ? " 

Poor  Paddy  trembled  visibly,  whilst 
Mary,  who  had  joined  us,  turned  very 
white,  and  the  children  clustered  round 
us,  crying. 

"  Run  is  it ! "  answered  Paddy. 
"  That's  a  quare  story  !  How  would 
the  likes  of  me  run,  when  I  can  only 
crawl  across  the  flure,  about  as  quick 
as  a  dhrucktheen?  (a  slug).  Run? 
Moryah !  (forsooth).  'Tis  aisy  to 
say  run,  and  where  would  I  run  to? 
Ye  knows  as  well  as  me  that  none  of 
the  neighbours  would  lave  me  in  if 
them  is  comin'  that  you  knows  of. 
Och  ullagone  !  If  they'll  kill  me  out 
of  hand  'tis  little  I  cares,  only  for 
Mary  and  the  childher.  Well,  'tis  the 
will  of  God,  I  suppose.  Glory  be  to 
his  name  :  Amin  !  " — a  response  in 
which  all  the  others,  even  the  little 
children,  joined. 

"Who's  coming?"  asked  I,  "and 
what's  it  all  about  ? 7> 

"  Who's  this  ?  "  asked  the  new 
comer,  in  whom  I  recognised  my 
friend  of  the  morning.  "  Och !  'tis 
the  gintleman  from  Misther  Bourke's. 


Irish  Shootings. 


97 


Come  away,  yer  honour,  this  is  no 
place  for  the  likes  of  you.  What  did 
I  tell  you  this  mornin'  1  " 

"  Yes,  but  what's  the  row  1 "  said  I. 
"I  don't  understand." 

"  'Tis  the  Land  Layguers,"  he  replied 
in  a  low  voice,  and  pointing  to  my 
host.  "  He's  broke  the  rules,  and  'tis 
the  ordher,  I'm  tould.  They'll  kill 
him  to-night.  There's  no  fear  of 
the  childher,  they  won't  touch  them. 
Do  you  come  away  wid  me,  yer 
honour;  I'll  see  ye  safe." 

«  Indeed  I  won't,"  said  I.  "  They 
took  me  in  when  I  was  wet  and 
hungry,  and  gave  me  food  and  shelter, 
and  I  won't  desert  them  now  at  a 
pinch.  Besides,  look  at  my  foot.  I 
couldn't  walk  if  I  would,  and  I 
wouldn't  if  I  could.  Will  you  stay 
yourself  and  help  to  fight  ?  " 

"  Is  it  me  ? "  he  said,  turning  pale. 
"  Och,  no,  I  darn't ;  and  what  could 
the  likes  of  me  do  ? " 

"  Will  you  go  and  warn  the  polis, 
then?"  asked  Mary,  who  seemed  to 
be  recovering  her  courage  and  her 
colour. 

"  No,  I'd  be  afeard,"  he  replied. 
''Sure,  all  the  count hry  would  know 
'twas  me  that  sould  the  pass.  Them 
polis  wouldn't  keep  it  saycret ;  there's 
no  thrusting  thim." 

"  Dinny,"  cried  Mary,  turning  to 
one  of  the  boys,  "  you  go." 

"  I  will,"  said  Dinny,  jumping  up 
and  snatching  his  cap. 

"  How  far  is  the  police  station  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  'Tis  a  matther  of  four  Irish  mile, 
and  meself  is  afeard  the  polis  is  sent 
away  wid  false  news  to  the  wesht." 

"  Dinny,"  said  Mary,  whilst  her 
cheeks  were  dyed  with  a  bright  blush, 
''call  down  first  to  Darby  O'Connor's. 
Tell  him  that  we're  set,  and  to  carry 
the  car  and  the  mare,  and  to  dhrive 
like  the  divil  afther  the  polis,  and  to 
bring  them  back  wid  him." 

"  Good !  "  said  I ;  "  you're  a  brave 
girl,  and  we're  not  dead  yet ; "  and  I 
tore  a  leaf  out  of  my  note-book  and 
wrote  on  it  an  urgent  message. 

"  Give  this  to  the  sergeant,  Dinny," 

No.  314.— VOL.  LIII. 


said  I,  "  and  tell  him,  when  he  comes 
within  hearing  of  the  house,  to  fire  a 
shot,  and  to  let  a  screech  out  of  him- 
self, and  we'll  hold  out  as  long  as 
we  can." 

"  How  soon  will  they  be  here, 
James  1 "  asked  Paddy. 

"They  won't  be  here  before  an 
hour,  anyways,  and  maybe  not  till 
the  latther  ind  of  the  night.  They're 
comin'  from  the  say.  Murty  O'Hea 
is  the  head  of  them,  and  there's  seven 
or  eight  black  (surly,  determined) 
boys  wid  him,  sthrangers  from  the 
islands  I'm  tould ;  but  they're  waitin' 
for  some  sinther  (centre)  from  the 
County  Limerick.  Well,  God  help  ye 
all  this  night !  Come  away,  Dinny.  I'll 
see  ye  safe  as  far  as  Darby's.  God 
bless  yer  honour !  Ye' re  a  brave 
gintleman.  I  said  to  meself  this 
mornin'  that  ye  was  the  right  sort." 
And  they  went  out  and  shut  the 
door. 

"  Now,  Mary,"  said  I,  "  come 
along  ;  you  and  the  girl.  We  must 
make  the  house  as  secure  as  we  can. 
We  have  plenty  of  time,  and  we're 
not  going  to  be  killed  like  sheep." 

First  I  turned  out  my  game  bag,  and 
found,  to  my  horror,  that  I  had  only 
seven  cartridges  left,  and  three  of 
them  were  snipe  shot,  whilst  the  re- 
mainder were  only  No.  6.  I  had 
taken  fewer  than  usual  with  me,  not 
expecting  much  sport,  and  of  these  I 
had  wasted  too  many  in  wild  shooting. 
"  Never  mind,"  said  I ;  "  the  greater 
reason  for  shooting  straight  now." 

First  I  inspected  the  fortress.  The 
dwelling-house  consisted,  as  is  usual 
in  the  houses  of  the  peasantry,  of 
two  living-rooms  only,  separated  by 
a  partition,  with  the  chimney  at 
one  side  and  a  high  gable  at  the 
other.  The  kitchen  had  two  doors 
directly  facing  each  other,  and  was 
lighted  by  a  single  window  in  the 
front.  The  bedroom  was  also  lighted 
by  one  window,  which  looked  to  the 
rear ;  and  communicating  with  the 
bedroom  by  a  small  door,  and  running 
at  right  angles  to  the  rear  of  the 
dwelling-house,  was  a  third  room  or 


98 


Irish  Shootings. 


store-house,  with  a  second  door  open- 
ing on  the  back  yard.  This  room  was 
now  half  full  of  potatoes  and  turnips. 

The  front  door  was  as  strong  as  I 
could  desire,  being  made  of  solid  oak 
(the  spoil  of  some  wreck),  firmly 
bolted  and  bound  with  iron.  The 
back  door,  however,  was  weak ;  both 
were  fastened  by  ricketty  locks  and 
good  stout  wooden  bars.  I  found  that 
there  was  good  store  of  suitable 
timber  for  barricading  both  doors  and 
windows  ;  the  loft,  which  extended  as 
usual  from  the  fire-place  to  half-way 
across  the  living  -  room,  being  alto- 
gether floored  with  "treble  deals," 
also  from  some  wreck.  These  deals 
were  not  nailed,  but  were  laid  loose 
across  the  joists,  each  deal  being 
about  fifteen  feet  long  by  eighteen 
inches  wide,  and  three  inches  thick. 
I  also  found  some  shorter  pieces, 
which,  placed  against  the  door  panels, 
served  as  backing ;  and  having  but- 
tressed them  firmly  with  rows  of 
deals  secured  by  wedges  to  others, 
which  I  laid  flat  upon  the  floor  from 
wall  to  wall,  and  fastened  with  stout 
nails,  or  rather  spikes,  of  which  I 
found  a  goodly  bag,  I  felt  pretty  sure 
that  my  doors  could  stand  a  siege, 
if  the  enemy  were  unprovided  with 
a  battering  train.  The  windows  I 
secured  in  a  similar  fashion  with 
mattresses,  leaving  a  loop-hole  in 
each. 

I  then,  with  the  assistance  of  the 
women  and  the  eldest  boy,  made  the 
store-room's  outer  door  safe  by  piling 
up  all  the  turnips  and  potatoes  against 
it,  thus  making  a  most  effectual  bar- 
ricade. By  the  time  this  was  done  I 
found  that  it  was  a  quarter  past 
eleven,  and  the  boy  had  been  gone 
just  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  "  He 
ought  to  be  nearly  at  the  police  station 
now,  Mary,"  said  I. 

"  He  ought  so,"  said  she,  "if  he  tuk 
the  horse.  She  can  go,  niver  fear,  and 
Darby  won't  spare  her.  Only  if  the 
polis  was  sent  away  afther  a  red 
herring,  'twill  be  a  bad  job." 

"  Well,  maybe  they've  found  out 
their  mistake  by  this  time.  We  can 


hold  out  for  an  hour  at  any  rate, 
unless  they  burn  us." 

"  I  don't  think  there's  much  fear  of 
that,"  said  the  father.  "  The  thatch 
is  ould  and  rotten,  and  'tis  soaked  wid 
the  wather  for  the  last  week.  I'm 
goin'  to  have  it  renewed  wid  two 
years.  'Tis  looky  now  I  didn't ; " 
and  he  evidently  hugged  himself 
upon  his  foresight,  and  became  a 
little  more  cheerful. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "put  out  the  fire, 
and  put  the  candle  behind  the 
door  in  the  room,  so  that  'twill  just 
give  us  light  to  move  about  by,  and 
no  more.  By  the  way,  you  haven't 
got  a  crow-bar,  have  you  ? " 

"  Why  wouldn't  we  1 "  said  Mary. 
"Here  it  is,  and  a  bill-hook  too,  a 
good  sthrong  one." 

"Oh,  it's  not  to  fight  with  that  I 
want  the  crow-bar,  but  that  bill-hook 
is  a  good  weapon  at  a  pinch.  Put 
it  behind  the  door,  Mary.  Is  it 
sharp  1 " 

"  'Tis,  sir.  I  put  a  great  edge  on  it 
nieself  yestherday,  in  the  way  I'd  cut 
down  some  furze  wid  it." 

"Good,"  said  I;  "now  bring  the 
light,"  and  going  into  the  store-room, 
after  a  good  deal  of  labour  (for  all  the 
walls  were  over  two  feet  thick)  I 
knocked  out  two  loop-holes,  whereby 
I  could  command  the  back  door.  I 
only  wished  that  I  had  a  similar  coign 
of  vantage  from  which  to  enfilade  the 
front ;  in  which  case,  if  we  were  fire- 
proof, as  the  old  man  thought,  I  might 
set  the  gang  at  defiance,  or  at  any  rate 
as  long  as  my  cartridges  should  last. 
Unfortunately  the  relative  positions 
of  the  front  door  and  window  were 
such  that  any  one  standing  close  to  the 
former  could  not  be  touched  from  the 
latter. 

I  left  the  maid-servant  and  the 
eldest  child,  a  sharp  boy  of  eleven, 
on  guard  at  the  loop-holes,  and  re- 
turned to  the  kitchen.  The  old  man 
was  crooning  over  the  scattered 
embers ;  Mary  was  standing  by  his 
side,  pale  and  quiet.  We  waited  long. 
No  sound  broke  the  stillness,  save 
the  occasional  smothered  whine  of  one 


Irish  Shootings. 


of  the  dogs  who  was  hunting  in  his 
dreams,  and  the  old  man's  laboured 
breathing,  broken  sometimes  by  a 
stifled  cough.  Mary  had  sunk  down 
upon  the  settle,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

The  servant  girl  stirred  uneasily, 
and  knocked  down  a  heap  of  potatoes 
which  rolled  along  the  earthen  floor. 
The  shrill  whistle  of  a  red-shank,  flying 
overhead,  startled  us  for  an  instant. 
I  looked  through  the  loop-holed  win- 
dow ]  the  sea  lay  calm  and  still  in 
the  moonlight,  darkened  towards  the 
horizon  by  a  light  breeze,  which  was 
creeping  in.  The  light  was  dim,  for 
the  air  was  full  of  vapour,  but  there 
was  enough  to  shoot  by. 

"Mary,"  I  heard  the  old  man  whim- 
per, "  ye'll  bury  me,  agragal,  in  Kil- 
colman  churchyard  by  the  mother,  and 
ye'll  give  me  a  decent  funeral ;  and 
maybe  when  I'm  dead  thim  that 
looked  black  on  me  of  late  will  for- 
get it  and  come  to  me  wake.  Yer 
mother  had  a  great  wake,  and  there 
was  a  power  of  people  at  her  funeral, 
though  maybe  ye  doesn't  remember 
it ;  and  me  father  aiqually  so.  God 
rest  their  souls  this  night !  " 

"Whisht,  father,  whisht!"  replied 
Mary.  "  The  tibbacky  isn't  sowed 
yet  that  will  be  smoked  at  yer 
wake." 

"  It's  ten  minutes  past  twelve  now," 
said  I ;  "  surely  the  police  at  any  rate 
ought  to  be  showing  up." 

Just  then  the  dog,  which  we  had 
turned  out  of  doors,  began  to  growl. 
Then  came  a  few  short  barks,  as  he 
jumped  behind  a  hedge  some  thirty 
yards  to  the  front,  after  which  he  was 
suddenly  silent,  and  I  heard  some  one 
saying,  in  a  low  and  insinuating  voice, 
"Taypot,  poor  Taypot  1  doesn't  you 
know  me  1"  followed  by  the  sound  of 
a  dull  stroke  and  a  sharp  yelp,  which 
instantly  ceased. 

"  Tell  Judy  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out, 
Mary,"  said  I,  "and  don't  you  stop  in 
front  of  the  door." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  she. 
Then    there    was    an    interval    of 
silence,     lasting     for     at     least     ten 


minutes ;  nothing  stirred  in  front, 
and  the  tension  of  our  nerves  was 
becoming  painful. 

"  What  can  they  be  waiting  for  ? " 
said  I. 

"  Maybe  the  whole  of  them  isn't 
come  yet,"  replied  Mary. 

"  Well,  the  longer  they  wait  the 
better.  'Twill  give  the  police  more 
time  to  come  up.  When  they  come, 
Mary,  do  you  answer  them  ;  but  don't 
speak  for  some  minutes,  just  as  if  you 
were  getting  out  of  bed,  and  stand 
close  to  the  wall." 

"  They'll  thry  the  back  dure  first, 
sir ;  'tis  the  wakest." 

"  So  much  the  better.  If  they  do, 
I'll  mark  one  of  them,  at  any  rate, 
and  maybe  two.  Oh,  if  I  only  had  a 
bullet!" 

Just  then  Judy  rushed  in.  "  They're 
coming  to  the  back  dure,  sir  ! " 

"  How  many  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  a  power  of  them.  How  can 
I  tell  how  many  ?  Isn't  their  faces 
black  ]  Murty  O'Hea  is  there  for  wan. 
I'd  know  the  voice  of  him  if  his  head 
was  off  his  shoulders." 

I  lost  no  time  in  getting  to  my  loop- 
hole in  the  store-room.  The  boy  was 
squatted  eager- eyed  at  the  other.  They 
were  eight  in  all.  Four  were  armed 
with  guns,  the  others  had  only  Cle- 
alpines  (or  black-thorn  sticks).  Brave 
fellows,  they  were  not  afraid  even 
with  such  slight  weapons  to  face  a 
rheumatic  old  man  !  All  their  faces 
were  blackened.  As  I  got  into  posi- 
tion, a  powerful,  undersized,  red- 
bearded  savage,  whom  I  recognised 
by  the  description  given  me  as  Mary's 
quondam  lover,  was  in  the  act  of 
knocking  at  the  door.  He  knocked 
three  times  before  there  was  any 
answer.  All  the  others  remained 
drawn  up  in  line,  with  their  backs 
to  the  wall,  at  the  side  farthest  from 
the  window. 

At  last  I  heard  Mary  ask,  in  a 
sleepy  tone,  "  Who's  there?  " 

"  A  friend,"  was  the  reply,  evidently 
in  a  disguised  voice. 

"  Well,  friend,  what  does  ye  want 
at  this  hour  ?  " 

H  2 


100 


Irish  Shootings. 


"  I  wants  to  see  the  man  of  the 
house.  I  has  a  message  for  him." 

11  Well,  keep  it  till  the  mornin'.  I'm 
not  goin'  to  open  the  dure  at  this  hour 
of  the  night,  and  bad  mimbres  about 
too,  as  maybe  ye  knows.  To  the  divil 
wid  yerself  and  yer  message  ! " 

But  though  poor  Mary  spoke  so 
bravely,  I  noted  that  her  voice  trem- 
bled. Then  came  a  low  curse  in 
Irish. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  cried  the  ruffian, 
"  ye  knows  what  we  has  to  do.  There's 
no  use  in  waitin'." 

Just  then  the  moon  shone  out  from 
behind  a  veil  of  mist.  I  levelled  my 
gun,  took  a  steady  and  careful  aim 
at  the  fellow's  eye,  and  pulled  the 
trigger  ;  but,  as  bad  luck  would  have 
it,  just  at  that  instant  he  stooped  to 
put  his  eye  to  the  key-hole,  and  the 
shot  glanced  over  him,  but  caught  his 
next  neighbour  (who  was  a  tall  man) 
in  the  shoulder.  He  staggered  and 
yelled  but  did  not  fall ;  and  as  the 
whole  mob  turned  to  fly,  I  let  drive 
at  the  lot  of  them,  peppering  more 
than  one,  as  the  chorus  of  yells  which 
followed  the  shot  bore  witness;  but 
I  apparently  left  their  leader  un- 
touched, and  before  I  could  reload,  they 
had  all  taken  refuge  behind  a  hedge 
some  distance  to  the  rear. 

"  Well  done,  yer  honour  !  "  cried  the 
little  boy  in  wild  delight.  "  Begor,  ye 
warmed  them  anyways.  Did  ye  see 
that  last  fellow  scratchin'  himself  as  if 
bees  was  swarmin'  about  him  1 " 

"  Go  back  to  your  hole,  you  young 
scamp,  and  don't  take  your  eye  off  it, 
or  I'll  warm  you,  where  I  warmed  him. 
And  you,  Judy,  come  back  too." 

"  Did  ye  kill  him  ? "  cried  Mary, 
excitedly.  "  Oh,  if  ye  only  kilt  kirn,  I 
don't  care  what  would  happen  to  us." 

"  No.  Mary,  I'm  afraid  not.  Better 
luck  next  time." 

"  Och  !  'tis  a  pity,"  said  she. 

"  They'll  try  the  front  door  next," 
said  I.  "  We  must  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out." But  we  waited  long.  At  last 
I  said  to  my  companion,  "  I  think 
they've  had  enough." 

"No  fear,"   she  replied.     "If  that 


one  is  alive  they'll  be  back."  But 
we  waited  and  waited,  and  though  I 
thought  I  heard  a  confused  murmur, 
still  no  one  appeared.  At  last  Judy 
came  stealing  in. 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  said  she,  "  there's 
wan  on  the  roof." 

"Where?"  asked  I. 

"The  room." 

I  stole  in  gently,  and  after  listening 
for  a  moment,  I  could  distinctly  hear 
some  one  above,  fumbling  as  it  seemed 
with  the  thatch. 

"  He's  thryin'  to  set  it  a-fire,"  said 
Judy.  "  I  think  'twill  bate  him.  Ye 
might  as  well  thry  to  light  a  wather- 
fall  wid  two  matches." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "'tis  a  pity  to 
waste  No.  6  at  such  close  quarters,"  so 
I  slipped  in  a  cartridge  of  snipe  shot, 
and  putting  the  muzzle  of  the  gun 
close  to  the  sound,  I  fired.  There  was 
the  noise  of  a  body  slipping  down  the 
steep  roof,  a  heavy  thud  followed  by  a 
deep  groan,  and  all  was  still. 

"That's  three  cartridges  gone,  and 
two  fellows  disabled  at  any  rate. 
Stand  back !  "  I  cried,  as  I  saw  a  flash 
from  the  hedge  in  front,  followed  by  a 
volley,  which  struck  the  front  door, 
apparently  without  penetrating. 

"That's  good,"  said  Mary,  "bark 
away !  Maybe  ye'll  wake  the  polis 
in  time." 

After  this  we  had  another  and  a 
longer  respite,  but  we  could  hear  a 
confused  murmur  of  voices,  apparently 
in  altercation,  from  the  direction  of 
the  haggard  (hay-yard  or  hay-guard). 

"  I  think  they  must  have  got  more 
help,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had 
regained  his  courage  and  was  now  to 
all  appearances  enjoying  the  fight. 

"  Keep  a  good  look-out,  Judy,"  I 
cried  to  our  sentry. 

"  Never  fear,  yer  honour.  They're 
buzzin'  like  bees  behind  there." 

"  I  think,"  said  I,  "  they  must  have 
some  one  with  them  who  has  smelt 
powder  before,  or  they  would  have 
had  enough  by  this  time." 

" Most  like,"  replied  Mary.  "Tim 
Healy,  a  Yankee  Irishman  that  was 
in  the  war,  wid  two  more  sthrangers, 


Irish  Shootings. 


101 


was  seen  at  the  crass-roads  on  Sun- 
day." 

"  Here  they  come,"  said  I.  "  What 
devilment  are  they  up  to  now  1 " 

I  might  well  ask.  They  had  got  a 
cart  and  piled  it  with  sheaves  of 
oats,  and  lashed  bundles  of  straw  to 
the  axle  so  as  to  protect  their  legs ; 
and  as  the  haggard  was  unfortunately 
on  a  higher  level  than  the  house,  they 
had  no  difficulty  in  running  this 
testudo  down  the  road  which  led  to 
the  latter. 

"  Tis  the  way  they're  goin'  to  burn 
us  !  "  cried  Mary. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  I,  as  I  saw 
them  directing  the  engine  straight 
for  the  window  at  which  I  was  posted. 
"They  want  to  block  our  loop-hole 
and  then  force  the  door.  Oh,  why 
didn't  I  make  one  in  the  door  ? " 

"  Ah  !  you've  got  that !  "  I  added, 
as  the  cart-wheel  swerved  over  a  stone, 
exposing  a  fellow's  legs,  which  I 
promptly  dosed  with  shot,  though  at 
too  long  a  range  to  do  him  much 
harm,  although  I  made  him  yell. 

"  Ye  hit  him !  "'  cried  Mary.  "  Well 
done  !  Ye're  a  fine  man  at  a  pinch. 
God  bless  ye  !  What  would  we  do 
widout  ye  this  night?" 

Here  the  cart  came  bang  against 
our  only  loop-hole.  "  What  will  be 
their  next  move  now?"  I  wondered ; 
"this  is  becoming  serious ;"  and  like 
Wellington  I  prayed  for  morning,  or 
the  police.  We  were  not  kept  long  in 
doubt.  Judy  cried  out  from  behind, 
"They're  takin'  round  the  laddher, 
a  lot  of  them,"  and  at  the  same  time  a 
voice  was  heard  from  behind  the  front 
door. 

"Open  the  dure.  Ye'd  betther. 
If  ye  forces  us  to  dhrive  it  in,  we'll 
kill  every  wan  of  ye,  man,  woman,  and 
child." 

"  We  will  not,"  cried  Mary  gallant- 
ly. "I  know  ye,  Murty  O'Hea, 
and  I'll  live  to  see  ye  swing  for  this 

yet." 

"  Ah  !  ye  knows  me,  does  ye,  Mary  1 
So  does  Darby  O'Connor  too.  I  left 
me  mark  on  him,  and  I'll  lave  it  on 
you  to-night.  He  may  marry  ye  to- 


morrow mornin'  if  he  likes.  I'll  not 
hindher  him,  never  fear." 

At  this  horrid  threat  poor  Mary 
fairly  broke  down.  She  threw  herself 
on  the  ground  and  flung  her  arms 
round  my  knees.  "  Promise  me,  sir, 
promise  me,  that  ye' 11  kill  me  before 
ye  lets  him  touch  me.  You're  a 
gintleman  and  you'll  keep  yer  word." 

"Nonsense,  Mary,"  said  I.  "Never 
mind  the  ruffian.  He'll  never  get  in 
here  while  I'm  alive." 

"  He  will,  he  will.  Well  I  knows 
him.  Promise  me  quick  that  yell 
keep  wan  shot  for  me  1  Oh,  man  !  " 
she  cried,  as  I  still  hesitated,  "  had  ye 
niver  a  mother  ? ' ' 

"All  right,  Mary,  I  promise." 

"  God  bless  ye,"  said  she,  getting 
up.  "  I  don't  care  now,  and  maybe  I'll 
lave  me  mark  on  some  of  them  yet  ; " 
and  she  seized  the  bill-hook,  and  stood 
ready  behind  the  door.  The  bill-hook 
was  a  handy  and  most  efficient  weapon, 
somewhat  like  the  old  Saxon  bill,  with 
a  curved  steel  blade  about  eighteen 
inches  long,  rivetted  to  an  ashen 
handle  some  three  feet  in  length. 

"Begor,"  said  the  old  man,  upon 
whose  face  the  light  of  battle  was 
stealing,  and  who  now  looked  quite 
cheerful,  "  I'll  have  a  sthroke  for  me 
life  too.  We're  not  bate  yet.  'Tis 
the  heaviest  showers  that  clears  away 
the  quickest,"  and  seizing  an  old 
scythe  blade,  he  hobbled  over  and 
planted  himself  against  the  wall. 

"  Well  done,  Paddy,"  said  I.  "Never 
say  die." 

Here  we  were  interrupted  by  a 
tremendous  blow  on  the  front  door, 
which  shivered  the  lock  and  shook  the 
fastenings,  but  failed  to  start  the 
struts  or  backing  with  which  I  had 
braced  it.  They  were  using  the  ladder 
as  a  battering  ram. 

"  At  it  again,  boys ! "  cried  the 
voice  of  the  arch-ruffian,  and  the 
blows  were  repeated  once  and  again 
with  increased  force,  but  still  the 
backing  stood  fast.  After  a  fourth 
blow  however,  a  panel  gave  way  be- 
tween the  props,  leaving  a  hole  of 
about  one  foot  by  ten  inches  ;  but  the 


102 


Irish  Shootings. 


supports  above  and  below  were  as 
strong  as  ever.  A  shot  was  promptly 
fired  through  this  hole  which  smashed 
some  crockery  on  the  dresser,  but  the 
assailants,  no  doubt  recollecting  that 
one  shot  could  go  out  where  another 
could  come  in,  drew  back  for  consulta- 
tion, and  did  not  care  apparently 
to  renew  the  attack.  After  a  few 
minutes  Judy  rushed  in,  "  Come  quick, 
sir,"  cried  she;  "they're  stalin'  round 
wid  the  laddher,  while  you're  watchin' 
the  front.  They  knows  the  back  dure 
is  wake." 

I  was  just  in  time.  They  were 
coming  up  with  a  rush,  seven  of  them, 
bearing  the  ladder,  and  as  soon  as  I 
got  them  nearly  end  on  I  fired,  and 
evidently  peppered  more  than  one, 
judging  from  the  chorus  of  yells  which 
they  set  up  as  they  dropped  the  ladder. 
I  could  have  got  a  beautiful  flying 
shot  at  the  last  man,  but  I  had  now 
only  two  cartridges  left,  and  as  one  of 
them  was  promised  to  Mary,  I  desired 
to  keep  the  other  in  reserve.  Startled 
by  a  cry  from  her  I  rushed  back  into 
the  kitchen,  and  saw  her  by  the  dim 
light,  with  her  white  teeth  set,  bring- 
ing down  the  bill-hook  with  the  full 
swing  of  her  nervous  young  arms 
upon  a  hand  which  had  stolen  in 
through  the  hole  and  was  trying  to 
undo  the  bar.  The  blow  was  followed 
by  a  fearful  howl,  and  something 
dropped  upon  the  floor. 

"  More  power  to  ye,  Mary !  "  cried 
the  old  man.  "  You  done  it  well.  Put 
in  the  other  hand,  ye  spalpeen,  till 
she'll  thrim  it  for  ye  to  match  that 
wan.  Here's  the  polis  at  last.  'Tis 
a'inost  time  for  thim,"  as  a  shot  was 
heard  a  long  way  down  the  road,  fol- 
lowed by  a  faint  shout,  and  in  about 
five  minutes  the  rattling  of  car-wheels 
was  heard  up  the  stony  ascent,  whilst 
outside  the  house  we  could  hear  the 
rapid  flight  of  hurrying  feet  as  our 
assailants  at  last  withdrew. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  police  were  at 
the  door,  led  by  a  stalwart  young 
peasant,  who,  as  soon  as  we  undid  the 
fastenings,  rushed  in  and  threw  his 
arms  around  Mary.  "  Ye're  not  hurt, 


acushla?"  said  he.  "The  Lord  be 
praised !  I  niver  thought  I'd  see 
ye  alive  agin." 

"Small  thanks  to  you,"  said  she, 
pushing  him  away.  "  Ye  may  thank 
this  gintleman  here  that  stood  to  us. 
I  suppose  'tis  the  way  ye  was  polishin' 
yer  boots  or  ilin'  yer  hair,  beforye'd 
come  to  help  us." 

"  No,"  replied  he,  "  but  the  polis 
was  sint  away  wandherin'  as  far  as 
Ballinhassig  Bridge,  a  matther  of  six 
mile,  and  we  tuk  the  wrong  road. 
We'd  never  be  here  only  for  the  mare. 
She's  kilt  outside,  the  crayture.  She 
haven't  a  shake  left  in  any  hair  of 
her  tail :  if  she  went  on  another 
mile  she'd  dhrop  before  she  got  half 
way." 

"  'Tis  true  for  him,  sir,"  said  the 
sergeant.  "We  went  on  what  we 
thought  was  sure  information,  and  we 
wouldn't  have  come  back  only  for 
your  note.  But  we  mustn't  waste 
time.  Which  way  did  they  go  ?  " 

"  They  came  from  the  say,"  said 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  thin  they've  gone  back  the 
same  way.  I  saw  a  hooker  standing 
in  before  dusk.  Who  warned  you,  sir?" 

"Don't  tell,"  whispered  Mary 
eagerly.  "  The  people  would  kill 
him." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  I.  "  He  was 
a  stranger  to  me." 

"It's  no  use  askin'  any  of  ye,  I  sup- 
pose," said  the  sergeant,  looking  round 
at  the  stolid  faces  of  his  hearers. 
"  Come  on,  boys,  we're  only  wasting 
time.  Will  you  come  with  us,  sir  ?  " 

"No,  I  can't,"  said  I.  "I've  hurt 
my  foot." 

"I'll  come  wid  ye,"  said  Darby. 
"  I'd  like  to  have  a  sthroke  at  the 
villain.  What's  this  ? "  added  he,  pick- 
ing up  three  bloody  fingers  and  a 
portion  of  a  hand  off  the  floor. 

"That's  Mary's  work,"  said  I. 
"  Only  a  gentleman's  hand  which  he 
offered  her  and  which  she  accepted-" 

"  'Tis  Murty  O'Hea's  finger,"  said 
Darby,  dancing  with  delight.  "  I'd 
know  that  crook  in  it  if  it  was  biled, 
and  the  red  hair." 


Irish  Shootings. 


103 


"  Aye,  he  left  the  mark  of  it  on  ye 
more  than  once,"  said  Mary,  spite- 
fully. 

"Oh,  Mary,  ye' re  a  grand  girl! 
There  isn't  the  likes  of  ye  undher  the 
canopy.  Ye  gave  him  a  resate  for  me, 
anyways." 

"Come  along,  men,"  said  the  ser- 
geant, "we  have  no  tiine  to  lose. 
They  have  the  start  of  us.  Hallo! 
Here's  a  pool  of  blood,  where  some- 
body fell.  Did  ye  warm  many  of 
them,  sir  ? " 

"About  half  a  dozen,  I  think," 
said  I ;  "  but  I  had  only  small  shot." 

"  This  fellow  got  a  good  dose  at  any 
rate.  We're  bound  to  ketch  him," 

So  away  they  went,  but  came  back 
about  day-break  tired  and  crest-fallen. 
Whilst  they  were  searching  the  bay 
in  front,  the  gang  escaped  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  hill  to  another  creek 
half  a  mile  to  the  southward ;  and  the 
police  were  only  in  time  to  see  the 
hooker  rounding  the  further  point  and 
running  fast  before  a  north-easterly 
breeze  which  had  sprung  up  towards 
morning.  The  gang  was  apparently 
strong-handed,  for  they  took  away 
their  wounded  with  them. 

About  three  weeks  after  the  night 
of  the  siege  I  was  packing  up  my 
traps  on  the  eve  of  my  departure  from 
Ireland,  when  a  servant  came  in  and 
told  me  that  a  person  wanted  to  see 
me. 

"Who  is  it?"  Tasked. 

"  Oh,  she  didn't  tell  me  her  name, 
but  sure,  what  matter?  She's  the 
purtiest  girl  ever  ye  see.  She's  purty 
enough  to  frighten  ye." 

I  went  down  stairs,  and  in  the  hall 
I  found  my  friend  Mary,  blushing 
like  a  rose  in  June. 

"I  hear  tell  that  ye  were  goin' 
away  to-morrow,  sir,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  was  in  a  terrible  fright  I  wouldn't 
have  thim  done  in  time,  but  I  finished 
them  to-day,  glory  be  to  God  !  " 

"Finished    what,    Mary?      If    you 


only  did  it  as  well  as  the  last  piece  of 
work  you  had  a  hand  in  you  made  a 
good  job  of  it,  whatever  it  is." 

"  Och,  no,"  said  she  smiling,  "  'tis 
the  fut  this  time  ]  "  and  she  pulled  out 
from  under  her  cloak  six  pairs  of 
beautiful  black  lamb's-wool  stockings 
which  she  had  made  for  me. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mary,"  said  I. 
"It  was  really  very  kind  of  you  to 
take  so  much  trouble  for  me.  I  shall 
value  them  very  much,  and  you  may 
be  sure  that  I'll  never  put  them  on 
without  thinking  of  you." 

"Throuble?"  said  she.  "What's 
throuble?  Where  would  I  be  to-day, 
only  for  you  that  night?  I  hear 
you're  goin'  a  long  journey,  and  I'll 
think  of  you  when  the  nights  is  dark 
and  the  says  is  high.  And  oh,  I  pray 
to  God  Almighty,"  she  added,  falling 
on  her  knees,  "that  he'll  carry  ye 
safe,  wheriver  ye  goes ;  and  that  the 
holy  Jasus  may  put  his  shoulder  to  ye 
when  ye  are  in  danger,  as  ye  did  to 
us  that  night ;  and  that  he  may  open 
a  gap  for  ye,  and  shlip  ye  inside  the 
walls  of  heaven  someways,  when  ye 
die.  Amin." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mary," 
said  I.  "  I  hope  to  hear  good  news  of 
you  and  Darby,  and  if  ever  I  come 
back  you  may  be  sure  I  won't  be  long 
in  paying  you  a  visit.  Did  you  ever 
hear  what  became  of  that  scoundrel 
Murty?" 

"  Yes,  yer  honour,"  said  she  lower- 
ing her  voice.  "  I  hear  that  he  died 
of  the  lock-jaw  a  week  aft  her,  but 
sure  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  the  priest 
himself  said  I  sarved  him  right. 
Ye  kilt  that  other  one  dead  yerself ; 
and  I  hear  another  of  'em  is  run  away 
to  America ;  and  a  dale  of  'em  has  the 
small-pox  wid  the  small  shot  that  ye 
scatthered  about  'em.  Divil  mend 
'em  !  Well,  good-bye  to  yer  honour," 
holding  out  her  hand  whilst  her  bright 
eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears,  "  be 
sure  we'll  remimber  ye  and  pray  for 
ye — always." 


104 


A   TRANSLATOR   OF   SHAKESPEARE. 


MORE  than  half  a  century  has  passed 
away  since  Carlyle  first  reflected  in 
England  Goethe's  vision  of  a  world- 
literature — a  literature  not  of  this  or 
that  people,  nation,  and  language,  but 
of  all  peoples,  nations,  and  languages ; 
and  on  this,  as  on  many  other  occa- 
sions, took  the  opportunity  to  com- 
mend the  work  of  German  over  Eng- 
lish translators.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  but  that  the  idea  took  far 
stronger  hold  of  German  than  of  Eng- 
lish men  of  letters,  and  that  the  Ger- 
mans have  far  outstripped  us  in  the 
advance  to  its  fulfilment.  It  is  ac- 
knowledged that  the  German  love  for 
Shakespeare  falls  little  short  of  our 
own.  while  Dickens  and  Scott  are 
familiar  names  in  German  households, 
and  Moliere,  Gozzi,  and  Goldoni,  no 
less  than  Shakespeare,  find  constant 
welcome  on  the  German  stage.  In 
England,  however,  the  case  is  very 
different.  It  may  of  course  be  urged 
that  if  Germany  can  show  such  names 
as  Goethe,  Schiller,  Schlegel,  and  Tieck 
among  the  ranks  of  her  translators,  we 
too  can  adduce  Dryden,  Pope,  Cowper, 
Shelley,  and  Coleridge ;  and  some  may 
feel  disposed,  at  the  mention  of  Pope's 
name,  to  ask  whether  no  less  a  person 
than  Swift  did  not  write  and  congratu- 
late Pope,  at  the  conclusion  of  his  ver- 
sion of  Homer,  on  having  done  with 
translations,  and  secured  his  freedom 
from  the  necessity  of  misemploying 
his  genius,  under  which  a  "  rascally 
world  "  had  laid  him.  To  this  it  can 
but  be  answered  that  Swift,  himself 
the  prime  instigator  of  the  rascally 
world  to  the  exactions  which  he  repro- 
bates, did  so  write ;  and  it  must  also 
be  admitted  that  translations  of  Homer 
continue  almost  annually  to  be  pro- 
duced, and  that  the  Odes  of  Horace 
and  Goethe's  '  Faust '  are  almost  equal 


favourites  with  English  translators.  But 
conceding  this  much,  and  also  the  fact 
that  English  versions  of  many  foreign 
works,  from  the  '  Agamemnon  '  of  JE>s- 
chylus  to  the  latest  novel  of  M.  Zola, 
appear  and  disappear  in  the  course  of 
each  year,  it  still  seems  that  perma- 
nently valuable  reproductions  of  the 
masterpieces  of  foreign  literature  are 
remarkably  scarce.  Englishmen  of 
ordinary  education  can  generally 
name  three  or  four  translations  of 
Homer,  but  not  one  of  Moliere. 

The  reasons  for  this  difference  be- 
tween ourselves  and  the  Germans  are 
for  others  to  show.  Many  English- 
men will  doubtless  plead  that  the 
existence  of  a  national  theatre  gives 
a  stimulus  to  German  translators, 
which  in  England  is  unknown ;  many 
more  will  be  led  by  insular  prejudice 
to  affirm  that  the  Germans  have  more 
to  gain  than  ourselves  from  foreign 
literature.  But  it  is  not  proposed  to 
discuss  such  questions  here.  It  is, 
however,  possible  that  a  short  account 
of  the  life  of  a  German  translator  may 
not  be  without  interest  as  throwing 
some  light  on  the  process  whereby 
Germany  contrives  to  make  the 
world's  literature  her  own.  The 
name  of  this  man  is,  we  believe, 
quite  unknown  in  England ;  and  per- 
haps even  in  Germany,  for  reasons 
that  will  presently  appear,  hardly 
honoured  according  to  his  deserts. 
None  the  less,  however,  did  he  find 
at  the  hands  of  one  whose  name  has 
reached  England,  Herr  Gustav  Frey- 
tag,1  a  brief  but  affectionate  biogra- 
phy, from  which  the  story  here  told  has 
been,  by  permission,  derived. 

Wolf,  Count  Baudissin,  then,  was 
born  on  the  30th  of  January,  1789. 

1  «  Im  Neuen  Reich,'  8th  and  15th  January, 
1880. 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


105 


He  came  of  one  of  the  many  families 
which  had  fought  their  way  to  distinc- 
tion in  the  Thirty  Years'  War ;  the 
founder  thereof  having  served  in  the 
Swedish,  Danish  and  Saxon  armies, 
and  received  as  reward  the  estate  of 
Rantzau,  close  to  Kiel  in  Holstein. 
The  grandfather  of  Count  Wolf  also 
was  a  major  in  the  Saxon  army,  but 
being  compelled,  through  no  fault  of 
his  own,  to  quit  that  service  for  the 
Danish,  abandoned  the  profession  of 
war  for  diplomacy,  and  became  Danish 
ambassador  at  the  Court  of  Berlin, 
finally  dying  as  governor  of  Copen- 
hagen in  1815. 

Wolf's  father  likewise  entered  the 
Danish  diplomatic  service,  and  being 
from  this  cause  continually  absent 
from  home,  his  children,  four  sons 
and  a  daughter,  of  whom  Wolf  was 
the  eldest,  were  left  almost  entirely 
to  the  care  of  their  mother.  Wolf 
was  a  lively,  affectionate  boy,  with, 
from  the  first,  an  insatiable  thirst 
for  knowledge  ;  indeed,  when  but  six 
years  old  he  wrote  a  piteous  letter  to 
his  father,  begging  him  to  come  home 
soon,  as  his  mother  knew  so  "  dread- 
fully little."  For  all  this,  however, 
the  boy  was  neither  forward  nor  super- 
ficial ;  he  was  naturally  shy,  and  this 
shyness  was  increased  to  a  painful  de- 
gree by  physical  weakness  and  defect- 
ive eyesight.  Hence,  driven  in  some 
measure  to  isolation,  he  found  his 
dearest  companions  in  his  books,  and 
his  unwearied  industry  enabled  him 
to  turn  that  isolation  to  good  account. 
Further,  his  mother,  even  if  she  knew 
11  dreadfully  little,"  took  care  that  her 
deficiencies  should  be  supplemented  by 
others ;  an  enthusiastic  scholar  had 
charge  of  Wolf's  classical  education, 
and  inspired  him  with  a  love  of  Greek 
and  Latin  which  never  perished.  Then 
again,  though  German  systems  were 
followed  and  German  sympathies  care- 
fully fostered  in  the  training  of  the 
children,  yet,  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  time,  French  was  the  language 
alike  of  conversation  and  correspond- 
ence in  the  family  circle — a  fashion 
which,  as  will  be  seen,  was  many 


years  later  not  without  advantage 
even  to  Germany. 

Up  to  the  year  1802  the  family 
spent  its  life  between  Kantzau  and 
Copenhagen,  the  former  being  the 
summer,  the  latter  the  winter  resi- 
dence. For  Copenhagen  was  now 
substituted  the  embassy  at  Berlin — a 
change  of  the  highest  importance  to 
Wolf.  True,  Berlin  had  as  yet  no 
university,  but  A.  W.  Schlegel  was 
delivering  his  lectures  on  literature ; 
Inland  had  charge  of  the  theatres, 
and  the  plays  represented  were  those 
of  Goethe  and  Schiller;  further,  in 
1803,  Fichte  began  his  philosophical 
lectures,  which,  as  well  as  those  of 
Schlegel,  Wolf  constantly  attended. 
He  now  devoted  himself  to  the  study 
of  English,  and  completed,  at  the  age 
of  fifteen,  a  translation  of  '  King  Lear,' 
which  was  read  and  approved  by 
Schlegel  himself,  and  even  used  by 
Both  in  his  new  version  of  the  same 
play,  wherein  Wolf's  share  of  the  work 
was  not  the  least  successful.  Mean- 
while he  was  working,  to  his  father's 
great  satisfaction,  at  the  office  of  the 
embassy,  copying  and  even  drafting 
despatches  ;  and  for  his  reward  was 
taken  by  him  from  time  to  time  among 
the  great  men  then  assembled  at 
Berlin — Fichte,  Schlegel,  and  even 
Schiller.  Here  also  he  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Zelter,  of  no  small  value 
and  delight  to  Wolf,  who  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  music. 

In  1805  Wolf  went  with  his  classi- 
cal tutor  to  the  University  of  Kiel, 
there  to  study  jurisprudence  prepara- 
tory to  a  diplomatic  career;  and  in  1806 
left  Kiel  for  the  University  of  Gottin- 
gen.  The  journey  was  a  remarkable 
one.  On  the  road  the  travellers  first 
met  the  news  of  Jena,  soon  confirmed 
by  the  appearance  of  a  herd  of  fugi- 
tives from  the  field,  unarmed  and  de- 
moralised. To  the  fugitives  succeeded 
quickly  a  regiment  of  French  cuiras- 
siers, and  the  carriage  was  stopped  till 
the  column  had  passed.  Still  the  tra- 
vellers pushed  on ;  the  sympathies  of 
the  Baudissins  were  with  Prussia,  but 
Wolf  cared  little  yet  for  politics,  and 


106 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


his  only  fear  was  lest  the  course  of 
study  at  Gottingen  should  be  inter- 
rupted by  the  invasion.  This  fear,  how- 
ever, was  not  realised,  for  Gottingen 
had  a  champion  in  Christian  Gotlob 
Heyne,  who,  by  skilful  management  and 
good  fortune,  contrived  not  only  to  save 
the  University  and  the  surrounding 
district,  but  even  to  reap  active  benefit 
for  it  from  the  war.  So  Gottingen 
shook  her  head  gravely  at  the  tumult 
without,  and  took  no  further  notice. 
The  lectures  went  on  as  usual ;  the 
students  made  long  excursions  on  foot 
as  usual ;  Wolf  Baudissin  worked  with 
book  and  pen,  if  possible,  harder  than 
usual.  Why  not  1  Are  not  dons  dons 
all  the  world  over  ?  and  is  not  an  uni- 
versity, be  it  Gottingen  or  Oxford,  the 
very  centre  and  omphalos  of  the  uni- 
verse ? 

"  Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis 
Impavidam  ferient  ruinse." 

But  very  soon,  Gottingen' s  placidity 
notwithstanding,  Wolf  Baudissin  be- 
came uncomfortable  and  restless. 
What  business  had  he  studying 
quietly  there  with  Europe  seething 
round  him,  and  what  profit  was  he 
to  his  country  or  to  any  one  ?  The 
thought  preyed  upon  him,  and  he  had 
at  one  time  serious  thoughts  of  enlist- 
ing as  a  private  in  a  hussar  regiment. 
The  news  of  the  bombardment  of 
Copenhagen  in  1807  rallied  these 
scattered  notions  of  discontent,  and 
concentrated  them  into  ardent  pa- 
triotism and  intense  hatred  of  Eng- 
land. He  found  vent  for  his  restless- 
ness in  political  excitement ;  concerned 
as  yet  only  for  the  plight  of  his  native 
Denmark,  and  feeling  only  as  a  Dane  ; 
but  soon  to  feel  as,  in  the  widest  sense, 
a  German. 

In  1808  he  went  to  the  University 
of  Heidelberg  for  the  summer,  and  re- 
turned, after  a  tour  in  Switzerland,  to 
Gottingen,  in  the  autumn  of  the  same 
year.  His  attention  was  now  given 
mainly  to  the  study  of  jurisprudence, 
but  he  found  time  for  his  beloved 
music,  and  for  a  thorough  mastery  of 
Spanish,  the  fruit  whereof  was  a  trans- 
lation of  Don  Quixote,  made  solely  for 


his  own  improvement.  In  the  spring 
of  1809  he  paid  a  visit  to  Jena,  where 
he  had  the  good  fortune  to  become 
personally  acquainted  with  Goethe. 
The  latter  appears  to  have  treated 
Baudissin  very  kindly,  and  to  have 
inspired  him  with  an  admiration 
even  more  than  Teutonic.  One  re- 
mark Goethe  made  in  speaking  of 
the  German  nation,  which  his  young 
visitor  had  good  cause  to  remember 
many  years  later.  "  We  have  a  noble 
pile  of  fuel,"  said  he,  "  but  we  want  a 
good  grate  to  hold  it  all  together." 
Eor  sixty-two  long  years  was  this 
"  grate "  making,  till  its  completion 
was  proclaimed  from  the  palace  at 
Versailles. 

In  the  autumn  of  1809  Baudissin 
finally  left  Gottingen  and  entered  the 
Danish  diplomatic  service.  He  was 
able  to  begin  his  new  career  among 
friends  and  relations ;  all  the 
higher  posts,  both  of  the  court  and 
of  the  government,  being  then  in 
the  hands  of  the  Schleswig-Holstein 
nobility.  Indeed,  it  was  something 
quite  out  of  the  common  that  the 
ministry  of  foreign  affairs  should  be, 
as  it  was  just  at  this  time,  in  the 
hands  of  a  Dane — Rosenkrantz.  Bau- 
dissin was  nominated  secretary  of 
legation  at  Stockholm,  where  a  Count 
Dernath,  his  uncle,  was  ambassador, 
and  arrived  in  that  city  in  January, 
1810.  Those  were  troublous  times  for 
Sweden.  Little  more  than  a  year  had 
passed  since  Finland  had  been  ceded 
to  Russia;  less  than  a  year  since  a 
bloodless  revolution  had  deposed  King 
Gustavus  and  placed  King  Christian  the 
Thirteenth  on  the  throne ;  and  now, 
only  a  few  months  after  Baudissin' s 
arrival,  the  Duke  of  Augustenburg, 
appointed  heir  to  the  childless  King 
Christian,  was  seized  with  apoplexy 
while  reviewing  his  regiment,  and  died 
in  a  few  hours.  Report  spread  among 
the  people  ^that  their  favourite  had 
been  poisoned  ;  and  Baudissin  was  one 
of  those  who  saw  a  leading  minister 
of  state,  suspected,  as  one  of  the 
obnoxious  party  of  the  nobles,  to  be 
the  murderer,  dragged  from  his  coach 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


107 


in  the  funeral  procession,  and  torn  to 
pieces  by  the  mob.  Intrigue  after 
intrigue  followed  the  death  of  the 
heir.  The  right  of  electing  a  new  one 
was  vested  in  the  States  of  Sweden, 
but  with  France  and  Russia  both 
deeply  interested  in  the  matter,  it  was 
clear  that  the  Swedes  would  have  little 
chance  of  exercising  a  free  choice. 
The  majority  of  the  people  favoured 
the  election  of  the  deceased  prince's 
brother ;  the  Danish  ambassador 
worked  with  might  and  main  to 
bring  the  crown  of  Sweden  to  Den- 
mark ;  but  a  subtle  French  agent  was 
also  busy  with  misrepresentation  and 
other  tools  of  his  trade.  In  a  word, 
Marshal  Bernadotte  was  elected  ;  the 
French  took  the  oyster,  Swede  and 
Dane  took  each  a  shell,  and  the  Prince 
of  Ponte  Corvo  became  crown  prince 
and  practically  regent. 

Meanwhile,  poor  Baudissin  was  not 
happy.  The  frivolous  society  of  Stock- 
holm suited  him  but  ill,  his  uncle's 
methods  of  proceeding  little  better ; 
he  was  lonely  and  miserable,  and  but 
for  his  beloved  books  would  soon  have 
resigned  his  appointment.  In  time,  in- 
deed, he  found  congenial  friends  ;  but 
also,  which  was  not  so  welcome,  great 

luse  for  anxiety  in  the  political  pro- 
jects of  his  government  and  the 
personal  status  of  his  uncle.  This 

itter   was    not    ill   disposed   to    his 

3phew,  and  a  man  of  more  than 
iverage  ability ;  but  gifted  with  a  fatal 

>ve  of  intrigue,  and  a  still  more  fatal 
ibit   of   undervaluing  realities,  and 

learing  and  seeing  those  things  only 
which  tended  to  the  furtherance  of  his 
own  projects.  He  still  schemed,  notwith- 
standing Bernadotte's  election,  to  win 

Sweden  for  Denmark,  basing  all  his 
hopes  of  success  on  Napoleon,  and  feel- 
ing confident  of  the  support  of  his  own 

)vernment.     The  result  was  an  elo- 

luent    warning   to   young   Baudissin 
tinst  excessive  diplomatic  subtlety. 

sy  the  autumn  of  1811,  Count  Der- 

ith's     longer    stay     at     Stockholm 
ime  impossible,  and  Baudissin  was 
nominated  charge  d'affaires  in  his  place, 
remaining,  as    such,    the    diplomatic 


representative  of  Denmark  at  Stock- 
holm, until  March,  1813.  His  position 
was  not  an  easy  one.  On  the  one 
hand  his  own  government,  still  in 
possession  of  Norway  and  the  Duchies, 
had  not  relinquished  the  hope  of 
becoming  the  great  Scandinavian 
power,  and,  encouraged  by  Count 
Dernath,  was  strongly  inclined  to  trust 
to  Napoleon's  invincibility.  On  the 
other,  Sweden,  equally  with  Russia 
and  England,  earnestly  sought  the 
alliance  of  Denmark,  Bernadotte's 
ambition  being  the  leadership  of  a 
Swedo-Danish  army ;  while  Russia 
went  so  far  as  to  offer  a  bribe  of 
German  territory  as  Denmark's  share 
in  the  spoil.  It  so  happened  also 
that  Stockholm  became  the  channel 
through  which  the  powers  of  the  Great 
Eastern  Alliance  sought  the  adher- 
ence of  Denmark.  The  Russian  am- 
bassador chose  to  make  his  offers 
to  Baudissin  rather  than  through  his 
emissary  at  Copenhagen  ;  and  Berna- 
dotte said  plainly  that  he  distrusted 
his  own  agent  at  Copenhagen,  and  pre- 
ferred to  treat  with  the  Danish 
government  through  the  young  charge 
d'affaires  at  Stockholm.  Thus,  from 
the  autumn  of  1812,  Swede  and 
Russian  bid  against  each  other  to  gain 
the  Danish  Alliance ;  every  offer  being 
made  in  strictest  confidence  to  Baudis- 
sin. A  curious  position  this  for  a 
diplomat  of  but  two  years'  standing 
and  no  more  than  twenty-three  years 
of  age,  rendered  perhaps  more  easy  by 
the  fact  that  in  the  main  he  agreed 
with  those  who  were  pressing  him 
most  closely.  Already  becoming  more 
German  than  Danish  he  shrank  from 
the  project  of  Danish  opposition  to  a 
real  German  rising,  and,  in  direct  con- 
tradiction to  his  uncle,  expressed  to  his 
government  his  firm  conviction  that 
Denmark's  real  salvation  lay  in  alli- 
ance with  the  powers  of  the  East.  It 
was  possibly  from  a  knowledge  of  his 
opinions  that  the  Swedish  and  Russian 
agents  alike  determined  to  address 
themselves  mainly  to  him ;  possibly  also 
from  a  hope  that  one  so  young  and  in- 
experienced would  be  more  easily  man- 


108 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


ageable.  In  this  last  hope,  at  any  rate, 
they  were  deceived,  for  Baudissin,  young 
as  he  was,  possessed  all  the  best  quali- 
ties of  a  diplomatist.  To  unswerving 
probity  he  joined  a  simple  straight- 
forwardness which  won  him  a  confi- 
dence denied  to  more  tortuous  spirits ; 
while  a  silent  attention,  innate  percep- 
tion of  character,  and  an  extraordinary 
memory  enabled  him  to  appraise  that 
confidence  at  its  true  value.  And  it 
is  sufficiently  evident  that  his  worth 
was  duly  appreciated  even  by  those 
who  held  views  diametrically  opposed 
to  his  own;  for  the  Danish  government, 
heedless  though  it  was  of  his  recom- 
mendations, did  not  fail  to  compliment 
him  on  the  manner  in  which  he 
performed  his  duties.  It  was  this 
infatuation  at  Copenhagen,  however, 
which  made  his  position  so  difficult 
and  so  anxious ;  and  it  was  a  day  of 
relief  and  rejoicing  to  him  when  the 
news  of  the  retreat  from  Moscow 
reached  Stockholm.  Moreover,  as  if 
to  complete  his  satisfaction,  there 
arrived  about  this  time  August  Wil- 
helm  Schlegel  and  Madame  de  Stael, 
both  of  whom  admitted  him  to  inti- 
macy. Of  the  latter,  indeed,  he  wrote 
home  with  hardly  less  enthusiasm 
than  he  had  written  of  Goethe. 

But  this  was  not  to  last  long.  In 
March,  1813,  the  Danish  ministry 
decided  finally  to  rest  the.  destiny  of 
Denmark  on  Napoleon ;  and  Baudissin 
at  once  destroyed  the  archives  of  the 
embassy  and  returned  to  Copenhagen. 
Here  he  was  well  received  by  his 
employers ;  the  foreign  minister  com- 
mended him  highly,  and  the  king  him- 
self, after  admitting  that  every  one 
had  the  right  to  his  own  opinions, 
expressed  great  satisfaction  with  his 
despatches.  This  done,  Baudissin  re- 
tired to  his  relations  in  the  country, 
not  knowing  how  soon  the  correctness 
of  his  judgment  was  to  be  vindicated. 
No  later  than  in  May  of  the  same 
year  he  received  suddenly  a  secret 
message  from  the  foreign  minister  to 
repair  at  once  to  Copenhagen.  Arriv- 
ing wearied  by  a  long  journey  at 
express  speed,  he  learnt  from  Rosen- 


krantz  that  he  was  to  start  at  once 
with  Minister  Kaas  on  an  extra- 
ordinary mission  to  Dresden,  there  to 
conclude  an  alliance  with  the  Emperor 
Napoleon.  This  order  came  upon  him 
like  a  thunderclap.  In  vain  he 
adduced  every  argument  against  his 
employment  in  the  matter,  and  earn- 
estly begged  that  the  duty  might  be 
intrusted  to  another.  The  minister 
answered  that  it  was  the  king's  order  ; 
the  matter  was  already  settled,  and 
the  appointment  made  by  his  majesty 
for  particular  reasons.  In  despair 
Baudissin  sought  the  king  himself, 
and  said  straight  out  that  his  convic- 
tions unfitted  him  for  so  important  a 
mission.  The  king's  reply  was  short : 
"  You  must  go,  sir,  and  I  wish  you  a 
pleasant  journey."  Not  yet  convinced, 
Baudissin  turned  to  his  father,  who,  as 
he  knew,  shared  his  own  opinion  as  to 
the  policy  that  should  be  pursued. 
But  the  old  diplomatist  had  been 
trained  in  a  school  of  strict  discipline  : 
"  You  have  made  your  protest  and 
can  do  no  more.  You  must  go." 

So  in  another  hour  he  started, 
crushed  and  tortured  by  the  feeling 
that  he  was  little  else  than  a  traitor 
to  his  country.  A  dull  silent  journey 
must  that  have  been  to  Minister  Kaas, 
with  his  young  colleague  fretting  his 
heart  out  by  his  side — at  every  stage 
more  rebellious  against  the  duty 
thrust  upon  him,  and  more  conscious 
that  such  rebellion,  after  yielding  so 
far,  had  forfeited  all  claim  to  be 
deemed  honourable.  Nevertheless, 
the  determination  that  go  to  Dresden 
he  would  not  grew  stronger  on  him,  so 
strong  at  last  that  even  stratagem 
seemed  justifiable  to  give  it  effect, 
and  insincerity  a  virtue  when 
used  to  uphold  a  righteous  cause. 
Arrived  at  Holstein,  Baudissin  ob- 
tained leave  to  go  for  one  night  to 
the  house  of  his  friend,  Count  Fritz 
Keventlow,  promising  to  rejoin  his 
chief  the  next  morning.  Count  Fritz 
received  him  with  open  arms,  and 
full  compassion  for  his  misery;  and 
thus  encouraged,  Baudissin  finally 
made  up  his  mind  to  let  Minister 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeart 


109 


Kaas  perform  his  mission  alone.     But 
how    was    it    to    be    done?    for    the 
Reventlows   must   not  be  implicated. 
All  night  long  he  pondered,  and  early 
in  the  morning  sought  a  young  doctor, 
one  Franz  Hegewisch,  who,  like  him- 
self, was  on  a  visit  to  the  Heventlows. 
"  "Would  Herr  Doctor,"  he  asked,  "  be 
good    enough    to   lay   my  arm    on    a 
couple      of     chairs     and      break     it 
with     a     hammer  1 "     Herr      Doctor 
was,  both   politically   and  profession- 
ally,  an  enthusiast;    he  would  break 
Herr  Graf's  arm  for  him  in  so  good 
a  cause  with    the    greatest   pleasure. 
"But  stay,"  added  the  doctor,  "before 
breaking  an  arm  in  a  friend's  house, 
should   we   not  first  ask  his  permis- 
sion?"    Certainly  we  should;  so  first 
to    Count    Fritz   and    then    to    busi- 
ness.      But   Count    Fritz    had    very 
different  advice  for  his  friend.  "  Re- 
sign  your   appointment  on    this  mis- 
sion by  all  means,  but  do  an  honour- 
able duty  like  an  honourable  man,  not 
like     a    refractory    conscript.      Your 
duty    is     to     write     from     here    to 
the   king   that   you   cannot  obey  his 
orders  against  your  own  convictions  ; 
that  therefore  you  repeat  once  more  in 
writing  the  request  you  made  by  word 
of  mouth,  and  are  ready  to  take  the 
consequences.     Await  the  result  here, 
and  do  not  be  afraid  of  getting  me 
into  trouble,  for  I  shall  be  proud  to 
suffer  in  such  a  cause."     Such  brave 
honest  words  fell  gratefully  on  Baudis- 
sin's    ears.     He   wrote    forthwith   to 
Minister   Kaas   and   the    king,    and, 
with   arm    unbroken    and    mind    un- 
burdened,    cheerfully     awaited      the 
answer.     In  due  time  it  came,  offering 
a   choice    of    two    alternatives :    one 
year's  confinement  in  the  fortress  of 
Friedrichsort    as    second    class    state 
prisoner,  or  a  judicial  inquiry  into  the 
matter.       A   confidential    note    from 
Rosenkrantz   recommended   the    first, 
and  the  first  was  accordingly  chosen. 
So  now  to  Friedrichsort,  having  first 
obtained  privilege  of  books,  a  piano, 
and  two   hours'   daily  exercise   under 
custody  of  a  sentry  on  the  ramparts. 
So  Baudissin  passed  the  summer  of 


the  great  year,  his  imprisonment 
lightened  by  work  at  a  translation  of 
Dante,  by  his  beloved  music,  and  by 
occasional  visits  not  only  of  relations 
but  even  of  sympathisers  from  among 
the  people.  Not  for  a  moment  was 
he  shaken  in  the  opinion  for  which 
he  suffered,  and  he  determined  that, 
unless  things  at  Copenhagen  were 
altered  at  the  expiration  of  his 
year  of  imprisonment,  he  would  sever 
himself  from  Denmark  and  enter 
the  German  army.  His  whole 
heart  was  with  the  German  rising, 
and  conflict  against  Napoleon  with 
sword  or  pen  he  held  to  be  a 
sacred  duty.  He  now  stood  on  high 
ground ;  he  had,  it  is  true,  sunk 
almost  to  the  ridiculous,  but  he  had 
risen  again  to  the  sublime  :  the  oppo- 
sition of  king,  official,  chief,  and  father 
had  almost  made  him  a  malingerer ; 
the  sympathy  (in  its  most  literal  sense) 
of  a  friend  raised  him  from  that  to  a 
prisoner  for  conscience'  sake. 

By  October,  1813,  however,  Copen- 
hagen did  change  its  opinions.  Ten 
days  after  the  battle  of  Leipsic  arrived 
most  opportunely  the  birthday  of  the 
queen,  under  cover  of  which  redress 
of  injustice  was  made  to  seein  a  favour, 
and  Baudissin  was  set  at  liberty. 
Being  pressed  by  his  father  he  re- 
entered  the  diplomatic  service,  and 
was  appointed  secretary  of  legation 
at  the  head-quarters  of  the  allies, 
with  whom  he  entered  Paris.  Thence 
he  went  with  his  chief,  Count  Christian 
Bernsdorff,  to  the  Congress  of  Vienna  ; 
but  even  the  excitement  of  operations 
in  the  field,  and  the  preparations  for 
the  Congress  could  not  reconcile  his 
dislike  for  the  Danish  service.  His 
former  misdeeds  were  apparently  not 
forgotten  in  Copenhagen,  and  he 
longed  not  unnaturally  for  quiet  life 
at  home.  He  left  the  service  for  the 
second  and  last  time,  now  completely 
in  disgrace  with  Danish  royalty. 

In  the  autumn  of  1814  he  married 
his  cousin,  Countess  Julia  Bernsdorff, 
and  shortly  after  he  had  brought  his 
wife  home  his  father  died,  leaving 
him  the  property  of  Rantzau.  But 


no 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


even  in  retirement  his  quarrel  with 
the  court  was  destined  to  be  embit- 
tered, for  now  came  the  first  rising  of 
German  opposition  to  Denmark.  Poli- 
tical feeling  was  strong  among  the 
landed  proprietors  of  Schleswig  Hoi- 
stein,  and  Baudissin  took  a  leading 
part  in  their  protests  against  the 
invasion  of  the  laws  of  the  Duchies, 
and  the  illegal  exactions  imposed  by 
Denmark.  But  the  time  was  not  yet 
ripe:  Danish  reaction  came,  and  the 
movement  was  suppressed  and  died 
away.  So  Baudissin,  who  had  given 
up  much  of  his  time  to  political 
meetings  and  contributions  to  a  new 
journal  started  by  his  party,  now  re- 
turned to  his  favourite  work.  He 
took  Shakespeare  in  hand  and  trans- 
lated <  Henry  the  Eighth/  the  last  of 
the  historical  plays  that  had  been  left 
untranslated  by  Schlegel.  This,  his 
first  book,  appeared  in  1818. 

About  this  time  he  carried  out  a 
project  which  had  been  a  favourite 
with  him,  as  with  most  Germans, 
since  his  university  days,  namely,  a 
visit  to  Italy.  His  immediate  object 
was  the  restoration  of  his  wife's 
health,  but  other  circumstances  pro- 
longed his  stay  beyond  the  time 
that  he  had  intended.  With  his 
love  for  all  that  was  beautiful  in 
nature  and  art  he  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  happy  there ;  and 
especially  in  Rome  where  a  circle  of 
distinguished  men,  Thorwaldsen  among 
them,  gladly  received  him.  But  the 
resentment  of  the  court  at  Copen- 
hagen was  still  alive,  and  in  1821  he 
received  an  anonymous  warning  that 
he  had  better  not  return  home  for 
the  present.  Certain  letters,  which 
he  had  written  in  the  course  of  a 
friendly  correspondence  from  Stock- 
holm, had  been  seized,  and  for 
some  reason,  probably  on  account  of 
their  German  proclivities,  had  given 
offence  in  high  quarters.  Again,  two 
years  later,  on  his  leaving  Rome,  he 
received  a  letter  from  Rosenkrantz, 
whom  he  had  sounded  on  the  subject, 
that  he  had  still  better  keep  out  of 
the  way;  the  seized  letters,  though 


free,  as  Baudissin  knew,  from  indis- 
cretion, were  not  yet  forgotten.  Nor 
was  it  until  ten  years  later,  on  the  ac- 
cession of  King  Christian  the  Eighth, 
that  his  reconciliation  with  the  court 
was  effected.  He  was  then  invited  to 
Copenhagen  and  asked  to  re-enter  the 
Danish  service — indeed,  there  was 
some  talk  of  making  him  director  of 
the  museums  ;  but  it  was  then  too 
late,  for  he  had  already  fixed  his  home 
elsewhere. 

Finding  on  his  departure  from  Italy 
that,  though  not  hindered  from  paying 
a  short  visit  to  Rantzau,  permanent  re- 
sidence in  Denmark  was  denied  to  him, 
he  finally,  after  some  wandering,  de- 
cided to  migrate  to  Dresden,  whither 
he  accordingly  went  with  his  wife  in 
1827.  The  old  connection  of  his 
family  with  the  Saxon  service  no 
doubt  influenced  his  choice,  and  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  that 
the  royal  family,  true  to  its  here- 
ditary principles,  was  not  unmindful 
of  services  rendered  to  its  house  in 
former  generations.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  no  part  of  his  plan  to  seek  office 
anew,  and  he  never  appeared,  except 
on  formal  occasions,  at  court,  though 
in  later  years  honoured  by  the  friend- 
ship of  two  of  the  kings  of  Saxony. 
Ear  more  important  to  himself,  and 
not  to  himself  only,  was  the  friendship 
he  contracted  with  the  poet,  Ludwig 
Tieck,  which  was  destined  to  turn  his 
talents  to  the  task  best  suited  for 
them — to  the  task  of  translation. 

Tieck  was  at  this  time  burdened 
with  the  weight  of  an  unfulfilled 
obligation.  August  Wilhelm  Schlegel 
had,  between  the  years  1797  and  1801, 
translated  sixteen  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  including  the  historical  plays 
(with  the  exception  of  t. '  Richard  the 
Third '  and  « Henry  the  Eighth),' 
'  Romeo  and  Juliet,'  '  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,'  '  Julius  Caesar/ 
<  Twelfth  Night/  '  The  Tempest/  <  The 
Merchant  of  Venice/  '  Hamlet/  and 
'  As  You  Like  It.'  To  these  he  added 
'Richard  the  Third  '  in  1810,  and  then 
declined  to  proceed  with  the  work  any 
further.  The  publishers  had  accordingly 


A   Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


Ill 


to  turn  to  Tieck,  who  had  frequently 
been  consulted   by  Schlegel,  and  was 
otherwise  best  qualified  for  the  duty. 
But  on  taking  over  the  task  in  1824, 
Tieck   was   no    longer    in   a   position 
to   carry  out     his    engagement ;    not 
one  single  play  did  he  translate ;  and 
his   daughter,  Dorothea,  a  woman  of 
remarkable    character,    prepared,    by 
earnest  study  of  English,  to  help  him 
through  it.     During   the   years   1825 
and    1826,    the     plays   translated    by 
Schlegel    were    duly    published,  with 
occasional  corrections  by  Tieck ;   but 
throughout  the  four  succeeding  years 
no  further  volume  appeared,   for  the 
very  sufficient  reason  that  Tieck  fur- 
nished   no    manuscript.     So    matters 
stood    when     Baudissin     arrived    in 
Dresden  ;  and  the  advantage  of  willing 
help  from  one  who  had  already  proved 
his  capacity  by  a  translation  of  '  Henry 
the  Eighth  '  was  too  great  to  be  over- 
looked.    Accordingly,  in  the  summer 
of    1829,    Baudissin   took    the   work 
upon  himself.     First  giving  his  atten- 
tion to  revising  his  former  version  of 
'  Henry  the  Eighth,'  he   was  able,  in 
1830,  to  incorporate  it  with  the  last 
plays  translated  by  Schlegel,  and  fur- 
nish   another     long-delayed     volume. 
Then  throwing  all   his  strength  into 
the  work  he  succeeded   in  less   than 
three  years  in  completing  the  transla- 
tion   of    twelve    more    plays :     *  The 
Comedy  of  Errors,'  'Troilus  and  Cres- 
sida,'  '  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,' 
'  Othello,' «  King  Lear,'  '  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,'  '  Much   Ado  About  Nothing,' 
'  Love's  Labours      Lost,'    *  Titus    An- 
dronicus,'     'Antony    and     Cleopatra,' 
'  Measure   for    Measure,'    and    '  All's 
Well  that  Ends  Well '  ;  whereof  the 
first  five  were  finished  in  the  course 
of  the    single    year     1831.    Dorothea 
worked    with   him   industriously,  and 
to    her    are     ascribed   the   remaining 
six  plays  :  '  Two  Gentlemen  of  Yerona,' 
'  Coriolanus,' «  Winter's  Tale,'  '  Timon,' 
'  Cymbeline,'  and  '  Macbeth.'    How, far 
she    was    aided   by   the    others   is   a 
doubtful  question,  which  nothing  but 
an    examination    of    her    manuscript 
can   solve.     There  are  in  Baudissin' s 


manuscript  some  different  renderings 
of  passages  translated  by  her,  and 
some  pages  where  the  lines  are 
marked  alternately  with  D  and  /,  as 
though  the  two  had  amused  them- 
selves by  such  alternate  work.  One 
thing,  however,  is  certain — that  Doro- 
thea relied  in  the  course  of  her  trans- 
lation more  on  her  fellow-labourer 
than  on  her  father.  She,  like  Bau- 
dissin, worked  with  extraordinary 
diligence,  and  zeal  in  the  common 
cause  knit  a  strong  bond  of  friendship 
between  them.  Nevertheless,  while 
honouring  her  energy  and  undoubted 
talent,  Baudissin  was  sometimes  not 
wholly  satisfied  either  with  the  lan- 
guage or  the  rhythm  of  her  transla- 
tions. 

So  the  great  work  was  finally  ac- 
complished and  published  in  a  com- 
plete form,  whereof  Tieck,  after  a 
few  words  of  thanks  to  his  coad- 
jutors, announced  himself  to  be  sole 
editor  and  finisher.  The  claim  to 
this  honour,  so  casually  made,  was 
never  questioned  by  Baudissin,  but 
has,  nevertheless,  not  been  allowed 
latterly  to  pass  unchallenged.  The 
copies  made  for  the  press  were 
taken  from  Baudissin' s  manuscript, 
which  include  a  mass  of  corrections 
in  his  hand.  Further,  it  appears  from 
his  diary  that  he  first  finished  his  own 
translation,  and  then  read  it  aloud  to 
Tieck,  who  added  notes  to  certain  in- 
dividual lines  which,  when  intended  to 
clear  up  the  sense  of  obscure  passages, 
were  not  always  looked  upon  by  the 
translator  as  improvements.  Tieck' s 
share  in  the  business  therefore,  as 
Herr  Freytag  points  out,  can  hardly 
be  accounted  more  important  than 
that  of  any  literary  friend  to  whose 
judgment  such  work  might  be  sub- 
mitted; and  it  would  seem  that  the 
notes  supplied  by  him  were  inserted 
mainly  as  proofs  of  his  own  industry. 
The  same  method  of  proceeding  was 
adopted  when  a  revision  became  neces- 
sary in  1839 :  Tieck  gave  an  hour 
every  day  to  the  task,  but  Baudissin 
had  prepared  everything  beforehand, 
and  it  was  he  who  had  the  alterations 


112 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


and  improvements  ready  for  Tieck's 
"  yea  "  or  "  nay." 

Nevertheless,  Baudissin  left  all 
honour  and  fame  arising  from  this 
great  undertaking  to  Tieck,  and  made 
over  his  share  of  the  profits  to  Doro- 
thea. Tieck,  observes  Herr  Freytag, 
was  an  amiable  man,  but  not  over  scru- 
pulous in  literary  matters,  and  his 
casual  appropriation  of  another's  labour 
was  thoroughly  characteristic.  But 
Tieck's  obligations  to  Baudissin  were 
not  ended  yet.  Over  and  above  the 
plays  usually  ascribed  to  Shakespeare, 
he  held  that  some  ten  more  were 
from  his  hand.  Of  these  he  had  al- 
ready translated,  and  published  in  his 
'  Altenglisches  Theater,'  the  following 
six :  the  older '  King  John,'  'The  Pinner 
of  Wakefield,'  the  older  '  King  Lear,' 
'  Pericles  '  (now  generally  included), 
*  Locrine,'  and  '  The  Merry  Devil  of 
Edmonton.'  He  now  left  the  transla- 
tion of  the  remaining  four,  namely, 
'Ed ward  the  Third,'  'Oldcastle,'  'Crom- 
well,' and  'The  London  Prodigal,'  to 
Baudissin  ;  and  in  1836  they  appeared 
in  a  separate  volume  under  the  title 
'Four  Plays  of  Shakespeare,  trans- 
lated by  Ludwig  Tieck.' 

In  later  years  Baudissin  suffered 
not  a  little  from  new  translators  and 
cribics.  Schlegel's  literary  fame  for- 
bade any  depreciation  of  his  share  of 
the  work,  but  it  became  the  fashion  to 
criticise  Baudissin' s  pretty  severely. 
No  doubt  both  translations  were  sus- 
ceptible of  improvement,  the  more  so  as 
in  the  course  of  years  a  closer  study  of 
Shakespeare  by  experts,  both  English 
and  German,  has  cleared  away  many 
of  the  difficulties  which  beset  the  earlier 
translators.  But  Baudissin  laboured 
under  exceptional  difficulties.  He 
worked  against  time  to  save  the 
honour  of  Tieck,  whose  engagements 
he  had  undertaken  to  make  good. 
Hence  not  only  was  the  labour  ex- 
cessive, but  the  translations  were 
swept  into  the  press  as  fast  as  they 
were  completed.  Nevertheless,  ob- 
serves Herr  Freytag,  if  Schlegel  shows 
in  certain  respects  greater  command  of 
language  and  vigour  of  expression, 


his  rival  need  not  shrink  from  com- 
parison with  him  in  the  happy  re- 
production of  humour  and  epigram. 
Moreover,  Baudissin  frequently  heard, 
with  a  quiet  smile,  laudatory  com- 
ments on  passages  ascribed  to  others, 
but  in  reality  his  own  work.  Yet 
another  trial  awaited  him  concern- 
ing this  translation.  In  1867  a 
new  and  complete  revision  of  the 
old  version  was  made,  and  exe- 
cuted, it  would  seem,  like  our  own 
revised  version  of  the  New  Testament, 
in  a  somewhat  narrow  and  pedantic 
spirit.  Once  again  Baudissin' s  name 
as  the  coadjutor  of  Tieck  was  omitted, 
and  some  young  translators  had  the 
hardihood  calmly  to  publish  his  text, 
with  alterations  that  were  not  always 
improvements,  as  their  own.  This 
Baudissin  bore,  as  usual,  in  silence. 
Schlegel  had  protested  against  Tieck's 
alterations  in  his  text,  and  insisted  on 
the  restoration  of  the  original;  but 
Baudissin,  though  he  knew  that  this 
translation  was  the  pride  of  his  life, 
was  content  to  leave  the  credit  thereof, 
as  from  the  first,  to  others ;  yet,  while 
rejoicing  in  any  real  improvements,  he 
could  not  but  regret  variations  which 
altered  without  amending  his  own  text. 
Tieck  at  least  had  the  excuse  that  his 
friend  from  the  first  connived  at  the 
misappropriation  of  his  labour;  but 
others  can  plead  no  such  defence. 

It  may  be  asked  whether  Baudissin's 
behaviour  to  Tieck  was  not  generous 
to  a  fault.  To  this  Herr  Freytag  is 
able  to  reply,  that  Baudissin  actually 
felt  himself  greatly  beholden  to  the 
man  who  thus,  without  acknowledg- 
ment, used  his  talents  for  his  own 
advantage.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  being  no  longer  in  the  diplomatic 
service,  and  forbidden  moreover  by 
royal  displeasure  to  attend  to  his  duties 
as  a  landowner,he  had  now  no  employ- 
ment for  his  indefatigable  industry. 
We  have  seen  how,  even  at  Gottingen, 
the  sense  of  unprofitableness  weighed 
heavily  on  him ;  and  that  sense 
would  naturally  be  much  increased 
after  the  taste  of  activity  and  re- 
sponsibility at  Stockholm.  He  had 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


113 


already  occupied  his  leisure  with  trans- 
lation for  his  own  enjoyment,  but  till 
chance  threw  him  with  Tieck  he  had 
no  idea  that  his  genius  could  be  turned, 
not  only  to  the  assistance  of  a  friend, 
but  also  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  nation ; 
and,  without  a  thought  for  his  own 
aggrandisement,  he  hailed  the  pros- 
pect with  delight.  Even  now,  notwith- 
standing Herr  Frey tag's  endeavour  to 
secure  justice  for  his  friend,  it  would 
seem  as  if  comparatively  few,  even  in 
Germany,  know  or  appreciate  the 
share  that  Baudissin  took  in  the  trans- 
lation of  Shakespeare.  Dr.  Kluge,  in 
his  '  History  of  German  National  Lite- 
rature/ does  indeed  set  forth  the  fact 
that  the  nineteen  plays  which  pass 
under  Tieck' s  name  were  but  revised 
by  him,  and  really  translated  by 
Baudissin  and  Dorothea.  But  in 
truth,  where  lesser  names  are  mingled 
with  greater  in  a  work  of  this  kind, 
they  must  surely  be  absorbed  and 
forgotten  in  them.  Pope's  Homer  is 
a  familiar  word  enough;  but  the  names 
of  Fenton  and  Broome,  who  translated 
twelve  books  of  the  '  Odyssey '  for  Pope, 
are  forgotten.  For  this  they  have, 
perhaps,  only  themselves  to  thank,  for, 
as  Johnson  remarks,  readers  of  poetry 
have  never  been  able  to  distinguish 
their  work  from  Pope's ;  and  the  same 
perhaps  holds  good  of  Baudissin  in 
relation  to  Tieck.  But  it  is  to  be 
noticed  that,  whereas  Tieck  made  no 
word  of  acknowledgment  to  his  part- 
ner, Pope,  on  the  other  hand,  took 
particular  care  to  immortalise  Broome 
in  the  '  Dunciad '  (marking  "  very  dis- 
tinctly "  in  a  note  the  payment 
made  to  him  for  his  help),  and  Broome 
and  Fenton  alike  in  the  oft-quoted 
letter  on  Fenton's  death. 

Shakespeare  completed  for  others, 
Baudissin  now  began  to  work  for  him- 
self. He  had  determined  to  translate 
for  his  own  use  all  that  were  to  be 
found  of  the  works  of  Shakespeare's 
dramatic  contemporaries  ;  and  a  pub- 
lisher having  expressed  his  readiness 
to  make  the  translation  public,  there 
appeared,  this  time  in  his  own  name, 
two  volumes  entitled  *  Ben  Jonson  and 

No.  314. — VOL.  LIII. 


his  School'  (1836),  containing  the  fol- 
lowing plays  :  '  The  Alchemist '  and 
*  The  Devil  is  an  Ass  '  of  Ben  Jonson  j 
'The  Spanish  Curate'  and  'The  Elder 
Brother '  of  Fletcher  ;  ' The  Fatal 
Dowry '  of  Massinger  and  Field  '  and 
'  The  Duke  of  Milan/  '  A  New  Way 
to  Pay  Old  Debts/  and  'The  City 
Madam/  of  Massinger.  For  this 
work  he  received  for  the  first  time 
money  earned  by  his  pen,  which 
greatly  delighted  him.  His  skill  is 
fully  displayed  therein,  not  only  by 
the  masterly  way  in  which  he  has  over- 
come the  many  difficulties  of  language 
and  of  obscure  references  to  contem- 
porary events,  but  also  by  the  distinc- 
tion which  he  has  maintained  between 
the  style  and  language  of  the  different 
poets.  And  his  triumph  was  the 
greater,  inasmuch  as  Schlegel  had  de- 
clared a  translation  of  Ben  Jonson 
and  the  dramatists  of  his  school  to 
be  impracticable.  But  very  shortly 
after,  the  death  of  his  wife  destroyed 
all  pride  and  pleasure  in  his  work, 
and  for  the  next  few  years  prevented 
any  new  undertaking.  He  sought  re- 
lief in  a  long  journey  through  Greece, 
and  in  1840,  having  married  again, 
he  began  his  literary  labours  anew. 

He  had  at  various  times  made  care- 
ful study  of  the  language  of  the  Ger- 
man poetry  of  the  Middle  Ages  (mittel 
hoch  deutsch),  and  in  1845  and  1848  he 
published  translations  into  modern 
German  of  two  old  chivalric  poems,  the 
'  Iwein'  of  Hartmann  von  Aue,  and  the 
'Wigalois  '  of  Wirnt  von  Gravenberg. 
The  peculiar  difficulty  of  such  a  trans- 
lation lies  in  the  different  signification 
attached  to  the  same  word  in  the  two 
dialects,  and  this  he  was  able  success- 
fully to  conquer.  Then  the  work  was 
again  interrupted  by  the  tumults  of 
the  year  1848.  Holstein  rose  against 
the  Danish  headship,  and  Baudissin, 
whom  an  anticipation  of  this  struggle 
had  severed  from  Denmark  thirty 
years  before,  took  up  the  cause  with 
warmth.  His  brother  Otto  was  one 
of  the  leaders  of  the  armed  revolt,  and 
he  himself  could  spare  no  time  from 
political  correspondence  and  journalism 


114 


A  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


for  his  beloved  music  and  the  more  im- 
portant work  which  was  his  chiefest 
delight.  The  times  were  full  of  anxiety 
for  him,  and  called  for  great  sacri- 
fices ;  but  none  the  less  were  they  of 
true  gain  and  advantage.  Hitherto 
inclined  to  view  every  democratic 
movement  with  distrust,  he  read  the 
lesson  aright,  and  became  henceforth 
a  staunch  and  enlightened  Liberal. 

It  was  not  until  the  year  1857  that 
he  betook  himself  again  to  his  transla- 
tions, when  he  published  his  first  and 
only  work  in  prose,  *  The  Biographical 
Essays  of  Don  Manuel  Josef  Quintana, 
rendered  from  the  Spanish.'  This 
done,  after  first  translating  Ponsard's 
'  L'Honneur  et  1' Argent/  in  order  to 
test  his  powers,  he  began  in  1865  the 
translation  of  Moliere.  It  was  at  first 
his  intention  to  publish  one  volume 
only  of  selected  plays,  but  even  in  his 
seventy-fifth  year  delight  in  the  work 
carried  him  away,  and  by  1867  he  was 
ready  with  his  second  great  gift  to  the 
German  theatre — a  complete  transla- 
tion of  Moliere.  Of  this  it  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  it  is  the  standard 
text  of  the  German  stage ;  but  it  is 
curious  to  note  that  some  German 
critics  have  found  fault  with  it 
on  the  ground  that  the  iambic  of 
the  German  drama  is  employed 
throughout  instead  of  the  alexan- 
drines of  the  original.  The  result  that 
would  follow  from  the  admission  of 
the  principle  implied  in  this  criticism 
may  easily  be  seen  ;  but  the  criticism 
is  especially  remarkable  as  coming 
from  a  people  which  has  but  compara- 
tively recently  freed  itself  from  the 
bondage  of  French  literary  canons,  and 
has  not  yet  ceased  to  rejoice  in  its  free- 
dom. In  any  case  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  the  German  actors  are 
thankful  for  being  spared  the  necessity 
of  declaiming  in  a  metre  utterly  unsuit- 
able to  the  genius  of  the  German 
language. 

Moliere  thus  happily  completed, 
Baudissin  went  on  next  to  the  '  Pro- 
verbes  Dramatiques  '  of  Leclerq,  pub- 
lishing in  1875  two  volumes — '  Dra- 
matische  Sprichworter '  von  Carmontel 


und  Th.  Leclerq.  From  this  he 
passed  on  with  enthusiasm  to  the 
translation  of  three  plays  by  Francois 
Coppee — an  enthusiasm  increased  by 
personal  knowledge  of  the  French 
poet  who  had  spent  some  time 
with  him  as  his  guest  at  Rantzau. 
Baudissin' s  last  printed  work  was  a 
single  volume,  '  Italienisches  Theater/ 
containing  translations  of  plays'  by 
Gozzi,  Goldoni,  Giraud,  and  del  Testa. 
These  had  been  his  delight  in  youth, 
and  now  at  the  age  of  eighty-eight 
he  was  able  not  only  still  to  enjoy 
them  himself,  but  to  give  others  a 
share  in  his  enjoyment. 

Thus  the  years  passed  away  in  quiet 
earnest  work  ;  the  summers  spent  at 
Rantzau,  the  winters  at  Dresden.  Nor 
did  literary  labours  make  him  forgetful 
of  his  duties  to  his  tenants  in  Holstein. 
Towards  them  and  his  other  depen- 
dents his  relation  was  almost  patri- 
archal ;  and  though  in  times  of  trouble 
and  excitement  (whereof  so  long  a  life 
could  not  but  have  its  share)  he  did 
not  escape  experience  of  ingratitude, 
yet  in  the  main  his  friendliness  met 
with  its  due  reward  of  thankfulness 
and  love.  Once,  in  a  bad  season,  he 
refused  to  take  from  a  farmer  his  full 
rent,  but  the  latter  would  not  hear  of 
such  a  thing.  "  A  bargain  is  a  bar- 
gain," he  said,  and  paid  in  full. 
Another  farmer  lost  by  fire  a  large 
barn,  well  stored,  and,  the  fire  being 
no  fault  of  his,  the  loss  (over  one 
thousand  pounds),  which  was  only 
partially  covered  by  insurance,  fell 
on  the  landlord.  One  day  this 
farmer  came  to  Baudissin,  and  said, 
"  This  won't  do,  Herr  Graf ;  perhaps 
the  hay  was  a  bit  damp.  I  must 
pay  my  half  of  the  loss,  for  I  can- 
not rest  till  I  do."  Yet  another 
tenant,  on  the  renewal  of  his  lease, 
made  the  suggestion  (usually  left  to 
landlords)  that,  as  times  were  improved, 
his  rent  should  be  raised  ;  and  one  old 
peasant  wrote  to  Dresden  and  begged 
the  Herr  Graf  to  come  a  little  earlier 
than  usual  to  Rantzau,  as  he  was 
going  to  celebrate  his  golden  wedding. 
Whereupon,  needless  to  say,  Baudissin 


A   Translator  of  Shakespeare. 


115 


altered  his    plans    on   purpose  to   be 
present. 

Such  being  the  terms  on  which  he 
lived  with  those  inferior  to  him  in 
station,  it  is  not  difficult  to  conceive 
the  respect  and  affection  which 
his  friends  in  Dresden  had  for  him. 
It  was  natural  that  a  younger 
generation  should  be  attracted  to 
one  who  had  lived  among  the  giants 
of  old  time ;  who  had  listened  to 
Schiller  and  Goethe,  and  been  the 
friend  of  August  Schlegel  and  Madame 
de  Stael ;  who  had  met  the  fugitives 
from  Jena,  and  lived  to  see  the 
triumph  of  Sedan;  who  had  entered 
Paris  with  the  allies  in  1814,  and 
hailed  the  news  of  the  German  entry 
in  1871 ;  who  when  first  he  set  out  for 
Dresden,  knew  it  as  the  head-quarters 
of  the  first  Napoleon,  and  saw  it  at 
last,  after  Koniggratz  and  Sedan,  the 
capital  of  a  province  in  a  united 
German  Empire.  Yet  there  was 
greater  attraction  than  this  in  the 
extraordinary  amiability  and  modesty 
of  the  man.  Highly  cultivated,  gifted 
with  keen  perception  of  artistic  and 
scientific  excellence,  he  could  be  appre- 
ciative without  being  patronising ;  and 
though  he  shrank  from  all  that  was 
base  and  wrong,  he  had  the  widest 
sympathy  for  human  failing  and 
human  misfortune.  He  was  not  one 
of  those  who  thought  that  each 
generation  was  inferior  to  that  which 
preceded  it ;  but  at  the  age  of  seventy 
or  eighty  years,  his  mind  unfettered 
and  unexhausted  by  the  thought  and 
action  of  an  earlier  time,  he  watched 
the  creation  and  development  of  new 


things  with  as  lively  an  interest  as 
at  twenty.  His  conversion  to  Lib- 
eralism in  politics  has  already  been 
noticed,  and  in  respect  of  art  and 
literature  his  feelings  were  the  same. 
No  one  more  readily  recognised  the 
merit  of  rising  young  poets  or  painters, 
with  whom  he  sympathised,  as  one  of 
their  own  age,  in  the  struggle  for  suc- 
cess ;  and  this  without  losing  one  jot 
of  his  love  for  the  masterpieces  of  the 
past.  He  could  wander  through  the 
Dresden  Gallery  for  the  hundredth 
time  with  ever-increasing  delight,  and 
in  the  very  last  year  of  his  life  a 
quartette  of  Mozart's  exercised  the 
same  entrancing  influence  as  of  old. 

So  this  gentle  life,  so  stormily 
begun,  drew  peacefully  to  its  close. 
Almost  to  the  last  his  health,  his 
faculties,  his  capacity  for  enjoyment, 
his  power  of  work,  nay,  his  very  hand- 
writing, remained  unshaken  and  un- 
changed. Even  at  the  last,  the 
growing  infirmities  of  age  could  not 
impair  his  cheerfulness  and  amenity. 
Only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  his 
eyesight  beginning  to  fail,  he  sought 
for  one  well  acquainted  with  French 
and  English  through  whose  help  he 
might  continue  the  work  in  which  he 
delighted ;  but  a  choice  was  hardly 
made  when  his  work  was  closed  for 
ever  by  death. 

He  died  on  the  fourth  of  April, 
1878,  leaving  a  name  which  will  ever 
hold  an  honourable  place  among  the 
greatest  of  those  who  have  laboured 
to  bring  home  the  poetry  of  foreign 
nations  to  the  great  German  people. 


116 


CHURCH  AUTHORITY:  ITS  MEANING  AND  VALUE.1 


LET  us  try  and  clear  the  ground  a 
little.  We  will  therefore  first  ask  : 
"  The  authority  of  the  Church  on  what 
subjects?" 

Setting  aside  exploded  ideas,  such 
as  the  authority  of  the  Church  to 
enforce  discipline  or  moral  laws  on 
the  world,  these  subjects  may  be 
divided,  as  a  first  approximation,  into 
three  classes. 

There  may  (or  may  not)  be  an 
authority  which  deals  with  (1)  dis- 
puted questions  relating  to  the  history 
of  the  Bible  and  of  Christianity :  for 
instance,  the  criticism  and  historical 
veracity  of  the  Bible  \  the  history  of 
the  canon;  the  study  of  the  remains 
of  Christian  antiquity  ;  in  a  word,  the 
nature  of  the  materials  for  the  history 
of  our  religion. 

(2)  Disputed   questions  relating  to 
what  we  may  call  the  more   or  less 
formulated  doctrines  of  Christianity, 
inferred  from,   rather  than  explicitly 
stated  in,  the  Bible. 

(3)  All  that  relates  to  Church  go- 
vernment   and  discipline,    and  ritual 
and  finance. 

We  will  briefly  refer  to  these  divi- 
sions as  criticism,  theology,  business. 
It  is  plain  that  these  subjects  are  so 
different  that  it  is  mere  confusion  of 
thought  to  class  them  together. 

Next,  "What  do  we  mean  by 
authority  ?  "  Here  there  is  an  obvious 
ambiguity. 

There  is  (1)  the  preponderant  weight 
we  assign  to  the  learning  and  judg- 
ment of  men  whose  veracity  and 
impartiality  we  trust.  We  speak  of 
the  authority  of  a  scholar  like  Light- 
foot.  It  is  not,  however,  an  authority 
in  the  sense  that  it  demands  obedi- 

1  A  paper  read  at  a  clerical  meeting  in 
Bristol,  July  6,  1885,  as  a  basis  for  discussion. 


ence ;  it  only  demands  respect  and 
consideration. 

There  is  (2)  another  sort  of  autho- 
rity. There  are  men  with  an  un- 
rivalled genius  for  holiness  ;  men 
refined  by  prayer  and  unflinching 
devotion  to  duty,  and  therefore  gifted 
with  a  singular  delicacy  of  touch  and 
insight,  with  a  true  inspiration  of 
God's  Holy  Spirit.  We  feel  in  them 
our  best  selves  :  we  feel  that  they  are 
nearer  to  God  than  we  are :  their 
words  have  an  authority.  Still,  this 
is  not  an  authority  which  commands 
obedience :  it  silently  appeals  for 
respect  and  love.  It  is  compatible 
with  error. 

There  is  (3)  yet  another  authority 
which  does  command  obedience,  which 
has  the  power  of  enforcing  itself.  The 
Church,  acting  through  its  defined 
powers,  has  authority.  The  Bishop 
may  suspend  for  defined  offences  in 
virtue  of  his  "  authority." 

Once  more,  these  kinds  of  authority 
are  so  different  that  they  can  only 
be  taken  together  by  confusion  of 
thought. 

Let  us  call  them  the  authority  of 
learning,  of  holiness,  and  of  law. 

Happily,  it  is  not  necessary  to  define 
what  we  mean  by  the  Church  for  the 
purposes  of  the  present  essay.  One 
meaning  we  can  point  out  in  passing. 
The  Church  of  England,  "  as  by  law 
established,"  has  unquestioned  autho- 
rity in  certain  matters  of  discipline 
and  ritual.  The  disciplinary  functions 
of  Church  Courts  and  Bishops  are  not 
wholly  suspended.  The  Church  has  the 
authority  of  law  in  matters  of  disci- 
pline. 

So  far  is  easy.  The  more  difficult 
question  is,  "  Has  the  Church,  what- 
ever the  Church  is,  an  authority  of 


Church  Authority :  its  Meaning  and    Value. 


117 


learning  to  decide  matters  of  criticism ; 
or  of  holiness  and  inspiration  to  pro- 
nounce authoritatively  in  matters  of 
doctrine  or  of  conduct  ? " 

Do  not  let  us  confuse  these  two — 
the  authorities  of  learning  in  criticism, 
and  of  holiness  or  insjnration  in  theo- 
logy or  conduct. 

There  are  many  questions  before 
the  world  which  are  purely  matters 
of  learning.  When  was  the  Book  of 
Deuteronomy  written  1  By  what  route 
did  Israel  come  out  of  Egypt  ?  What 
is  the  origin  of  the  Gospels'?  What 
was  the  relation  of  the  agape  and  the 
Eucharist?  What  is  the  value  of 
Codex  B 1  These,  and  an  infinite 
number  of  such  questions,  are  ques- 
tions of  learning  and  criticism ;  they 
are  questions  as  to  matters  of  fact ; 
they  are  not  questions  of  religion  or 
conduct. 

Now,  the  question  is  an  intelligible 
one,  and  admits  of  a  positive  answer  : 
"  Has  the  Church,  in  any  sense  of  the 
word,  authority  to  decide  these  ques- 
tions ?  Is  it  possible  that  matters  of 
fact  can  be  decided  by  authority?" 
Now,  it  is  a  matter  of  fact,  one  way 
or  the  other,  whether,  for  example,  the 
Masoretic  text  of  Samuel  is  as  old  as 
the  LXX. ;  whether  an  axehead  ever 
floated  on  water ;  and  whether  St. 
Paul  wrote  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews. 
Could  any  past  consensus  of  opinion 
on  these  points  decide  them  ?  Might 
it  not  have  been  wrong?  These  are 
as  much  matters  of  fact  as  whether 
the  earth  is  round  or  flat.  Let  us 
never  forget  that  there  was  a  time 
when  it  was  pronounced  to  be  "  a 
shame  in  a  Christian  man  even  so 
much  as  to  mention  the  antipodes." 
St.  Ambrose  and  St.  Basil  were,  I 
believe,  exceptions  among  the  fathers 
in  the  liberality  of  their  views  on  this 
point.  They  were  brave  enough  to 
defy  public  opinion,  and  to  declare 
that  a  correct  belief  in  the  antipodes 
was  not  necessary  to  salvation.  Men 
made  the  mistake  then,  which  con- 
fused thinkers  make  now,  of  asserting 
on  authority  about  matters  of  fact. 


The  Copernican  theory,  the  Darwinian 
theory,  the  Straussian  theory,  most  of 
our  disputed  questions,  are  questions 
as  to  matters  of  fact.  Now,  the  result 
of  the  last  four  hundred  years  of  growth 
of  the  human  mind  is  that  we  now  at 
last  know  that  matters  of  fact  are  not 
decided  by  authority.  They  are  settled 
by  evidence,  and  by  reason.  Can  this 
be  seriously  disputed  ?  The  scientific 
mind  is  unable  to  conceive  how  a 
question  as  to  a  matter  of  fact  can  be 
settled  by  authority. 

The  Church,  therefore,  has  no  autho- 
rity to  decide  questions  of  learning 
and  criticism,  or  matters  of  fact. 

Now  remains  the  other  less  explored 
region  into  which  we  must  penetrate. 
What  do  we  mean  by  saying  that  "  the 
Church  hath  authority  in  controversies 
of  faith "  ?  Here  we  seem  to  be  on 
solid  ground,  for  this  is  one  of  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles. 

No  doubt  most  of  my  hearers  know 
the  history  of  these  famous  words,  as 
given  by  Bishop  Browne.  I  suppose 
we  owe  them  to  no  less  profound  a 
theologian  than  Queen  Elizabeth 
herself.  She  is  said  to  have  refused 
to  sign  the  articles  as  drafted  and 
signed  by  the  two  Houses  of  Convo- 
cation until  these  words  were  added. 
Convocation  seems  to  have  submitted 
to  her  will,  and  accepted  the  authority 
for  the  Church.  Some  may  think  it 
is  a  slightly  Erastian  origin  for  the 
power  claimed ;  others  may  think  it 
defines  those  powers.  But  we  will  not 
look  a  gift-horse  in  the  mouth. 

The  words,  however,  are  not  free 
from  ambiguities.  There  is  not  only 
the  plain  difference  between  the  fides 
quce  creditur  and  the  fides  qua  creditur  ; 
but  even  when  we  agree  that  it  is  the 
first  of  these  that  is  intended,  an 
ambiguity  remains. 

The  words  may  mean,  "  There  is  a 
perennial  association  of  men,  in  legiti- 
mate possession  of  the  property  be- 
queathed to  the  Church,  charged  with 
the  duty  of  teaching  and  preaching 
God's  Word,  and  of  administering  the 
Sacraments  and  other  Christian  rites. 


118 


Church  Authority :  its  Meaning  and   Value. 


This  association  has,  under  certain 
limitations,  the  power  of  deciding  from 
time  to  time  on  the  qualifications  for 
membership.  These  qualifications  con- 
sist in  the  profession  of  certain  beliefs, 
and  the  conformity  to  certain  customs. 
This  association  or  Church  can  define 
those  beliefs  and  prescribe  those 
customs  subject  to  the  limitation  that 
nothing  shall  be  contrary  to  God's 
Word  written." 

This  is  one  meaning.  The  Church 
can  declare,  not  that  this  or  that  is 
true,  but  that  to  believe  this  or  that, 
to  act  thus  or  thus,  is  the  condition  of 
membership,  and  of  enjoying  the 
emoluments  and  immunities  it  brings, 
or  professes  to  bring. 

We  will  call  this  authority  declara- 
tory of  t/ie  terms  of  membership.  The 
Church  has  this  authority. 

Now  this  is  probably  what  Elizabeth 
meant,  and  what  Convocation  accepted, 
if  they  did  accept  this  clause ;  but  it 
is  not  the  sense  in  which  we  ordinarily 
now  quote  the  words.  We  think  of  a 
Church  older  than  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles  ;  and  we  mean  by  its  authority 
a  power  resident  somewhere,  not  to 
declare  conditions  of  membership,  but 
to  ascertain  and  declare  theological 
truth.  This  is  a  totally  different 
thing. 

The  real  question  then  at  last  is 
this.  We  believe — I  suppose  we  all 
believe — that  there  is  disseminated 
among  all  individuals,  and  all  branches 
of  the  Church  of  Christ,  some  illumi- 
nation in  spiritual  truth,  as  the  result 
of  the  influence  on  us  of  the  Holy 
Spirit.  At  any  rate,  this  is  my  firm 
conviction.  I  have  no  belief  more 
fundamental  than  that  God  guides  the 
reason  and  spirit  of  His  faithful  ser- 
vants. 

Does  there,  then,  exist — did  there 
ever  exist — any  means  for  so  focussing 
this  illumination  as  to  produce  a  per- 
fect light  ?  If  any  method  existed  for 
collecting,  if  I  may  use  the  expression, 
the  sparks  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in  the 
hearts  of  all  Christians,  till  they  com- 
bined into  a  perfect  and  heavenly 


flame ;  any  celestial  chemistry  which 
should  separate  the  fragments  of  the 
divine  in  us  from  the  masses  of  the 
earthly,  the  result  would  be  an 
"  authority  "  for  ascertaining  and  de- 
claring spiritual  truth. 

The  ages  have  made  several  answers 
to  this  question.  They  have  frequently 
said  that  (Ecumenical  Councils  were 
such  a  focussing,  such  a  chemistry. 
They  have  said  that  it  was  possible 
once  before  the  great  schism,  but  is 
impossible  now. 

If  any  one  thinks  that  it  was  pos- 
sible once,  and  is  impossible  now,  let 
him  read  Church  History  in  some 
detail ;  let  him  read  the  Acts  of  the 
Council  of  Chalcedon. 

The  truth  is,  that  such  a  process  is 
impossible.  There  exists  no  such 
method  of  focussing,  no  such  celestial 
chemistry.  We  cannot  separate  the 
human  from  the  divine  in  man. 

It  is  the  old  fallacy.  On  a  priori 
grounds,  men  think  that  God  must 
govern  the  world  and  the  Church  as 
they  themselves  would  govern  it,  by 
giving  them  an  infallible  Pope,  a 
verbally  inspired  Bible,  an  unerring 
voice  of  the  Church.  We  had  better 
study  what  is,  instead  of  deciding 
what  must  and  ought  to  be.  There 
are  spots  on  the  sun,  though  it  was 
declared  to  be  impossible  there  should 
be  :  the  earth  is  round  :  the  earth  does 
move.  When  a  man  argues  that  so 
and  so  must  be  the  case — that  it  stands 
to  reason  it  must  be  the  case — it 
•always  means  that  he  averts  his  eyes 
from  facts.  He  prefers  to  tell  us 
what  he  thinks  God  ought  to  do.  I 
prefer  patiently  to  try  and  find  out 
what  God  has  done  and  is  doing.  This 
is  the  method  of  science,  and  is  adopted 
by  those  who  desire,  above  all  things, 
to  see  things  as  they  are.  I  think  it 
is  the  reverent  method. 

But  perhaps  some  one  will  say,  there 
is  an  authority ;  but  it  resides  not  in 
Pope,  nor  Councils,  nor  letter  of  the 
Bible  :  it  resides  in  the  consensus  of 
Catholic  antiquity  ;  and  he  will  quote 
the  Yincentian  rule.  This  is  equally 


Church  Authority:  its  Meaning  and   Value. 


119 


illusory,  and  specially  so  if  applied 
only  to  the  past.  I  do  not  deny,  as 
will  be  seen  presently,  the  enormous 
moral  weight  of  widespread  and  long- 
lasting  agreement,  but  that  such  moral 
weight  is  ejusdem  generis  with  a  final 
authority  from  which  there  is  no  ap- 
peal, this  I  deny.  Not  only  did  no 
such  consensus  ever  exist ;  not  only,  if 
it  did  exist,  would  it  fail  to  indicate 
more  than  the  opinion  that  prevailed 
at  the  time  ;  not  only  would  all  sorts 
of  errors  and  crimes  find  in  the  Yin- 
centian  rule  a  strong  support  ;  but  it 
is  fundamentally  opposed  to  the  charter 
of  the  Church.  That  charter  is,  that 
the  Church  is  alive,  a  living  body 
with  Christ  as  its  head,  and  subject 
to  the  laws  of  life  and  growth.  The 
Yincentian  rule,  if  limited  to  the  past, 
unintentionally  strangles  that  life.  It 
says,  You  shall  not  be  led  into  all 
truth ;  you  shall  not  advance  beyond 
such  and  such  a  century.  Now,  to 
one  who,  like  myself,  believes  that  the 
Holy  Spirit  is  training  and  guiding 
and  shining  on  the  whole  Church  of 
Christ,  that  the  whole  world  of  man  is 
growing  and  shall  grow  to  the  stature 
of  the  fulness  of  Christ,  that  the  very 
best  of  us  has  but  imperfectly  grasped 
the  meaning  of  Christ's  words  and 
life,  and  that  the  Spirit  of  God  will 
make  that  life  and  those  words  better 
understood — to  one  who  holds  this 
faith,  any  such  notions  as  that  growth 
is  to  be  strangled  by  an  imaginary 
consensus  of  the  past,  the  living  heart 
stopped  by  the  dead  hand,  are  mon- 
strous, and  a  falsehood  to  be  repudiated 
with  all  his  might. 

But  a  belief  widely  held  always  has 
some  truth  in  it.  What  is  the  truth 
in  this] 

The  truth  is  that  there  exists  a  dif- 
fused and  daily  growing  illumination 
in  a  Christian  society ;  on  the  whole, 
the  verdict  of  a  Christian  community 
is  not  far  wrong — what  they  bind  or 
loose  on  earth,  is  bound  or  loosed  in 
heaven. 

These  verdicts  are  not  only  on  ques- 
tions of  right  and  wrong.  On  these 


the  Christian  conscience,  give  it  time 
enough,  will  pronounce  right.  It  has 
pronounced  against  impurity,  against 
slavery,  against  religious  persecution ; 
it  is  slowly  making  up  its  mind  on 
other  subjects.  There  is  a  slowly 
working  divine  chemistry  which  finally 
crystallises  out  the  truth. 

But  even  on  questions  of  criticism 
and  doctrine,  within  certain  limits, 
securus  judicat  orbis.  The  formation 
of  the  Canon — that  is,  the  selection 
from  the  fragments  of  early  Christian 
writings  of  such  as  should  be  deemed 
Canonical — was  such  a  popular  judg- 
ment. The  vox  populi  sifted  the 
literature;  the  vox  concilii  did  but 
confirm  the  verdict  of  the  people.  The 
real  authority  was  the  diffused  voice 
of  Christian  men.  Our  Prayer  Book 
is  similarly  the  result  of  the  verdict  of 
a  later  Christendom  :  it  is  the  concen- 
trated essence  of  the  devotion  and  the 
inspiration  of  fifteen  Christian  cen- 
turies. 

The  moral  authority  of  an  approxi- 
mate consensus  in  the  past  is  a  real  and 
great  thing :  it  resides  in  the  fact  of 
some  opinion  having  prevailed  in  the 
struggle.  It  was  the  fittest  for  the 
human  mind  then ;  it  does  not  follow 
that  it  is  the  fittest  now.  The  hetero- 
doxy of  one  age  sometimes  becomes  the 
orthodoxy  of  another.  It  may  have  been 
but  the  schoolmaster  to  bring  men  to 
Christ.  But  the  proved  fitness  of  any 
opinion  in  the  past,  or  in  another  level 
of  thought  in  the  present,  will  make  us 
hesitate  long  before  we  abandon  it, 
still  longer  before  we  denounce  it.  We 
can  only  abandon  it  for  a  wider  appli- 
cation of  the  Yincentian  rule,  when, 
as  in  the  phrase  sine  dubio  in  ceternum 
peribunt,  it  conflicts  with  the  moral 
sense  of  Christendom.  We  can  only 
denounce  it  when  it  poisons  as  well  as 
weakens  spiritual  life. 

I  can  now  briefly  sum  up  : 
Authority,  in  the  sense  of  power  to 
transact  business,  is  possessed  by  every 
Church. 

Authority,  in  the    sense    of   declar- 
ing the  tenets  and  other  conditions  of 


120 


Church  Authority :  its  Meaning  and  Value. 


is  possessed  by  every 
Church. 

Autliority  to  decide  questions  of  learn- 
ing or  of  fact  in  the  past,  there  is  none 
anywhere  ;  and  further  it  may  be 
added  that  such  matters  of  fact  and 
of  learning  are  not  and  cannot  be 
religion,  though  for  a  time  men  may 
think  they  are. 

Authority  to  ascertain  dogma — that 
is,  to  give  a  divinely  inspired  and  final 
decision  on  a  speculative  question,  not 
as  a  condition  of  membership,  but  as  an 
absolute  truth — there  is  none,  and  has 
been  none.  The  diffused  illumination 
of  the  Christian  world  canDot  be  so 
focussed.  The  growth  of  pious  thought 
cannot  be  anticipated.  But  there  is  a 
power  resident  in  the  Christian  world 


as  a  whole  to  decide  right  at  last. 
Misconceptions  of  God  do  not  last  for 
ever. 

Authority  on  questions  of  right  and 
wrong — absolute  there  is  none,  ap- 
proximate there  is,  in  the  growing 
consensus  of  the  total  Christian  society, 
and  especially  of  those  who  have  the 
gift  of  holiness  and  the  graces  of  the 
Spirit.  Tnis  absolutely  adds  to  the 
known  ethical  and  spiritual  truths  of 
the  world. 

Such  seem  to  me  to  be  the  facts. 
Thus  God  sees  fit  to  educate  His 
Church.  It  is  vain  to  wish  it  were 
otherwise,  to  dream  that  it  is  other- 
wise. We  must  look  at  the  facts. 

J.  M.  WILSON. 


121 


A    WALK    IN   THE    FAROES. 


"  ME  not  much  Engelsk.     Money  this, 
and  grub  this.     Other  thing,  so ! " 

I  had  engaged  a  man  to  guide  me 
over  the  hills  to  the  old  seat  of  eccle- 
siastical rule  in  the  Faroe  Islands, 
and  the  above  speech  was  in  answer 
to  my  inquiry  about  his  linguistic 
capacity.  He  was  a  little  man  with 
much  eyebrow,  a  short  beard  that 
curled  in  the  front  as  decidedly  as  a 
fish-hook,  and  a  nose  somewhat  sus- 
piciously rubicund.  On  the  strength 
of  his  engagement  by  "the  English- 
man "  as  walking  companion  for  a 
certain  number  of  hours,  he  had 
assumed  a  dignity  of  manner  that 
made  him  look  ridiculously  con- 
ceited, and  had,  moreover,  put  on 
his  best  clothes,  and  washed  himself 
at  an  unusual  hour  of  the  day. 
They  had  told  me  that  his  English 
was  quite  phenomenally  good,  and  that 
I  should  be  as  much  at  home  with  him 
as  with  my  own  brother.  But,  for 
the  former,  I  found  he  had  little  more 
vocabulary  than  the  words  above-men- 
tioned, which  he  pronounced  diaboli- 
cally :  while,  for  the  rest,  I  felt  not 
very  fraternally  towards  him  at  first 
sight.  He  illustrated  his  utterance  by 
producing  a  five-pre  copper  coin ;  by 
opening  his  mouth  and  pointing  down 
his  throat  with  one  of  his  thumbs  ;  and 
by  jerking  his  head  like  one  habituated 
to  dram-drinking.  Still,  I  had  no 
right  to  think  evil  of  my  friend, 
Olaus  Jackson,  merely  because  he 
seemed  to  have  bibulous  propensities ; 
and,  without  more  delay  than  was  ex- 
acted by  the  need  to  take  a  ceremo- 
nious farewell  of  some  Thorshavn  ac- 
quaintance who  thought  my  projected 
walk  only  another  proof  that  all  Eng- 
lishmen were  conundrums,  Olaus  and 
I  set  forth,  he  leading,  with  his  head 
very  high,  and  holding  his  alpenstock 
as  gracefully  as  if  he  had  been  born  a 
beadle  instead  of  a  Faroe  man. 


A  word  about  my  man's  dress, 
which  was  the  characteristic  Faroe 
costume.  On  his  head  (to  begin  at 
the  top)  he  wore  a  red  and  black 
striped  turban,  about  a  foot  in  height, 
which  fell  to  his  left  ear.  His  body 
was  swathed  in  a  copious  brown  wool- 
len tunic,  too  large  for  him,  yet  padded 
with  underclothing  so  as  to  make  him 
look  almost  formidably  robust.  Faroe 
pantaloons  of  blue  cloth  covered  his 
legs  to  the  knees,  where  they  were  at- 
tached by  four  or  five  gay  gilt  buttons. 
His  calves  were  shown  in  all  their 
symmetry  by  the  brown  hose  which 
ended  in  his  moccasins  of  untanned 
cowskin  tied  round  the  ankles  by 
strings  of  white  wool.  Lastly,  to 
protect  his  precious  throat,  Olaus  wore 
a  woollen  scarf  of  red,  green  and 
blue,  which,  having  circumvented  that 
part-  of  him  an  indefinite  number  of 
times,  stuffed  the  rest  of  its  long 
length  within  his  tunic,  where  it 
helped  to  swell  the  magnitude  of  his 
chest. 

Truly,  he  was  a  majestic  object  com- 
pared with  those  others  of  his  com- 
patriots who,  not  being  so  fortunate  as 
to  know  English,  had  no  chance  of  such 
an  engagement  as  his,  and  were  there- 
fore compelled  to  crawl  along  the  rugged 
track  out  of  the  town,  in  their  dirtiest 
rags,  bent  double  by  the  loads  of  peat 
upon  their  backs.  But  Olaus  was 
too  wise  in  his  generation  to  risk 
conversation  with  me  in  the  presence 
of  his  neighbours ;  he  strutted  ahead, 
and  quickened  his  pace  whenever  I 
came  within  six  feet  of  him. 

Thus  we  proceeded  through  Thors- 
havn, an  attraction  for  all  eyes.  As 
we  climbed  the  rude  rock  stairs, 
stained  black  with  the  ooze  of  much 
drainage  matter,  little  children  with 
bronzed  cheeks,  flaxen  hair  and 
Saxon  blue  eyes  clasped  each  other's 
hands,  and  stood  aside  on  the  tips  of 


122 


A   Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


their  wooden  sabots,  while  they  whis- 
pered among  themselves  "  Engdsk- 
mandf"  Housewives  threw  their 
brooms  into  a  corner,  or  left  the  rolls 
of  fygbrtid  to  grill  by  themselves,  and 
flew  to  the  window  or  door  to  see 
us  pass ;  the  word  had  gone  along  the 
street  that  we  were  coming  half  a  mi- 
nute ago.  One  old  crone,  whose  ninety 
years  were  opposed  to  hurry,  but  not 
to  the  curious  instincts  of  her  nature, 
had  herself  supported  to  the  glass,  be- 
hind which  her  yellow  face,  with  its 
sunken  black  eyes,  gleamed  at  me  like 
something  spectral,  not  human.  Arti- 
sans, straddled  across  the  skeleton 
beams  of  a  house  half  built,  stopped 
their  hammering  and  stared,  until  I 
was  near  enough  for  a  display  of  cour- 
tesy ;  then  off  came  their  caps,  and  a 
civil  "  God  dag  "  whispered  from  the 
roof.  Ladies,  clattering  down  to  the 
stream,  laden  to  their  noses  with 
clothes  for  the  wash,  dropped  their 
burdens  to  the  ground  and  sat  upon 
them,  that  they  might  see  us  at  their 
ease,  and,  with  the  freedom  of  their 
sex,  commented  glibly  on  my  pecu- 
liarities, and  audibly.  School-boys 
conning  their  lessons  as  they  trotted 
to  the  royal  school,  shut  their  books 
and  gaped,  until  we  had  passed, 
when  they  shouted.  In  brief,  we  had 
the  honour  of  causing  a  five-minutes' 
ferment  of  excitement  in  those  parts  of 
Thorshavn  which  we  traversed.  No 
English  gentleman  had  visited  the 
place  for  a  couple  of  years,  and  I 
was  a  recent  arrival.  Conspicuousness 
is  odious  to  a  man  of  sensibility  and 
sense  ;  I  was  therefore  delighted  when 
the  last  "  God  dag  "  was  exchanged, 
the  last  house  of  the  town  was  left 
behind,  and  there  was  nothing  more 
animate  in  front  than  Olaus  and  the 
brown  mountain  tops,  their  sides 
strewn  chaotically  with  countless 
white  boulders,  among  which  the 
white  sheep  browsed  almost  unper- 
ceived.  As  for  Olaus,  no  sooner  were 
we  out  of  the  town  than  he  seemed  to 
shrink ;  and  in  a  little  while  he  had 
sobered  his  pace  until  he  was  abreast 
with  me.  Then,  with  a  squint  of  hu- 


mility, as  if  in  apology  for  his  late 
exhibition  of  pride,  he  informed  me,  in 
an  irregular  mosaic  of  three  languages, 
that  he  was  not  very  well,  but  that  he 
hoped  to  get  something  to  eat  at  the 
conclusion  of  our  walk.  . 

The  weather  at  the  outset  was  not 
bad  for  Faroe.  There  was  cloud  on 
the  hills,  but  the  blue  spaces  aloft,  and 
their  blue  counterparts  on  the  sea  to 
our  left,  were  augury  of  good.  Naalsoe 
Island,  four  miles  away,  lying  straight 
some  seven  or  eight  miles,  and  rising 
to  a  peak  of  twelve  or  thirteen  hundred 
feet,  was  clearly  defined,  and  the  white 
church  of  its  one  town  shone  like  a 
snowball  in  the  distance.  The  sea 
too  was  quiet,  though  breathed  over 
by  a  north-easterly  wind  just  strong 
enough  to  admonish  the  clouds  on  the 
hills  that  they  had  better  go  up  higher. 
But,  ere  we  had  walked  a  mile  along 
the  road,  which  runs  out  from  the  town 
perhaps  twice  as  far,  a  sudden  change 
came  about.  The  wind  shifted  to  the 
rainy  quarter,  to  the  south-west.  In 
ten  minutes  Naalsoe  disappeared  from 
sight.  The  fog  on  the  hills  descended 
and  surrounded  us.  And  Olaus  and  I 
were  soon  treading  dismally  over  wet 
bogs,  through  the  soaked  and  soaking 
heather,  and  rained  on  by  the  clouds 
into  whose  very  hearts  we  were 
methodically  attempting  to  climb. 
Nowhere  is  weather  more  fickle  than 
in  the  Faroes.  And  it  is  not  every  one 
who  can  console  himself,  in  the  midst 
of  a  Faroe  fog,  with  the  reflection  that 
it  is  a  salubrious  if  unwelcome  visita- 
tion. 

Not  a  soul  lives  between  Thorshavn 
and  Kirkeboe,  though  the  distance  is 
some  six  English  miles.  In  the  first 
place  it  is  an  inland  route,  and  there 
is  no  inland  habitation  throughout  the 
Faroes.  All  the  people  are  born,  as  it 
were,  face  to  face  with  the  sea.  And 
the  nature  of  the  country,  sown  as  it 
is  almost  everywhere  with  innumer- 
able  boulders,  offers  little  inducement 
to  farmers.  If  the  sheep  and  small 
horses,  which  are  turned  loose  here- 
abouts to  take  care  of  themselves,  can 
find  herbage  enough  to  sustain  them, 


A  Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


123 


this  is  as  much  as  can  be  expected  from 
the  interior.  While,  secondly,  our 
track  was  mountainous  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  From  one  terrace  of 
shingle  and  hard  rock — the  uniformity 
of  which  was  broken  by  occasional 
tufts  of  vivid  green,  whence  clear 
spring  water  gushed  towards  the 
valleys — we  passed  to  another  similar 
terrace,  and  thence  across  miniature 
desert  plateaux  of  inexpressible  bleak- 
ness and  aridity;  until  we  had  gone 
from  the  east  of  the  island  to  the  west, 
and  could  see,  far  down,  when  the  fog 
lifted,  the  dull,  lead-coloured  sea  be- 
tween Stromo  and  the  islets  of  Hestoe 
and  Kolter.  A  little  later,  and  the 
black  rocks  of  these  isles  were  visible ; 
their  bases  rose  straight  from  the 
water,  but  their  summits,  hidden  in 
the  clouds,  were  as  high  as  the  imagi- 
nation pleased  to  make  them. 

It  was  an  all  but  soundless  walk. 
True,  Olaus,  thanks  to  his  cold,  was 
frequently  obliged  to  clear  his  throat, 
and  he  made  plenty  of  noise  in  the 
exertion.  But  the  echoes  of  his  efforts, 
exaggerated  and  bandied  from  rock  to 
rock,  soon  died  away,  and  left  the  still- 
ness yet  more  still.  Now  and  again  an 
oyster-catcher  would  rise  with  a  scream, 
and  his  scarlet  and  white  plumage 
flash  brightly  through  the  dim  atmo- 
sphere about  us.  But  no  other  birds 
were  about  that  day.  The  fog  seemed  to 
have  sent  all  living  things  to  sleep,  save 
only  Olaus  and  myself.  Yet,  though  the 
air  was  about  half  as  thick  as  that  of 
London  in  November,  there  was  a 
subtle  element  of  exhilaration  about 
it  which  made  the  walk  quite  enjoy- 
able and  enlivening.  1  chanced  to 
have  my  small  five-chambered  revolver 
with  me — a  most  useless  weapon  in  Faroe 
by  the  by,  where  murder  is  an  unknown 
term.  This  I  was  tempted  suddenly  to 
fire,  after  a  rather  long  spell  of  complete 
silence.  The  next  moment  Olaus  was 
by  my  side,  clutching  at  the  thing,  and 
peering  open-mouthed  down  its  barrel, 
careless  of  the  fact  that  one  of  his 
fingers  in  his  excitement  was  pressing 
the  trigger  of  the  yet  loaded  pistol ; 
and  it  was  only  after  much  trouble 


that  I  persuaded  him  to  let  me  put  him 
out  of  reach  of  danger. 

"Had  I  brought  it  to  shoot  him 
with?"  Olaus  inquired,  in  heated 
Danish,  his  red  nose  fiery  with  per- 
turbation and  anxiety.  And  I  could 
only  soothe  him  into  complete  tran- 
quillity by  surrendering  the  revolver 
to  him  and  bidding  him  use  it  himself 
at  anything  he  pleased,  except  myself. 
But  henceforward,  until  we  were  close 
to  the  green  patch  of  cultivated  ground 
between  the  perpendicular  rocks  of  the 
mainland  and  the  sea  itself,  which 
represented  the  old  church  town  of 
Kirkeboe,  I  was  questioned  about 
"the  little  gun,"  whose  fellow  he  had 
never  yet  seen;  its  cost,  its  maker, 
the  number  of  men  I  had  killed  with 
it,  the  degree  of  its  fatality,  my  object 
in  bringing  it  to  Faroe,  &c.  The  re- 
port seemed  to  have  a  most  stimulating 
effect  upon  the  man's  intellect,  for,  in 
quaint  enough  Danish,  he  began  to  tell 
a  tale  about  the  only  man  of  his  ac- 
quaintance who  had  ever  meditated  a 
deed  of  violence. 

"There  was  one  man,  and  he  was 
one  very  angry  man,  and  he  get  in  a 
passion  one  day  and  swear  he  kill 
somebody.  He  go  to  his  home,  and 
first  thing  he  see  is  his  woman  at 
the  quern — she  a  meek  thing  with  no 
spirit ;  and  he  run  at  her,  and  without 
one  word  he  knock  her  down  flat,  and 
she  lie  without  moving,  her  nose  up- 
standing to  the  roof.  Then  this  one 
man  shocked  with  himself,  to  think 
how  near  he  was  to  being  a  slayer  of 
his  wife.  No  man  has  yet  killed  his 
wife  in  Faroe,  and  he  so  near  being 
the  first !  And  all  his  anger  go  out  of 
him  like  the  wind  from  a  bladder  when 
you  untie  the  string.  And  he  bethink 
himself  how  to  keep  himself  from  being 
so  wicked.  He  run  to  the  cupboard 
and  pour  brandy  down  his  woman's 
throat.  And  then  when,  after  a  time, 
she  breathe  freely  and  open  an  eye, 
this  one  man  run  off,  and  down  to  the 
rocks,  and  throw  himself,  all  in  one 
instant,  into  the  sea,  where  he  drown. 
He  not  kill  his  woman  after  that." 
Master  Olaus'  tale  may  stand  on  the 


124 


A  Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


merits  of  its  moral ;  for  its  truth  I  do 
not  vouch. 

From  the  higher  rocks,  still  wrapped 
in  dark  fog,  we  could  see  Kirkeboe 
below  in  the  bright  sunshine.  It  was 
like  looking  at  a  pretty  face  from 
under  the  photographer's  cloth. 
Soon  we  reached  the  first  parallelo- 
gram of  rye  within  the  parish.  Then 
a  dog  began  to  bark  from  a  neigh- 
bouring strip  of  grass  meadow.  A 
second  dog,  nearer  the  knot  of  build- 
ings, took  up  the  cry.  One  man,  cut- 
ting grass  with  a  short-bladed  scythe, 
looked  up  from  his  work,  saw  us, 
whistled  to  another  man  similarly 
engaged,  who,  taking  the  signal,  waved 
his  hand  towards  the  farm,  and  having 
secured  attention  and  done  his  work, 
crossed  his  legs  and  scrutinised  us. 
The  first  man,  in  the  meantime, 
striding  like  a  giant,  had  come  along- 
side Olaus  and  me,  and  opened  a  rapid 
conversation  with  the  former,  of  which 
I  was  the  object  and  illustration,  judg- 
ing from  his  stare  and  Olaus'  gestures. 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  I  asked 
Olaus,  at  length.  They  had  been 
talking  Faroese,  which  is  a  spoken, 
not  a  written,  language,  and  therefore 
a  sad  stumbling-block  for  foreigners. 

"  He  have  never  seen  an  English- 
man before ;  he  is  an  ignorant 
fellow,"  said  Olaus,  at  first  begin- 
ning in  a  tone  quite  loud  enough 
for  the  other  to  hear,  but  ending  in 
a  whisper.  Not  that  the  Kirkeboe 
man  seemed  likely  to  resent  depre- 
ciatory reference  to  him.  He  was 
in  the  throes  of  an  excited  desire 
to  understand  the  composition  of  an 
Englishman,  now  that  Providence  had 
put  such  a  creature  in  his  way.  Having 
examined  the  texture  of  my  clothes, 
and  shaken  his  head  over  the  quality 
of  my  Scotch  tweeds,  he  fell  on  his 
knees  in  a  fervour,  and,  ejaculat- 
ing tremulously,  "  Me — shoemaker  I " 
seized  one  of  my  feet,  and  began 
pinching  and  thumbing  the  leather 
of  my  boot.  Here,  at  any  rate,  was 
something  that  he  approved;  for, 
having  done  with  my  foot,  and  set 
it  tenderly  upon  the  ground  again,  he 


raised  towards  me  a  face  full  of 
depression,  and  shook  his  head 
mournfully,  while  he  murmured, 
"  Brilliant ! " 

It  was  the  homage  of  an  artist  to- 
wards his  ideal.  What  were  untanned 
cowskin moccasins,  tied  round  the  ankle 
with  common  strings,  in  comparison 
with  the  elegant  thick-soled  production 
of  a  scientific  bootmaker?  And  we 
left  this  man  still  gazing  at  my  feet 
as  they  receded  from  him. 

The  cultivated  part  of  Kirkeboe  is 
like  all  the  other  cultivated  parts  in 
the  Faroe  Isles.  From  the  sea  it 
would  be  a  green  patch,  or  patch  of 
patches,  on  the  hem  of  the  grey  or 
purple  swelling  mass  of  land — green 
in  summer  that  is ;  for  later,  when 
the  hay  is  stacked  and  the  grain 
carried,  the  tiny  fields  take  a  golden 
colour  which  almost  dazzles  the  eyes 
in  the  bright  sunshine.  The  land  is 
cut  up  into  numerous  sections  by  the 
shallow  ditches  necessary  to  carry  off 
the  heavy  rains  which  pour  down 
from  the  high  overshadowing  rocks. 
A  Norfolk  farmer  would  laugh  a 
Faroe  man's  husbandry  to  scorn. 
So  poor  is  the  soil,  so  rude  the  im- 
plements, so  uncertain  the  weather ! 
And  so  trifling  the  results !  He 
would  ask  wherein  lay  the  use  of 
cutting  a  field  of  rye  some  fifteen 
yards  by  five,  the  heads  of  irregular 
height  and  separated  from  each  other 
by  inches.  And,  indeed,  if  time  were 
as  valuable  in  Faroe  as  in  England, 
there  would  be  reason  in  his  inquiry. 
But  when  Olaus  and  I  traversed  the 
parish,  its  grass,  full  of  flowers  and 
knee  deep,  was  uncut ;  and  thanks  to 
the  mountain  mist  and  the  warm  sun 
which  now  seemed  to  shine  from  under 
the  mist,  as  strong  and  sweet  of  per- 
fume as  any  English  meadow  in  June. 
Kine  were  tethered  here  and  there, 
and  peered  at  us  with  mild  questioning 
eyes.  A  milk  girl,  with  one  pail  of 
milk  slung  on  her  back,  one  on  each 
of  her  arms,  and  knitting  withal  as 
she  went  swinging  and  singing  down 
to  the  farm,  gave  us  cheerful  greeting. 
The  sea,  placid  silver  to  the  horizon, 


A  Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


125 


or  until  obscured  by  the  frowning 
rocks  of  Sandoe  and  Hestoe,  just  broke 
into  white  foam  against  the  gnarled 
and  iron  strand  of  the  village. 

Close  to  the  white  church  and  the 
beach  is  the  one  ecclesiastical  ruin  in 
Faroe.  It  stands  picturesquely  with  its 
four  chief  walls  uncovered  to  the  sky, 
grass  within  them  and  grass  without, 
and  its  large  pointed  east  window 
filled  with  a  near  panorama  of  black 
perpendicular  cliffs  with  grassy  edges 
of  velvety  green  inaccessible  even  for 
the  nimble  Faroe  sheep.  Centuries 
ago,  before  Protestantism  trod  the  life 
out  of  architecture,  here  at  Kirkeboe 
was  a  bishop's  residence  and  a  school 
for  priests.  But  with  the  Reforma- 
tion the  importance  of  the  place  ended. 
A  Protestant  bishop  was  appointed  to 
Kirkeboe,  it  is  true  ;  but  certain  of  the 
sea  robbers,  who  from  the  earliest 
times  had  ravaged  these  thinly- 
peopled  islands,  soon  frightened  this 
gentleman  out  of  the  country.  Since 
then  no  bishop  has  held  sway  in  Faroe  ; 
and  the  ruins  at  Kirkeboe  are  the 
only  remaining  witness  of  the  early 
power  of  the  Church  in  the  isles. 
Once  in  six  or  seven  weeks  the  pro- 
vost or  dean  of  the  clergy  holds  ser- 
vice nowadays  in  the  place  where, 
five  hundred  years  ago,  prayers  were 
said  daily  by  a  bishop. 

The  hospitality  of  Northmen  is  pro- 
verbial. Though,  save  for  one  or  two 
government  officials,  there  are  no  rich 
men  in  Faroe,  a  stranger  is  every- 
where received  with  open  hands  and, 
better  still,  with  open  hearts.  Olaus 
was  for  taking  advantage  of  this 
immediately.  He  would  introduce  me 
to  the  farmer  there  and  then,  and  I 
could  begin  eating  and  drinking  within 
the  minute.  But  I  saw  through  his 
pretext,  and  bid  him  go  and  fill  his 
own  stomach  while  I  examined  the 
cathedral  walls.  I  had  no  excuse  for 
pressing  myself  upon  strangers,  it 
seemed  to  me ;  if  he  as  a  native  had 
less  conscience,  so  much  the  better  for 
him.  This  he  refused  to  do,  however ; 
and  he  sulkily  followed  me  into  the 
cathedral  precincts.  But  here  there 
was  really  nothing  of  interest  to  see. 


The  walls  are  of  hard  trapstone,  the 
irregular  blocks  connected  with  a 
mortar  of  extraordinary  adhesive- 
ness. By  the  eastern  window  are 
some  stone  decorations,  and  outside 
the  same  window  is  a  sculpture  of  the 
crucifixion,  not  more  artistic  than  the 
bulk  of  other  similar  work  three  cen- 
turies ago.  In  fact,  the  most  curious 
object  in  the  cathedral  was  something 
secular — a  plough.  The  Kirkeboe 
bonder  had  introduced  this  novelty 
into  his  district  only  the  other  day ; 
and,  though  by  no  means  remarkable 
in  its  make  or  size,  it  was  to  a  Faroe 
man  transcendent  in  interest  over  the 
cathedral  and  all  its  history.  It  was  to 
this  that  Olaus  pointed  triumphantly 
when  we  walked  into  the  long  grass 
of  the  aisle.  And  it  was  to  explain 
this  to  me  that  another  man  in  a  blue 
nightcap  came  headlong  after  us  and 
plunged  straightway  into  an  incompre- 
hensible discourse,  one  word  in  ten  of 
which  was  English.  But  it  was  deli- 
cious to  mark  instant  enmity  towards 
this  interloper  printed  upon  Olaus' 
face.  He  tried  to  out-talk  him,  and, 
failing  in  this,  assured  me  that  the 
plough  was  not  good  for  much  after 
all,  let  that  other  man  say  what  he 
might  about  it ;  and,  as  if  he  were  my 
sworn  bodyguard,  he  constantly  inter- 
posed himself  between  the  man  and 
me,  his  face  red  with  indignation,  and 
his  eyes  flashing.  The  stranger  man 
drew  me  aside  towards  a  bit  of  de- 
corated work  of  which  he  seemed  to 
know  the  history,  and  as  the  ground 
in  the  vicinity  was  swampy  he  exerted 
himself  to  put  stepping-stones  for  me 
in  the  kindest  and  most  self-sacrificial 
manner.  At  this  Olaus  seemed  beside 
himself  with  anger ;  he  stood  apart  and 
writhed,  working  his  lips  like  a  luna- 
tic, and  he  took  it  hardly  when  I 
laughed  at  him.  Eventually,  he  stole 
towards  me,  and  getting  on  the  side 
farthest  from  the  obnoxious  interloper 
whispered,  with  dramatic  tremulous- 
ness,  upturning  an  anguished  eye  of 
assurance  at  the  same  time — 

"  Sir,  this  man  lille  (little)  drunk ;  I 
swear  he  lille  drunk." 

But  I  am  afraid  Olaus  derived  no 


126 


A  Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


comfort  from  the  accusation,  for  I  felt 
impelled  to  tell  him  that  the  new  arri- 
val "  a  little  drunk  "  was  more  enter- 
taining than  himself,  perfectly  sober. 
At  this  conjuncture  the  farmer  him- 
self opportunely  appeared  at  the 
west  end  of  the  aisle,  smiling 
and  extending  his  hand  in  greeting. 
And  behind  him  came  his  sons,  two 
broad-shouldered  brown  young  men, 
as  honestly  genial  of  expression  as 
their  father.  They  all  shook  my  hand 
with  a  vigour  that  made  me  wince, 
and  I  was  invited  into  the  house  with- 
out delay. 

It  was  an  ordinary-looking  .Faroe 
farm  building,  with  the  usual  number 
of  smaller  houses  attached,  for  the 
bedding  of  the  labourers,  the  drying 
of  the  mutton  and  beef  for  winter  use, 
the  storing  of  grain  and  wool,  both 
raw  and  manufactured  ;  black  in  the 
body,  with  a  roofing  of  bright  turf, 
amid  which  pink  achillea  and  yellow 
buttercups  bloomed  profusely.  But 
at  one  time  its  foundations  had  sup- 
ported an  episcopal  residence.  Where 
now  farm-refuse  littered  the  yard  and 
cods'  heads  stared  ugly  in  death, 
shaven  monks  had  walked  to  and  fro, 
with  the  swirl  of  the  sea  on  the  rocks 
hard  by  dinning  their  ears.  No 
whitewashed  Lutheran  church,  sur- 
mounted by  its  lozenge-shaped  belfry 
tower,  had  then  stood  between  them 
and  the  sea  horizon. 

Not  that  I  was  allowed  time  for 
any  such  old-world  reflections  as 
these.  Divorced  from.  Olaus,  who, 
though  a  consequential  man.  was 
not  fit  for  a  drawing-room,  I  surren- 
dered myself  wholly  to  my  new  friends, 
exchanged  bows  and  hand-shakings 
with  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  seated 
myself  by  the  table,  with  a  vase  of 
blue  and  crimson  flowers  under  my 
nose.  Then  came  in  the  farmer's 
daughter,  a  young  lady  of  eighteen, 
who  had  just  finished  her  education, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  in  Copenhagen, 
and,  after  greetings,  was  commis- 
sioned to  bring  wine  and  cake  and 
cigars.  She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  with 
dark  eyes  unusual  in  this  land  of 
Northmen,  brilliant  complexion,  and 


an  elegant  figure  ;  but,  much  as  one 
could  not  help  admiring  her,  it  went 
against  the  grain  to  be  waited  upon 
by  her  with  a  deference  that  was  yet 
more  humiliating.  In  Faroe  the  cus- 
tom of  toasting  is  general.  He  were 
but  an  ill-mannered  fellow  who  would 
drink  anything  stronger  than  water  in 
company  with  another  without  wish- 
ing him  health  and  prosperity.  Accord- 
ingly, glasses  were  filled  with  sherry 
(a  great  luxury  in  Faroe),  and,  one 
after  the  other,  standing  with  solemn 
eyes,  the  household  of  the  bonder 
clinked  my  glass,  uttering  the  mono- 
syllable "  Skald."  The  wine  was  then 
drunk  at  a  gulp,  smiles  were  ex- 
changed, and  cigars  were  lit  by  the 
gentlemen.  Photographic  albums  were 
brought  forward,  and,  with  kindly 
simplicity,  I  was  informed  of  the 
names  and  standing  of  people  whom  I 
had  never  seen  and  was  never  likely 
to  know.  In  Faroe,  as  elsewhere,  pho- 
tography has  proved  a  social  blessing. 
No  house  is  without  its  collection  of 
portraits,  and  these  almost  invariably 
serve  to  break  the  ice  of  early  acquaint- 
anceship. In  Thorshavn  I  was  soon 
at  home  with  the  photographs  of 
scores  of  people  who  were  strangers 
to  me  when  I  left  the  place. 

I  asked  the  bonder  if  his  farm  was 
prosperous.  It  was  a  foolish  question, 
for  when,  since  Adam  became  a 
labourer,  was  a  tiller  of  the  ground 
contented  with  its'  fruits  ?  Here,  in- 
deed, there  was  much  amiss.  The 
summer  had  been  far  too  wet.  The 
hay  would  be  late,  and  the  crops  re- 
fused to  ripen.  The  cows  were  not 
too  loyal  in  their  tribute.  The  lambs 
had  met  with  many  accidents;  and 
numbers  of  the  sheep  had,  at  wooling 
time,  shed  their  fleeces  against  the 
rocky  edges  of  the  mountains,  and 
presented  themselves  to  their  owner 
naked  and  profitless.  Even  the  eider 
ducks,  in  his  rock-island  a  hundred 
yards  away,  had  not  yielded  him  more 
than  two  pounds  of  down  this  season, 
at  twenty  shillings  the  pound.  And 
the  cod  fishing  also  had  been  poor. 

But,  having  voided  himself  of  these 
legitimate  grievances,  the  farmer  ac- 


A  Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


127 


knowledged  that  he  had  much  to  be 
thankful  for.  His  family  were  well, 
his  men  did  their  work,  and  they  all 
had  enough  to  eat  and  drink.  Nor 
were  they  troubled  with  anxieties  about 
war  and  such  matters,  as  in  England. 
One  of  the  boys  here  pricked  up  his 
ears  and  asked  if  General  Gordon  was 
really  dead,  and  when  I  told  him  the 
common  opinion,  he  looked  quite  sorry. 
They  had  heard  of  Gordon  from  the 
Copenhagen  papers,  and  in  Faroe, 
no  less  than  in  Denmark,  he  had 
been  exalted  on  a  pedestal  of  heroic 
fame.  Moreover  they  knew  some- 
thing of  his  features  from  the  alma- 
nacs supplied  to  the  local  merchants 
by  the  traders  from  Orkney  and 
Shetland.  To  the  farmer,  Gordon 
suggested  the  royal  family  of  Den- 
mark, and  the  different  members  of 
King  Christian's  house  were  enumer- 
ated affectionately  for  me,  and  their 
portraits,  including  those  of  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales,  ar- 
ranged symmetrically  on  one  wall  of 
the  room,  indicated  to  me.  It  is  a 
trifle  strange,  considering  how  little 
actual  advantage  they  derive  from  the 
Danish  rule,  that  the  Faroese  should 
be  so  warm  in  their  devotion  to  the 
Danish  Government ;  and  may,  per- 
haps, be  explained  by  the  surmise  that 
in  the  less  complex  stages  of  civilisa- 
tion man  can  and  will  venerate  and 
love  a  master,  if  he  be  not  positively 
hateful.  I  never  entered  a  house  in 
Faroe  without  seeing  a  portrait  of  the 
Danish  king — a  steel  engraving  or  a 
common  woodcut  daubed  with  rainbow 
colours.  Loyalty  is  surely  spontaneous 
in  these  happy  isles. 

King  Christian's  picture  recalled  to 
my  kindly  host  another  monarch 
whose  memory  is  held  in  esteem  at 
Kirkeboe.  Centuries  ago  the  people  of 
Norway  rose  against  their  sovereign 
and  put  him  to  death ;  and  would 
also  have  killed  his  Queen  Gunhild 
and  her  little  boy-baby  had  she  not 
fled  from  the  country  with  him. 
Kirkeboe  in  Faroe  was  the  refuge 
sought  by  this  poor  lady  with  her 
orphaned  child.  A  relative  of  hers 
was  bishop  here,  and  gave  her  shelter. 


She  assumed  a  menial  character,  hid 
her  boy  for  a  whole  summer  in  a  cave 
among  the  black-beetling  rocks  over 
the  village,  visiting  him  daily  to 
suckle  and  tend  him,  and  trusted  in 
the  future  to  atone  for  the  past  and 
present.  In  due  time  the  boy  grew 
up  to  manhood.  Then,  donning  his 
rights  as  a  panoply,  he  returned  to 
Norway,  carried  all  before  him,  and 
secured  his  father's  throne.  This  tale 
of  King  Sverre,  Bishop  Ho,  and  Gun- 
hild the  Queen,  was  told  me  by  the 
elder  of  the  farmer's  sons  ;  and 
he  would  have  shown  the  site  of  the 
cave  itself  if  the  fog  had  not  lain  too 
low  on  the  hill  sides.  Avalanches  of 
stones  and  snow  have  in  the  course  of 
time  made  the  hole  harder  to  attain 
than  once  it  was,  but  at  the  best  it 
must  have  been  a  panting  climb  for 
the  hapless  queen,  in  addition  to  her 
other  misfortunes  of  exile  and  apparent 
servitude. 

Another  curiosity  of  Kirkeboe  is  a 
famous  old  house  of  Norwegian  tim- 
ber, with  as  wonderful  a  history  as 
the  Santa  Casa  of  Loretto.  It  is  said 
to  be  eight  hundred  years  old,  and  to 
have  floated  deliberately  from  Norway 
upon  the  beach  of  Kirkeboe,  not 
exactly  furnished,  but  ready  for  fur- 
niture and  occupation.  Nor  is  it  of 
flimsy  material.  Trunks  a  foot 
in  diameter  are  dovetailed  into 
similar  trunks ;  and  the  massy  planks 
of  the  partitions  and  flooring  suggest 
the  enormous  weight  of  the  entire 
structure.  There  is  rude  carving  on 
some  of  the  beams,  and  the  panels  also 
are  decorated  here  and  there.  Nowa- 
days the  chief  room  of  this  house  serves 
as  the  rtfgstue,  or  kitchen ;  literally, 
the  smoke-room,  as  the  common 
kitchen  of  a  Faroe  house  being 
unprovided  with  a  chimney,  the 
hearth  stands  in  the  middle  of  the 
chamber,  and  over  it,  in  the  roof,  is 
a  hole  for  the  smoke  to  go  through 
wlien  it  chooses.  When  I  entered  it  a 
man  on  his  knees  was  eating  fish  from  a 
wooden  trough,  much  as  a  pig  feeds  in 
his  stye.  He  had  the  backbone  of  an 
entire  cod  in  his  two  hands,  and  was 
sucking  the  flesh  from  it  with  enthu- 


128 


A  Walk  in  the,  Faroes. 


siasm.  A  woman  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room  was  turning  the  spinning- 
.  wheel,  keeping  an  eye  upon  certain 
rolls  of  rye-bread  laid  upon  a  gridiron 
over  the  lurid  sods  of  turf  on  the 
hearth.  These  cakes  were  of  two 
dimensions,  the  greater,  representing 
one  man's  portion,  being  perhaps  a 
quarter  as  large  again  as  the  other  or 
woman's  portion.  It  is  an  old  Faroe 
custom  thus  to  distinguish  between 
the  appetite  or  deserts  of  the  sexes — 
probably  the  latter.  And  yet,  apart 
from  the  claim  of  more  exacting  phy- 
sique, considering  the  work  done  by 
men  and  women,  one  is  disposed  to 
think  that  the  men  are  rewarded  over- 
liberally.  A  specialist,  for  instance, 
thus  enumerates  the  chief  duties  of  a 
Faroe  housewife.  She  has  "to  crush 
corn  in  the  quern,  to  clean  the  entrails 
of  slaughtered  animals,  to  cleanse  the 
cow-houses  and  milk  the  cows,  to  dry 
the  corn,  to  knit,  weave,  and  sew,  to 
knead  and  bake  the  bread,  to  pluck 
the  sea-birds,  taken  by  the  thousand 
in  the  season,  wash  the  skins  and 
wool,  and  do  all  other  washing,  to 
spin,  dye,  cook,  &c.,  &c."  Whereas,  if 
we  exclude  fishing  and  field  work, 
both  of  which  are  much  curtailed  in 
winter,  when  the  nights  are  four  times 
as  long  as  the  days,  the  men  are 
mainly  engaged  in  woolwork,  and  chat- 
tering like  the  women  themselves. 
But  it  will  be  long  before  the  women 
of  Faroe  take  up  the  cry  of  "  equality 
of  consideration  and  a  bigger  loaf !  " 
Dutiful  submission  to  their  lords  and 
masters  is  inborn  with  Jb hem  like  the 
marrow  of  their  bones. 

Out  of  this  r^gstue,  the  beams  of 
which  were  grimed  with  the  smoke  of 
centuries,  we  went  into  a  sleeping 
chamber.  The  beds  were  of  hay,  new 
cut,  ravishingly  sweet,  and  set  in  the 
wood  of  the  wall  like  the  bunks  of  a 
ship.  Under  the  floor  of  this  room 
was  a  cavity,  ten  feet,  perhaps,  in 
depth,  which,  if  tradition  may  be  cre- 
dited, was  used  as  a  dungeon  by  the  old 
Northmen  who  owned  the  house  before 
it  got  adrift  from  the  mainland.  It 
were  curious  to  know  the  exact  history 
of  this  imported  domicile.  One  thing 


is  sure — that  it  is  unique  in  Faroe. 
As  for  its  trip  of  two  hundred  miles 
across  the  North  Atlantic,  one  is 
loth  to  rebuff  the  imagination  by  dis- 
crediting such  a  delicious  spectacle. 

The  good  farmer  was  for  returning 
and  drinking  more  wine  after  viewing 
the  rpgstue.  But  one  of  the  boys 
suggested  that  the  white  church  ought 
to  be  seen ;  his  father  had  the  reading 
of  the  service  upon  him  five  Sundays 
out  of  six,  he  said.  And  so  the  key 
was  fetched,  and,  passing  through  a 
tangled  bit  of  paddock,  notable  only 
for  some  edible  shrub  which  grew  in 
it,  we  assailed  and  opened  the  door. 
A  less  remarkable  place  of  worship 
cannot  be  conceived.  It  was  of  wood, 
varnished  inside  and  whitewashed 
outside;  plain  to  nakedness,  with  a 
streak  or  two  of  bright  colour  about 
its  wooden  pulpit.  A  spittoon  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  which  bore 
a  crucifix  and  some  dirt.  But,  though 
so  unattractive,  familiarity  had  en- 
deared the  edifice  to  the  boys.  They 
prattled  about;  it,  and  sat  on  the  tops 
of  the  pews,  lounged  against  the  altar, 
and  paddled  their  fingers  in  the  font ; 
told  how  in  winter  the  sea  thunders 
its  waves  against  the  sides  and  drowns 
the  sound  of  the  pastor's  voice ;  the 
number  of  the  congregation,  a  bare 
half  dozen  at  times ;  the  cost  of  the 
candles,  and  so  forth.  The  Lutherans 
of  Faroe  are  not  excited  religionists  ; 
they  take  their  quota  of  inspired 
moral  teaching  once  a  week,  or  once 
every  six  weeks,  as  the  case  may  be, 
and  it  suffices  them.  In  truth,  how- 
ever, there  can  be  no  more  moral 
community  under  the  sun  than  this 
isolated  population  of  eleven  thousand 
human  beings. 

When  we  were  about  to  leave  the 
church  and  re-lock  it,  my  friend  and 
guide  Olaus  made  his  appearance  in 
the  doorway,  with  a  shining  face  and 
an  eager  expression. 

"  Dreadful  bad  weather  coming 
on  ! "  he  said  to  me  in  an  aside,  which 
happily  was  audible  to  the  elder  of 
the  farmer's  sons. 

"Bad  !  why,  the  sun  is  all  over  the 
sea,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  "  and  Sandoe 


A  Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


129 


yonder  is  out  of  the  clouds.  It  will 
be  soft  to-morrow,  but  all  to-day 
fine." 

"Well,  /think — "  murmured  Olaus, 
with  a  vanquished  look  of  discomfi- 
ture at  his  belly,  which  was  patently 
swelled,  "  I  am  ready  to  go  home  !  " 
he  continued,  in  elucidation  of  his 
weather  wisdom. 

But  this  the  good  bonder  protested 
against.  I  had  taken  only  the  pre- 
liminary refreshment ;  a  substantial 
repast  would  be  ready  by  and  by  ;  his 
wife  was  preparing  it. 

And  so,  to  pass  the  time,  it  was 
proposed  that  we  should  visit  the  eider- 
duck  island,  a  good  stone's  throw 
from  the  shore.  Accordingly,  some 
men  were  summoned,  and,  with  a 
whoop  of  self-encouragement,  these 
launched  one  of  the  bonder's  boats. 
A  Faroe  boat  is  as  old  fashioned  a 
concern  as  a  poke  bonnet.  It  has  a 
curved  prow  and  a  curved  stern  ;  and 
both  ends  are  furnished  with  handles 
for  the  seizure  of  the  boat.  The  oars, 
moreover,  are  tied  to  the  sides  with 
thongs  of  cowskin.  But  there  can  be 
no  ground  for  cavil  against  boats  and 
men  who,  like  these,  can  jointly  get  over 
twenty-four  miles  of  water-way,  and 
not  by  any  means  still  water,  in  four 
hours  or  so.  Faroe  men  row  astonish- 
ingly quick,  but  for  style  they  care 
nothing  ;  and  though  they  would  soon 
beat  an  Oxford  crew  in  a  long  race, 
they  would  not  fail  also  to  excite  its 
derision. 

During  the  passage  the  boys  pulled 
up  a  quantity  of  seaweed,  and  offered 
me  three  varieties  to  taste  and  deter- 
mine as  to  the  best.  Olaus,  who  was 
with  us,  would  have  saved  me  the 
ordeal  of  decision  ;  for  he  filled  his 
mouth  by  handfuls.  But  the  boys 
scorned  Olaus,  esteeming  him  by 
another  standard  than  his  own,  and 
I  had  to  arbitrate.  Two  of  the  kinds 
were  ribbon-leaved  and  palatable 
enough;  the  third,  like  a  rope  of 
amber,  was  better  still.  Henceforward 
I  shall  consider  it  no  hardship  for  a 
community  to  be  forced  upon  this  kind 
of  food — as  a  supplement  to  better. 
Though  what  consequences  would 
No.  314. — VOL.  LIIT. 


ensue  upon  an  exclusive  diet  of  sea- 
weed I  cannot  pretend  to  say.  Olaus, 
who  seemed  to  be  a  receptacle  for  any- 
thing eatable,  having  disposed  of  many 
yards  of  seaweed,  began  upon  the 
mussels  and  other  shell-fish  which 
incrusted  the  rocks  of  the  bird-island, 
and  we  left  him  at  his  dessert,  in 
search  of  nests. 

The  Holm,  as  they  called  it,  was 
hard  to  walk  upon,  being  composed  of 
irregular  heaps  of  rock  overgrown 
with  long  rank  grass,  in  which  the 
common  sea  -  birds  laid  their  eggs. 
Though  it  was  very  late  in  the  season, 
these  eggs  were  under  our  feet  wher- 
ever we  trod,  and  many  a  promising 
brood  was  perforce  destroyed.  As  for 
the  more  valuable  eider  broods,  these 
were  provided  with  thatched  houses, 
into  which  we  crept  carefully,  blocking 
the  aperture  so  as  to  leave  the  female 
bird  no  chance  of  escape.  And  thus  we 
saw  several  interesting  families  in  the 
straw  side  by  side.  The  female  is  a 
rich  glossy  slate  and  bronze  colour, 
somewhat  larger  than  our  common 
duck.  Ordinarily  there  were  four  eggs 
in  each  nest.  Some,  however,  were 
hatched,  and  the  delicate  young  birds 
fluttered  hither  and  thither  in  their 
excitement.  Not  one  of  the  more 
resplendent  male  birds  was  at  home  ; 
they  were  doubtless  whirling  about 
over  the  seaward  end  of  the  islet, 
screaming  their  best  in  company 
with  thousands  of  other  birds.  It  is 
from  the  lower  part  of  the  neck  and 
the  breast  of  these  precious  birds  that 
the  down  is  plucked.  And  it  was 
from  this  rock  that  the  bonder  derived 
his  revenue  of  a  couple  of  pounds 
sterling,  as  the  value  of  the  two 
pounds  weight  of  down  which  he  had 
been  able  to  accumulate  in  the  year. 

I  asked  if  the  common  tern's  eggs 
were  good  to  eat,  when,  to  my  dis- 
tress, I  had  crushed  three  at  one  step  : 
and  Olaus  Jackson,  who  had  rejoined 
us  after  his  surfeit  of  shell-fish, 
for  answer  bade  me  watch  him.  The 
monster  hereupon  broke  egg  after  egg 
upon  his  teeth,  and  tipped  the  hapless 
contents  down  his  red  throat,  seem- 
ingly quite  callous  whether  the  eggs 


1:30 


A  Walk  in  the  Faroes. 


were  good  or  bad,  in  an  early  or  a  late 
stage  of  incubation.  But  he  was 
summarily  stopped  by  the  younger  boy, 
who  looked  disgusted,  and  wrathfully 
told  him  in  Faroese  that  he  was  com- 
mitting an  illegal  as  well  as  a  hide- 
ously greedy  action ;  the  eggs  were 
protected  by  Faroe  law — unless  they 
were  bad.  I  do  not  quite  know  what 
Olaus  said  in  reply — but  I  gathered 
from  the  boy  that  he  pleaded  in  ex- 
tenuation the  peculiar  flavour  of  most 
of  those  he  had  eaten.  Personally, 
from  what  I  had  seen  of  him,  I  could 
believe  the  man  capable  of  eating  a 
bad  egg  rather  than  nothing  at  all. 

But  it  was  time  for  me  to  be  eating 
on  my  own  account ;  not  that  the  day 
was  darkening,  for  in  Faroe  latitudes 
the  sun  in  summer  hardly  goes  below 
the  horizon  at  the  end  of  the  day. 
Rain  was  to  be  feared,  however,  and 
a  thickening  of  the  clouds  on  the  hills. 
The  bonder  would  not  join  me  at  my 
meal ;  the  laws  of  hospitality  forbade 
such  presumption.  And,  much  as  I 
should  have  liked  his  company,  I  did 
not  press  it.  All  the  members  of  the 
family  were  present  while  I  ate.  They 
took  a  quiet  unobtrusive  interest  in 
my  movements,  and  talked  only  when 
addressed.  Again  I  was  waited  on  by 
the  ladies  with  cheerful  zeal ;  and  this 
was  the  only  embarrassing  part  of  the 
meal — to  myself.  The  spoons  here,  as 
in  most  Faroe  farmhouses,  were  of 
silver,  heavy  and  old.  Lastly,  coffee 
and  cigars  were  brought  forward,  and 
a  reluctant  permission  to  start  was 
accorded  me.  Had  I  been  willing  to 
stay,  they  would  have  welcomed  me. 
The  guest  room,  opening  from  the 
drawing-room,  was  shown  to  tempt 
me ;  but  it  was  as  nothing  compared 
with  their  own  honest  hospitable  dis- 
positions. To  crown  his  kindness,  the 
bonder  offered  me  a  horse  for  the 
return  journey.  It  was  a  little  animal 
of  the  Faroe  breed,  such  as  the  dealers 
buy  in  the  isles  for  three  to  four  sove- 
reigns apiece ;  but  it  was  surefooted 
and  strong.  Then,  one  after  the  other, 
these  friends  of  a  day  said  "  Farvel" 
almost  tremulously,  and  squeezed  my 


hand — not  even  excepting  the  young 
lady,  who,  in  spite  of  her  Copenhagen 
piano  and  finished  education,  was  as 
simple  of  speech  and  manner  as  a 
peasant's  daughter  dependent  for  her 
education  upon  nature  alone.  Her  fair 
face  was  crimson  when  she  said 
"  Good-bye,"  and  her  eyes  looked  down 
modestly ;  but  she  gripped  my  hand  as 
tightly  as  a  boy.  Verily,  I  could  not 
help  feeling  sad  when  I  rejoined  the 
lumpish  Olaus,  and  thought  that  in  all 
human  probability  I  should  never  see 
these  true  gentlefolk  again. 

We  made  the  first  mile  or  so  of  our 
return  climb  in  silence.  Olaus  seemed 
sulky,  and  panted  as  if  troubled  by 
his  digestion ;  while  the  sharp  rock 
of  Kolter  Island,  five  miles  across  the 
now  glittering  sea,  enchained  my  eyes, 
though  not  my  thought.  A  little 
higher,  and  we  were  plunged  to  the 
neck  into  the  inevitable  fog.  But, 
before  taking  the  step,  I  looked  back 
at  Kirkeboe,  now  a  green  space  no 
larger  than  a  handkerchief  on  the 
level  between  the  mountains  and  the 
sea,  with  its  white  church  no  bigger 
than  a  common  nut ;  and  the  sight 
warmed  my  heart.  Then,  for  two 
weary  hours,  we  waded  through  a  mist 
'  that  hung  our  beards  with  dewdrops, 
and  made  us  limp  to  the  bones. 

No  sooner  were  we  in  the  chief  street 
of  Thorshavn  than  my  man  straight- 
ened himself  up,  and  tried  to  renew 
the  deportment  of  the  morning.  But 
something  made  him  abruptly  throw 
aside  all  his  assumption  of  importance. 
"  Farvel"  he  said,  with  sudden 
energy,  holding  out  his  hand,  and  his 
eye  was  bright. 

"Why!  what  is  the  matter?"  I 
asked.  "You  may  as  well  come  on! 
Why  not?" 

"Because,"  said  Olaus,  with  deci- 
sion, though  his  lip  quivered,  "  it  is 
supper- time.  Farvel." 

And  away  he  sprang  towards  his 
own  house,  soon  breaking  into  a 
gentle  trot,  which,  ere  I  lost  him,  had 
developed  into  a  tearing  gallop  of 
impatience. 


131 


THE  DEATH  OF  AMY  ROBSART. 


IT  has  always  been  a  vexed  question 
how  far  poets  and  romance-writers 
should  be  permitted  to  work  the 
course  of  history  to  their  own  will ; 
and  it  is  inevitable  that  it  should  be 
so.  It  is  impossible  to  deliver  the 
law  on  any  point  which  must,  after 
all,  depend  mainly  on  personal  notions 
of  reason  and  propriety,  even  in  those 
rare  cases  where  two  persons  are  found 
to  agree  on  the  truth  of  history  itself. 
Yet  the  question,  like  so  many  much- 
debated  questions,  has  its  simple  side 
— or  what  at  least  may  seem  so  to  minds 
not  too  stubbornly  set  on  finding  diffi- 
culties. It  has  one  particularly  simple 
side,  which  indeed  seems  to  offer  the 
very  last  word  to  those  comfortable 
souls  who  are  averse  to  considering  too 
curiously  on  any  matter.  When  'Old 
Mortality'  was  first  published  there 
arose  much  discussion  on  the  author's 
treatment  of  the  two  parties,  the  Cava- 
liers and  the  Puritans  :  especially  in 
Scotland  it  was  thought  altogether 
intolerable  that  the  "  bloody  Claver'se" 
of  a  legend  still  so  firmly  believed 
should  be  presented  as  a  mirror  of 
chivalry.  All  this  seemed  to  Jeffrey 
very  much  of  a  storm  in  a  tea-cup.  "  It 
is,"  he  wrote,1  "  a  singular  honour,  no 
doubt,  to  a  work  of  fiction  and  amuse- 
ment to  be  thus  made  the  theme  of 
serious  attack  and  defence  upon  points 
of  historical  and  theological  discussion; 
and  to  have  grave  dissertations  written 
by  learned  contemporaries  upon  the 
accuracy  of  its  representations  of  pub- 
lic events  and  characters.  It  is  diffi- 
cult for  us,  we  confess,  to  view  the 
matter  in  so  serious  a  light."  We 
must  for  our  part  own  to  being  very 
much  on  the  side  of  Jeffrey,  holding 
that  in  a  professed  work  of  fiction  the 
license  of  the  author  should  be  in  pro- 
portion to  his  .capacity  of  using  it  for 
1  'Edinburgh  Review,'  March,  1817. 


our  amusement.  However,  we  do  not 
propose  to  intrude  our  own  views,  still 
less  to  attempt  to  make  converts  to 
them ;  being  very  well  aware  how 
extremely  unpopular  and  altogether 
absurd  they  must  seem  to  so  eager, 
curious,  and,  above  all,  so  exact  an 
age  as  this.  There  is,  however, 
another  view  which  we  shall  offer 
with  less  diffidence  ;  a  simple  view, 
too,  and,  as  it  seems  to  us,  based 
upon  good  sense.  It  is,  at  any  rate, 
the  view  of  a  man  entitled  to  be 
heard  on  any  question  of  literature 
— some  will  say  especially  on  any 
question  of  romantic  literature.  It 
is  the  view  of  Macaulay,  and  may 
be  seen  in  a  passage  of  his  journal 
quoted  by  Mr.  Trevelyan.2  He 
had  been  reading  Schiller's  'Joan  of 
Arc/  and  had  closed  the  book  in  a 
characteristic  tempest  of  indigna- 
tion with  the  last  act.  "  Absurd  be- 
yond description,"  he  calls  it ;  and 
then  he  goes  on  : — "  The  monstrous 
violation  of  history  which  everybody 
knows  is  not  to  be  defended.  Schiller 
might  just  as  well  have  made  Wallen- 
stein  dethrone  the  Emperor,  and  reign 
himself  over  Germany — or  Mary  be- 
come Queen  of  England,  and  cut  off 
Elizabeth's  head,  as  make  Joan  fall 
in  the  moment  of  victory."  The  pre- 
sent is  not  perhaps  the  most  con- 
venient time  for  putting  Macaulay 
in  the  witness-box.  He  is  not  in 
fashion ;  but  fashions  do  not  last.  An 
epoch  of  change  such  as,  we  hear  pro- 
claimed, triumphantly  or  otherwise, 
on  every  side,  we  are  now  passing 
through,  "is  often  followed  by  an  epoch 
of  restoration  ;  and  as  the  frequent 
attempts  which,  despite  Mr.  Bagehot's 
warning,3  have  in  recent  times  been 

2  'Life  and  Letters   of  Lord   Macanlay,' 
ch.  xii. 

3  Ibid.  ch.  xi. 

K   2 


132 


The  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


made  to  re-write  Macaulay  have  not 
been  uniformly  successful,  it  is  quite 
within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that 
another  generation  may  see  fit  to  re- 
verse the  decision  of  this.  At  any  rate 
in  this  particular  instance  Macaulay's 
verdict  is  perhaps  as  satisfactory,  cer- 
tainly as  clear  as  any  we  are  likely  to 
get.  It  may  be  said  to  represent  the 
common-sense  of  the  question ;  and 
though  common-sense  is  itself  perhaps 
in  no  very  great  favour  to-day,  it 
affords  at  least  a  good  point  to  start 
from. 

Let  us  assume  then,  that  the  poet 
or  romance- writer,  when  working  with 
historic  materials,  times,  characters, 
or  scenes,  unfamiliar,  doubtful,  or 
unimportant,  may  put  them  to  such 
uses  as  his  fancy  or  convenience  may 
dictate.  "Where  his  materials  are  such 
as  everybody,  even  historians  them- 
selves, are  agreed  upon,  he  must  range 
himself  with  "  everybody."  Starting 
with  this  assumption,  we  propose  to 
inquire  what  really  is  the  sum  of 
the  grave  offences  against  history  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  been  accused  of 
committing  in  his  novel  of  '  Kenil- 
worth.'  There  is,  probably,  by  this 
time  a  pretty  general  impression  that 
all  is  not  as  it  should  be  in  that 
enchanting  tale.  But  the  impres- 
sion does  not  seem  to  be  a  very 
clear  one,  even  among  those  who 
have  been  most  strenuous  to  put 
Sir  Walter  wrong.  Our  inquiry  is 
not  inspired  by  any  great  motives. 
We  are  influenced  by  no  abstract  love 
of  truth  or  justice.  We  have  no  super- 
stitious reverence  for  the  awful  muse 
of  history.  Our  motive  is  in  truth 
no  higher  one  than  curiosity,  the  idle 
motive  of  an  empty  day  ;  and  espe- 
cially a  curiosity  to  see  how  these 
antiquarians  work.  Your  thorough- 
going antiquarian  is  in  the  very  nature 
of  things  a  terrible  iconoclast.  Now 
iconoclasm  is  an  intoxicating  pastime  ; 
when  once  the  spirit  of  battle  is  up, 
few  of  its  professors  are  cool  enough 
to  see  or  care  on  whose  head  the 
swashing  blow  falls,  or  what  it  breaks, 
or  to  keep  in  mind  the  particular 


purpose  of  the  fray.  Backwards  and 
forwards  it  rocks,  like  that  famous 
fight  over  the  dead  consul — • 

"  Till  none  could  see  Valerius, 
And  none  wist  where  lie  lay." 

"  Captain  or  colonel,  or  knight  in 
arms,"  down  they  all  go  :  every- 
thing that  stands  in  the  way  of 
these  furious  searchers  after  truth 
must  go,  animate  or  inanimate,  prince 
or  peasant,  cathedral  or  cottage.  And 
the  present  age  is  one  particularly 
favourable  to  this  free  fighting.  It  is 
not  only  an  epoch  of  change,  but  also 
an  epoch  of  dissolution.  The  old 
shrines  must  not  only  be  dismantled, 
they  must  be  pulled  down ;  the  old 
idols  not  only  discrowned,  they  must 
be  broken  up.  If  we  cannot  create, 
we  can  at  least  destroy.  A  Mahomet 
is  not  born  every  day,  but  we  can  all 
of  us  be  Omars ;  we  can  all  help  to 
burn  the  libraries.  Perhaps  not  all 
of  this  great  work  of  destruction  is  of 
such  importance  as  its  votaries  assume. 
However,  it  is,  of  course,  a  serious 
affair  to  fasten  a  charge  of  murder  on 
an  innocent  man,  even  in  fiction. 
So  we  have  been  minded  to  see  for 
ourselves  how  far  Sir  Walter  is  really 
guilty  of  this  grave  offence ;  what 
it  is  the  antiquarians  have  really 
discovered — in  short,  after  a  second- 
hand fashion  to  play  the  antiquarian 
ourselves.  We  do  not,  indeed,  for  a 
moment  profess  to  have  made  any 
discoveries  of  our  own  ;  our  present 
business  is  merely  to  sift  the  discoveries 
of  others. 

But  before  setting  to  work  let  us, 
as  briefly  as  may  be,  review  the  rank 
of  Sir  Walter's  accusers,  and  the  sum 
of  their  charges  against  him.  In  the 
year  of  the  publication  of  the  novel, 
that  is  in  1821,  the  errors  in  Lady 
Dudley's  biography  were  duly  set  forth 
in  the  '  Quarterly  Review,'  and  pos- 
sibly in  other  places  unknown  to  us. 
But  it  is  clear  that  at  the  time,  and  for 
many  years  afterwards,  there  was  no 
suspicion  that  any  offence  against  the 
good  fame  of  Leicester,  Yarney,  or 
Forster  had  been  committed.  The 


Tke  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


133 


tradition  that  the  Earl  of  Leicester's 
first  wife  had  been  done  to  death  at 
Cumnor  Hall  by  foul  means  to  which 
he  was  privy,  if  he  had  not  literally 
ordered  them,  had  been  common  pro- 
perty ever  since  the  Earl's  own  day. 
It  seems  to  have  been  in  1848  that  the 
truth  of  this  tradition  was  first  seriously 
questioned.  In  that  year  Lord  Bray- 
brook  e  published  the  third  edition  of 
Pepys's '  Diary,'and  the  late  Mr.  George 
Lillie  Craik,  the  first  volume  of  his  '  Ro- 
mance of  the  Peerage.'  Both  these 
books  contained  a  correspondence  then 
lately  discovered  in  the  Pepysian 
Library  at  Cambridge,  between  Lei- 
cester, or  Lord  Robert  Dudley  as  he 
then  was,  and  his  cousin  Sir  Thomas 
Blount.  The  letters  are  not  originals, 
but  copies  made,  it  has  been  assumed 
from  the  handwriting,  some  twenty 
years  or  so  after  the  events  they 
report.  Lord  Braybrooke  contented 
himself  with  merely  printing  the  cor- 
respondence ;  but  Mr.  Craik  went 
farther,  as  was  indeed  his  business. 
He  pointed  out  how  much,  or,  as  it 
would  be  more  true  to  say,  how  little, 
these  letters  really  proved.  He  also 
pointed  out,  and,  so  far  as  we  know, 
was  the  first  to  do  so,  that  Ashmole's 
version  of  the  affair,  on  which  Sir 
Walter  had  based  his  tale,  was  really 
no  more  than  a  copy  of  a  notorious 
contemporary  publication  known  as 
'Leycester's  Commonwealth.' 

In  1850  Mr.  Bartlett,  of  Abingdon, 
published  his  '  Historical  and  Descrip- 
tive Account  of  Cumnor  Place.'  In  it, 
together  with  much  curious  archaeo- 
logical matter,  he  amplified  Mr.  Craik' s 
statements;  and  added  some  particulars 
of  Anthony  Forster,  whom  he  showed 
to  have  been,  at  any  rate  intellectual- 
ly and  socially,  a  different  man  from 
the  boorish  ruffian  of  '  Kenil worth.' 
Neither  he  nor  Mr.  Craik  can  be 
called  accusers  of  Sir  Walter.  They 
did  their  spiriting  gently  and  reve- 
rently ;  above  all,  they  confined  them- 
selves solely  to  facts.  By  their  fol- 
lowers, who  have  practically  been  able 
to  add  little  to  the  sum  of  their  actual 
knowledge,  they  are  barely  mentioned. 


Perhaps,  because  they  were  not 
"  thorough  "  enough  to  satisfy  those 
Fifth-Monarchy  men  ;  because,  unlike 
Butcher  Harrison,  they  "  did  the  work 
negligently."  But,  in  truth,  your 
red-hot  antiquarian  is  never  very 
prompt  to  acknowledge  his  debts. 
In  1859  the  late  Mr.  Pettigrew,  vice- 
president  of  the  British  Archaeological 
Association,  published  a  pamphlet, 
called  *  An  Inquiry  into  the  Particu- 
lars connected  with  the  Death  of  Amy 
Robsart  (Lady  Dudley),' l  which  he  had 
previously  read  at  the  meeting  of  the 
Society  at  New  bury  in  the  same  year. 
A  more  voluminous  work,  '  Amye  Rob- 
sart and  the  Earl  of  Leycester,'  followed 
in  1870  from  Mr.  Adlard,  an  American 
gentleman.  Six  years  later,  that  is 
in  1876,  Canon  Jackson  read  a  paper 
on  the  same  subject  at  the  meeting  of 
the  Wiltshire  Archaeological  Society  at 
Salisbury.  This  paper  was  privately 
printed  in  the  following  year,  and  sub- 
sequently incorporated  in  an  article 
published  in  the  'Nineteenth  Century  ' 
Magazine,  for  March,  1882. 

Only  one  voice,  has  been  heard  on 
the  other  side,  but  that  is  no  feeble 
one.  A  short  while  ago  Mr.  Walter 
Rye,  known  for  his  researches  in  the 
history  of  Norfolk,  published  a  pamph- 
let, 'The  Murder  of  Amy  Robsart,' 
which  he  defiantly  styles,  "A  Brief 
for  the  Prosecution."  He  has  intro- 
duced too  much  unsavoury  and  irrele- 
vant scandal  about  Queen  Elizabeth  ; 
but  he  has  also  recapitulated  with  great 
clearness  and  precision  the  charge 
against  Leicester;  he  has  broken 
down  much  of  the  evidence  on  the 
other  side ;  and  if  his  new  points  for  the 
prosecution  are  not  always  of  paramount 
importance,  he  has  at  least  reminded 
the  jury  of  much  which  his  opponents 
have  naturally  done  their  best  to  put 
by  or  to  ignore.  If  Sir  Walter  wanted 
a  counsel,  he  need  wish  for  no  better 
one  than  Mr.  Rye. 

Let  us  now  take  the  points  in  the 
story  on  which  Sir  Walter  has  been 

1  Lady,  or  Dame,  Dudley,  in  the  style  of 
the  day,  not  Lady  Robert  Dudley  as  we  should 
say  now. 


134 


The  Death  of  Amy  Rolsart. 


proved  wrong.  Amy's  father  was  not 
Sir  Hugh  Robsart,  of  Devonshire,  but 
Sir  John  Robsart,  of  Norfolk.  She  did 
not  steal  from  her  home  to  marry 
Dudley  privately  ;  she  was  married  to 
him  publicly  at  Sheen,  in  Surrey,  on 
the  fourth  of  June,  1550.  It  is  known 
from  the  Privy  Council  Records  that 
she  visited  him  when  he  was  a  prisoner 
in  the  Tower,  for  his  share  in  the  at- 
tempt to  put  his  brother's  wife,  Lady 
Jane  Grey,  on  the  throne.  A  letter,  pre- 
served in  the  Harleian  manuscripts, 
written  by  her  to  Mr.  Flowerdew,  the 
agent  of  a  Norfolk  sheep-farm  that 
she  had  brought  her  husband,  shows 
her  to  have  been  living  some  time  be- 
tween 1557  and  1559,  at  the  house  of 
one  Mr.  Hyde,  at  Denchworth,  about 
four  miles  from  Cumnor.  Therefore, 
her  married  life  was  not  the  involun- 
tary seclusion  of  the  novel,  though 
she  certainly  seems  to  have  had  but 
little  of  her  husband's  company.  She 
was  never  Countess  of  Leicester,  and 
she  never  was  at  Kenilworth.  The 
Queen  gave  Kenilworth  to  Lord  Robert 
Dudley,  in  June  1563  ;  and  in  Sep- 
tember of  the  same  year  created  him 
Earl  of  Leicester.  Lady  Dudley  was 
not  found  dead  in  a  cellar,  but  lying 
at  the  foot  of  a  staircase  leading  down 
into  the  hall.  Her  father  had  died 
some  years  previously,  shortly  after  her 
marriage.  Neither  was  the  skeleton 
of  Anthony  Forster  found  lying  across 
his  money-bags  in  a  secret  chamber.  It 
is  not  known  precisely  where  he  died, 
but  he  was  buried  on  the  tenth  of 
November,  1572,  in  Cumnor  church,  in 
a  sumptuous  marble  tomb,  which  stands 
to  this  day.  On  that  tomb  are  in- 
scribed the  names  of  his  five  children, 
but  among  them  the  name  of  Janet 
does  not  appear.  It  is  also  known  that 
he  stood  much  higher  in  the  social 
scale  than  he  stands  in  the  novel. 

This  is  the  sum  total  of  Sir  Walter's 
proved  blenches  from  the  straight  path 
of  history.  We  will  now  turn  to 
those  other  and  more  serious  offences 
he  is  alleged  to  have  committed.  They 
may  be  very  briefly  stated :  firstly, 
there  is  absolutely  no  proof  that  Lady 


Dudley  was  murdered ;  secondly,  if 
she  was  murdered,  there  is  absolutely 
no  proof  that  Dudley,  Forster,  or 
Varney  were  in  any  way  accessories, 
either  before  or  after  the  fact ;  thirdly, 
there  is  every  possible  reason  for  dis- 
believing them  to  have  been  so.  As 
Canon  Jackson  is  the  latest  accuser, 
and  as  his  plaint  embraces  the  whole 
story  begun  by  Mr.  Craik  and  con- 
tinued by  Messieurs  Bartlett,  Petti- 
grew,  and  Adlard,  we  will  confine  our 
examination  in  chief  to  him. 

But  we  must  first  spare  a  word  or 
two  on — a  mistake  of  his  we  will  not 
call  it — but  a  slight  confusion  of  ideas. 
It  is  not  only  against  the  novel  that  he 
takes  up  his  parable,  but  against  the 
"  several  kinds  of  public  spectacles  " 
emanating  from  the  novel.  "There 
was,"  he  says,  "the  melodrama  of 
'Amy  Robsart '  performed  for  a  whole 
season  before  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands." This  melodrama  the  good  Canon 
cannot  away  with,  and  particularly 
the  part  it  assigned  to  Varney,  who 
seems  indeed  to  have  been  modelled 
on  the  good  old  pattern  of  theatrical 
villainy.  "  It  must,"  he  says,  "  be  ex- 
quisitely ridiculous  to  any  person 
knowing  the  truth  to  sit  and  see  such 
nonsense.  An  archaeologist,  looking 
round  upon  the  spectators,  would  sigh 
with  pity  for  the  hundreds  of  simple 
folk  who  watch  the  proceedings  with 
the  deepest  interest,  not  having  the 
slightest  idea  that  they  are  gulled  and 
misled  by  the  whole  representation." 
Well,  the  archaeologist  has  his  revenge 
now.  It  is  he  who  "  gulls  "  and  "  mis- 
leads "  the  "  simple  folk  "  to-day  by 
the  anachronisms  and  other  absur- 
dities he  persuades  ignorant  managers 
to  perpetrate  in  their  so-called  Shake- 
spearean revivals,  and  other  historical 
spectacles.  This,  however,  is  beside 
the  present  question.  What  we  desire 
with  submission  to  point  out  to  Canon 
Jackson  is,  that  Sir  Walter  cannot  in 
reason  be  held  to  blame  for  the  catch- 
penny theatrical  imitations  of  his  work. 
Would  any  sane  person  venture 
maintain  that  Shakespeare  was  respoi 
ible  for  the  monstrous  travesties 


The  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


135 


his  work  that  strut  across  the  stage 
to-day  9 

"  It  must  be  exquisitely  ridiculous," 
says  Canon  Jackson,  "  to  any  person 
knowing  the  truth  to  sit  and  see  such 
nonsense."  Let  us  see  then  what  is 
the  truth ;  not  the  conjecture  or  the 
inference,  the  possibility  or  proba- 
bility, but  the  truth,  the  literal 
matter-of-fact.  And  first  of  Forster 
and  Yarney. 

We  may  presume  the  story  of 
'  Kenilworth  '  to  be  generally  familiar 
to  our  readers  ;  and  as  the  preface  to 
all  editions  of  the  novel  likely  to  have 
come  into  their  hands  contains  the 
passage  from  Ashmole's  'Antiquities 
of  Berkshire '  l  which  Sir  Walter  took 
for  his  authority,  we  need  not  quote 
it  here.  It  must,  however,  be  remem- 
bered, that  all  the  rest  of  Ashmole's 
narrative, — the  hasty  burial,  the  ex- 
humation and  inquest  at  the  father's 
insistance,  and  the  subsequent  re-burial 
in  Oxford — ;has  no  place  in  '  Kenil- 
worth.' All  we  are  concerned  with  is 
Sir  Walter's  alleged  offence  in  giving 
countenance  to  a  shameless  libel  im- 
plicating three  honourable  men  in  a 
murder  that  never  was  committed. 

That  Ashmole — though  it  would 
be  more  strictly  archaeological  to  say 
Ashmole's  editor,  it  will  be  more  con- 
venient to  say  Ashmole,  and  we  must 
trust  that  the  shade  of  that  learned 
herald  will  pardon  us — that  Ashmole 
took  this  story  from  '  Leycester's  Com- 
monwealth,' was,  as  we  have  said,  first 
shown  by  Mr.  Craik,  and  in  Mr. 
Pettigrew's  pamphlet  the  passages 
he  borrowed  are  printed.  The  re- 
semblance is  certainly  very  close, 
being  in  parts  indeed  no  other  than 
a  literal  transcript.  '  Leycester's  Com- 
monwealth' was  a  famous  book  in 
its  day.  It  was  printed  abroad,  and 

1  According  to  Lysons'  '  History  of  Berk- 
shire,'(Ellas  Ashmole,  "that  industrious  herald 
and  antiquary,"  is  not  really  responsible  for 
this  work.  It  was  published  after  his  death, 
and  all  of  his  own  hand  contained  in  it  is  the 
church  notes  copied  from  those  deposited  by 
him  in  the  Herald's  College.  All  else  was 
contributed  by  the  Editor.  Mr.  Adlard  has 
called  attention  to  this. 


the   copies  sent  bound  into    England 
with  the  outside  of  the  leaves  coloured 
green,  whence  it  was  popularly  known 
as    "Father    Parson's    Green    Coat." 
The  first  edition  bears  the  date  1584. 
The  notorious  Jesuit,  Robert  Parsons, 
has   always    been   credited   with    the 
work,    but    there   was   a   strong   sus- 
picion at  the  time  that  Cecil  had  a 
hand  in  it.    In  this  suspicion  Mr.  Rye 
is   much    inclined    to    agree.       It   is 
certain,   as  he    says,   that    Cecil   was 
no    friend    to    Leicester  ;    and    it    is 
at   least   a   curious   coincidence    that 
in  the  '  Commonwealth '  reference   is 
made    to     Sir     Nicholas    Throckmor- 
ton's    report    of     a    rumour    current 
in  Paris  that  "  the  Queen  of  England 
had  a  meaning  to  marry  her  Horse- 
keeper."       This     report     was     made 
in    a    private    letter    to    Cecil !     The 
authorship    of  the  book   is,  however, 
of  no  very  great  moment.    There  is  the 
book  itself,  plain  enough:  and  it  can 
be  no  less  plain  to  any  one  who  reads 
the  history  of  the  time  that  it  does  no 
more  than  repeat  the  current  scandal 
about  Leicester.     A  gross  and  shame- 
less libel  it  may  be ;  written  it  may  be 
by  an  unscrupulous  man  who  had  every 
motive    to    injure    and    discredit  the 
professed  champion  of  the  Protestant 
cause ;    but  it  is  more    certain    than 
anything  else  in  this  wretched  business 
that  *  Leycester's  Commonwealth '  only 
put    into    shape    the    floating    stories 
against   Leicester's   good  fame.      AD 
answer   was   sent   out  by    Sir  Philip 
Sydney,  framed  in  hot   haste  at  the 
moment,   but   never   printed   till  the 
publication  of   the    '  Sydney   Papers  ' 
in  1746.     Mr.  Adlard  calls  it  "  a  very 
able  answer  to  the   'Commonwealth,' 
and     refutation     of     the    statements 
made    therein."     It    is    neither    one 
nor  the  other.     Sydney  was  Dudley's 
nephew,   and    the    paper  is  precisely 
such     as     a     chivalrous     man,    who 
hated     to     hear     ill     of     any      one, 
would  write  of   a    defamed  kinsman. 
It  is  vague,  confused,  warm-hearted, 
and    somewhat    hot-headed;   a    gene- 
ral disclaimer   of  all   reports   against 
Dudley's  good   name,   partly,  indeed, 


136 


The  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


based  on  the  excellent  qualities  of  his 
lineage  ;    a    particular   refutation    of 
none.      It    proves    nothing ;    it    dis- 
proves nothing ;    and    it    never   even 
mentions  the  Cumnor  scandal  by  name. 
Of  Forster  and  Varney  there  is  no 
other  mention  in  the  book,  and  Petti- 
grew,  writing  in  1859,  is  obliged  to 
own  that  of  the  latter  he  "  can  ascer- 
tain    no     particulars."       But    Canon 
Jackson,    as   we   have    seen,   "knows 
the  truth."     What  then  is  the  truth 
he  knows?     Mr.   Adlard  had  already 
published  two  letters  ^which   he   had 
discovered   in   the  Lansdowne  manu- 
scripts at  the  British  Museum,  from 
Leicester  to  Cecil,  about  the  lands  of 
a  certain  "  young  Varney,"  grandson 
of  a  Sir  Richard  Yarney  (or  Verney),1 
who   was  sheriff   of  Warwickshire  in 
1562,    and   died   in    1567.     To    these 
Canon   Jackson    has    added    a   letter, 
found  among  the  papers  at  Longleat, 
dated   from   Warwick,   the    twentieth 
of    April,    1560,    addressed    "To   the 
Bt.    honourable    and    my  verry  good 
lorde,  the  lorde  Bobert  Dudley,  Mr.  of 
the  horses  to  the  Quene's  Majestie  at 
Court,"  and  signed  "  Bichard  Yerney." 
The  letter  itself  is  of  no  matter,  re- 
ferring  merely   to   the   loss   of    some 
hawks  of  Dudley's  by  the  carelessness 
of  one  of  the  writer's  servants.     But 
the  seal  is  the  thing  :  like  Constantino, 
the  Canon  cries,  In  hoc  signo  vincam. 
The  device  of  this  seal  is  an  antelope, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  animal's  tail  is 
what   the   Canon  calls    "a   tripartite 
finish,   something  like  a   fleur-de-lis." 
Antelopes     thus     adorned      support, 
he    says,   the    coat     of     arms    borne 
by  the  Yerneys  of  Compton  Yerney 
in  Warwickshire,  whereof  the  present 
Lord   Willoughby   de    Broke    is    the 
head.       Consequently     this     Bichard 
Yerney   must   have    been   a   member 
of  that  family.     As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the    Willoughbys    and    Yerneys,    of 
Compton  Murdac,  not  Compton  Yer- 
ney, did  not  intermarry  till  the  next 
century.     This  is,  of   course,   neither 
here  nor  there ;   only,  an  antiquarian 

1  The  name,  as  was  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
was  spelt  in  all  manner  of  different  ways. 


is    clearly   nothing    if    not   accurate. 
However,    we    will    allow    that    the 
Bichard  Yerney  who  wrote  to  Dudley 
about    some    hawks    was   a   perfectly 
reputable    and    blameless   gentleman. 
And    indeed,     as    the   Canon   quotes, 
though  without  specifying  his  autho- 
rity, a  letter  from  Sir  Ambrose  Cave, 
member  of  Parliament  for  Warwick- 
shire,     recommending     Sir      Bichard 
Yarney  to  Dudley  as  a  commissioner 
for  that  county,  we  may  fairly  assume 
him  to  have  been  a  personage  of  some 
note.    But  contemporary  with  this  im- 
maculate knight  was  another  Bichard 
Yarney.      There   was    a    well-known 
Buckinghamshire  family  of  that  name  2 
connected  with  the  Dudleys  by  mar- 
riage and   also   by  misfortunes.     Sir 
Balph  Yarney  had,  with   other   chil- 
dren, three  sons,  Edmund,  Francis,  and 
Bichard.     Edmund   and  Francis    had 
both    been   concerned    in    Sir   Henry 
Dudley's  conspiracy  of  1556.     Francis 
had    been    Elizabeth's   servant  when 
she   was    in    confinement    at    Wood- 
stock, had  been  accused  of  tampering 
with  a  letter,  and,  according  to  Mr. 
Bye,  had  about  as  bad  a  name  as  any 
young   gentleman    of    that   day.     Of 
Bichard  nothing  is  certainly  known; 
but  in  1572,  five  years  after  the  death 
of    Canon   Jackson's   good    knight,   a 
Bichard  Yarney  was  appointed  to  the 
marshal  ship   of    the    Bench   for    life. 
He  died  in  November,    1575 ;  on  the 
fifteenth  of  the  month  Leicester  wrote 
to  beg  Shrewsbury  not  to  fill  up  the 
place    "void    by    the    death    of    Mr. 
Yarney." 

Let  us  now  see  what  is  the  sum  of 
this  truth  Canon  Jackson  claims  to 
know.  He  knows  that  in  1559  Sir 
Ambrose  Cave  wrote  a  letter  to 
Dudley  recommending  a  Sir  Bichard 
Yerney  as  a  commissioner  for  the 
county  of  Warwick,  and  that  in  1560 
a  Bichard  Yerney  wrote  a  letter  to 
Dudley  about  some  hawks,  which 
letter  was  sealed  with  the  device  now 

2  Sir  Harry  Verney,  of  Clay  don,  is  the 
present  head  of  this  family,  but  not  by  direct 
descent.  See  the  '  Verney  Papers '  in  the  Cam- 
den  Society,  and  Mr.  Eye's  pamphlet. 


The  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


137 


borne  by  the  Yerneys  of  Compton  Ver- 
riey  in  Warwickshire.  That  is  what  he 
knows.  What  he  does  not  know,  or 
did  not  when  he  composed  his  pamph- 
let, is,  that  there  was  at  the  same 
time  another  Richard  Yerney,  one  of 
a  family  of  brothers  of  notoriously 
bad  character,  connected  with  Dudley 
by  marriage,  and  in  some  way  or  an- 
other concerned  in  his  affairs.  Canon 
Jackson  says  the  first  Richard,  of 
Warwickshire,  is  the  man  whose  me- 
mory Sir  Walter  has  defamed.  Mr. 
Rye  thinks  the  other  Richard,  of 
Buckinghamshire,  is  the  man  impli- 
cated by  the  author  of  *  Leycester's 
Commonwealth '  in  Lady  Dudley's 
death.  There  is  not  a  tittle  of  proof 
either  way. 

When  we  come  to  Anthony  Forster 
we  get  on  firmer  ground.  We  really 
know  something  about  him.  Possibly 
it  is  this  comparative  fulness  of  know- 
ledge that  has  so  confused  Canon 
Jackson  as  to  cause  him  on  the  same 
page  to  place  Forster's  death  in  1569 
and  his  election  as  member  of  parlia- 
ment for  Abingdon  in  1572.1  Anthony 
came  of  a  respectable  Shropshire 
family.  His  wife  was  Anne,  daughter 
of  Reginald  Williams,  of  Burghfield  in 
Berkshire,  the  eldest  brother  of  Lord 
Williams  of  Thame,  Mary's  Lord 
Chamberlain.  He  held  Cumnor  Place 
as  tenant  of  Doctor  Owen,  one  of 
Elizabeth's  physicians,  whose  wife 
was  present  in  the  house  at  the  time 
of  Lady  Dudley's  death.  In  the 
following  year,  1561,  he  bought  the 
place  from  his  landlord.  In  1570  he 
was  returned  to  parliament  as  member 
for  Abingdon.  In  1572  he  died,  and 
was,  as  has  been  already  said,  buried 
in  Cumnor  church.  His  tomb,  an 
elaborate  structure,  is  adorned  with 
a  long  Latin  epitaph,  in  which  he  is 
described  as  wise,  eloquent,  just,  and 
charitable,  learned  in  classic  literature, 
in  music,  architecture,  and  botany ;  in 
short,  as  a  man  possessed  of  every 
virtue  and  every  accomplishment.2 

1  See  Mr.  Rye's  pamphlet,  and  the   '  Nine- 
teenth Century'  Magazine  for  March,  1882. 

2  See  Mr.  Pettigrew's  'Inquiry.' 


Moreover,  he  was,  according  to  Canon 
Jackson,  "highly  esteemed  as  a  most 
honest  gentleman  by  his  neighbours 
at  Abingdon,"  and  "  was  sometimes 
sent  for  by  the  University  of  Oxford 
to  assist  in  settling  matters  of  contro- 
versy." But  it  happens  that  in  the 
correspondence  between  Blount  and 
Dudley,  which  is  the  witness  for 
"the  most  honest  gentleman,"  there 
is  also,  though  the  Canon  seems 
to  have  forgotten  it,  a  particular 
allusion  to  Forster's  unpopularity 
with  his  neighbours.  Some  of  the 
jury,  Blount  says,  are  "  verie 
enemies  to  Anthony  Fforster  "  ;  and 
again  he  assures  Dudley  they  are 
certain  to  be  careful  in  their  inquiry, 
but,  "  whether  equitie  is  the  cause  or 
mallice  to  Fforster  do  forbyd  it,  I 
knowe  not."  As  for  his  great  repute 
at  the  University,  the  sole  instance  of 
his  connection  with  it  is  that  his 
name  appears  as  a  companion  of 
Henry  Norris  of  Wytham,  when  the 
latter  went,  in  1562,  to  demand 
admission  for  Doctor  Man,  when  the 
Catholic  members  of  Merton  College 
had  shut  the  gates  against  their  new 
Warden ; 3  which  proves,  if  it  prove 
nothing  else,  that  he  had  abjured 
the  faith  of  his  fathers,  and  become, 
in  all  outward  seeming  at  any  rate, 
a  zealous  Protestant.  That  Forster 
was  in  some  way  a  dependent  of  Dud- 
ley's is  clear  from  a  letter,  found 
at  Longleat,  in  which  the  latter  gives 
the  former  orders  concerning  the  pre- 
parations at  Kenilworth  for  a  visit 
from  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  Lord  Keeper 
of  the  Great  Seal,  signing  himself, 
"  Your  loving  master,"  and  addressing 
the  letter  to  "my  loving  servant." 

3  This  is  the  Man  who  was  sent  as  ambas- 
sador to  Madrid,  in  return  for  Don  Guzman  da 
Silva's  appointment  to  London.  "Of  which 
ambassadors,"  Anthony  "Wood  tells  us,  "Queen 
Elizabeth  used  merrily  to  say,  that  as  her 
brother  the  King  of  Spain  had  sent  to  her  a 
Goos-man,  so  she  had  sent  to  him  a  Man- 
goose."  Man's  subsequent  conduct  seems  rather 
to  have  justified  the  royal  jest.  See  Wood's 
'AthenseOxonienses,'  i.  367  (ed.  1813),  and  his 
'  History  and  Antiquities  of  the  University  of 
Oxford,'  i.  285  a  ;  also  Mr.  Froude's  '  History,' 
ix.  327. 


138 


The  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


Also  in  a  sarcastic  paper  on  Leices- 
ter's qualifications  to  be  the  Queen's 
husband,  Cecil  notes,  as  a  point  in  his 
favour,  that  he  would  enhance  his 
particular  friends  to  wealth  and  office, 
naming  Forster  and  Appleyard  as 
instances.1 

Thus,  separating  the  literal  facts 
which  history  furnishes  concerning  Var- 
ney  and  Forster  from  the  conjectures 
which,  probable  or  otherwise,  the  an- 
tiquaries after  their  fashion  would 
insist  on  our  taking  with  equal  serious- 
ness, how  little  appears  our  real  know- 
ledge !  How  certain  also  is  it  that  our 
knowledge  does  not  include  a  single 
proved  fact  which  precludes  the  possi- 
bility of  Yarney's  and  Forster's  com- 
plicity in  the  death  of  their  patron's 
wife.  With  the  balance  of  conjecture 
we  are  not  concerned.  It  has,  we 
say  again,  no  place  in  our  present 
inquiry. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  circumstances 
of  Lady  Dudley's  death,  so  far  as  they 
are  really  known. 

The  date  when  the  lady  took  up  her 
residence  at  Cumnor  cannot  be  fixed, 
but  it  cannot  well  have  been  before 
1560.  Canon  Jackson  has  made  a 
great  point  of  a  paper  found  at 
Longleat  from  her  to  her  tailor.  It 
shows,  he  says,  that  she  was  "  liberally 
supplied  with  the  finery  of  the  day," 
that  there  is  at  least  "  no  sign  of 
parsimony  in  her  apparel,"  this  last 
piece  of  evidence  being  considered  by 
him  so  important  as  to  deserve  the 
distinction  of  italics.  But  who  has 
said  anything  to  the  contrary  1  Cer- 
tainly not  Sir  Walter,  as  his  novel 
stands  most  strenuously  to  testify. 
This,  however,  is  beside  the  question. 
The  whole  business  is,  indeed,  overlaid 
with  so  very  much  that  is  beside  the 
question,  that  it  is  extremely  difficult, 
even  with  the  best  intentions,  to  keep 
always  clear  of  the  pitfalls  that  beset 
our  laborious  steps. 

Elizabeth  came  to  the  throne  in 
November,  1558.  Early  in  the  next 

1  See  Mr.  Fronde's  '  History,'  vii.  283  note, 
and  Mr.  Rye's  pamphlet,  both  referring  to  the 
Hatfield  Manuscripts. 


year  rumours  were  abroad  that  she 
was  likely  to  marry  Robert  Dudley, 
whenever  his  wife's  death  should  leave 
him  free  for  a  second  marriage. 
In  May,  1559,  De  Feria,  the  Spanish 
minister  in  England,  wrote  to  Philip, 
that  he  hears  the  Queen  "  is  enamoured 
of  my  Lord  Robert  Dudley,  and  will 
never  let  him  leave  her  side.  ...  It 
is  even  reported  that  his  wife  has  a 
cancer  on  the  breast,  and  that  the 
Queen  waits  only  till  she  die  to  marry 
him."  Dudley  had  then  been  married 
to  Amy  Robsart  nearly  nine  years, 
but  no  children  had  been  born  of  the 
marriage.  It  is  vain  work  trying  to 
guess  Elizabeth's  real  feelings,  nor  are 
we  concerned  with  them.  All  that  is 
certain,  and  all  that  is  necessary  for 
us  to  bear  in  mind,  is,  that  from  the 
time  of  the  Queen's  accession  to  the 
time  of  Lady  Dudley's  death,  it  was 
common  talk,  both  in  England  and 
on  the  continent,  that  Lord  Robert 
Dudley  was  one  day  to  be  the  husband 
of  the  Queen  of  England.  On  the 
eleventh  of  September,  1560,  De 
Quadra,  then  Spanish  ambassador  in 
London,  sent  off  to  the  Duchess  of 
Parma  at  Brussels  a  long  account  of  a 
conversation  he  had  held  on  the  third 
of  the  month  with  Cecil.  The  secre- 
tary, who  was  then  disgraced,  owing, 
it  was  supposed,  to  Dudley's  influence, 
after  lamenting  the  Queen's  folly  and 
the  injury  she  was  doing  to  herself 
and  the  realm,  said  that  "  they  were 
thinking  of  destroying  Lord  Robert's 
wife.  They  had  given  out  that  she 
was  ill ;  but  she  was  not  ill  at  all ;  she 
was  very  well,  and  taking  care  not  to 
be  poisoned."  The  next  day,  that  is 
on  the  fourth  of  September,  four 
days  before  Lady  Dudley's  death,  the 
Queen  told  the  ambassador  "  that 
Lord  Robert's  wife  was  dead  or  nearly 
so,  and  begged  me  to  say  nothing  about 
it.  Assuredly  it  is  a  matter  full  of 
shame  and  infamy."  And  the  letter 
concludes  with  a  paragraph  evidently 
penned  in  haste  at  the  last  moment : — 
"  Since  this  was  written  the  death  of 
Lord  Robert's  wife  has  been  given  out 
publicly.  The  Queen  said  in  Italian, 


The  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


139 


'  Que  si  ha  rotto  il  collo.'      It  seems 
that  she  fell  down  a  staircase."  x 

Dudley  was  then  with  the  court  at 
Windsor.  The  news  of  his  wife's 
death  was  not  generally  known  till 
the  eleventh  of  September;  but  it  is 
clear  from  his  first  letter  to  Blount, 
that  on  the  ninth  he  was  aware  that 
something  had  happened  at  Cumnor. 
He  at  once  sent  off  Blount  to  inquire ; 
but  while  Biount  was  still  on  the  road, 
the  news  arrived  at  Windsor  by  a  mes- 
senger named  Bowes.  Dudley  remained 
quietly  at  Windsor,  contenting  himself 
with  sending  a  letter  after  Blount,  to 
the  effect  that  he  had  learnt  of  his 
wife's  death  "  by  a  fall  from  a  pair 
of  stayres,"  and  praying  his  cousin 
earnestly  to  do  all  that  he  can  to  sift 
the  matter  to  the  bottom,  and  to. see 
that  the  coroner  and  the  jury  did  their 
part  likewise,  "  honorablie  and  duelie 
by  all  manner  of  examynacions."  He 
said  also  that  he  had  sent  "  for  my 
brother  Appleyarde,  because  he  is  her 
brother."  Then  Blount  tells  his  tale. 
He  had  stayed  his  journey  at  Abing- 
don,  to  hear  what  the  folk  said.  The 
landlord  of  his  inn  was  discreet.  He 
allowed  that  some  people  were  dis- 
posed to  say  evil  of  the  matter,  but  for 
his  own  part  he  would  say  no  more 
than  that  it  was  a  misfortune,  because 
it  had  happened  in  Forster's  house, 
and  he  had  a  good  opinion  of  Forster. 
Next  he  reports  a  conversation  with 
Pinto,  Lady  Dudley's  maid.  Pinto  was 
vague,  as  is  the  wont  of  her  class.  She 
said  she  thought  it  "  verie  chance, 
and  neither  done  by  man  nor  by  her- 
self ;  "  then  owned  that  she  had  often 
heard  her  lady  pray  to  God  to  deliver 
her  from  desperation  ;  and  finally  said 
that  she  meant  to  imply  nothing.  The 
most  important,  however,  of  Blount's 
news  is  that  the  servants  had  all  been 
sent  off  to  Abingdon  fair  early  on  the 
fatal  day — Sunday,  the  eighth  of  Sep- 
tember— by  Lady  Dudley's  own  orders, 
leaving  her  alone  with  Mrs.  Odingsell, 
a  daughter  of  the  Hyde  whose  seat  in 
parliament  Forster  succeeded  to,  and 

1  See  Mr.  Froude's   'History,' vii.  277-81, 
also  a  note,  p.  290  on  the  Simancas  Manuscripts. 


Mrs.  Owen,  wife  of  Forster's  landlord. 
Of  Forster  and  his  wife  there  is  no  word. 
The  servants  returned  in  the  evening, 
to  find  their  mistress  lying  dead  in  the 
hall.  Nothing  more  is  known.  Of  Mrs. 
Odingsell's  evidence,  or  Mrs.  Owen's, 
we  have  no  record.  There  is  no  re- 
port of  the  proceedings  at  the  inquest, 
nor  of  the  verdict.  The  only  autho- 
rity for  the  former  is  the  correspond- 
ence between  Dudley  and  Blount; 
we  know,  from  various  sources,  that 
the  latter,  after  a  long  and  uneasy 
inquiry,  was  one  of  accidental  death ; 
and  that  the  public  were  not  at  all 
satisfied  with  the  result.  One  or 
two  other  things  have,  however,  to 
be  noted.  Mention  has  been  made 
of  one  Appleyard,  sent  by  Dudley  to 
attend  the  inquest.  John  Appleyard 
was  Amy's  half  brother.  He  was 
concerned  in  some  way  with  the  Dud- 
leys in  the  affair  of  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
after  which  he  disappears  till  he  turns 
up  again  at  Cumnor.  Seven  years 
after  the  inquest,  when  the  old  rumour 
of  the  Queen's  marriage  with  Dudley 
blazed  out  again,  people  began  to 
revive  the  Cumnor  scandal.  Blount 
and  Appleyard  were  both  summoned 
before  the  Council,  and  notes  of  the 
latter's  examination  exist  among  the 
Hatfield  manuscripts  in  Cecil's  own 
handwriting.  From  these  it  appears 
that  one  of  the  witnesses  swore  that, 
"  bringing  answer  from  the  Earl  of 
Leicester  to  Appleyard  that  he  could 
not  help  him  in  his  requests  as  he 
desired,  Appleyard  used  words  of 
anger,  and  said  amongst  other  things 
that  he  had  for  the  Earl's  sake 
covered  the  murder  of  his  sister." 
Appleyard  himself  swore  that  he  did 
not  believe  the  Earl  to  be  guilty,  but 
"  thought  it  an  easy  matter  to  find  out 
the  offender  "  ;  he  further  swore  that 
he  had  often  pressed  Dudley  to  let 
him  take  the  matter  up,  but  had  been 
always  refused  on  the  ground  that 
the  jury  thought  otherwise,  although 
at  the  time  he  made  his  request  the 
verdict  had  not  been  given.  Subse- 
quently Appleyard,  lying  in  the  Fleet 
prison,  withdrew  his  words,  and  pro- 


140 


The  Death  of  Amy  Robsart. 


fessed  himself  satisfied  with  the  ver- 
dict, a  copy  of  which  had  at  his  own 
request  been  sent  to  him.  Also, 
there  exists  in  the  same  volume  of 
manuscripts  from  which  the  famous 
correspondence  was  extracted,  the 
fragment  of  an  original  letter  from 
Blount  to  Dudley  referring  to  this 
very  examination.  In  this  he  much 
regrets  that  they  could  not  have 
spoken  together  first.  This  letter  ap- 
pears to  be  in  Blount's  own  hand- 
writing ;  it  is  at  any  rate  in  an 
earlier  handwriting  than  the  other 
letters.  Mr.  Froude  thinks  it  pos- 
sible that  the  latter  may  be  copies 
garbled  for  Blount  to  take  before 
the  Council.  It  is  certainly  pos- 
sible, but  we  are  not  just  now  deal- 
ing with  possibilities.  He  also  says 
that  if  Appleyard  spoke  truth  there  is 
no  more  to  be  said.  Canon  Jackson 
says  very  triumphantly  that  Apple- 
yard  did  not  speak  truth,  because  of 
his  recantation,  and  because  of  a 
letter  found  at  Longleat  from  Sir 
Henry  Nevill  to  Sir  John  Thynne,  in 
which  Appleyard  is  said  to  have  con- 
fessed before  the  Star-Chamber  that 
he  had  spoken  falsely  and  maliciously. 
But  Canon  Jackson  must  have  read 
history  somewhat  dimly  if  he  does 
not  know  that  a  man  brought  before 
the  Council  for  speaking  ill  of  a 
monarch's  favourite  was  very  apt  to 
change  his  tone.  But  again  there  is 
no  proof  either  way.  Mr.  Froude  has 
really  put  the  case  in  a  nutshell :  "If 
Appleyard  spoke  the  truth,  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said."  For  close  upon 
three  hundred  years  the  general 
opinion  has  been  that  Appleyard  did 
speak  the  truth.1 

Here,  then,  all  our  real  knowledge  of 
the  case  ends.  That  the  shadow  of  his 
wife's  death,  as  of  so  many  other  evil 
deeds,  never  passed  away  from  Robert 
Dudley  during  his  life,  every  one  with 
the  merest  smattering  of  history  knows ; 
that  it  has  hung  over  his  memory 
since,  every  one  knows.  That  Messieurs 
Pettigrew,  Adlard,  and  Jackson  have 

1  Mr.  Fronde's  '  History  of  England,'  vii. 
283-9. 


removed  one  jot  or  tittle  of  it,  every 
one  capable  of  distinguishing  between 
proof  and  conjecture  may,  if  he  choose 
to  read  their  evidence,  know  equally 
well.  The  suspicion  may  be  cruelly 
unjust,  but  that  is  not  the  question. 
Lady  Dudley  may  have  taken  her  own 
life  in  a  fit  of  despair,  or  have  died  by 
sheer  accident ;  but  again,  that  is  not 
the  question.  The  charge  of  these 
gentlemen — all  as  honourable  as  Brutus 
was,  or  as  they  wish  to  make  Leicester 
and  Forster  and  Yarney  to  have  been 
— is  that  Sir  Walter  has  grossly  falsi- 
fied history  to  the  prejudice  of  honest 
men.  Have  they  proved  their  charge  ? 
That  is  the  question.  They  have  not 
proved  it  in  a  single  instance.  They 
have  not  proved  that  Lady  Dudley 
was  not  put  out  of  the  way  to  further 
her  husband's  ambition  ;  nor  that  he 
was  not  at  least  a  consenting  party ; 
nor  that  Forster  and  Varney  were 
not  in  some  way  or  another  partners 
in  their  patron's  guilt,  Where  Sir 
Walter  went  wrong  was  known  long 
before  any  one  of  them  put  pen 
to  paper.  Of  all  their  more  serious 
charges  not  one  has  been  verified. 
They  may  conjecture,  but  so  might 
Sir  Walter.  Like  Lucetta,  they  may 
think  it  so,  because  they  think  it  so ; 
but  so  might  Sir  Walter.  He  may  be 
.  altogether  wrong,  but  so  may  they  be. 
It  is  a  sheer  question  of  fact  against 
theory.  They  have  piled  up  tons  of 
theories  to  mount  up  to  Sir  Walter's 
throne,  but  the  little  ounce  of  fact 
wanting  to  shake  him  down  they  have 
not  found.  The  truth  has  never  come 
to  light,  and  in  all  human  probability 
now  it  never  will  come.  Mr.  Petti- 
grew,  it  may  be,  has  by  this  time 
learned  it.  But  Mr.  Adlard  and 
Canon  Jackson  are  with  us  still.  Let 
us  pray  them,  in  all  good  meaning,  to 
turn,  not  to  '  Kenil  worth '  again,  but  to 
another  novel  of  Sir  Walter's ;  to  turn 
to  '  The  Antiquary,'  and  from  that  de- 
lightful book  to  learn  once  more  the 
lesson  taught  on  the  Kaim  of  Kin- 
prunes  to  all  antiquaries,  not  to  pub- 
lish their  tracts  till  they  have  examined 
the  thing  to  the  bottom. 


141 


MRS.  DYMOND. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
IN   AN   EMPTY   APARTMENT. 

THE  house  was  at  the  corner  of  the 
boulevard  and  the  Rue  Lavoisier,  near 
the  mortuary  chapel  which  Madame 
du  Pare  had  once  promised  to  visit 
with  Susy. 

In  this  strange  house,  with  the 
occasional  roar  and  rush  in  the  boule- 
vard close  at  hand,  the  hours  passed 
like  some  strange  nightmare ;  so  slowly, 
so  long,  so  stifling  in  their  silent 
oppression,  that  Susy  could  scarcely 
believe  that  another  hour  was  gone 
when  the  gilt  clock  struck.  The 
apartment  belonged  to  unknown  people 
who  had  fled  hastily,  leaving  their 
clothes  and  their  possessions  in  confu- 
sion ;  shoes  and  papers,  packing  cases 
half  packed,  a  parcel  of  silver  spoons 
lying  on  the  table.  The  linen  cup- 
boards were  open,  with  the  neat 
piles  disordered  and  over-turned ;  the 
clocks  were  going,  but  the  beds  were 
not  made.  At  first  Susy  set  to  work 
straightening,  making  order  in  the 
confusion,  preparing  a  room  for  herself, 
and  another  for  Jo  in  caso  ho  should 
arrive.  She  swept  and  folded  and 
put  away,  and  made  the  rooms  ready 
for  the  night.  She  put  by  a  lady's 
smart  bonnet,  a  child's  pair  of  little 
boots.  Had  she  been  in  any  mood 
to  do  so,  she  might  have  pieced  to- 
gether the  story  of  those  to  whom 
the  home  belonged ;  but  she  was 
dull,  wearied  out,  only  wanting  news 
of  Jo.  As  Mrs.  Dymond  worked  011 
the  time  passed ;  then,  when  the  work 
was  done,  when  she  had  established 
herself  in  one  of  the  two  bedrooms, 
when  all  was  straight,  and  the  linen 
piled  afresh  and  the  doors  of  the 
cupboard  closed,  though  the  clocks 
still  ticked  on,  time  itself  seemed  to 


stop.  She  was  quite  alone  now,  neither 
Jo  nor  Adolphe  rejoined  her,  nor  did 
Max  come  as  he  had  promised. 

The  rest  of  the  house  was  also 
empty  ;  the  concierge  was  down  below 
in  his  lodge,  but  except  for  him 
no  one  remained  in  the  sunny  tall 
building  lately  so  alive,  so  closely 
packed. 

"  There  was  one  lady  still  remaining 
of  all  the  inhabitants,"  the  concierge 
said,  "  an  English  lady — a  dame  de 
charite,  who  would  not  leave  her 
poor ;  but  she  was  gone  away  for  a 
day  to  visit  a  sick  friend." 

Susy  went  down  stairs  towards 
evening  to  ask  if  no  letter  had  come 
for  her.  She  even  went  out,  at  the 
porter's  suggestion,  bareheaded,  as 
people  do  in  France,  and  bought  some 
milk  and  some  food  from  an  adjoining 
shop,  and  then  came  back  to  the  silent 
place. 

It  was  a  most  terrible  experience; 
one  which  seemed  so  extraordinary 
that  Mrs.  Dymond  could  hardly  believe 
that  it  was  not  all  some  dream  from 
which  she  would  presently  awake. 
She  waited  till  long  past  midnight  on 
her  bed,  and  fell  asleep  at  last ;  but 
towards  four  o'clock  the  sound  of  the 
cannon  at  Montmartre  awoke  her,  and 
she  sat  up  on  the  bed  listening  with  a 
beating  heart.  There  was  a  crucifix 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ;  in  her  natural 
terror  and  alarm  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  figure  on  the  crucifix  looked  up  in 
the  early  dawn.  There  was  a  picture 
beneath  the  crucifix  of  a  Madonna 
with  a  burning  heart.  A  longing,  an 
unutterable  longing  came  to  poor 
Susanna  for  her  own  mother  Mary's 
tender,  comforting,  loving  arms  round 
her  own  aching  heart — surely  it  was  on 
fire  too.  How  lonely  she  felt,  how 
deserted.  Max  might  have  come 


142 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


last  night,  as  he  promised.  It  seemed 
to  Susy  that  she  understood  now  for 
the  first  time  what  the  secret  of  Mary 
Marney's  life  had  been ;  a  secret  that 
Susy  herself  had  learnt  so  unwillingly, 
so  passionately,  so  late  in  life's  experi- 
ence. If  she  had  had  any  one  to  speak 
to,  everything  might  have  seemed  less 
vaguely  terrible.  As  she  was  listen- 
ing with  a  beating  heart  came  a 
sound  from  without,  that  of  a  drum 
beating  with  a  measured  yet  hur- 
ried roll ;  the  rattle  came  closer  and 
closer,  and  finally  stopped  under  her 
very  window.  She  started  from  the 
bed  and  ran  and  looked  out.  The 
dawn  had  just  touched  the  opposite 
houses,  another  shutter  opened,  then 
a  door  creaked,  and  a  man  ran  out 
hastily  buttoning  his  clothes  ;  then  a 
second  stood  in  the  door-way  in  shirt- 
sleeves, but  he  did  not  move.  Then 
the  drum  rolled  away  again,  and  with 
two  men  only  following,  passed  down 
the  street  to  the  boulevard.  The 
sound  came  fainter  and  more  hopeless. 
Then  the  distant  cannon  began  to  boom 
again,  and  some  carts  with  soldiers 
galloped  by. 

Susy  stood  helplessly  looking  from 
her  window.  Already  the  inhabitants 
of  Paris  were  awake,  and  receiving 
the  sun,  as  it  at  last  dispelled  the 
heavy  morning  fogs,  with  loud  cries  of 
"  Vive  la  Republique"  Drink  was 
being  distributed  among  the  National 
Guards  assembled  in  the  Place  de 
I'Hotel  de  Yille.  Many  of  the  bewildered 
soldiers,  who  had  been  poured  into  the 
town  all  the  preceding  days,  were  look- 
ing on  and  sharing  in  these  festivities. 
Others,  who  had  been  out  all  night, 
were  still  wandering  about  the  streets 
asking  the  passers-by  where  they  were 
to  go  for  shelter.  A  band  of  armed 
patriots,  crossing  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, were  shouting  out  "A  Versailles  /" 
with  the  same  enthusiasm  with  which 
their  predecessors  had  cried  "  A  Ber- 
lin/" a  few  months  before.  Others, 
whom  they  met  along  the  road,  take 
up  the  cry  ;  the  women  assembling  in 
the  streets  and  doorways  were  utter- 
ing fiercer,  vaguer  threats  of  vengeance 


against  tyrants,  against  Versailles,  and 
the  police,  and,  indeed,  before  many 
hours  had  passed  the  first  of  their  un- 
happy victims  was  being  hunted  to  his 
death  along  the  Rue  des  Martyrs. 
Alas !  he  was  but  the  first  of  the 
many  who  were  to  follow,  and  whose 
nobler  blood  was  destined  to  flow  upon 
those  cruel  stones. 

Reading  the  papers  of  those  days  we 
see  that  an  imposing  deputation  was 
preparing  to  visit  the  Place  de  la  Bas- 
tille, carrying  a  red  Phrygian  flag 
before  it;  that  the  new  self-elected 
government  was  gloriously  proclaiming 
the  "  Perfect  Unity,  and  Liberty  entire 
and  complete,"  of  which  we  have  al- 
ready heard  so  much ;  that  the  people 
of  Paris  had  shaken  off  the  despotism 
which  had  sought  to  crush  it  to  the 
ground.  "  Calm  and  impassive  in  its 
force,  it  was  standing  (so  say  Bill- 
coray,  Varlin,  Jourde,  Ch.  Lullier, 
Blanchet,  Pougeret,  &c.,  &c.)  and  in- 
contestably  proving  a  patriotism  equal 
to  the  height  of  present  circum- 
stances." 

What  were  all  these  echoes  to  Susy 
at  her  window,  looking  out  with  her 
heavy  anxious  heart  ?  Jo !  Max !  where 
were  they1?  what  were  they  about? 
Ah  !  would  these  terrible  hours  never 


She  dressed  very  early,  lit  a  fire, 
and  prepared  a  meal  with  the  tin  of 
milk  which  she  had  bought  the  day 
before.  It  was  an  unutterable  relief 
to  hear  the  door-bell  ring  about  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  found 
the  concierge  outside  bringing  up 
water  from  the  pump  below,  and  a 
note  which  had  been  left  very  early  in 
the  morning  before  he  was  up.  Susy 
tore  it  open.  The  note  was  in  Max's 
writing ;  it  had  no  beginning  nor 
date,  but  its  news  was  fresh  life  to 
poor  Susy.  It  was  in  English.  "I 
have  tidings  of  Jo.  Marney,  by  good 
fortune,  heard  of  him,  and  sent  me 
word.  He  is  in  custody,  and  I  have 
gone  after  him,  and  hope  to  bring 
him  back  safe  to  you.  Meet  us  to- 
day at  one  o'clock  at  the  Station,  by 
which  you  came.  Adolphe  will  come 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


143 


and  conduct  you  safely  there. — M.  DU 
P." 

Susy  burst  into  tears  of  relief,  and 
sank  into  a  chair.  The  concierge 
looked  on  compassionately  at  la 
petite  dame  as  he  called  her,  car- 
ried his  pails  into  the  kitchen,  and 
returned  on  tiptoe,  so  as  to  show  his 
friendly  sympathy.  How  the  morning 
passed  Mrs.  Dymond  could  scarcely 
have  told  ;  at  twelve  o'clock  Adolphe 
appeared  with  a  porter's  knot  upon 
his  strong  shoulders  to  carry  her  bag 
and  her  parcel  of  shawls.  He  had 
been  vexed  to  fail  her  the  night  before  ; 
he  was  coming  off  when  a  messenger 
from  du  Pare  had  met  him  with  a 
parcel  of  letters,  which  he  had  been 
obliged  to  deliver.  He  had  been  about 
till  one  o'clock  at  night.  "  It  was  a 
real  corvee"  said  Adolphe. 

"  But  it  was  apparently  in  your 
service,  madame,"  said  he,  politely. 
"  It  is  necessary  in  these  days  to  make 
one's  plans  beforehand,  and  if  people 
won't  agree  to  reason,  you  must  use 
a  little  compulsion." 

Susy  did  not  understand  very  well 
what  he  was  saying.  She  walked  by 
his  side,  questioning  him  about  Max 
and  Jo.  He  could  tell  her  very  little, 
except  that  du  Pare  had  sent  him 
on  these  errands.  As  they  were  walk- 
ing along,  side  by  side,  suddenly  a 
quiet-looking  woman  in  a  white  cap 
and  black  dress  crossed  the  street,  and 
came  up  and  caught  Susy  by  the  hand. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  "  why  do  you  stay 
here?  You  are  English.  What  do 
you  do  here?  It  is  not  your  home. 
Go  home,  go  home ;  you  don't  know 
what  dangers  are  about  you  here." 
Then  she  pushed  Susy,  and  hurried  on 
wildly. 

"  Curious  woman,"  says  Adolphe, 
imperturbably.  "  She  is  not  so  far 
wrong.  Come,  madame,  we  must  not 
be  too  late.  There  don't  seem  to  be 
many  people  left  anywhere,"  he  said, 
looking  about  him. 

"  How  strangely  empty  the  streets 
are,"  said  Mrs.  Dymond.  "The  rail- 
way place  is  quite  deserted,  and  the 
station,  too,  looks  shut." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

AT    THE   TERMINUS. 

THE  station  was  shut,  the  doors  and 
windows  seemed  closely  barred,  but 
as  they  looked  they  saw  a  side-door 
which  was  held  cautiously  ajar. 
Adolphe  kicked  with  his  foot,  and  in 
a  minute  they  were  let  in.  .  .  Within 
was  a  strange  scene  of  crowded  con- 
fusion and  excitement — baggage  in 
piles,  people  in  groups  clinging  toge- 
ther, women  wringing  their  hands  and 
weeping,  men  gesticulating.  In  one 
of  the  waiting-rooms  there  was  a 
crowd  round  a  wounded  man,  in 
another  a  woman  in  hysterics. 

"  Did  you  see  nothing  ? "  cried  half 
a  dozen  voices  as  Susy  entered,  follow- 
ing Adolphe. 

"  We  saw  nothing  at  all ;  we  met 
nobody  anywhere,"  said  he.  "What  is 
the  matter  with  you  all?  " 

Then  they  were  told  by  a  dozen  voices 
of  a  fight  which  had  taken  place  only 
a  few  minutes  before  in  the  open 
place  outside  the  station.  Some  of  the 
Federal  prisoners  were  being  brought 
up  to  the  station  to  be  taken  to 
Versailles  to  be  judged.  It  was  a 
grave  affair.  They  were  accused  of 
participation  in  the  murder  of  the 
generals.  The  Federals  had  made  a 
desperate  attempt  to  deliver  their 
men  from  the  hands  of  the  escort. 
The  escort  had  driven  off  the  attack, 
and  fought  its  way  into  the  station. 
The  prisoners  were  all  now  safely 
shut  up  in  the  railway  carriages  and 
doubly  guarded ;  the  Federals  had  re- 
treated— whether  for  good,  or  whether 
they  had  only  gone  for  reinforcements, 
it  was  impossible  to  say.  Adolphe's 
face  fell,  though  he  tried  to  look 
pleased. 

"  They  are  all  on  a  wrong  scent," 
cries  a  man  in  his  shirt- sleeves.  "They 
have  got  hold  of  Papa  Caron  among 
others  who  never  touched  a  Hy.  I  saw 
the  man  who  struck  down  Clement 
Thomas.  I  should  know  him  again. 
He  is  not  one  of  these.  The  old  man 
was  lying  on  the  ground ;  they  struck. 


144 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


him  down  with  the  butt-end  of  their 
guns." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  horror  all 
round,  as  the  narrator,  a  natural  dra- 
matist, as  most  Frenchmen  are,  threw 
up  his  arms  and  re-acted  the  dreadful 
scene.  Susy  turned  sick  with  horror. 

"Your  train  will  be  starting  in 
about  ten  minutes/'  Adolphe  was 
beginning  to  say,  when  suddenly  his 
tone  changes.  "  Take  care !  take 
care !  this  way,  madame,"  cries 
Adolphe,  suddenly  thrusting  himself 
before  her.  "  Up!  up!  on  the  seat !  " 

With  a  sudden  cry  the  crowd  began 
to  sway,  to  fly  in  every  direction ; 
the  great  centre  door  of  the  station 
trembled  under  the  blows  which  were 
being  struck  from  without.  There 
was  a  brief  parley  from  a  window,  a 
man  standing  on  a  truck  began  to 
shout — 

"Let  them  in  !  They  want  to  deliver 
the  prisoners  !  They  will  hurt  nobody." 

A  woman  close  by  screamed  and 
fainted.  As  Susy  was  stooping  and 
helping  to  pull  her  up  upon  the  bench 
the  two  great  folding  doors  suddenly 
burst  open,  letting  in  the  light,  and  a 
file  of  Federal  soldiers  marching  in 
step  and  military  order.  Adolphe, 
who  had  thrust  Susy  into  a  corner  of 
the  salle,  now  helped  to  raise  the  faint- 
ing woman,  with  Susy's  assistance,  as 
she  stood  on  the  bench  out  of  the  rush 
of  the  crowd,  while  Adolphe  and  his 
hotte  made  a  sort  of  rampart  before 
them. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said,  "  no 
one  will  fight ;  the  prisoners'  escort 
will  see  it  is  no  use  making  a  stand 
against  such  numbers.  Parclie,  they 
are  off  !  "  he  cried  excitedly,  for  as  he 
spoke  the  engine  outside  gave  a  shrill 
whistle  and  started  off  upon  the  lines. 
Susy,  from  her  place  by  the  window, 
could  see  the  train  slowly  steaming  out 
of  the  station.  There  was  a  wild  shout 
from  the  spectators.  What  was  it  that 
Susy  also  saw  through  the  barred 
window  by  which  she  stood  (half  a 
dozen  other  heads  below  were  crowd- 
ing against  the  panes  which  looked  to 
the  platform)  1  She  saw  a  figure,  surely 


it  was  familiar  to  her,  it  could  be  none 
other  than  Max  who  was  flying  down 
the  lines  to  the  signal  posts,  and  in 
another  minute  the  train,  still  snorting 
and  puffing,  began  to  slacken  speed, 
then  finally  stopped,  then  backed,  then 
stopped  again. 

"  The  danger  signals  are  all  up. 
They  don't  dare  advance  !  "  cried  some 
of  the  men  at  the  window. 

"  That  is  it,  bien  trouve.  Look  out, 
madame.  What  do  you  see  ?  "  cried 
Adolphe  eagerly  from  below. 

Meanwhile  the  detachment  of  Fede- 
rals, still  in  good  order,  still  advancing, 
came  on,  lining  the  centre  of  the  hall, 
spreading  out  through  the  door  on  to 
the  side  of  the  platform  along  which  the 
Versailles  train  had  started.  There  was 
a  second  platform  on  the  other  side  of 
the  station  from  which  Susy's  own 
train  to  Rouen  and  Havre  was  also 
making  ready  to  start.  It  was  curious 
to  note  how  methodically  common  life 
went  on  in  the  midst  of  these  scares 
and  convulsions.  Suddenly  Susy,  with 
a  sinking,  sickening  heart,  realised  that 
the  moment  for  her  own  time  of  de- 
parture had  almost  come ;  again  she 
thought  of  Max's  note  and  of  its 
promise.  Alas  !  alas !  it  was  not 
carried  out — no  Jo  was  there.  If 
she  went,  she  must  go  alone !  It 
was  all  too  rapid  for  her  to  formulate 
either  her  fear  or  her  hope.  Pre- 
sently there  was  a  fresh  stir  among 
the  crowd,  and  a  functionary's  voice 
was  heard  shouting  "Passengers  for 
Rouen  and  Havre  en  voiture  I " 

"  You  see  it  is  all  right  ! ".  said 
Adolphe,  cheerfully.  "  You  had  better 
go,  madame  ;  I  will  wait  here  in  case 
your  son  should  come,  to  send  him 
after  you.  He  is  big  enough  to 
travel  alone,"  said  the  young  man, 
nodding  to  reassure  her,  though  he 
looked  very  pale,  and  his  face  belied 
his  words. 

She  was  in  utter  perplexity  ;  she 
knew  not  what  to  do — what  to  deter- 
mine ;  of  one  thing  and  one  only  was 
she  sure,  Max  had  promised  to  find  Jo, 
to  save  him,  and  he  would  keep  his  word. 
Yes  !  it  would  be  better  to  go  on ;  her 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


145 


presence  was  but  an  incumbrance ; 
Max  could  help  Jo;  that  much  she 
knew ;  what  could  she  do  but  add  to 
their  perplexities.  The  fainting  woman" 
was  already  revived  as  Susy  sprang 
down  from  the  bench  with  Adolphe's 
help,  and  as  she  did  so  she  heard 
another  shout,  a  loud  cheer.  The  crowd 
swayed.  Between  the  ranks  of  the 
soldiers  came  the  triumphant  proces- 
sion of  Federals  with  their  red  scarves, 
returning  from  the  platform,  and  at 
the  head  of  it  Caron  borne  in  triumph 
on  some  of  his  own  workmen's 
shoulders.  Half-a-dozen  liberated  pri- 
soners were  marching  after  him, 
shouting  wildly  and  tossing  hats  and 
handkerchiefs. 

Caron,  who  had  been  a  prisoner 
among  the  rest,  was  smiling,  undis- 
turbed and  quiet  as  ever,  and  bowing 
and  softly  waving  his  hat.  To  be  safe 
mattered  little  to  him,  but  his  heart 
was  overflowing  with  grateful  pride 
and  pleasure  at  the  manner  of  his 
release  ;  the  rally  of  his  friends,  the 
determination  with  which  his  work- 
men had  united  to  defend  him  against 
his  enemies  filled  his  heart  with 
peaceful  content. 

Mrs.  Dymond,  speechless,  open-eyed, 
was  still  looking  after  him  with 
breathless  interest  and  surprise,  when 
her  own  turn  came,  her  own  release 
from  cruel  suspense.  A  hand  was  laid 
on  her  shoulder,  she  was  hugged  in 
two  strong  arms  and  fairly  lifted  off 
the  ground,  and  Jo,  grinning,  delighted, 
excited  and  free,  was  by  her  side  once 
more. 

"  I  am  going  back  with  you,  Mrs. 
Dymond,"  said  he;  "it's  all  right. 
I've  got  my  return  ticket." 

"  He  has  given  us  trouble  enough  !  " 
cries  Max,  coming  up  behind  him 
breathless  and  excited  too.  "For 
heaven's  sake  carry  him  off  at  once 
now  you  have  got  him.  It  is  time  you 
were  in  the  train.  The  troops  may  be 
upon  us  again." 

"  I  was  safe  all  through,"  said  Jo, 
"  but  we  know,  Mrs.  Dymond,  Caron 
has  enemies.  Lucky  for  us,  Max 
remembered  the  danger  signals." 

No.  314. — VOL.  LIU. 


All  the  time  Jo  spoke  du  Pare  was 
hurrying  Susanna  along  towards  the 
platform  from  which  the  Rouen  train 
was  starting.  It  was  approached  by  a 
turnstile,  where  they  were  met  by  an 
excited  functionary  who  let  Jo  and 
his  return  ticket  through  the  turnstile, 
but  angrily  opposed  the  passage  of 
Adolphe  and  the  parcels.  It  was  no 
use  waiting  to  discuss  the  matter ; 
the  man  was  terribly  excited,  and 
time  was  pressing. 

"  Take  the  bag  and  find  some  places," 
Max  cried,  handing  the  things  over  the 
barrier  to  Jo. 

Susy  paused  for  one  minute.  "  Good- 
bye, Adolphe,"  she  said ;  "  I  shall  never 
forget  your  kindness — never,  never." 
Then  she  raised  her  eyes,  looking 
steadily  into  du  Fare's  face.  All  the 
passing  flush  of  success  was  gone  from 
it.  He  was  drawing  his  breath 
heavily  ;  he  looked  anxious,  harassed. 
Susy,  too,  was  very  pale,  and  she  held 
by  the  wooden  barrier. 

"  I — I  can't  leave  you  in  this  hor- 
rible place,"  she  said  passionately. 
"  How  can  I  say  good-bye  ?  "  and  as 
she  spoke  she  burst  into  uncontrol- 
lable tears. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  then  and 
there,  before  them  all — who  cared  ? 
— who  had  time  to  speculate  upon  their 
relations  ? 

"  I  shall  come  to  you ;  don't  say 
good-bye,"  he  said  ;  "  we  are  not  part- 
ing," and  he  held  her  close  and 
breathless  to  his  beating  heart,  and 
then  in  a  moment  more  he  had  put 
her  away  with  gentle  strength,  and 
pushed  her  through  the  gate.  The 
wooden  turnstile  was  between  them, 
his  pale  face  was  immediately  lost  in 
the  sway  of  the  crowd  ;  she  found 
herself  roughly  hurried  along ;  thrust 
into  the  first  open  carriage.  Jo  leapt 
in  after  her;  the  door  was  banged. 
There  were  other  people  in  the  car- 
riage— some  sobbing,  some  talking 
incoherently,  all  excited,  exasperated, 
incoherent.  "C'est  trop  !  c'est  trop  ! 
c'est  trop ! "  one  man  was  shrieking 
over  and  over  again.  "I  can  bear 
no  more.  I  am  going — yes,  I  am 

L 


146 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


going  !  "  Another  young  fellow  "sat 
with  his  face  in  his  hands,  sobbing. 
Jo  was  very  silent,  and  sat  for  a  long 
time  staring  at  his  fellow  travellers. 
It  was  not  till  they  reached  Rouen, 
and  the  reassuring  German  helmets 
came  round  about  the  carriage  win- 
dows asking  what  had  happened  in 
Paris,  that  he  began  to  talk  to  Susy — 
that  he  gave  her  any  details  of  his 
escape  and  his  captivity.  He  had 
met  Caron  that  morning  after  he 
left  them  at  the  villa,  and  was 
walking  with  him  from  the  station, 
when  they  were  both  suddenly  ar- 
rested, with  a  young  man  who  had 
only  joined  them  a  few  minutes  before. 
They  were  not  allowed  a  word.  They 
were  hurried  off,  and  all  three  locked 
up  in  a  guard-house,  where  they  were 
kept  during  the  two  days.  Late  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  second  day  they  were 
moved  to  a  second  corps  de  garde.  On 
their  way  from  one  place  to  another 
they  fortunately  passed  Marney  in 
the  street.  "I  shouted  to  him,"  said 
Jo,  "  for  I  knew  he  would  let  you 
know,  and  I  knew  he  had  been  at 
work,  when  Caron  received  a  message 
through  one  of  the  soldiers — they  were 
most  of  them  half  Federals — that  we 
.were  to  be  rescued.  I  don't  think 
he  or  I  were  in  very  much  danger,"  Jo 
added,  "  but  the  third  man  had  been  a 
soldier,  and  would  have  been  shot,  so 
Caron  told  me  afterwards.  He  was  a 
fine  fellow — half  an  Englishman ;  they 
called  him  Russell,  or  some  such  name." 

"  Oh  !  Jo,  I  have  got  you  safe,"  said 
Susy,  beginning  to  cry  again.  "  I  can't 
think — I  can't  speak — I  can't  feel 
any  more." 

"Why  should  you?  "  said  Jo,  prac- 
tically. "  Give  me  your  ticket,  for 
fear  you  should  lose  it,"  and  then  he 
settled  himself  comfortably  to  sleep  in 
his  corner,  smiled  at  her,  and  pulled 
down  the  blind.  Susy  could  not  rest ; 
she  sat  mechanically  watching  the 
green  plains  and  poplar  trees  flying 
past  the  window.  She  was  nervously 
unhinged  by  the  events  of  the  last  two 
days  ;  the  strain  had  been  very  great. 
She  longed  to  get  back  to  silence,  to 


home,  to  the  realisation  of  that  one 
moment  of  absolute  relief.  She  felt 
as  if  she  could  only  rest  again  with 
'Phraisie  in  her  arms,  only  thus  bear 
the  renewed  suspense,  the  renewed 
anxiety.  But  she  knew  at  the  same 
time,  with  grateful,  indescribable  relief, 
that  her  worst  trouble  was  even  over 
now,  though  prison  bars,  distance,  a 
nation's  angry  revenge,  lay  between 
her  and  that  which  seemed  so  great 
a  portion  of  her  future  life. 

They  reached  home  on  the  evening 
of  the  second  day.  The  carriage  was 
waiting  at  the  station  with  Phraisie 
in  it.  The  drive  did  Susy  good  after 
all  these  tragic,  distorted  days,  during 
which  she  had  been  living  this  double 
life.  Little  Phraisie  in  her  arms  was 
her  best  comforter,  her  best  peace- 
maker. A  gentle  wind  blew  in  her 
face,  a  gentle  evening  burnt  away  in 
quiet  gleams,  the  sky  was  so  grey,  so 
broken ;  the  soft  golden  gates  of  the 
west  were  opening  wide,  and  seemed 
to  call  to  weary  spirits  to  enter  into 
the  realms  of  golden  peace.  The 
hedges  on  either  side  were  white  with 
the  garlands  of  spring.  The  dogs,  who 
had  been  set  loose,  came  barking  to 
meet  them,  as  the  wheels  turned  in  at 
the  familiar  home  gates.  The  servants 
appeared  eager  to  welcome.  Jo 
silently  gave  the  reins  into  the  coach- 
man's hand,  and  sprang  down  and 
handed  out  his  stepmother  with  some- 
thing of  his  father's  careful  courtesy. 
Little  Phraisie  woke  up  bright, 
delighted  to  be  in  her  mother's  arms 
once  more  and  at  home  ;  she  went  run- 
ning from  room  to  room.  It  was  home, 
Susy  felt,  and  not  only  home  but  a 
kind  tender  home,  full  of  a  living  past, 
with  a  sense  of  the  kindness  that  was 
not  dead. 

Phraisie  was  put  to  bed ;  dinner 
was  laid  in  the  library  for  the 
young  man  and  his  stepmother.  Jo 
sat  still  silent,  revolving  many  things 
in  his  mind.  From  a  stripling  he  had 
grown  to  be  a  man  in  the  last  few 
weeks.  His  expedition,  his  new  ex- 
perience, Tempy's  marriage,  his  own 
responsibility — all  these  things  had 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


147 


sobered  him,  and  made  him  realise  the 
importance  of  the  present,  of  conduct, 
of  other  people's  opinion. 

"Here  we  are  beginning  our  life 
together  again,  Mrs.  Dymond,"  said  he 
at  last.  "  We  get  on  very  well,  don't 
we?" 

"Yery  well,  dear  Jo,"  Susy  said, 
smiling,  "  until  some  one  who  has  more 
right  to  be  here  than  I  have  comes  to 
live  at  the  Place." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about !"  says 
Jo,  blushing  up.  "I  don't  mean  to 
marry  for  years  to  come,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean." 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  said  Susy,  with 
some  emotion,  "make  no  promises; 
you  do  not  know;  you  cannot  foretell. 
One  can  never  foretell." 

He  looked  hard  at  her.  He  guessed 
that  Susy  had  not  come  back  to  them 
as  she  went  away.  She  turned  a  little 
pale  when  she  saw  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
her.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  story 
must  be  written  in  her  face.  She 
might  have  told  him — she  need  not 
have  been  ashamed — but  she  felt  as  df 
his  father's  son  was  no  proper  con- 
fidant. 

Long  after  Jo  had  gone  to  bed  she 
sat  by  the  dying  fire,  living  over  and 
over  those  terrible  days,  those  strange 
momentous  hours. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
CAEON. 

WE  must  refer  those  of  our  readers 
who  take  any  interest  in  the  subse- 
quent adventures  of  Max  and  his 
contemporaries  to  the  pages  of  the 
Daily  Velocipede  for  some  account  of 
those  days  which  followed  Susy's  de- 
parture from  Paris.  Marny's  eloquent 
pen,  dipped  in  dynamite  and  gun- 
powder, flashing  with  flame  and  sen- 
sation, became  remarked  beyond  the 
rest,  and  brought  readers  by  hundreds 
to  his  paper.  He  was  everywhere, 
saw  everything,  so  graphic  were  his 
descriptions,  so  minute,  so  full  of 
enthusiasm,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
more  experienced  newspaper  readers 
than  Susy  to  say  how  much  he  wrote 


from  his  own  observation,  or  what 
hearsay  legends  he  translated  into  his 
own  language,  which,  whatever  its 
merits  or  demerits,  did  not  lack  in 
vividness.  Susy  scanned  the  columns 
day  by  day  with  anxious  eyes  for  more 
and  more  news.  She  found  so  much 
that  she  was  almost  bewildered  by  it, 
and  scarcely  knew  what  to  believe  ;  as 
for  direct  intelligence  of  Max,  scarcely 
any  came  to  her,  though  Madame  sent 
letters  from  time  to  time  from  her 
farm  at  Avignon.  But  Madame' s 
letters  chiefly  described  her  olive 
trees,  her  cow,  her  pig,  her  eggs, 
and  her  tomatoes.  Max  delayed ;  he 
did  not  rejoin  her  as  she  had  hoped  he 
might  have  done ;  he  left  her  to  do  it 
all,  to  engage  the  man,  to  contract 
with  the  hotels  for  her  eggs  and  butter. 
Susy  wrote  to  Madame  from  time  to 
time,  telling  her  about  little  Phraisie 
and  the  two  boys,  who  were  doing  well 
at  their  school.  In  one  letter  Susy 
also  described  a  domestic  event,  of 
which  the  news  had  reached  Tarndale 
soon  after  her  return  from  Paris. 
Uncle  Peregrine  Bolsover  had  died 
suddenly  from  the  effects  of  a  snake 
bite.  He  had  left  no  will,  but  Charlie 
became  undisputed  heir  to  the  Bolsover 
estates,  and  Uncle  Bob  now  transferred 
to  him  the  allowance  which  Peregrine 
had  hitherto  enjoyed ;  but  this  news 
did  not  interest  Madame  du  Pare  in 
the  least.  *«The  price  of  butter  had 
fallen,  and  her  mind  was  preoccupied 
by  more  present  contingencies. 

As  the  events  multiplied  in  France, 
as  the  storms  raged  more  and  more 
fiercely,  those  who  had  remained,  hop- 
ing to  stem  the  waves,  felt  every  day 
more  helpless ;  the  sea  was  too  rough, 
the  evil  blasts  too  high — what  voice 
could  be  heard  ?  What  orders  could 
prevail?  Captains  and  leaders  were 
powerless  now.  For  the  first  time 
Caron  lost  courage  and  confidence.  The 
murder  of  the  hostages  seemed  like  a 
death  blow  to  the  dear  old  man  who 
could  not  believe  in  the  wickedness  of 
men  whom  he  had  trusted  and  lived 
with  all  his  threescore  years,  during 

L  2 


148 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


which  he  himself,  though  he  did  not 
know  it,  had  been  as  a  hostage  for 
good  and  for  truth  among  the  angry 
and  the  ignorant  people.  He  moped, 
his  blue  eyes  were  dim,  his  steps  were 
slow.  Max  hardly  recognised  him  one 
day  when  he  met  him  coming  out  of 
his  own  doorway  in  the  Rue  de  Bac. 
He  was  carrying  some  letters  to  a 
post-office  hard  by ;  he  seemed  glad  to 
take  du  Fare's  strong  arm. 

"  I  am  tired ;  I  feel  ill,"  he  said. 
"  I  feel  disgraced  and  utterly  ashamed  ; 
this  is  no  liberty,  no  republic  any 
more.  This  is  tyranny,  monstrous 
wickedness ;  these  crimes  of  the 
brutal  ignorant  have  only  the  excuse 
of  ignorance.  If  I,  if  others  before 
me,  had  done  our  simplest  duty  in 
life,  such  blank  ignorance  would  not 
now  exist." 

Max  felt  his  heart  sore  for  his  old 
friend.  He  himself  had  hoped  less  of 
his  fellow-creatures ;  he  was  more 
angry  and  less  crushed  than  Caron. 

"If  these  brutes  had  listened  to 
your  teaching,"  he  said,  trying  to 
cheer  him,  "  and  to  that  of  sensible 
men,  it  might  have  all  turned  differ- 
ently. They  will  still  have  to  learn 
before  they  can  cease  to  be  brutes." 

"  I  have  no  more  strength  to  teach." 
said  Caron.  "  Max,  do  you  know  that 
I  have  left  you  all — all  my  theories, 
my  failures,  my  ineptitudes,  my  reali- 
ties, mes  cheres  verites,"  he  said.  "  You 
must  make  the  best  use  you  can  of 
it  all.  You  can  ask  for  the  memoranda 
and  papers.  I  gave  them  to  your 
friend,  la  douce  Susanne.  They  will 
be  for  you  and  your  children,  my  dear 
son.  If  you  escape  from  this  terrible 
catastrophe,  go  to  her.  I  think  that 
with  her  you  will  find  happiness." 

Max,  greatly  touched,  pressed  his 
old  friend's  arm.  "  One  can  scarcely 
look  forward,"  he  said,  "from  one 
hour  to  another,  but  you  have  guessed 
rightly  ;  if  happier  times  ever  come  for 
me,  they  could  only  be  with  her." 

Car  on' s  eyes  lighted  up. 

"  That  is  well,"  he  said,  with  a 
bright  smile.  Then,  giving  him  the 
letters,  "I  had  been  about  to  post 


them,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  leave 
them  for  me  ?  They  will  be  safer  if 
they  go  by  hand.  You  have  done  me 
good,"  he  added.  "  I  shall  return  home- 
quietly." 

Max  left  him  at  the  turn  of  the 
street. 

Is  it  chance,  is  it  solemn  fatality — 
by  what  name  is  one  to  call  that  flash 
of  fate  suddenly  falling  upon  men  as 
they  journey  on  their  way,  which  falls, 
without  warning,  irrevocable,  undreamt 
of,  rending  the  veil  of  life  for  ever  ? 

While  Caron  turned  slowly  home- 
wards to  his  quiet  study,  where  old 
Madelaine  was  at  work  against  his 
return,  a  mad  crowd  had  gathered  in 
an  adjoining  street,  and  was  pursuing 
with  cruel  rage  a  wretched  victim  who 
flew  along  a  narrow  alley,  and  came 
rushing  across  the  pavement  upon 
which  Caron  was  walking. 

The  victim,  a  gendarme,  torn, 
wounded,  bleeding  in  the  temples, 
ran  straight  against  Caron,  and  fell 
helpless  at  his  knees,  pursued  by  the 
yelling  mob. 

The  old  man  seemed  suddenly  roused 
to  a  young  man's  strength  of  indigna- 
tion, and  flung  himself  before  the 
victim. 

"  Stop  I "  he  cried  to  the  mob. 
"What  are  you  doing]  I  am  Caron. 
You  know  me.  Let  this  man  pass  !  " 

For  a  moment,  startled  by  his  voice, 
his  fearless,  commanding  look,  they 
hung  back ;  but  out  of  the  crowd  a 
huge,  half  drunk  communist  came 
striding  up,  and  putting  out  his  hand 
with  a  tipsy  chuckle  tried  to  pull  for- 
ward the  poor  fainting  wretch. 

Caron  pulled  an  official  scarf  from 
his  pocket,  and  holding  it  up  in  his 
left  hand,  struck  the  man  in  the  face 
with  it. 

"  That  man  is  drunk,"  Caron  cried, 
appealing  to  the  crowd ;  "  and  you, 
people — you  let  yourselves  be  led  by 
such  as  he?" 

The  people  looked  at  the  scarf,  hesi- 
tated, began  to  murmur  and  make 
way,  but  the  drunken  leader,  still 
chuckling  and  stupid,  seized  the 
miserable  victim  again. 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


149 


"Let  him  go,  I  tell  you,"  said 
Caron.  "It  is  the  will  of  the 
people." 

"  Silence  !  or  I  shoot  you  too  ! "  cried 
the  brute,  pulling  out  a  pistol,  and 
aiming  it  at  the  fainting  heap  upon 
the  pavement. 

With  the  natural  impulse  of  one  so 
generous,  the  old  man  sprang  forward 
to  turn  the  arm,  but  he  was  too  late. 
The  pistol  went  off,  and  Caron  fell 
back,  silent,  indeed,  and  for  ever. 

The  murderer,  half -sobered,  stood 
with  his  pistol  confronting  them  all,  as 
Caron  had  done  a  moment  before,  and 
then  began  to  back  slowly.  The  crowd 
wavered,  and  suddenly  dispersed. 

"  Silence  !  "  cry  the  blasphemers  to 
those  who  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, by  love,  by  work,  by  their  very 
being,  testify  to  the  truth.  And  the 
good  man  dies  in  his  turn,  but  the 
truth  he  loved  lives  on.  "There  is 
neither  speech  nor  language  :  but  their 
voices  are  heard  among  them,  their 
sound  is  gone  out  into  all  lands  :  and 
their  words  into  the  ends  of  the 
world." 

Susanna  was  spared  the  shock  of 
reading  this  cruel  story  in  the  paper. 
Marney  wrote  to  her,  telling  her  of 
the  event  as  he  had  heard  it,  simply, 
and  without  the  comments  he  after- 
wards added  in  print. 

To  the  papers  this  was  but  an 
incident  in  those  awful  times ;  the 
readers  of  M.  Maxime  du  Camp's  ter- 
rible volumes  will  find  many  and  many 
such  noted  there ;  they  will  also  find 
an  episode  curiously  like  one  in  which 
Max  du  Pare  was  (according  to  the 
Daily  Velocipede)  concerned,  and  which 
happened  during  the  last  of  those 
terrible  nights  in  which  the  flames 
raged  and  fought  on  the  tide  of  madness 
in  furious  might  and  irresponsibility. 
"  Was  this  the  end  of  it — of  the  visions 
of  that  gentle  old  teacher  of  a  gospel 
which  was  for  him,  and  not  for 
frenzied  demons  and  desperate  mad- 
men 1 "  thought  Max,  as  he  tried  a 
short  cut  across  the  Carrousel,  round 
which  the  flames  were  leaping  madly. 


The  gate  into  the  Tuileries,  by  which 
he  had  come  with  Susanna  once,  was 
closed  :  he  had  to  turn  back  and  fight 
his  way  along  the  crowds  and  the 
ramparts  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  again, 
to  the  Ministere  de  la  Marine,  whither 
he  was  bound.  Some  weeks  before, 
Caron's  influence  had  appointed  Max 
to  some  subordinate  place  under  the 
Commune  in  the  Ministere  de  la 
Marine.  In  his  first  natural  fury 
and  grief  at  his  old  friend's  death, 
du  Fare's  first  impulse  had  been  to 
wash  his  hands  of  the  whole  thing, 
the  guilt  and  the  wicked  confusion, 
and  to  come  away  with  the  rest ;  then 
came  the  remembrance  of  that  life- 
long lesson  of  forbearance  and  tena- 
city ;  that  strange  sense — which  some 
men  call  honour  only — awoke;  that  will 
which  keeps  men  at  their  guns, 
fighting  for  an  unworthy  cause  in 
the  front  of  an  overwhelming  force. 
Was  it  also  some  feeling  of  honest 
trust  in  himself  which  impelled  Caron's 
disciple  to  stand  to  his  post?  He 
remained  ;  protesting,  shrewdly 
using  every  chance  for  right.  He  had 
been  to  the  Central  Committee  now  to 
protest  in  vain  against  the  destruction 
of  the  building;  it  was  full  of  sick 
people.  He  represented  the  lower 
rooms  were  used  as  hospital  wards. 
"  The  sick  people  must  be  moved," 
yelled  the  chiefs  ;  the  fiat  had  gone 
forth.  The  Yersaillais  had  reached 
the  Rondpoint  of  the  Champs  Elysees  ; 
they  should  find  Paris  a  heap  of 
charred  remains  before  they  entered 
her  streets. 

Max  got  back  through  the  wild 
Saturnalia  of  the  streets,  where  dis- 
hevelled women  were  dancing  round 
the  flames,  and  men,  yelling  and  drunk- 
en, were  howling  out  that  the  last  day 
had  come ;  he  reached  the  Ministere 
at  last,  to  find  that  a  band  of  men 
were  smearing  the  walls  and  stair- 
cases with  petroleum,  in  readiness  for 
the  firing ;  while  down  below,  with 
infinite  pains  and  delays,  the  sick  were 
being  slowly  moved  from  their  shelter 
into  the  street.  In  vain  the  com- 
munists swore  and  raged  at  the 


150 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


delay ;  slowly,  and  more  slowly,  did 
the  doctor  and  his  nurses  get  through 
their  arduous  work.  Max  saw  at  a 
glance  what  was  in  their  minds — to 
delay  long  enough  was  to  save  the 
place,  for  the  Yersaillais  were  within 
a  quarter  of  an  hour's  march,  and 
once  they  were  there  all  danger  would 
be  over.  "  Good  God  !  "  said  the  poor 
doctor  in  an  undertone,  wiping  his 
perspiring  brow ;  "  why  don't  they 
come  on  I  Will  they  wait  till  Dooms- 
day i" 

Max  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he 
went  on,  looking  in  for  a  moment  at 
the  band  of  incendiaries  sitting 
gloomily  drinking  in  a  small  room  or 
office,  where  they  were  awaiting  their 
summons,  and  the  news  that  the  hos- 
pital wards  were  evacuated. 

Du  Pare  climbed  on,  and  went  and 
stood  upon  a  flat  terrace  on  the  roof, 
from  which  he  could  see  the  heavens 
alight  with  the  lurid  glare  of  the 
flames  now  bursting  from  every  side. 
To  the  right  the  Rue  Royale  was 
burning  ;  to  the  left,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  waters,  which  repeated  the 
flames,  the  whole  of  the  Rue  de  Lille 
was  in  a  blaze.  Close  at  hand  the 
offices  of  the  Finance  were  burning  \ 
the  Tuileries  were  an  ocean  of  flame. 
At  his  feet  was  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, silent,  deserted,  covered  with 
wrecks,  with  broken  statues  and 
monuments ;  beyond  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  lay  the  sombre  green  of  the 
Champs  Ely  sees,  showing  here  and 
there  some  faintly  twinkling  bivouac 
fire. 

Suddenly,  as  he  looked,  his  brain 
reeled,  then  he  put  his  hands  to  his 
head,  and  tears  came  into  his  eyes  and 
seemed  to  save  him.  The  clock  below 
struck  the  hour ;  for  a  moment  he 
hesitated,  then  his  resolution  was 
taken.  He  made  certain  observations, 
and  down  the  stairs  by  which  he  had 
come  hurried  back.  When  he  reached 
the  door  of  the  room  where  the  Com- 
munists were  still  sitting,  he  passed 
his  fingers  through  his  hair  ;  he  tore 
open  his  shirt ;  he  had  deliberately 
smeared  his  hands  in  some  black 


cinders  lying  in  a  heap  on  the  roof, 
and  with  his  fingers  he  now  blackened 
his  face,  and  flinging  violently  open 
the  door,  hurried  in,  crying  out  the 
terrible  pass-word  of  those  sad  times, 
"  We  are  betrayed  !  We  are  betrayed  ! 
The  Yersaillais  are  upon  us;  they 
have  surrounded  us.  Stop  not ;  that 
way  I  will  lead  you,"  he  cried,  as  the 
men  rose  half  scared,  half  drunk,  look- 
ing for  an  exit.  "Follow  me,"  he 
cried,  flying  up  the  stairs  once  more, 
and  turning  by  the  upper  passages  to 
the  lofts  and  back  garrets,  he  left 
them,  promising  to  return.  Shutting 
a  heavy  door  upon  them,  he  double- 
locked  them  in.  When  he  hurried 
down  to  the  ground  floor,  he  found 
that  three  wounded  men  only  were 
lying  on  the  ground,  ready  to  be  car- 
ried out. 

"  You  can  take  your  time,"  he  said 
to  the  doctor  ;  "  the  incendiaries  are 
up  stairs,  under  lock  and  key." 

The  doctor  immediately  gave  the 
word  to  his  assistants,  and  the 
wounded,  who  had  been  carried  out 
with  infinite  pain  and  patience,  were 
now  brought  back  again,  and  were 
there  in  their  places  when  the  Yer- 
saillais marched  in  an  hour  later. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

IN   A    TOY  SHOP. 

WHEN  the  flames  were  extinguished, 
when  the  great  panic  was  subsiding, 
then  came  the  day  of  reprisals,  and 
the  unhappy  Parisians,  who,  after  en- 
during so  much  with  patience,  had 
broken  out  in  their  madness,  now  fell 
under  the  scourge  once  more.  Perhaps 
nothing  during  the  war,  not  even  the 
crazed  monstrosities  of  the  desperate 
commune,  has  ever  been  more  heart- 
breaking to  hear  of  than  the  accounts 
of  the  cold-blooded  revenge  of  the 
Yersaillais. 

Again  we  must  refer  our  readers  to 
the  Daily  Velocipede,  in  the  columns 
of  which  Max  was  reported  to  be 
among  the  condemned  prisoners,  but 
Susy  was  surprised  and  reassured 
by  an  ambiguous  letter,  which  reached 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


151 


her  at  Crowbeck  Place,  from  no  less 
well-informed  a  person  than  Mr.  Bag- 
ginal  of  the  English  embassy. 

"  I  have  executed  your  commission," 
so  it  began.  (Susy  had  not  given  Mr. 
Bagginal  any  commission,  and  she 
turned  the  letter  over  in  some  sur- 
prise.) "  I  am  sending  you  the  photo- 
graphs of  the  ruins  and  of  Paris,  that 
you  wished  for  in  its  present  changed 
aspect.  I  hope  also  to  have  some  pen- 
and-ink  etchings  to  forward  at  the  same 
time.  They  are  by  our  companion  of 
last  year,  who  has  been  doing  some 
very  good  work  lately,  though  he 
complains  of  the  light  of  his  present 
studio  ;  he  hopes,  however,  to  be  able 
to  remove  before  long  to  some  more 
commodious  quarters.  If  you  should 
like  any  more  of  the  drawings,  you  can 
always  order  them  from  a  toy-shop  in 
the  Brompton  Road,  which  I  believe 
you  and  Miss  Phraisie  are  sometimes 
in  the  habit  of  patronising.  Pray  pre- 
sent my  compliments  to  that  young 
lady,  and  tell  her  I  shall  bring  over 
some  bonbons  when  I  next  come.  They 
are  making  them  now  of  chocolate,  in 
the  shape  of  cannon  balls  and  of  shells, 
filled  with  vanille  creams,  which  I  as- 
you  are  excellent.  Believe  me, 
Mrs.  Dymond,  always  most 
Faithfully  yours, 

"  C.  E.  BAGGINAL." 

The  photographs  arrived  by  the 
lext  post,  and  with  them  a  sketch  of 
the  well-remembered  studio  in  the 
lla,.  and  another  very  elaborately- 
ished  drawing  of  a  dark  box-room 
Mr.  Bagginal's  lodgings,  where  the 
artist  must  have  spent  a  good  many 
hours ;  the  third  drawing  was  a  slight 
sketch  of  the  little  shop  front  in  the 
Brompton  Road,  with  Mrs  Barry's 
name  over  the  doorway.  Susy  recog- 
nised it  at  once,  for  she  had  been  there 
and  had  often  heard  of  the  place  from 

himself. 

Two  days    afterwards    Susy,    with 
m's    packet    in    her    hand,    was 
riving  along  Knightsbridge  towards 
the  little  shop  in  a  strangely  anxious 
"  excited  frame  of  mind. 


It  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  the  toys 
were  feeling  for  her  as  she  stood 
there — the  dolls  with  their  goggle  blue 
eyes,  the  little  donkeys  and  horses, 
the  sheep  with  their  pink  and  blue 
ribbons.  They  all  seemed  compassionate 
and  to  be  making  mute  signs  ;  she  saw 
the  little  trumpets  in  their  places  and 
the  sugar-candy  stores  ;  she  could  have 
bought  up  the  whole  shopful,  but  the 
little  assemblage  would  not  have  seemed 
the  same  to  her  in  any  other  place. 
Here  in  the  suburban  street,  with  the 
carts  passing  and  repassing,  hospitals, 
buildings,  the  quiet  little  shop  haunted 
by  the  children's  smiling  faces  seemed 
to  shrink  away  from  the  busy  stream 
outside-;  all  the  dolls  seemed  to  put 
up  their  leather  arms  in  deprecation, 
crying,  "  Don't  come  in  here,  we  belong 
to  peaceful  toy-land,  we  have  to  do 
with  children  only,  not  with  men." 
The  woman  who  kept  the  shop  had 
left  the  parlour  door  open,  and  Susy 
could  see  the  window  and  the  old  Lon- 
don garden  beyond,  the  square  panes 
with  autumn  creepers  peeping  through. 

The  woman  of  the  shop  came  out 
from  her  parlour,  and  Susy  with  fal- 
tering lips  asked  her  if  she  could  give 
her  any  news  of  M.  du  Pare.  "  I  have 
some  papers  which  I  want  to  send 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Dymond. 

"  I  will  call  him,  ma'am,"  said  the 
woman  very  quietly ;  "  he  came  last 
night ;  "  and  almost  as  she  was  speak- 
ing the  door  opened  and  Max  was 
there. 

Clap  your  pink  arms,  oh  goggle  eyes ; 
play,  musical  boxes  ;  ring,  penny  trum- 
pets; turn,  cart  wheels,  and  let  the 
happy  lovers  meet ! 

Two  more  people  are  made  happy 
in  this  care-worn  world;  they  are 
together,  and  what  more  do  they 
want ! 

Du  Pare  had  escaped,  although  his 
name  was  on  the  list  of  those  attainted. 
Mr.  Bagginal  could,  perhaps,  if  he 
chose,  give  the  precise  details  of  the 
young  man's  evasion  from  the  box 
room  where  he  had  spent  so  many  dull 
days.  Mr.  Bagginal  sent  him  with  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Vivian,  that  good  friend 


152 


Mrs.  Dymond. 


of  art  and  liberty.  I  know  not  if  it 
was  Sir  Frederick,  or  Sir  George,  or 
Sir  John  to  whom  he,  Mr.  Vivian,  in 
turn  introduced  du  Pare  on  his 
arrival,  with  cordial  deeds  and  words 
of  help  and  recommendation.  He 
was  bidden  to  leave  his  toy  shop  and 
take  up  his  abode  with  the  Vivians 
for  a  time,  and  work  and  make  his 
way  in  the  London  world.  His  ad- 
mirable etchings  of  Mrs.  Vivian 
and  her  two  daughters  first  brought 
him  into  notice  and  repute  :  they  were 
followed  by  the  publication  of  that 
etching  already  mentioned  of  a  beau- 
tiful young  woman  gazing  at  a  statue. 
Du  Pare  was  able,  fortunately,  to  earn 
from  the  very  first;  later  he  had  more 
money  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with. 
Mr.  White  more  than  once  had  occa- 
sion to  acknowledge  with  thanks  com- 
munications which  passed  between 
Max  and  Susy  and  his  own  particular 
branch  of  the  society  for  the  organisa- 
tion of  the  relief  of  distress. 

The  papers,  of  which  he  had  not  at 
first  realised  the  importance,  and 
which  Susanna  brought  him,  con- 
tained, besides  many  theories  and 
verses  half  finished,  a  duly  signed 
will  which  very  materially  affected 
Max's  future  prospects.  Caron  had 
left  him  his  heir  and  executor,  his 
trustee  for  his  works  and  his  men. 
It  is  true  the  old  man's  for- 
tune had  been  greatly  reduced  by  late 
events  and  by  the  expenses  of  his 
establishment,  but  his  houses  were 
standing  still,  his  machinery  and  his 
workshops  were  still  there — most  of 


the  workmen  had  clung  to  the  enter- 
prise in  which  they  had  a  personal 
stake — and  though  it  was  not  possible 
for  Max,  an  unwilling  exile,  to  return 
to  France,  yet  Adolphe  was  found 
capable  and  able  to  replace  him  for  the 
time  on  the  spot.  Mickey  and  Dermey, 
it  was  hoped,  would  be  in  time  able  to 
take  their  share  in  the  management 
of  the  works. 

When  the  general  amnesty  was 
proclaimed  about  four  years  ago 
Max  was  once  more  free  to  return 
to  France.  Susy,  most  certainly 
would  not  like  to  leave  England 
altogether,  but  she  is  glad  to  go 
from  time  to  time  to  the  White 
House  among  the  poplar  trees  in  the 
little  village  near  the  paper  mills. 
"  Les  Saules  "  is  a  happy  meeting  house 
for  her  English  friends,  and  there  upon 
the  iron  bench  by  the  shining  glass 
ball  in  the  garden  sits  old  Madame  du 
Pare  from  Avignon  admiring  her 
northern  grandchildren. 

They  come  up  in  a  little  file  headed 
by  Phraisie,  who  is  perhaps  also  dragg- 
ing a  little  Bolsover  by  the  hand.  They 
are  laughing  and  singing  as  they  come 
along — 

"  Promenons-nous  dans  les  bois, 
Pendant  que  le  loup  n'y  est  pas  ;  " 

sing  the  children's  voices  taking  up 
that  song  of  childhood  and  innocent 
joy  which  reaches  from  generation  to 
generation,  which  no  sorrow,  no  dis- 
aster, will  ever  silence  while  this  world 
rolls  on. 


OLD  FLORENCE   AND  MODERN  TUSCANY. 


'  Florence  within  her  ancient  limit-mark, 
Which  calls  her  still  to  matin  prayers  and 

noon, 

Was  chaste  and  sober,  and  abode  in  peace. 
She  had  no  amulet,  no  head-tires  then, 
No  purfled  dames ;    no  zone,  that  caught 

the  eye 
More  than  the  person  did.     Time  was  not 

yet, 

When   at   his   daughters'    births   the    sire 

grew  pale, 

For  fear  the  age  and  dowry  should  exceed, 
On  each  side,  just  proportion.  House  was 

none, 

Void  of  its  family  ;  nor  yet  had  come 
Sardanapalus  to  exhibit  feats 
Of  chamber  prowess.     Montemalo  yet 
O'er  our  suburban  turret  rose  ;  as  much 
To  be  surpast  in  fall,  as  in  its  rising. 
I  saw  Bellincion  Berti  walk  abroad 
In  leathern  girdle,  and  a  clasp  of  bone  ; 
And,    with  no   artificial   colouring  on  her 

cheeks, 

His  lady  leave  the  glass.     The  sons  I  saw 
Of  Nerli,  and  of  Vecchio,  well  content 
With    unrobed   jerkin  ;     and    their    good 

dames  handling 
The    spindle   and  the   flax.       Oh,  happy, 

they ! " 

[us  writes  Dante,  in  the  '  Paradise ' 
>ut  the  sobriety  and  simplicity  of 
jss  and  manners  in  Florence  of  his 

ty ;     and    nearly    a    century   later 

r.  Villani  writes  : 

The  citizens  of  Florence  lived  soberly,  on 
viands  and  at  small  cost  ;  they  were 
rude  and  unpolished  in  many  customs  and 
courtesies  of  life,  and  dressed  themselves  and 
their  women  in  coarse  cloth  ;  many  wore  plain 
leather,  without  cloth  over  it  ;  bonnets  on 
their  heads  ;  and  all,  boots  on  their  feet.  The 
Florentine  women  were  without  ornament ; 
the  better  sort  being  content  with  a  close 
gown  of  scarlet  cloth  of  Ypres  or  of  camlet, 
tied  with  a  girdle  in  the  ancient  mode,  and  a 
mantle  lined  with  fur,  with  a  hood  attached 
to  be  worn  on  the  head.  The  common  sort  of 
women  were  clad  in  a  coarse  gown  of  cambrai 
in  like  fashion." 

Things  appear  to  have  changed  soon 
after  this,  as  the  sage  old  Florentines 
drew  up  a  series  of  sumptuary  laws  in 
1415,  directed  against  the  luxury  and 
splendour  of  women's  dress  and  of 
marriage  festivals.  They  declared 


that  such  magnificence  was  opposed 
to  all  republican  laws  and  usages,  and 
only  served  to  enervate  and  corrupt 
the  people.  If  a  citizen  of  Florence 
wished  to  give  an  entertainment  in 
honour  of  a  guest,  he  was  obliged  to 
obtain  a  permit  from  the  Priors  of 
Liberty,  for  which  he  paid  ten  golden 
florins,  and  had  also  to  swear  that  such 
splendour  was  only  exhibited  for  the 
honour  and  glory  of  the  city.  Who- 
ever transgressed  this  law  was  fined 
twenty-five  golden  florins.  It  was 
considered  shameful  to  have  much 
plate ;  nearly  all  household  implements 
were  of  brass,  now  and  then  beautified 
by  having  the  arms  of  the  family  in 
enamel  upon  them.  These  sumptuary 
laws  were  not  confined  to  Florence. 
The  town  of  Pistoja  enacted  similar 
ones  in  1322:  Perugia  in  1333. 
Phillipe  le  Bel  promulgated  sumptuary 
laws  in  France  in  1310;  Charles  the 
Ninth  in  1575;  and  Louis  the  Thir- 
teenth in  1614;  but  with  no  greater 
success  than  the  worthy  old  repub- 
licans. 

Pandolfini,  in  his  curious  book, 
'  Del  Governo  della  Famiglia,'  inveighs 
against  the  Florentine  custom  of  paint- 
ing the  face.  In  his  counsels  to  his 
young  wife,  Giovanna  degli  Strozzi, 
he  says : 

"  Avoid  all  those  false  appearances  by 
which  dishonest  and  bad  women  try  to  allure 
men,  thinking  with  ointments,  white  lead  and 
paint,  with  lascivious  and  immoral  dress,  to 
please  men  better  than  when  adorned  with 
simplicity  and  true  honesty.  Not  only  is  this 
reprehensible,  but  it  is  most  unwholesome  to 
corrupt  the  face  with  lime,  poisons,  and  so- 
called  washes.  See,  oh,  my  wife,  how  fresh 
and  well-looking  are  all  the  women  of  this 
house  !  This  is  because  they  use  only  water 
from  the  well  as  an  ointment  ;  do  thou  like- 
wise, and  do  not  plaster  and  whiten  thy  face, 
thinking  to  appear  more  beautiful  in  my  eyes. 
Thou  art  fresh  and  of  a  fine  colour  ;  think  not 
to  please  me  by  cheatery  and  showing  thyself 
to  me  as  thou  art  not,  because  I  am  not  to  be 
deceived  ;  I  see  thee  at  all  hours,  and  well  I 
know  how  thou  art  without  paint. " 


154 


Old  Florence  and  Modern  Tuscany. 


The  Florentine  ladies  appear  to  have 
held  their  own  against  all  these  at- 
tempts to  convert  them  to  a  simpler 
mode  of  life.  Sachetti  gives  an  amus- 
ing instance  of  their  ready  wit,  while 
he  was  Prior  of  the  Republic.  A  new 
judge,  Amerigo  degli  Amerighi,  came 
from  Pesaro,  and  was  specially  ordered 
to  see  that  the  sumptuary  laws  were 
obeyed  ;  he  fell  into  disgrace  for  doing 
too  little,  and  his  defence  is  as 
follows  : 

' '  My  masters,  I  have  worked  all  my  life  at 
the  study  of  law,  and  now  that  I  thought 
I  knew  something  I  find  I  know  nothing  ;  for 
trying  to  discover  the  forbidden  ornaments 
worn  by  your  women,  according  to  the  orders 
you  gave  me,  I  have  not  found  in  any  law- 
book  arguments  such  as  they  give.  I  will 
cite  you  some.  I  met  a  woman  with  a  border, 
all  curiously  ornamented  and  slashed,  turned 
over  her  hood  ;  the  notary  said  to  her,  '  Give 
me  your  name,  for  you  have  an  embroidered 
border.'  The  good  woman  takes  off  the 
border,  which  was  attached  to  her  hood  with 
a  pin,  and  holding  it  in  her  hand,  replies  that 
it  is  a  garland.  There  are  others  who  wear 
many  buttons  down  the  front  of  their  dresses  ; 
I  say  to  one,  '  You  may  not  wear  those 
buttons,'  and  she  answers,  *  Yes,  sir,  I  can, 
for  these  are  not  buttons,  but  coppelle,  and  if 
you  do  not  believe  me,  see,  they  have  no  haft, 
and  there  are  no  buttonholes. '  The  notary 
goes  up  to  a  third,  who  was  wearing  ermine,  and 
says,  '  How  can  you  excuse  yourself,  you  are 
wearing  ermine,'  and  begins  to  write  the  ac- 
cusation. The  woman  replies,  '  No,  do  not 
write,  for  this  is  not  ermine  but  lattizzo  (fur 
of  any  young  sucking  animal).'  The  notary 
asked,  'And  what  is  this  lattizzo?'  And 
the  woman's  answer  was,  'The  man  is  a 
fool !  ' ' 

The  widows  seem  to  have  given  less 
trouble  ;  but  they  always  took  care  that 
their  dresses  should  be  well  cut  and  fit 
perfectly. 

Philosophers,  of  course,  wrote  treat- 
ises on  political  economy,  and  poets 
satirised  the  different  fashions  of  their 
times.  Thus,  in  Lodovico  Adimari, 
we  read  : 

"  The  high- bom  dame  now  plasters  all  her 

cheeks 
With  paint  by  shovelfuls,  and   in    curled 

rings 
Or  tortuous  tresses  twines    her  hair,  and 


To  shave  with  splintered   glass    the  down 

that  springs 
On  her  smooth  face  and  soft  skin,  till  they 

seem 


The  fairest,  tenderest  of  all  tender  things  : 
Rouge   and  vermilion  make    her  red  lips 

beam 

Like  rubies  burning  on  the  brow  divine 
Of  heaven-descended  Iris  :  jewels  gleam 
About  her  breasts,  embroidered  on  the 

shrine 
Of  satins,     silks,    and  velvets :    like    the 

snails, 
A  house  in   one   dress    on    her  back    she 

trails."1 

Cennino  Cennini,  a  painter  and 
pupil  of  Agnolo  Gaddi,  the  godson  of 
Giotto,  says,  in  his  Treatise  on 
Painting  : 

' '  It  might  be  for  the  service  of  young 
ladies,  more  especially  those  of  Tuscany,  to 
mention  some  colours  which  they  think  highly 
of,  and  use  for  beautifying  themselves  ;  and 
also  certain  washes.  But  as  those  of  Padua 
do  not  use  such  things,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
make  myself  obnoxious  to  them,  or  to  incur 
the  displeasure  of  God  and  of  Our  Lady,  so  I 
shall  say  no  more  on  this  subject.  But,"  he 
continues,  ' '  if  thou  desirest  to  preserve  thy 
complexion  for  a  long  time,  I  advise  thee  to 
wash  thyself  with  water  from  fountains,  rivers, 
or  wells.  I  warn  thee  that  if  thou  .usest  cos- 
metics thy  face  will  become  hideous  and  thy 
teeth  black  ;  thou  wilt  be  old  before  thy  time, 
and  the  ugliest  object  possible.  This  is  quite 
enough  to  say  on  this  subject. " 

Cennini  seems,  notwithstanding,  to 
have  been  employed  to  paint  peoples 
faces,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
following  passage  in  the  same  work  : — 

"  Sometimes  you  may  be  obliged  to  paint  or 
dye  flesh,  faces  of  men  and  women  in  particu- 
lar. You  can  mix  your  colours  with  yolk  of 
egg  ;  or  should  you  wish  to  make  them  more 
brilliant,  with  oil,  or  liquid  varnish,  the 
strongest  of  all  temperas.  Do  you  want  to 
remove  the  colours  or  tempera  from  the  face  ? 
Take  yolk  of  egg  and  rub  it,  a  little  at  a  time, 
with  your  hand  on  the  face.  Then  take  clean 
water,  in  which  bran  has  been  boiled,  and 
wash  the  face  ;  then  more  of  the  yolk  of  egg, 
and  again  rub  the  face  with  it ;  and  again 
wash  with  warm  water.  Repeat  this  many 
times  until  the  face  returns  to  its  original 
.  colour." 

The  sumptuary  laws  cited  by  the 
Osservatore  Florentine  are  as  fol- 
low : — 

"1st.  It  is  forbidden  for  any  unmarried 
woman  to  wear  pearls  or  precious  stones, 
and  the  married  dames  may  only  wear  orna- 
ments of  the  value  of  forty  golden  florins  at 
any  one  time. 

"2nd.  In  the  week  preceding  a  wedding 

1  Translated  by  Mr.  J.  A.  Symonds. 


Old  Florence  and  Modern  Tuscany. 


155 


neither  bride  nor  bridegroom  may  ask  to 
dinner  or  supper  more  than  four  persons,  not 
appertaining  to  the  house. 

"  3rd.  The  brides  who  desire  to  go  to 
church  on  horseback  may  do  so,  but  are  not 
to  be  accompanied  by  more  than  six  women 
attendants. 

"  4th.  On  the  marriage  day  only  sixteen 
women  may  dine  in  the  bridegroom's  house, 
six  of  the  bride's  family  and  ten  of  the  bride- 
groom's, besides  his  mother,  his  sisters,  and 
his  aunts. 

"5th.  There  may  only  be  ten  men  of  the 
family,  and  eight  friends  ;  boys  under  four- 
teen do  not  count. 

"6th.  During  the  repast  only  three  musi- 
cians and  singers  are  to  be  allowed. 

"7th.  The  dinner  or  supper  may  not  con- 
sist of  more  than  three  solid  dishes,  but  con- 
fectionary and  fruit  ad  libitum. 

"8th.  The  bride  and  bridegroom  are 
allowed  to  invite  two  hundred  people  to 
witness  the  signing  of  the  contract  before 
the  celebration  of  the  marriage." 

These  laws,  however,  appear  to  have 
been  of  little  use,  to  judge  by  the  re- 
presentation of  the  marriage  proces- 
sion of  Boccaccio  degli  Adimari  on 
the  cassone,  or  marriage-chest,  the 
painted  front  of  which  is  now  in  the 
Academia  delle  Belle  Arte,  at  Florence. 
Men  and  women  magnificently  clad  are 
walking  hand  in  hand,  under  a  canopy 
of  red  and  white  damask,  supported 
by  poles,  and  stretched  from  the  lovely 
little  Loggia  del  Bigallo,  past  Lorenzo 
Ghiberti's  famous  doors  of  the  bap- 
tistry of  San  Giovanni,  to  the  corner 
of  Via  de'  Martelli.  The  trumpeters 
of  the  Republic  sit  on  the  steps  of  the 
Loggia,  blowing  their  golden  trumpets 
ornamented  with  square  flags,  on  which 
is  emblazoned  the  lily  of  the  city 
of  Florence.  Pages  in  gorgeous 
clothes,  and  carrying  gold  and  silver 
vases  on  their  heads,  are  passing  in 
and  out  of  one  of  the  Adimari  palaces. 
A  man  behind  the  musicians  holds  a 
flask  of  wine  in  his  hand,  just  the 
same  flask  as  one  sees  now  in  daily  use 
in  Tuscany.  The  ladies  have  head- 
dresses like  large  turbans ;  one  is 
made  of  peacock  feathers,  and  all  are 
sparkling  with  jewels. 

Funerals  were  also  a  great  source  of 
show  and  splendour  in  those  days,  and 
their  cost  increased  rapidly.  In  1340 
the  funeral  of  Gherardo  Baroncelli  cost 


only  two  hundred  golden  florins,  and 
about  the  same  time  that  of  Giotto 
Peruzzi  five  hundred ;  whereas,  in 
1377,  the  expenses  for  the  burial  of 
Monaldo  Alberti  di  Messer  Niccolaio 
d'Jacopo  degli  Alberti  amounted  to 
three  thousand  golden  florins,  nearly 
five  thousand  pounds. 

The  following  details  of  this  magni- 
ficent affair,  from  the  manuscript  of 
Monaldi,  may  interest  the  curious 
reader  : — 

"  Monaldo  Alberti  di  Messer  Niccolaio 
d'Jacopo  degli  Alberti,  died  on  the  7th  August, 
1377  ;  he  passed  for  the  richest  man,  as  re- 
gards money,  in  the  country.  He  was  buried 
on  the  8th  August,  in  Santa  Croce,  with  great 
honour  of  torches  and  wax  candles.  The 
funeral  car  was  of  red  damask,  and  he  was 
dressed  in  the  same  red  damask,  in  cloth  and 
in  cloth  of  gold.  There  were  eight  horses, 
one  decked  with  the  arms  of  the  people,  be- 
cause he  was  a  cavalier  of  the  people ;  one 
with  the  arms  of  the  Guelphs,  because  he  was 
one  of  their  captains  ;  two  horses  were  covered 
with  big  banners,  on  which  were  emblazoned 
the  Alberti  arms  ;  one  horse  had  a  pennant, 
and  a  casque  and  sword  and  spurs  of  gold,  and 
on  the  casque  was  a  damsel  with  two  wings  ; 
another  horse  was  covered  with  scarlet,  and 
his  rider  had  a  thick  mantle  of  fur,  lined  ; 
another  horse  was  undraped,  and  his  rider 
wore  a  violet  cloak  lined  with  dark  fur. 

"When  the  body  was  removed  from  the 
arcade  of  the  house,  there  was  a  sermon.; 
seventy-two  torches  surrounded  the  car,  that 
is  to  say,  sixty  belonging  to  the  house,  and 
twelve  to  the  Guelph  party.  A  large  cata- 
falque was  all  furnished  with  torches  of  a 
pound  weight  ;  and  the  whole  church,  and 
the  chief  chapels  towards  the  centre  of  the 
church,  were  full  of  small  torches  of  half  a 
pound  weight,  often  interspersed  with  those  of 
one  pound.  All  the  relations,  and  those  of 
close  parentage  with  the  house  of  Alberti, 
were  dressed  in  blood-red  ;  and  all  the  women 
who  belonged 'to  them,  or  had  entered  the 
family  by  marriage,  wore  the  same  colour. 
Many  other  families  were  in  black.  A  great 
quantity  of  money  was  there  to  give  away  for 
God,  &c.  Never  had  been  seen  such  honours. 
This  funeral  cost  something  like  three  thousand 
golden  florins." 

The  Medici  made  no  attempt  to  con- 
trol this  splendour ;  indeed,  one  of 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent' s  favourite 
sayings  was,  Pane  e  feste  tengon  il 
popol  quieto  (Bread  and  shows  keep 
the  people  quiet).  Cosmo  the  First  had 
a  passion  for  jousts  and  games  of  all 
sorts ;  ballets  on  horseback  and  mas- 


156 


Old  Florence  and  Modern  Tuscany. 


querades ;  these  were  generally  held  in 
the  Piazza  Sta.  Croce.  The  masquerade, 
in  1615,  to  celebrate  the  arrival  of 
Ubaldo  della  Rovere,  Prince  of  Urbino, 
has  been  engraved  by  Jacques  Callot, 
and  was  called  the  War  of  Love. 
First  came  the  chariot  of  Love, 
surrounded  with  clouds,  which  opened 
showing  Love  and  his  court.  Then 
came  the  car  of  Mount  Parnassus  with 
the  Muses,  Paladins,  and  famous  men 
of  letters.  The  third  was  the  chariot 
of  the  Sun,  with  the  twelve  signs  of 
the  zodiac,  the  serpent  of  Egypt,  the 
months  and  seasons  ;  this  chariot  was 
surrounded  by  eight  Ethiopian  giants. 
The  car  of  Thetis  closed  the  proces- 
sion, with  Sirens,  Nereids,  and  Tritons, 
and  eight  giant  Neptunes,  to  represent 
the  principal  seas  of  the  world. 

Eerdinand  the  Second  also  delighted 
in  these  shows,  and  several  held  during 
his  reign  have  been  engraved  by  Stefano 
della  Bella  and  Jacques  Callot. 

Princess  Yiolante  of  Bavaria,  who 
came,  in  168 9,  to  marry  Ferdinand,  son 
of  Cosmo  the  Third,  was  received  with 
great  splendour.  She  entered  Florence 
by  the  Porta  San  Gallo,  where  a  chapel 
had  been  erected  on  purpose  to  crown 
her  as  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
city.  The  princess  then  seated  herself 
on  a  jewelled  throne,  and  was  carried 
into  the  town  under  a  canopy  borne 
by  a  number  of  youths,  splendidly 
dressed,  and  chosen  for  their  beauty 
and  high  birth.  After  a  solemn  thanks- 
giving in  the  cathedral  she  was  es- 
corted to  the  Pitti  Palace  by  the 
senate  and  the  chief  people  of  the 
city.  The  carnival  feasts  that  year 
were  more  magnificent  than  usual  in 
her  honour. 

T.  Kinnucini,  writing    to  a  friend 

in  the  beginning  of   the   seventeenth 

century,    gives    the    following   quaint 

account    of  a    wedding    in    his    own 

1  family : — 

"When  the  alliance  was  arranged,  we  went 
in  person  to  all  our  near  relatives,  and  sent 
servants  to  those  of  remoter  kin,  to  give  notice 
of  the  day  on  which  the  bride  would  leave  our 
house  in  her  bridal  attire  ;  so  that  all  relations 
down  to  the  third  degree  might  accompany 
her  to  mass.  At  the  house  door  we  found  a 


company  of  youths,  the  seraglio,  as  we 
say,  who  complimented  my  niece,  and  made 
as  though  they  would  not  allow  her  to  quit 
the  house  until  she  bestowed  on  them  rings  or 
clasps,  or  some  such  trinkets.  "When  she  had, 
with  infinite  grace,  given  the  usual  presents, 
the  spokesman  of  the  party,  who  was  the  : 
youngest,  and  of  high  family,  wTaited  on  the 
bride,  and  served  her  as  far  as  the  church 
door,  giving  her  his  arm.  After  the  marriage 
we  had  a  grand  banquet,  with  all  the  relations 
on  both  sides,  and  the  youths  of  the  seraglio, 
who,  in  truth,  have  a  right  to  be  present  at 
the  feast." 

In  other  descriptions  of  marriages 
about  the  same  time,  we  read  that 
during  the  banquet  a  messenger  sought 
audience  of  the  bride  and  presented 
her  with  a  basket  of  flowers,  or  a  pair 
of  scented  gloves  sent  by  the  ser- 
aglio, together  with  the  rings,  clasps, 
or  other  ornaments  she  had  given 
them  on  leaving  her  father's  house. 
The  bridegroom,  according  to  his 
means,  gave  the  messenger  thirty, 
forty,  fifty,  or  even,  if  very  rich,  a 
hundred  scudi,  which  the  youths  spent 
in  a  great  feast  to  their  companions 
and  friends,  in  a  masquerade,  or  some 
such  entertainment. 

The  marriage  ring  was  given  on 
another  day,  when  there  was  a  feast 
of  white  confectionary,  followed  by 
dancing,  if  the  size  of  the  house  per- 
mitted it.  Otherwise  the  company 
played  at  giule,  a  game  of  cards 
no  longer  known ;  the  name  being 
derived,  says  Salvini,  from  the  coin 
called  yiulio,  worth  fifty-six  centimes, 
which  was  placed  in  a  plate  in  the 
middle  of  the  table  as  the  stake. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  feast  the 
names  of  the  guests  were  read  out 
according  to  their  different  degrees  of 
parentage,  so  that  all  might  find  their 
places  without  confusion. 

The  bride's   dower   was  carried  in 
procession  to  the  bridegroom's  house, 
in  the  cassoni,  or  marriage-chests,  which 
varied  in  splendour  according  to  the 
riches  of  the  family.     Some   were  of    i 
carved     wood,    some     inlaid,     others    j 
covered  with  velvet  ornamented  with    ] 
richly  gilt  ironwork,  and  the  finest  of   ' 
all    were    painted,    often    by    famous    , 
artists,  with  the  deeds  of  the  ances- 


Old  Florence  and  Modern  Tuscany. 


157 


tors  of  the  family.  The  great  luxury 
consisted  in  fine  linen  ;  "  twenty  dozen 
of  everything,"  was  the  rule  in  those 
days,  which  is  still  adhered  to  among 
old-fashioned  people  in  Tuscany. 

It  was  in  such  a  marriage-chest  that 
the  beautiful  Ginevra  dei  Benci,  whose 
portrait  exists  in  the  fresco  by  Ghir- 
landajo  in  Sta.  Maria  Novella,  hid 
while  playing  hide  and  seek  the  even- 
ing before  her  marriage.  The  cassone 
was  of  carved  wood,  and  the  heavy 
lid  closed  upon  her,  snapping  the  lock 
fast.  All  search  for  her  was  vain,  and 
the  old  tale  says  that  her  fair  fame 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  malicious 
women,  jealous  of  her  exceeding 
beauty.  Years  afterwards,  when  the 
chest  was  forced  open,  the  remains  of 
the  lovely  Ginevra  were  found,  still, 
it  is  said,  preserving  traces  of  beauty, 
and  with  the  peculiar  scent  she  used 
still  lingering  about  her  long,  fair 
hair;  in  her  right  hand  she  grasped 
the  jewel  her  bridegroom  had  given 
her  to  fasten  the  front  of  her  gown. 
In  Florence  the  betta  Ginevra  is  still 
talked  about  among  the  common  people, 
as  the  ideal  type  of  woman's  beauty. 

All  these  old  usages  have  vanished 
now  among  the  gentlefolk  of  Florence, 
but  some  yet  linger  among  the  conta- 
dini,  or  peasantry,  who  are  essentially 
conservative,  and  opposed  to  change. 
Sir  Henry  Maine  has  described 1  a  state 
of  things  among  the  South  Slavonians 
and  Rajpoots  which  is  curiously  like 
the  life  of  the  Tuscan  contadino  of 
the  present  day. 

The  house  community  of  the  South 
Slavonians  despotically  ruled  by  the 
paterfamilias;  and  the  house-mother, 
who  governs  the  women  of  the  family, 
though  always  subordinate  to  the  house- 
chief,  is  almost  a  counterpart  of  the 
primitive  custom  still  prevailing  in 
Tuscany,  and  doubtless  existing  in  the 
days  of  the  gallant  youths  and  fair 
ladies  we  have  mentioned  above. 

In  all  dealings  of  the  contadini 
with  strangers  the  capoccio,  or  head- 
man, represents  the  family,  and 
his  word  or  signature  binds  them 

1  In  the  '  Nineteenth  Century  '  Magazine, 
December,  1877. 


all  collectively.  He  administers  the 
family  affairs,  and  arranges  what 
work  is  to  be  done  during  the  day, 
and  who  is  to  do  it.  No  member  of 
the  family  can  marry  without  his 
consent,  ratified  by  that  of  the  padrone, 
or  landlord,  and  he  keeps  the  common 
purse.  On  Saturday  night  the  men 
state  their  wants  to  him,  and  he  de- 
cides whether  they  are  reasonable,  and 
above  all  whether  the  family  finances 
permit  their  realisation.  The  rule  of 
the  capoccio  is  extremely  despotic,  for 
I  have  known  the  case  of  an  old  man, 
the  uncle  of  the  head-man,  being  kept 
for  some  time  without  his  weekly 
pittance  for  buying  snuff  as  a  punish- 
ment for  disobeying  an  order. 

The  dignity  of  capoccio  is  here- 
ditary and  generally  goes  to  the  eldest 
son,  although  it  happens  that  he  may 
be  passed  over,  and  an  uncle  or  a 
younger  brother  chosen  to  fill  the 
position,  by  the  padrone,  to  whom  the 
capoccio  is  responsible  for  the  beha- 
viour of  the  rest  of  the  family. 
Should  he  fall  hopelessly  ill,  the  family 
inform  the  padrone  in  an  indirect  way, 
who  suggests  to  the  head-man  that 
he  should  abdicate ;  but  in  this  case, 
and  indeed  whenever  it  is  practicable, 
the  choice  of  the  successor  is  left  to 
the  capoccio  himself,  in  order  to  main- 
tain the  dignity  of  the  position. 

The  massaia,  or  house-mother,  is 
generally  one  of  the  oldest  women  in 
the  house ;  often  the  mother  or  the 
wife  of  the  head-man,  but  occasionally 
of  more  distant  kin.  She  retains  the 
post  until  her  death,  and  rules  over 
the  women,  keeping  the  purse  for 
the  smaller  house  expenses,  such  as 
linen,  clothes  for  the  women,  pepper, 
salt,  and  white  rolls  for  the  small 
children.  All  these  are  bought  with 
the  proceeds  of  the  work  of  the  women 
themselves,  which  includes  the  care  of 
the  silkworms,  of  the  poultry,  if  they 
are  permitted  by  the  landlord  to  keep 
fowls,  and  the  straw-plaiting,  which 
is  universal  in  the  lower  Yal  d'Arno. 
The  girls,  from  the  age  of  fourteen, 
are  allowed  a  certain  time  every  day 
to  work  for  their  dowry,  generally  in 
the  evening. 


158 


Old  Florence  and  Modern  Tuscany. 


A  bride  brings  into  her  husband's 
house  a  bed,  some  linen,  a  cassone,  her 
personal  clothes,  and  a  vezzo,  a  necklace 
of  several  strings  of  irregular  pearls, 
costing  from  five  to  a  hundred  pounds, 
according  to  the  wealth  of  her  father, 
or  the  amount  she  has  been  able  to 
earn.  The  vezzo  always  represents  half 
the  dowry,  and  those  who  are  too  poor 
to  buy  pearls  get  a  necklace  of  dark 
red  coral. 

After  a  due  course  of  courtship — 
during  which  the  young  man  visits 
his  innamorata  every  Saturday  evening 
and  on  holidays,  bringing  her  a  flower, 
generally  a  carnation,  or  a  rose  in  the 
summer  months,  and  improvising  (if 
he  can)  terze  or  ottave  rhymes  in  her 
honour,  which  he  sings  as  he  nears 
the  house — the  capoccio  dons  his  best 
clothes,  and  goes  in  state  to  ask  the 
hand  of  the  girl  for  his  son,  brother, 
nephew,  or  cousin,  as  it  may  be.  When 
the  affair  is  settled,  after  much  talk- 
ing and  gesticulation,  like  everything 
else  in  Tuscany,  a  stimatore  or  savio, 
an  appraiser  or  wise-man,  is  called  in, 
who  draws  up  an  account  of  all  the 
bride's  possessions.  This  paper,  duly 
signed  and  sealed,  is  consigned  to  the 
capoccio  of  the  bridegroom's  house, 
who  keeps  it  carefully,  as  should  the 
young  man  die  without  leaving  child- 
ren, the  wife  has  a  right  to  the  value 
of  all  she  brought  into  her  husband's 
house.  If  there  are  children  the 
capoccio  is  the  sole  guardian,  and  he 
administers  their  property  for  them, 
unless  the  mother  has  reason  to  think 
him  harsh  or  unfaithful,  when  she 
may  call  for  a  consiglio  di  famiglia, 
or  family  council,  who  name  two  or 
more  administrators. 

A  widow  may  elect  to  remain  in 
her  adopted  family  and  look  after  her 
children,  who  by  law  belong  to  the 
representative  of  their  father ;  or  she 
can  leave  her  children  and  return  to 
her  own  people  if  they  are  able  and 
willing  to  receive  her,  which  is  not 
often  the  case,  as  in  Tuscany  the 
contadini  marry  their  children  by 
rotation,  so  that  often  the  younger 
sons  or  daughters  have  to  wait  for 
years,  until  the  elder  are  settled  in 


life.  It  would  be  an  unheard  of  thing 
for  a  younger  daughter  to  marry 
before  her  elder  sister. 

Second  marriages  of  widows  with 
children  are  rare,  as  the  woman  would 
seldom  be  allowed  to  bring  her  chil- 
dren by  the  first  husband  into  the 
house,  and  the  folk-songs  and  pro- 
verbs are  condemnatory  of  the 
practice  : — 

Quando  la  capra  ha  passato  il  poggiolo  non 
si  ricorda  piu  del  figliuolo.  (When  the  she- 
goat  has  crossed  the  hillock  she  forgets  her 
young.) 

Dio  ti  guardi  da  donna  due  volte  maritate. 
(God  preserve  thee  from  a  twice  married 
woman. ) 

Quando  si  maritan  vedove,  il  benedetto  va 
tutto  il  giorno  per  casa.  ("When  widows 
marry,  the  dear  departed  is  all  day  long  about 
the  house. ) 

La  vedovella  quando  sta'n  del  letto, 
Colle  lagrime  bagna  le  lenzuola  ; 
E  si  rivolta  da  quel  altro  verso : 
Accanto  ci  si  trova  la  figlwla. 
0  figlia  mia,  se  tu  nonfossi  nata, 
Al  mondo  mi  sarei  rimaritata. 

(The  widow  lying  in  her  bed, 

With  tears  bedews  the  sheets  ; 

And  turns  round  to  the  other  side, 

Where  her  daughter  is. 

Oh,  my  daughter,  dear,  if  thou  hadst  not  been 

born, 
I  should  have  found  another  husband  in  this 

world. ) 

After  seven  years  of  age  the  chil- 
dren are  by  law  allowed  to  choose  with 
whom  they  will  live,  and  I  have  known 
some  cases  of  children  leaving  their 
mother  and  coming  of  their  own 
accord  to  their  uncle  or  grandfather, 
begging  to  be  taken  into  the  paternal 
house. 

When  a  marriage  is  settled,  the 
family  of  the  bride  invites  the  capoccio 
and  the  bridegroom  to  dinner,  to  meet 
all  her  relations.  This  is  called  the 
impalmamento,  and  many  toasts  are 
drunk  to  the  health  of  the  young 
couple.  It  is  considered  highly  im- 
proper for  the  bride  to  visit  her  future 
home,  and  even  in  her  walks  she  takes 
care  to  avoid  it.  The  other  members 
of  her  family  may  visit  it,  but  she 
would  be  dishonoured  for  ever  if  she 
went  near  her  bridegroom's  house. 

The  peasantry  now  almost  univer- 


Old  Florence  and  Modern  Tuzczny. 


159 


sally  observe  the  new  law  of  civil 
marriage,  but  they  still  regard  it  as 
a  mere  form  and  look  on  the  religious 
ceremony  as  the  important  thing.  The 
civil  marriage  is  often  celebrated  three 
or  four  days  before  the  religious  ser- 
vice, and  the  girl  goes  quietly  home 
to  her  father's  house  until  the  day 
fixed  for  the  latter. 

In  some  parts  of  the  Val  d'Arno 
the  custom  of  being  married  after  sun- 
down prevails,  and  the  bride  wears  a 
black  dress,  with  a  white  bonnet 
or  cap  and  white  gloves,  while, 
even  in  winter,  a  fan  is  an  indispen- 
sable adjunct  to  her  costume.  Brides- 
maids are  unknown,  as  no  unmarried 
girl  is  ever  present  at  a  marriage. 
The  bride  is  attended  to  church  by 
her  father  and  mother,  and  her  male 
and  married  female  relations.  The 
bridegroom's  mother,  or  the  massaia 
of  his  house,  stays  at  home  to  welcome 
her  new  daughter,  whom  she  meets  on 
the  threshold  of  the  house  with  il 
bacio  di  benvenuto  (the  kiss  of  wel- 
come). At  the  dinner  or  supper,  as 
the  case  may  be,  everybody  in  turn 
makes  a  brindisi  to  the  young  couple. 
The  female  relations  of  the  bride  do 
not  go  to  this  dinner,  and  she  makes 
up  a  basket  of  eatables  to  send  home 
by  one  of  the  men. 

During  the  first  week  of  her  mar- 
riage the  bride  is  expected  to  be  up 
before  any  one  else,  to  light  the  fire 
and  prepare  coffee  for  the  men  before 
*ne7  g°  into  the  fields,  and  to  cook 
the  hot  meal  either  at  noon  or  in  the 
evening,  to  show  that  she  is  a  good 
housewife. 

On  the  first  Sunday  or  holiday  fol- 
lowing the  wedding  the  mother  and 
sisters  of  the  bride  come  to  see  her, 
and  the  following  week  some  of  the 
family  of  the  bridegroom  accompany 
him  and  his  young  wife  to  her  old 
home,  where  they  dine ;  and  this 
closes  the  festivities. 

It  occasionally  happens  that  a  family 
of  peasants,  living  in  the  same  house 
and  originally  nearly  related,  in  the 
lapse  of  years  lose  relationship  so  com- 
pletely that  they  might  intermarry, 
but  such  a  thing  very  rarely  happens. 


I  know  a  family  of  twenty- seven  who 
are  three  distinct  branches  of  the 
same  family,  but  whose  relationship 
dates  back  more  than  a  hundred 
years.  They,  however,  regard  each 
other  as  of  one  family,  and  implicitly 
obey  the  capoccio,  who  is  a  com- 
paratively young  man. 

The  mezzeria  or  metayer  system 
generally  prevailing  in  Tuscany  induces 
a  patriarchal  feeling  between  landlord 
and  peasant,  which  is  very  pleasant  tc 
see,  but  is  not  conducive  to  agricul- 
tural progress,  or  a  good  thing  for  the 
landlord.  He  pays  all  the  taxes  to 
government,  which  are  enormous;  he 
provides  the  house  rent  free,  and 
keeps  it  in  repair  ;  he  buys  the  oxen, 
cows,  and  horses,  bearing  half  the  loss 
if  they  die,  and  of  course  getting  half 
the  profit  when  they  are  sold.  The 
peasant  gives  his  labour,  the  land- 
owner gives  the  land  and  the  capital, 
and  the  proceeds  are  divided  between 
them.  In  bad  years  the  landlord 
advances  corn  to  his  peasants,  which 
they  repay  when  they  can,  in  wine,  oil, 
beans,  &c.  Where  there  is  a  large 
family  of  young  children  the  peasant 
sometimes  accumulates  a  load  of  debt 
that  cripples  him  for  years ;  in  rare 
instances  the  landlord  turns  him  out 
at  six  months'  notice,  and  puts  another 
family  on  the  farm ;  but  as  a  rule  the 
peasants  remain  for  generations  on  the 
same  property,  and  always  talk  of 
themselves  as  the  gente  (people)  of 
their  landlord. 

The  English  farmer  does  not  exist  in 
Tuscany;  none  of  the  peasants  have 
enough  capital  to  lease  land,  and  if 
they  had  they  would  not  do  it,  being 
so  much  better  off  under  the 
mezzeria.  If  a  peasant  leased  a 
farm  he  would  probably  starve  in  a 
bad  season,  instead  of  tiding  it  over  as 
he  now  does  by  the  padrone's  help. 

The  small  proprietors  are  gradually 
disappearing  in  Tuscany  ;  they  cannot 
pay  the  enormous  taxes  and  live.  One 
never  takes  up  a  newspaper  without 
seeing  a  list  of  small  proprietors  whose 
poderi  are  for  sale,  by  order  of  the 
esattore  or  tax-gatherer.  The  Tus- 
cans are  a  gentle  and  long-suffering 


160 


Old  Florence  and  Modern  Tuscany. 


people,  but  such  a  condition  of  things 
produces  a  vast  amount  of  discontent 
and  hatred  of  the  government,  and 
destroys  a  valuable  class  of  trust- 
worthy, orderly  citizens. 

When  a  contadino  is  sent  away, 
he  occasionally  finds  a  new  poderi, 
but  most  commonly  sinks  in  the  social 
scale  and  becomes  a  bracciante  or 
day  labourer,  when  his  lot  is  miser- 
able enough.  The  usual  wage  in  Tus- 
cany is  one  franc,  twelve  centimes, 
about  elevenpence  a  day.  The  day's 
work  begins  at  sunrise  and  lasts  till 
sunset,  with  half-an  hour's  rest  for 
breakfast  at  eight  in  the  morning  and 
one  hour  for  lunch  at  midday.  In  the 
great  heat  of  summer  the  midday 
rest  is  prolonged,  and  the  men  come 
earlier  and  go  away  later  from  their 
work.  When  the  weather  is  bad  they 
are  days  without  employment ;  and 
where  there  are  many  small  children, 
the  family  is  often  at  starvation  point. 
The  women  in  the  lower  Yal  d'Arno 
are  universally  occupied  in  straw 
plaiting,  and  if  very  expert  can,  in 
exceptional  years,  and  for  a  short  time, 
gain  as  much  as  tenpence  a  day.  But 
fashion  is  always  changing,  and  new 
plaits  have  to  be  learned,  so  that  the 
average  gain  rarely  exceeds  twenty  cen- 
times, or  twopence  a  day.  When  the 
Japanese  rush  hats  came  into  fashion, 
there  was  very  great  misery  among  all 
the  poor  plaiters,  as  Leghorn  straw 
hats  were  almost  unsaleable. 

Going  out  to  service  is  looked  upon 
as  a  degradation  among  the  Tuscan 
peasantry,  and  when  you  find  a  woman 
of  that  class  in  service  she  is  certain 
to  be  either  a  childless  widow,  a  bur- 
den on  her  own  family  and  unkindly 
treated  by  the  relatives  of  her  late 
husband,  or  a  girl  who  has  not  been 
allowed  to  marry  as  she  wished.  The 
contadino  almost  invariably  chooses 
a  wife  in  his  own  class,  generally 
from  a  neighbouring  family.  Fa- 
vourite proverbs  among  the  peasants 
are — 

Donne  e  Inioi  de'  paesi  tuoi.  (Women  and 
oxen  from  thine  own  country. ) 


or 

Chi  di    contano    si    va  a  maritare,   sara 

ingannato  o  vuol  ingannare.  (He  who  seeks 

a  wife  from  a  distance  will  be  deceived,  or 
attempts  deception. ) 

You  will  seldom  find  a  peasant 
above  thirty  who  can  write  and  read, 
though  some  have  learnt  to  sign  their 
names  in  a  sort  of  hieroglyph.  The 
rising  generation  are  being  instructed 
in  a  desultory  manner,  and  are  won- 
derfully quick  at  learning.  Every 
man  in  the  army  is  forced  to  learn 
under  penalty  of  being  kept  in  the 
ranks  until  he  can  read,  write,  and 
cipher  decently  well ;  so  that  one  may 
say  that  the  army  is  one  vast  school. 
The  conscription  is,  however,  a  very 
heavy  tax,  particularly  on  the  agri- 
cultural population,  and  entails  great 
misery.  The  loss,  for  three  years,  of 
the  son,  who  in  many  cases  is  the  chief 
bread-winner  for  his  younger  brothers 
and  sisters,  or  for  an  invalid  father, 
often  reduces  the  family  to  beggary.  I 
need  not  add  that  the  loss  to  the 
country  is  enormous. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  army  is  the  great,  and 
probably  the  only,  method  of  gradually 
fusing  the  different  Italian  races — I 
had  almost  said  nationalities.  Since 
the  Middle  Ages  the  hatred  between 
not  only  the  different  provinces,  but 
between  the  towns  and  even  the 
smallest  villages,  has  always  existed, 
and  is  still  extremely  strong.  An 
Italian  seldom,  if  ever,  in  Italy  at 
least,  talks  of  himself  as  an  Italian. 
He  is  a  Neapolitan,  a  Tuscan,  a 
Piedmontese,  a  Roman,  or  a  Lombard ; 
and  each  province  thinks  that  it  has 
the  monopoly  of  honesty,  truth,  and 
exemption  from  crime.  All  this  will, 
no  doubt,  pass  when  education  has  had 
time  to  influence  the  lower  classes ; 
and  then  also  the  quaint  manners  and 
customs  I  have  attempted  to  describe 
will  disappear,  like  the  costume  of  the 
peasants,  which  now  lingers  on  only  in 
the  meridional  provinces. 

JANET  Ross. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


JANUARY,  1886. 


GENERAL  GRANT. 


THE  first  volume  of  General  Grant's 
1  Memoirs' 1  brings  the  story  of  his 
life  down  to  the  siege  and  capture  of 
Yicksburg — the  achievement  which 
has  always  been  held  to  give  him  his 
best  claim  to  rank  as  a  great  strategist 
and  commander.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  perilous  operations  ever  carried 
out,  and  from  first  to  last  it  was  con- 
ducted in  defiance  of  all  the  recognised 
rules  of  warfare.  Grant  himself  tells 
us  that  General  Sherman  remonstrated 
most  earnestly  with  him  when  the  pro- 
ject was  first  discussed,  or  rather  men- 
tioned ;  for  Grant  rarely  submitted 
any  of  his  plans  for  discussion,  either 
in  a  council  of  war  or  elsewhere. 
Some  of  the  generals  on  the  northern 
side  took  particular  pains  not  to  com- 
mit themselves  to  an  important  step 
without  consultation  with  the  authori- 
ties at  Washington.  The  President 
was  commander -in-chief,  and  the  secre- 
tary of  war,  Mr.  Stanton,  was  a  man 
who  very  easily  took  offence,  and  who 
never  forgave.  The  necessity  of 
"  standing  well  "  at  Washington,  was 
one  cause  of  the  failure  of  so  many  of 
the  generals  who  took  the  field  at  the 
outset  of  the  rebellion.  They  were 
afraid  of  the  Government,  and  still 
more  .afraid  of  the  newspapers. 

Grant  alone  had  the  courage  to  set 
them  all  at  defiance.  When  he  had 
formed  his  plans  he  kept  them  as 
secret  from  everybody  as  circumstances 

1  '  Personal  Memoirs  of  U.  S.  Grant.'    Vol.  i. 
Sampson  Low  and  Company,  London,  1885. 
No.  315. — VOL.  LIII. 


permitted  until  the  moment  for  action 
arrived.  It  does  not  appear  that  he 
sent  any  message  whatever  to  Wash- 
ington concerning  Yicksburg  until  the 
place  was  actually  in.  his  possession. 
Sherman,  who  was  with  him,  showed 
him  all  the  dangers  of  the  enterprise. 
He  pointed  out  that  to  go  into  a  hos- 
tile country,  with  a  large  river  behind 
the  advancing  force,  and  the  enemy 
holding  strongly  -  fortified  positions 
above  and  below,  was  to  incur  a 
frightful  risk,  and  consequently  he 
recommended  a  backward  move  upon 
Memphis.  Grant  coolly  answered  that 
Memphis  was  the  very  place  to  which 
he  did  not  want  to  go.  He  knew  that 
a  feeling  of  great  discouragement  ex- 
isted in  the  North,  that  the  elections  of 
1862  had  proved  the  growth  of  a  sen- 
timent adverse  to  the  continuance  of 
the  war,  and  that  it  had  become  neces- 
sary to  substitute  a  compulsory  draft 
for  voluntary  enlistment.  He  felt  that 
unless  a  striking  success  could  be  ob- 
tained, the  South  would  probably 
triumph,  and  he  decided  that  it  was 
better  to  run  any  hazard  than  not 
to  try  for  that  success.  Hence  he 
resolved  to  cross  the  Mississippi,  and 
almost  literally  to  burn  his  boats  be- 
hind him.  His  scheme  was  to  cut 
loose  from  his  base  of  supplies,  and  to 
push  forward  into  the  Confederate  ter- 
ritory without  supports  of  any  kind. 
An  officer  of  his  staff  told  me  that  an- 
other officer  ventured  one  morning  to 
say  to  his  chief,  "  General,  if  we  are 


162 


General  Grant. 


beaten,  we  shall  not  have  sufficient 
transport  back  for  ten  thousand 
troops."  "  If  we  are  beaten,"  replied 
Grant,  in  his  usual  impassive  manner, 
"  transport  back  for  ten  thousand 
troops  is  more  than  I  shall  want." 
His  army  knew  as  well  as  he  did  that 
nothing  was  left  for  it  but  to  conquer 
or  die ;  and  it  also  knew  that  no  mis- 
giving or  hesitation  on  the  part  of  its 
leader  would  be  allowed  to  interfere 
with  his  design.  This  was  the  great 
peculiarity  of  Grant's  character — his 
unshakable  determination.  When  he 
was  in  the  right  men  praised  it,  as  it 
was  very  natural  they  should  do ; 
when  he  turned  out  to  be  wrong — as 
he  did  often  enough  in  civil  life — they 
denounced  his  senseless  and  incurable 
obstinacy.  It  was  by  obstinacy  that 
he  beat  down  secession.  Scientific  tac- 
tics had  been  employed,  and  had  led 
only  to  failure  and  disappointment. 
Wisely  or  unwisely,  Grant  disregarded 
science,  especially  in  his  movement 
against  Yicksburg.  He  won  the  vic- 
tory by  a  series  of  rapid  movements, 
which  bewildered  the  Southern  gene- 
rals ;  before  they  fairly  realised  their 
danger  they  had  lost  the  control  of 
the  Mississippi,  and,  as  Grant  truly 
says,  the  "  fate  of  the  Confederacy  was 
sealed."  Thousands  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  men  were  still  to  fall,  but  the 
loss  of  Yicksburg  was  the  death-blow 
of  the  Southern  cause. 

This  event,  therefore,  forms  an 
appropriate  dividing  line  in  a  fragment 
of  autobiography — for  this  work,  even 
in  its  complete  state,  will  evidently  be 
no  more  than  a  fragment — which  must 
always  be  invested  with  a  strange  and 
mournful  interest.  It  was  begun  and 
carried  on  with  the  shadow  of  death 
ever  upon  the  page — death  by  one  of 
the  most  agonising  of  diseases,  and 
accompanied  with  mental  distress 
scarcely  less  poignant  than  the  direst 
form  of  physical  torture.  When  I 
first  met  General  Grant,  soon  after 
the  close  of  the  war,  he  was  still  a 
young  man,  full  of  life  and  energy, 
with  a  constitution  of  iron,  proof 
against  all  the  hardships,  fatigues,  and 
anxieties  he  had  passed  through.  He 


was  then  at  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  the 
idol  of  the  people,  followed  everywhere 
by  the  acclamations  which  are  reserved 
in    all    countries   for    the    successful 
soldier.     Greater     glo'ry    was     never 
heaped     upon    Washington     himself. 
Men  and   women  would   travel   hun- 
dreds of  miles  in  the  hope  of  looking 
upon  his  face,  or  of  being  permitted 
to  boast  that  they  had   touched   his 
hand.     He   received   all  this  homage 
with   phlegmatic  indifference,  seldom 
saying  a  word,   shaking   hands  until 
his  arm  was  sore,  and  hurrying  off  as 
fast  as  he  could  to  his  eternal  cigar. 
Presents  of  all  kinds  poured  in  upon 
him.     A  nation  which  has  no  titles  to 
confer,  and  which  will  not  give  away 
estates  and  pensions,  could  not  reward 
Grant  as  Marlborough  or   Wellington 
was  rewarded  in   this  country ;    but 
private   gratitude    did   all    that   was 
thought    right    and    becoming.     One 
house  was  given  to  him  in  Washing- 
ton, another  in  Philadelphia,  a  third 
in    Galena.     A    considerable    sum  of 
money  was  raised  for  his  benefit,  and 
held   in   trust.      By   an    unfortunate 
accident     this    trust    fund     was    not 
available  to  him  at  the  crisis  of  his 
misfortunes.     For  the  time,  however, 
there  seemed   to  be  everything    that 
was    enviable    in    his    circumstances. 
His  reputation  was  without  a  stain  of 
any  kind;    malice   itself  was  for  the 
moment  reduced  to  silence.      It  had 
frequently  been  alleged  that  he  was 
by  nature  cruel  and  relentless ;    but 
the  magnanimity  which  he  displayed 
towards  Lee  and  the  other  Confederate 
generals,  in  opposition  to  many  power- 
ful  influences,    swept   away  this    re- 
proach.    He  had  never  interfered  in 
the   strife   of    politics ;    partisans  on 
either  side  could  make  no  complaint 
respecting  him ;    not  a  single  impru- 
dent word  had  ever  escaped  his  lips. 
It  is  not  given  to  any  of  us  to  know 
the  critical  moment  in  our  lives  when  j 
it  would  be  well  if  we  could  rise  up  i 
and  depart ;  but  surely,  amid  the  grief  | 
and  anguish  of  his  last  days,  a  feeling  ! 
of   regret  must  have   sometimes  pre-  j 
sented  itself  to  the  mind  of  General  ! 
Grant  that  the  summons  to  go  did  not 


General  Grant. 


163 


reach  him  in  1865.  But  for  what  we 
are  accustomed  to  call  an  accident,  it 
would  have  reached  him.  He  had 
been  engaged  to  accompany  President 
Lincoln  to  Ford's  theatre,  in  Washing- 
ton, on  the  night  of  the  assassination 
plot,  and  it  is  now  known  that  he 
was  marked  to  die.  Some  domestic 
arrangements  prevented  him  keeping 
this  appointment,  and  the  bullet  which 
was  intended  for  him  was  never  fired. 
It  seems  a  hard  sayiDg,  but  it  is  true, 
that  Lincoln  was  more  fortunate  that 
night  than  Grant. 

For  President  Lincoln  died  in  the 
full  sunshine  of  success — if,  indeed,  it 
<?an  be  said  that  sunshine  ever  fell  upon 
that  melancholy  spirit.  Between  him 
and  the  people,  whom  he  had  served  so 
faithfully,  there  was  no  cloud.  He 
had  outlived  all  misunderstandings  and 
injustice.  There  was  a  time,  no  doubt, 
when  his  rough,  uncouth  ways,  and 
the  absence  of  all  conventional  dignity 
in  his  life  and  conversation,  led  many 
of  his  countrymen  to  form  a  false 
estimate  of  his  nature ;  but  the  lofti- 
ness of  his  views,  and  the  sincerity  of 
his  patriotism,  were  never  questioned. 
In  his  second  inaugural  address,  and 
in  his  short  but  memorable  speech  at 
•Gettysburg,  he  struck  a  note  in  har- 
mony with  the  solemnity  of  the  time  ; 
and  long  before  the  war  came  to  an 
end  it  was  universally  acknowledged 
that  the  homely  rail-splitter  of  Illinois 
was  the  man  of  all  others  fitted  to  deal 
with  the  great  crisis  which  had  fallen 
upon  the  nation.  Everybody  saw  how 
invaluable  had  been  his  patience,  his 
good-humour,  his  quiet  belief  in  the 
cause  which  was  at  stake,  his  sagacity 
in  bringing  to  light  a  capable  man, 
and  of  remaining  faithful  to  him. 
Many  attempts  were  made  to  set  him 
against  General  Grant,  but  none  of 
them  succeeded.  "  He  drinks  too  much 
whisky,"  said  one  of  Grant's  maligners 
to  the  President.  "  Try  and  find  out 
the  brand,"  whispered  Lincoln ;  "  I 
should  like  to  send  a  barrel  or  two  to 
some  of  the  other  generals."  In  com- 
mon with  General  Sherman  and  others, 
the  President  anticipated  the  daring 
inarch  upon  Yicksburg  with  great 


misgiving,  and  looked  upon  it  as  a 
mistake  ;  but  after  the  fort  had  fallen 
he  wrote  a  note  of  hearty  congratula- 
tion to  the  general  whom  he  had 
never  seen.  "  I  now  wish,"  he  said, 
"  to  make  a  personal  acknowledgment 
that  you  were  right  and  I  was  wrong." 
This  letter  is  not  published  by  General 
Grant  in  his  '  Memoirs '  ;  in  fact,  he 
publishes  not  a  word  of  any  kind  in  his 
own  praise.  His  narrative  is  a  plain 
— almost  bald — record  of  the  simplest 
facts,  recounted  with  a  modesty  which 
is  rare,  if  not  absolutely  unique,  in 
works  of  this  kind,  but  which  is  in 
itself  vividly  characteristic  of  the 
man.  I  spent  many  long  evenings 
with  him  at  various  times,  and  I  never 
once  heard  him  make  the  slightest 
allusion  to  the  part  which  he  had 
played  in  the  war.  If  any  one  else 
touched  upon  the  subject  in  his  pre- 
sence, his  hard,  firm  mouth  would 
close  "like  a  steel  trap,"  as  the 
American  saying  goes,  and  the  chances 
were  that  not  another  word  would 
escape  from  him  until  the  indiscreet 
visitor  had  gone. 

This  reluctance  to  talk  of  his  own 
deeds  is  visible  even  in  the  '  Memoirs,' 
which  he  only  consented  to  write  in 
the  hope  of  leaving  behind  him  some 
provision  for  his  family.  He  went 
unwillingly  to  the  task,  and  although 
his  interest  in  it  increased  as  he  made 
progress,  it  is  clear  that  it  gave  him 
no  pleasure  to  recount  his  personal  ex- 
ploits. He  had  resolved  never  to 
write  anything  for  publication,  but 
troubles  fell  thickly  upon  him  one 
after  another,  and  at  last  he  yielded 
to  the  solicitations  of  the  publishers. 
"  I  consented,"  he  says  in  his  preface, 
"  for  the  money  it  gave  me ;  for  at 
that  moment  I  was  living  upon  bor- 
rowed money."  His  houses  had  pro- 
bably been  sold  long  before,  and  after 
the  failure  of  the  firm  of  rogues  with 
which  he  became  entangled,  he  was 
left  absolutely  penniless.  Then  he 
began  his  autobiography  upon  the 
novel  plan  of  saying  as  little  about 
himself  as  he  could  possibly  help. 
His  account  of  his  early  life  occupies 
more  space  than  the  description  of 

M  2 


164 


General  Grant. 


any  great  siege  or  battle  in  which  he 
\vas  engaged.  Everybody  knows  that 
he  was  brought  up  in  humble  circum- 
stances, though  not  in  poverty.  His 
father  had  a  tannery,  and  young 
Grant  often  worked  in  it,  though  he 
detested  the  occupation.  When  the 
siege  of  Yicksburg  made  him  famous, 
the  "  politicians  "  flocked  around  him 
from  all  quarters,  and  endeavoured  to 
turn  him  to  account  in  their  several 
ways.  Grant  met  all  their  approaches 
with  the  same  imperturbability.  "  I 
am  unable  to  talk  politics,"  he  used 
to  say,  "  but  if  you  want  to  know 
anything  about  the  best  method  of 
tanning  leather,  I  believe  I  can  tell 
you."  Through  the  interest  of  a  Con- 
gressman, he  was  admitted  to  the 
great  military  training  school  of  West 
Point,  where  Lee,  and  "  Stonewall  " 
Jackson,  and  others  who  afterwards 
became  celebrated  in  the  Confederacy, 
were  students  at  the  same  time. 
Grant's  sole  ambition  after  he  left 
West  Point  was  to  obtain  a  profes- 
sorship in  some  college ;  but  the  out- 
break of  the  Mexican  war,  provoked 
by  the  annexation  of  Texas,  soon  pro- 
vided him  with  active  employment. 
In  that  war  he  received  some  valuable 
training  as  a  soldier,  but  when  peace 
came  he  found  that  his  position  had  not 
in  any  way  improved.  By  this  time 
he  had  a  wife  and  two  children,  with- 
out any  adequate  means  of  earning 
money  for  their  support.  The  family 
went  to  a  little  farm  belonging  to  his 
wife  near  St.  Louis,  and  there  Grant 
tried  to  get  a  living  in  any  way  that 
presented  itself.  "If  nothing  else 
could  be  done,"  he  says,  "  I  would 
load  a  cord  of  wood  on  a  waggon,  and 
take  it  to  the  city  for  sale."  Then  he 
went  into  a  "  real  estate  "  business,  or, 
as  we  say,  a  land-agency ;  found  that 
this  brought  no  grist  to  the  mill,  and 
was  driven  to  become  a  clerk  in  his 
father's  store.  So  he  went  on,  living 
in  a  hand-to-mouth  manner,  until  the 
war  broke  out  in  1861,  and  he  was 
called  upon  to  take  command  of  a  com- 
pany of  volunteers  raised  in  Galena. 
This,  too,  seemed  likely  to  be  but 
a  short-lived  occupation.  No  one  then 


believed  that  the  war  would  last  long. 
Mr.  Jefferson  Davis  told  a  meeting  at 
La  Grange,  Mississippi,  that  he  would 
be  willing  to  "  drink  all  the  blood 
spilled  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's 
line."  Mr.  Seward,  the  secretary  of 
state,  continually  declared  that  the 
war  would  be  over  in  ninety  days. 
Grant's  belief  to  the  last  was  that 
if  the  capture  of  Fort  Donelson,  in 
February,  1862,  had  been  followed 
up  by  the  Federals  with  a  determined 
advance  over  the  south-west,  the  re- 
bellion would  have  collapsed.  But 
the  Federal  generals  were  slow  to 
perceive  any  advantage  they  had 
gained ;  many  of  them  were  utterly 
incapable  of  perceiving  it.  General 
Halleck,  who  was  Grant's  superior 
officer,  gave  him  no  encouragement 
even  to  attack  Fort  Donelson ;  and 
bestowed  but  slight  and  grudging 
thanks  upon  him  after  the  victory. 
For  venturing  to  push  on  to  Nashville 
Grant  was  superseded,  and  virtually 
placed  under  arrest.  But  he  was 
very  soon  restored  to  his  command, 
and  not  long  afterwards  won  the 
bloody  battle  of  Shiloh,  where  the 
Confederates  fought  until  they  were 
literally  cut  to  pieces.  "  I  saw  an 
open  field,"  he  writes,  "over  which 
the  Confederates  had  made  repeated 
charges  the  day  before,  so  covered 
with  dead  that  it  would  have  been 
possible  to  walk  across  the  clearing, 
in  any  direction,  stepping  on  dead 
bodies,  without  a  foot  touching  the 
ground."  "The  Confederate  troops 
fought  well,"  is  Grant's  laconic  remark 
on  all  this  heroism,  repeated  on  so 
many  fields,  and  always  in  vain. 

Donelson,  Shiloh,  and  Vicksburg 
have  generally  been  recognised  as 
affording  conclusive  proofs  of  Grant's 
military  capacity ;  but  his  campaigns 
in  Virginia  are  more  open  to  question. 
The  slaughter  in  the  "Wilderness," 
where  thousands  of  the  northern 
troops  were  sacrificed,  might  have 
been  avoided  if  Grant  had  clung  less 
tenaciously  to  his  resolve  to  "fight 
it  out  on  that  line  if  it  took  all 
summer."  He  had  to  deviate  from 
that  line  after  all,  but  one  object 


General  Grant. 


165 


which  he  constantly  kept  in  view  was 
accomplished — by  "  hammering  away" 
at  the  enemy,  he  had  reduced  Lee's 
power  of  resistance.  The  Confederate 
leader  was  obliged  to  break  up 
his  small  force  into  detachments  to 
meet  the  assaults  which  were  delivered 
in  all  directions,  and  with  a  few  thou- 
sand half-starved  and  ragged  troops 
he  had  to  face  at  least  a  hundred  and 
eighty  thousand  men  in  the  army  of 
the  Potomac.  His  supports  were  un- 
certain ;  some  of  his  subordinates — 
like  General  Early — were  worse  than 
useless.  The  commissariat  arrange- 
ments had  completely  broken  down. 
The  Confederates  were  left  almost 
without  ammunition  or  food.  Yet  in 
the  desperate  engagements  at  Spott- 
sylvania,  Cold  Harbour,  and  before 
Petersburg,  upwards  of  seventy  thou- 
sand men  of  Grant's  army  were  killed 
or  wounded.  The  carnage  and  the 
suffering  inflicted  in  that  last  cam- 
paign have  never  been  exceeded  in 
any  war  of  modern  times. 

Grant's  losses  were  heavy,  but  Lee's 
slender  resources  were  wrecked  in  a 
much  more  serious  proportion,  and 
there  was  no  recruiting  possible  for 
the  Confederates.  Their  dead  who  lay 
so  thickly  beneath  the  fields  were 
children  of  the  soil,  and  there  were 
none  to  replace  them.  Sometimes 
whole  families  had  been  destroyed  \  but 
the  survivors  still  fought  on,  though 
it  must  have  been  without  hope.  In 
the  Confederate  lines  round  Peters- 
burg there  was  often  absolute  desti- 
tution— as  an  officer  who  was  there 
told  me,  in  the  Shenandoah  valley, 
shortly  after  the  end  of  the  struggle, 
every  cat  and  dog  for  miles  around  had 
been  caught  and  eaten.  Grant  was 
pressing  onwards ;  Sherman's  march 
had  proved  that  the  Confederacy  was 
an  egg-shell ;  Sheridan's  splendid 
cavalry  was  ever  hovering  round  the 
last  defenders  of  the  bars  and  stripes ; 
Grant  saw  that  all  was  over,  and  he 
invited  Lee  to  surrender.  But  for  a 
day  or  two  longer  Lee  held  out ;  and 
then  Grant  sent  him  another  message, 
couched  in  terms  as  gentle  and  cour- 
teous as  he  could  find.  All  that 


further  resistance  could  do  would  be 
to  bring  about  more  useless  butchery, 
with  inevitable  defeat  at  the  end.  Yet 
the  Confederates  were  unwilling  to 
relinquish  everything,  and  when  they 
saw  their  general  riding  out  sadly  to 
meet  the  conqueror,  they  gave  way  to 
the  bitterest  grief.1  There  remained 
but  a  broken  and  scattered  remnant  of 
the  proud  forces  of  the  Confederacy 
to  surrender  with  their  beloved  com- 
mander. 

It  was  General  Grant's  duty  to  van- 
quish his  foe,  but  he  would  not 
humiliate  him.  He  declined  to  be 
present  at  the  formal  disbandment  of 
the  Southern  troops,  and  when  Lee 
handed  him  his  sword,  Grant  returned 
it  with  a  few  words  of  manly  sympa- 
thy. This  act  of  kindness  touched 
Lee  deeply,  for  no  one  in  the  whole 
South  felt  more  keenly  the  wreck  of 
all  the  hopes  which  had  been  bound  up 
in  the  "  lost  cause."  The  Northern 
people  had  made  great  sacrifices  to 
carry  on  the  war,  but  the  conditions 
of  the  contest  were  necessarily  more 
severe  in  the  South.  The  church 
bells,  the  leaden  roofing  from  the 
houses,  everything  that  could  be 
melted  down,  had  been  used  for  bullets. 
After  Sherman's  march  the  country 
was  like  a  desert.  Bridges,  fences, 
railroads,  all  had  disappeared.  Yet 
the  people  still  hoped  that  their 
favourite  general,  Lee,  would  some- 
how or  other  be  able  to  turn  back  the 
multitudes  which  were  arrayed  against 
him.  They  regarded  him  with  an 
affection  which  the  vast  reverses  that 
overwhelmed  him  and  them  could  not 
weaken.  I  saw  him  in  one  of  the  towns 
of  the  Shenandoah  valley  some  months 
after  the  surrender  at  Appomattox. 
He  was  quite  white,  bent,  and  broken, 
but  the  welcome  which  met  him  could 
not  have  been  more  ardent  if  he  had 
returned  victorious.  The  women 
crowded  round  him,  with  streaming 
eyes,  kissing  his  hand  ;  even  the  men 
were  deeply  moved.  At  that  time 
there  was  a  foolish  cry  among  the  peo- 
ple of  the  South.  ''Let  us  all  emigrate,  it 

1  The  scene  was  vividly  described  some 
years  ago  in  an  article  by  Mr.  Francis  Lawley. 


166 


General  Grant. 


matters  not  where.  Let  us  leave  a 
land  which  can  never  be  our  home 
again."  Lee  did  all  he  could  to  dis- 
courage it.  There  soon  arose  a  fierce 
demand  in  some  parts  of  the  North, 
led  by  Secretary  Stanton,  for  the 
"  punishment  of  traitors,"  and  but  for 
Grant's  interposition  Lee  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  sent  to  join 
Jefferson  Davis  in  Fortress  Monroe. 
Grant  risked  his  popularity  by  insist- 
ing that  Lee  was  a  prisoner  of  war  on 
parole,  and  that  until  he  broke  his 
parole  it  would  be  an  outrage  to  ar- 
rest him.  The  controversy  was  active, 
and  sometimes  angry ;  but  Grant  was 
immovable,  and  Stanton  had  to  give 
way.  The  two  generals  never  met 
afterwards.  Lee  continued  to  the  last 
to  set  a  good  example  to  his  followers 
by  returning  as  a  quiet  citizen  to  the 
work  which  he  found  ready  to  his 
hands,  as  the  president  of  a  college. 
There  he  did  his  duty,  but  it  is  no 
mere  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  his 
heart  was  broken.  There  are  blows 
from  which  no  man  can  recover — from 
which,  indeed,  he  has  no  wish  to  re- 
cover— and  death,  when  it  came,  was 
welcomed  as  a  friend  by  General 
Lee. 

It  is  at  the  close  of  the  rebellion,  as 
I  have  said,  that  one  could  almost  de- 
sire that  General  Grant's  career  had 
likewise  closed.  There  were  further 
triumphs  in  store  for  him,  but  scarcely 
any  great  happiness,  and  no  real  ad- 
dition to  his  honours.  He  had  no  am- 
bition to  launch  out  upon  the  stormy 
and  dangerous  sea  of  politics,  and  his 
fellow  commander,  Sherman,  wrote  to 
him  a  most  sensible  and  manly  letter, 
earnestly  advising  him  to  keep  away 
from  Washington.  But  the  Repub- 
lican party  had  no  candidate  to  put 
before  the  country  who  was  half  so 
likely  to  win  his  way  to  the  Presidency 
as  General  Grant,  and  in  a  rash  mo- 
ment, as  I  venture  to  think,  he  con- 
sented to  serve.  The  same  considera- 
tions obliged  him  to  become  a  candi- 
date for  a  second  term  of  office,  and 
he  was  elected  only  to  find  that  new 
disappointments  and  mortifications 
awaited  him.  He  had  always  been  ac- 


customed to  place  great  dependence  in 
men  who  had  once  served  under  him,  or 
for  whom  he  had  taken  a  liking.  This 
would  have  been  an  altogether  ad- 
mirable quality  had  his  judgment  of 
other  men  been  infallible.  But, 
in  truth,  it  was  far  from  that ;  he 
made  great  and  ruinous  mistakes,  and 
he  rarely  could  be  brought  to  see  his 
mistakes,  even  when  irreparable  mis- 
chief had  been  done.  Hence  arose  all 
those  scandals  about  "  whisky  rings  " 
and  "  Indian  rings  "  which  threw  so 
much  reproach  on  his  second  adminis- 
tration. That  the  President  himself 
was  perfectly  free  from  corruption  most 
men  believed  at  the  time,  and  every- 
body admits  now.  He  was  not  cap- 
able of  wilfully  committing  a  dishon- 
ourable act.  Some  of  his  followers 
were  not  so  scrupulous,  and  the  diffi- 
culty was  that  Grant  could  not  be 
brought  to  see  that  his  confidence  had 
been  betrayed.  He  had  been  bitterly 
attacked,  and  he  thought  that  his 
subordinates  were  assailed  merely 
because  they  were  faithful  to  him.  I 
remember  him  saying  to  me,  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  the  worst  of  all  the 
outcries  against  a  member  of  his  estab- 
lishment, to  whom  he  was  much  at- 
tached, but  who  was  not  worthy  of 
that  attachment,  "  Z.  is  only  at- 
tacked because  he  is  known  to  be  my 
true  friend.  He  has  done  nothing 
wrong.  I  do  not  care  whom  you  put 
into  his  place,  they  would  calumniate 
him  in  the  same  way  to-morrow. 
They  strike  at  me  over  his  shoulder ; 
I  can  stand  it,  but  it  shall  do  him 
harm."  He  could  not  be  brought 
think  that  any  one  in  whom  he 
trusted  might  possibly  deceive  him. 
All  his  sad  experience  seems,  in 
this  respect,  to  have  been  thrown 
away  upon  him.  The  firm  of  frau- 
dulent brokers  who  plundered  him 
so  mercilessly,  and  tried  to  strip  him 
of  his  reputation  after  they  had  taken 
all  his  money,  ought  not  to  have  de- 
ceived any  man  with  even  elementary 
ideas  of  business.  Grant's  credulity, 
when  his  confidence  had  once  been 
secured,  knew  no  bounds.  This  was 
the  sole  secret  of  all  the  mistakes  in 


G-eneral  Grant. 


167 


his  career  as  President  of  the  United 
States.  At  Washington  he  was  no 
longer  in  a  position  where  taciturnity 
and  self-reliance  could  carry  him 
through  all  emergencies.  He  had  to 
depend  upon  others ;  he  was  obliged 
to  ask  for  advice,  and  even  to  act 
upon  it.  He  liked  to  have  men  about 
him  who  could  make  themselves  agree- 
able, for,  in  spite  of  his  grim  bearing 
and  unsympathetic  aspect,  he  was  a 
warmhearted  man,  and  enjoyed  a 
little  gaiety  after  office  hours.  He 
contributed  not  a  little  to  this  gaiety 
himself,  by  drawing  upon  a  store  of 
curious  anecdotes  of  men  whom  he 
had  known,  or  by  remarks  of  a  dry, 
sarcastic  turn  on  the  politicians  or 
events  of  the  day.  No  man  could  talk 
better  when  he  was  in  the  humour. 
He  had  a  pleasant  voice,  and  a  simple, 
retiring  manner,  and  was  always 
ready  to  listen  to  any  suggestions 
that  were  made  to  him  by  persons 
whom  he  respected.  He  had  read  a 
good  deal,  and  thought  even  more, 
and  he  delighted  in  picking  up  infor- 
mation in  the  easiest  of  all  modes — 
by  converse  with  people  who  had  made 
a  special  study  of  the  subject  he 
wished  to  understand.  When  he 
talked,  no  words  were  wasted,  and 
the  listener  could  never  fail  to  be 
impressed  with  his  profound  common- 
sense.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  com- 
mon-sense, he  fell  so  easy  a  prey  to 
rascality.  The  truth  is,  he  was  not 
fit  to  cope  with  rascals.  He  had  no 
distrust  in  his  nature ;  he  was  not  on 
the  look-out  for  knavery.  A  New 
York  clerk  of  eighteen  would  have 
seen  through  the  glaring  impostures 
of  the  firm  which  dragged  him  down 
to  ruin.  Yet  Grant  reposed  so  much 
faith  in  that  wretched  firm  that  he 
could  go  and  ask  for  a  loan  of  a 
large  sum  of  money  to  help  it,  as 
he  supposed,  through  difficulties  which 
were  practically  insurmountable.  No 
great  man  was  ever  before  so  miser- 
ably duped. 

An  ex-President  of  the  United 
States  does  not  occupy  a  very  en- 
viable position.  One  day  the  head  of 
the  Government,  the  next  he  is  no- 


body. Unless  he  has  some  lucrative 
calling  to  which  he  can  return,  or 
private  means  upon  which  he  can 
retire,  he  is  a  source  of  embarrassment 
to  himself  and  to  others.  The  poli- 
ticians have  had  out  of  him  all  that 
they  want,  and  he  cannot  very  well 
"  run  "  for  an  inferior  office.  In  Eng- 
land we  pension  off  old  servants  of  the 
state — perhaps  a  little  too  freely.  The 
ample  salary  which  a  man  receives  for 
doing  his  appointed  work  is  not 
thought  enough  to  enable  him  to 
spend  his  last  days  in  comfort,  and 
therefore,  whether  the  holders  of  high 
offices  are  in  or  out  of  harness,  they 
are  well  taken  care  of.  The  American 
people  are  not  so  generous.  Their 
Presidents  are  dismissed  without  re- 
cognition of  any  kind.  General  Arthur, 
a  man  of  the  very  highest  character, 
has  fortunately  a  good  profession,  and 
an  excellent  position  in  that  profes- 
sion, and  he  has  gone  back  to  his 
office  from  the  White  House  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  But  when 
General  Grant  retired  he  could  not 
return  to  the  army,  and  he  had  no 
other  occupation  open  to  him.  It  was 
impossible  that  he  should  again  set  up 
in  business  as  a  tanner.  He  spent 
many  months  in  making  a  tour  of  a 
large  part  of  the  world,  and  during 
his  visit  to  England  he  saw  nearly  all 
our  most  distinguished  public  men,  and 
formed  his  own  opinions  concerning 
them.  I  asked  him  one  evening  which 
of  these  men  had  struck  him  most. 
After  a  moment's  consideration,  he 
replied,  "Mr.  Disraeli.  Your  Mr. 
Gladstone  talks  the  best— I  never 
heard  a  man  talk  so  well  before — but 
Mr.  Disraeli  is  more  original.  And 
then,  you  see,  he  does  not  say  much. 
'  I  never  can  make  out  why  you  did 
not  keep  Mexico  when  you  had  got  it, 
General,'  he  said  to  me  the  first  time 
I  saw  him.  No  more  can  I."  But  in 
his  '  Memoirs,'  I  see  that  Grant  con- 
demns the  Mexican  war  as  unjust,  and 
therefore  he  might  have  found  a 
reason  to  give  Mr.  Disraeli  for  not 
treating  Mexico  after  the  fashion  of 
Texas. 

The  "  third  term  "  project  was  not 


168 


General  Grant. 


dead  when  General  Grant  returned  to 
the  United   States,  but  the  American 
people  looked  upon  it  with  great  dis- 
like. The  Republican  party,  or  a  large 
section  of  it,  desired  to  nominate  Grant 
again ;  but  the  Convention  at  Chicago 
was  much  divided,  and  after  even  more 
than  the  usual  doublings  and  turnings 
of  the  delegates,  the  choice  fell  upon 
General    Garfield.     Grant    must  now 
have  known    that    political    life  was 
closed    to    him,    and     he     undertook 
various  commercial  undertakings  which 
turned  out  to  be  profitable.  They  were 
put  into  his  way  by  friends  who  de- 
sired to  serve  him.     A  great  deal   of 
money   doubtless  passed  through  his 
hands   at   various   times,    although  I 
never  heard  that  his  habits  were  ex- 
travagant. At  any  rate,  he  was  better 
off,  pecuniarily,  at  the  close  of  1883 
than  he  had  ever  been  before.  General 
Badeau,  who  knew  his  chief's  affairs 
better  than  any  one  outside  his  own 
family,    states     that    Grant    himself 
estimated  his  fortune  at  this  time  at 
a  million  of  dollars.      This,  however, 
was  chiefly  in  the  air.     He  was  only 
sixty-one,  to  all  appearance  in  perfect 
health,  happy  in  his  surroundings,  and 
engaged   in  "  business  which  brought 
him  in  an  ample  income."     Prosperity 
and  contentment  seemed  to  be  assured 
to    him.      But    everybody    who    has 
studied    human    history,    whether    in 
books  or  on  the  world's  great  stage, 
must  have  observed  that  it  is  precisely 
at  these   periods,    when    all   is  appa- 
rently going  well,  that  the  dark  fates 
so  frequently  descend  with   their  in- 
exorable decrees,   and  darken  all  the 
sun  of  a  man's  life,  and  condemn  him 
to  struggle  for  the  rest  of  his  days 
amid  the    bitter  waters   of  affliction. 
It  was  so  with  General  Grant.     An 
occurrence  of  evil  omen  befell  him  on 
Christmas  Eve.     He  had  reached  his 
own  door,  when,  in  turning  to  pay  a 
cabman,  he  fell  upon  the  frozen  pave- 
ment, and  sustained  an  injury  which 
was  followed  by  an  attack  of  pleurisy. 
From  that  time  he  was  called  upon  to 
bid  farewell  to  health  and  peace   of 
mind.     Already  he  had,  at  the  solici- 
tation of  his  son,  joined  the  firm  of 


Ward    and    Fish,    and    put    all    his 
savings   into  it — about  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds.      The   affair  seemed  to 
go   on  prosperously — so   prosperously 
that   Grant,  as   his   friend   has   said, 
thought    he     was    worth    a     million 
of    dollars.       Everybody     remembers 
the  exposure  that   followed  in    May, 
1884.    One  morning  Grant  went  down 
to  the  office  in  Wall  Street,  and  found 
that  Ward  had  absconded,  and  that  he 
and  his  children  were  utterly  ruined. 
Only  a   few  days   before,    Ward  had 
induced  him  to  borrow  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars  under  the 
pretence  that  this  sum  would  enable 
him  to  discharge  some  pressing  claims 
upon  a  bank  in  which  the  firm  had 
large   deposits.     Grant   went  to  Mr. 
W.  H.  Yanderbilt,  of  the  New  York 
Central  Railway,  who  died  so  recently, 
and  asked  for  the  money  as  a  loan. 
Thirty  thousand  pounds  is  a  large  sum, 
but  Vanderbilt  sat  down  and  drew  a 
cheque  for  it,  and  handed    it   to  his 
visitor.      The   railroad   king  knew  a 
few  hours  afterwards  that  Grant  had 
been  duped,  and  that  his  own  money 
was  lost,  but  he  behaved  throughout 
with  the  utmost  generosity.     He  took 
possession  of  Grant's  house  and  pro- 
perty,  merely  to  protect    them  from 
other  creditors.     He  nobly  offered  to 
make  the  whole  over  to  Mrs.  Grant, 
but  the  general  refused.      Grant  had 
no   idea   at  first   that  the  firm  with 
which  his  name  had  been  identified  ex- 
isted upon  sheer  roguery.     But  all  the 
papers  were  soon  full  of  the  shameful 
story.     The  famous  soldier  saw  but  too 
clearly  that   he  had    been  used  as  a 
decoy    by    an    abominable    swindler. 
House,  money,  books,    furniture,    his 
swords,  and  other  presents — the  money 
of  his  children  and  many  of  his  friends 
— everything  was  gone,   including,  as 
he  thought,  his  honour.     It  was  after- 
wards  clearly  seen    that   he   had   no 
complicity   whatever    in    the    frauds 
committed    by  his    partners — that  he 
was  the  chief  of  the  sufferers,  not  in 
any  way  a  culprit.       The  sympathy  of 
the    people  went  out   to    him ;    once 
more  he  rallied  from  enfeebled  health 
and  a  wounded  spirit,  and  he  began 


General  Grant. 


169 


to  believe  that  in  time  he  might 
recover  from  this  unmerited  and 
disastrous  blow. 

But  another  great  calamity  was 
hanging  over  him.  A  few  months 
after  the  failure  of  the  firm,  he  began 
to  complain  of  a  pain  in  his  throat. 
Gradually  it  grew  worse ;  he  could 
swallow  nothing  but  liquid  food  ;  doc- 
tors were  consulted,  various  opinions 
were  given,  and  at  last  the  dread  fact 
could  no  longer  be  concealed  that  his 
disease  was  cancer.  He  had  already 
begun  to  write  his  '  Memoirs,'  urged  on 
by  the  one  hope  which  now  remained 
to  him — the  hope  of  making  some  pro- 
vision for  his  family  in  place  of  that 
which  they  had  lost.  But  the  torment 
which  now  visited  him,  day  and  night, 
obliged  him  to  stop.  He  could  not 
lie  down  without  bringing  on  fits  of 
choking;  he  would  sit  for  hours,  as 
General  Badeau  has  said,  "  propped 
up  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands  clasped, 
looking  at  the  blank  wall  before  him, 
silent,  contemplating  the  future  ;  not 
alarmed,  but  solemn,  at  the  prospect 
of  pain  and  disease,  and  only  death  at 
the  end."  Of  all  the  soldiers  who 
perished  slowly  of  lingering  wounds 
on  battle-fields  during  the  war,  none 
suffered  such  protracted  and  cruel 
tortures  as  General  Grant. 

Then  there  came  a  change  for  the 
better.  The  kindly  messages  which 
were  sent  to  him  from  all  classes  of 
his  own  countrymen,  north  and  south, 
and  which  flowed  in  upon  him  from 
England — from  the  Queen  herself — 
greatly  cheered  and  consoled  .  him. 
Again  he  set  to  work  upon  his  book, 
determined  to  finish  it  before  he  died. 
He  was  further  encouraged  by  the 
news  that  Congress  had  at  last  passed 
a  bill  placing  him  on  the  retired  list 
of  the  army.  His  good  name,  he  felt, 
was  once  more  established.  In  June, 
1884,  he  seemed  to  be  a  little  better, 
but  the  great  heat  of  the  city 
distressed  him,  and  a  villa  near 
Saratoga  was  offered  to  him  by  a 
friend.  Thither  he  went,  still  bent 
upon  finishing  his  book.  He  knew 
that  he  could  not  live.  Several  times 


he  had  actually  been  at  the  point  of 
death — once  at  least  he  had  taken 
leave  of  those  who  were  so  dear  to 
him.  His  unconquerable  nature  alone 
kept  him  alive.  Three  families,  as  we 
learn  from  his  old  aide-de-camp,  were 
dependent  upon  him.  If  he  could 
complete  his  'Memoirs'  over  half  a 
million  dollars  would  be  earned  for 
his  kindred.  Again  and  again  he 
took  up  his  pencil  and  paper — for  he 
could  no  longer  dictate — and  wrote, 
slowly  and  laboriously,  as  much  as  he 
could.  No  murmur  escaped  him. 
Great  physical  prostration,  accom- 
panied by  inevitable  mental  depres- 
sion, often  assailed  him,  but  he  sum- 
moned all  his  energies,  and  came  back 
from  the  very  portals  of  the  grave. 
That  his  children  and  grandchildren 
should  not  be  left  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  world — this  was  the 
solitary  boon  he  craved.  And  it  was 
granted.  He  had  time  to  write  the 
last  words  of  the  last  page,  and  then, 
on  the  twenty-third  of  July,  the  end 
came  gently  to  him.  With  his  wife 
and  family  still  around  him,  he  passed 
away  as  an  over-wearied  child  might 
fall  asleep. 

Few  men  had  known  more  of  the 
vicissitudes  of  life.  He  had  tasted  all 
the  sweets,  such  as  they  are,  of  wild 
and  unbounded  popularity ;  he  had 
sunk  into  neglect ;  he  had  seen  his  re- 
putation undergo  total  eclipse.  In  his 
declining  years,  and  smitten  with  a  fatal 
malady,  he  found  himself  reduced  to 
penury,  and  obliged  to  begin  the  fight 
against  want  all  over  again.  His- 
tory may  possibly  decide  that  he  is 
not  to  be  ranked  among  the  greatest 
of  generals  or  the  wisest  of  statesmen  ; 
but  it  will  be  obliged  to  acknowledge 
that  he  was  the  only  man  who  proved 
himself  able  to  bring  a  long  and 
desperate  civil  war  to  an  end  ;  and  it 
will  do  justice  to  the  ardent  patriotism 
which  always  animated  him,  and  to 
the  intrepid  soul  which  refused  to  be 
crushed  even  when  all  his  little  world 
stood  around  him  in  ruins. 

L.  J.  JENNINGS. 


170 


GEORGE   BORROW. 


IN  this  paper  I  do  not  undertake  to 
throw  any  new  light  on  the  little- 
known  life  of  the  author  of  '  Lavengro.' 
I  believe  that  there  is  ground  for 
hoping  that,  among  the  few  people  who 
knew  Borrow  intimately,  some  one 
will  soon  be  found  who  will  give  to  the 
world  an  account  of  his  curious  life, 
and  perhaps  some  specimens  of  those 
"  mountains  of  manuscript  "  which,  as 
he  regretfully  declares,  never  could 
find  a  publisher  —  an  impossibility 
which,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  offer 
an  opinion,  does  not  reflect  any  great 
credit  on  publishers.  For  our  present 
purpose  it  is  sufficient  to  sum  up  the 
generally-known  facts  that  Borrow 
was  born  in  1803  at  East  Dereham  in 
Norfolk,  his  father  being  a  captain  in 
the  army,  who  came  of  Cornish  blood, 
his  mother  a  lady  of  Norfolk  birth  and 
Huguenot  extraction.  His  youth  he 
has  himself  described  in  a  fashion 
which  nobody  is  likely  to  care  to 
paraphrase.  After  the  years  of  travel 
chronicled  in  '  Lavengro,'  he  seems  to 
have  found  scope  for  his  philological 
and  adventurous  tendencies  in  the 
rather  unlikely  service  of  the  Bible 
Society ;  and  he  sojourned  in  Russia  and 
Spain  to  the  great  advantage  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  This  occupied  him  dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  the  years  from 
1830  to  1840.  Then  he  came  back  to 
his  native  county — or,  at  any  rate,  his 
native  district — married  a  widow  of 
some  property  at  Lowestof t,  and  spent 
the  last  forty  years  of  his  life  at 
Oulton  Hall,  near  the  piece  of  water 
which  is  thronged  in  summer  by  all 
manner  of  sportsmen  and  others.  He 
died  but  the  other  day ;  and  even  since 
his  death  he  seems  to  have  lacked  the 
due  meed  of  praise  which  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice  of  the  equal  foot  usually 
brings  even  to  persons  far  less  deserving 
than  Borrow. 


There  is  this  difficulty  in  writing 
about  him,  that  the  audience  must 
necessarily  consist  of  fervent  devotees 
on  the  one  hand,  and  of  complete 
infidels,  or  at  least  complete  know- 
nothings,  on  the  other.  To  any  one 
who,  having  the  faculty  to  understand 
either,  has  read  '  Lavengro  '  or  '  The 
Bible  in  Spain,'  or  even  '  Wild  Wales,' 
praise  bestowed  on  Borrow  is  apt  to 
seem  impertinence.  To  anybody  else 
(and  unfortunately  the  anybody  else  is 
in  a  large  majority)  praise  bestowed 
on  Borrow  is  apt  to  look  like  that  very 
dubious  kind  of  praise  which  is  be- 
stowed on  somebody  of  whom  no  one 
but  the  praiser  has  ever  heard.  I  can- 
not think  of  any  single  writer  (Peacock 
himself  is  not  an  exception)  who  is  in 
quite  parallel  case.  And,  as  usual, 
there  is  a  certain  excuse  for  the 
general  public.  Borrow  kept  himself 
during  not  the  least  exciting  period  of 
English  history  quite  aloof  from  Eng- 
lish politics,  and  from  the  life  of  great 
English  cities.  But  he  did  more  than 
this.  He  is  the  only  really  consider- 
able writer  of  his  time  in  any  modern 
European  nation  who  seems  to  have 
taken  absolutely  no  interest  in  current 
events,  literary  and  other.  Putting  a 
very  few  allusions  aside,  he  might  have 
belonged  to  almost  any  period.  His 
political  idiosyncrasy  will  be  noticed 
presently  ;  but  he  who  lived  through 
the  whole  period  from  Waterloo  to 
Mai  wand  has  not,  as  far  as  I  remember, 
mentioned  a  single  English  writer  later 
than  Scott  and  Byron.  He  saw  the 
rise,  and,  in  some  instances,  the  death, 
of  Tennyson,  Thackeray,  Macaulay, 
Carlyle,  Dickens.  There  is  not  a 
reference  to  any  one  of  them  in  his 
works.  He  saw  political  changes  such 
as  no  man  for  two  centuries  had  seen, 
and  (except  the  Corn  Laws,  to  which 
he  has  some  half-ironical  allusions,  and 


George  Borrow. 


in 


the  Ecclesiastical  Titles  Bill,  which 
stirred  his  one  active  sentiment),  he 
has  referred  to  never  a  one.  He  seems 
in  some  singular  fashion  to  have  stood 
outside  of  all  these  things.  His 
Spanish  travels  are  dated  for  us  by 
references  to  Dona  Isabel,  and  Don 
Carlos,to  Mr.  Yilliers,  and  Lord  Palmer- 
ston.  But  cut  these  dates  out,  and 
they  might  be  travels  of  the  last  cen- 
tury. His  Welsh  book  proclaims 
itself  as  written  in  the  full  course  of 
the  Crimean  War ;  but  excise  a  few 
passages  which  bear  directly  on  that 
event,  and  the  most  ingenious  critic 
would  be  puzzled  to  "  place  "  the  com- 
position. Shakespeare,  we  know,  was 
for  all  time,  not  of  one  age  only  ;  but  I 
think  we  may  say  of  Borrow,  without 
too  severely  or  conceitedly  marking 
the  difference,  that  he  was  not  of  or 
for  any  particular  age  or  time  at  all. 
If  the  celebrated  query  in  Long- 
fellow's '  Hyperion/  "  What  is  time  1 " 
had  been  addressed  to  him,  his  most 
appropriate  answer,  and  one  which  he 
was  quite  capable  of  giving,  would 
have  been,  "  I  really  don't  know." 

To  this  singular  historical  vagueness 
has  to  be  added  a  critical  vagueness 
even  greater.  I  am  sorry  that  I  am 
unable  to  confirm  or  to  gainsay  at 
first  hand  Borrow's  wonderfully  high 
estimate  of  certain  Welsh  poets.  But 
if  the  originals  are  anything  like  his 
translations  of  them,  I  do  not  think 
that  Ab  Gwilym  and  Lewis  Glyn 
Cothi,  Gronwy  Owen  and  Huw  Morris 
can  have  been  quite  such  mighty  bards 
as  he  makes  out.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, a  bettor  test  presents  itself.  In 
one  book  of  his,  '  Wild  Wales/  there 
are  two  estimates  of  Scott's  works. 
Borrow  finds  in  an  inn  a  copy  of 
'Woodstock'  (which  he  calls  by  its 
less  known  title  of  'The  Cavalier'), 
and  decides  that  it  is  "  trashy ; " 
chiefly,  it  would  appear,  because 
the  portrait  therein  contained  of 
Harrison,  for  whom  Borrow  seems  on 
one  of  his  inscrutable  principles  of 
prejudice  to  have  had  a  liking,  is  not 
wholly  favourable.  He  afterwards 
informs  us  that  Scott's  'Norman 


Horseshoe '  (no  very  exquisite  song  at 
the  best,  and  among  Scott's  somewhat 
less  than  exquisite)  is  "one  of  the 
most  stirring  lyrics  of  modern  times," 
and  that  he  sang  it  for  a  whole  even- 
ing; evidently  because  it  recounts  a 
defeat  of  the  Normans,  whom  Borrow, 
as  he  elsewhere  tells  us  in  sundry 
places,  disliked  for  reasons  more  or  less 
similar  to  those  which  made  him  like 
Harrison,  the  butcher.  In  other 
words,  he  could  not  judge  a  work  of 
literature  as  literature  at  all.  If  it 
expressed  sentiments  with  which  he 
agreed,  or  called  up  associations  which 
were  pleasant  to  him,  good  luck  to  it ; 
if  it  expressed  sentiments  with  which 
he  did  not  agree,  and  called  up  no 
pleasant  associations,  bad  luck. 

In  politics  and  religion  this  curious 
and  very  John  Bullish  unreason  is 
still  more  apparent.  I  suppose  Borrow 
may  be  called,  though  he  does  not  call 
himself,  a  Tory.  He  certainly  was  an 
unfriend  to  Whiggery,  and  a  hater  of 
Radicalism.  He  seems  to  have  given 
up  even  the  Corn  Laws  with  a  certain 
amount  of  regret,  and  his  general 
attitude  is  quite  Eldonian.  But  he 
combined  with  his  general  Toryism 
very  curious  Radicalisms  of  detail, 
such  as  are  to  be  found  in  Cobbett 
(who,  as  appeared  at  last,  and  as  all 
reasonable  men  should  have  always 
known,  was  really  a  Tory  of  a  peculiar 
type),  and  in  several  other  English 
persons.  The  Church,  the  Monarchy, 
and  the  Constitution  generally  were 
dear  to  Borrow,  but  he  hated  all  the 
aristocracy  (except  those  whom  he 
knew  personally),  and  most  of  the 
gentry.  Also,  he  had  the  odd  Radical 
sympathy  for  anybody  who,  as  the 
vernacular  has  it,  was  "  kept  out  of 
his  rights."  I  do  not  know,  but  I 
should  think,  that  Borrow  was  a  strong 
Tichbornite.  In  that  curious  book, 
'  Wild  Wales/  where  almost  more  of 
his  real  character  appears  than  in  any 
other,  he  has  to  do  with  the  Crimean 
War.  It  was  going  on  during  the 
whole  time  of  his  tour,  and  he  once  or 
twice  reports  conversations  in  which, 
from  his  knowledge  of  Russia,  he 


172 


George  Borrow. 


demonstrated  beforehand  to  Welsh  in- 
quirers how  improbable,  not  to  say 
impossible,  it  was  that  the  Russian 
should  be  beaten.  But  the  thing  that 
seems  really  to  have  interested  him 
most  was  the  case  of  Lieutenant 

P or    Lieutenant  Parry,    whom 

he  sometimes  alludes  to  in  the  fuller 
and  sometimes  in  the  less  explicit 
manner.  My  own  memories  of  1854 
are  rather  indistinct,  and  I  confess 
that  I  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to 
look  up  this  celebrated  case.  As  far 
as  I  can  remember,  and  as  far  as 
Borrow's  references  here  and  elsewhere 
go,  it  was  the  doubtless  lamentable  but 
not  uncommon  case  of  a  man  who  is 
difficult  to  live  with,  and  who  has  to 
live  with  others.  Such  cases  occur  at 
intervals  in  every  mess,  college,  and 
other  similar  aggregation  of  humanity. 
The  person  difficult  to  live  with  gets, 
as  they  say  at  Oxford,  "  drawn."  If 
he  is  reformable  he  takes  the  lesson, 
and  very  likely  becomes  excellent 
friends  with  those  who  "  drew  "  him. 
If  he  is  not,  he  loses  his  temper,  and 
evil  results  of  one  kind  or  another 

follow.      Borrow's  Lieutenant  P • 

seems  unluckily  to  have  been  of  the 
latter  kind,  and  was,  if  I  mistake  not, 
recommended  by  the  authorities  to 
withdraw  from  a  situation  which  to 
him  was  evidently  a  false  and  unsuit- 
able one.  With  this  Borrow  could 
not  away.  He  gravely  chronicles  the 
fact  of  his  reading  an  "excellent 
article  in  a  local  paper  on  the  case 

of  Lieutenant  P ; "  and  with  no 

less  gravity  (though  he  was,  in  a  cer- 
tain way,  one  of  the  first  humorists  of 
our  day)  he  suggests  that  the  com- 
plaints of  the  martyred  P to  the 

Almighty  were  probably  not  uncon- 
nected with  our  Crimean  disasters. 
This  curious  parochialism  pursues  him 
into  more  purely  religious  matters.  I 
do  not  know  any  other  really  great 
man  of  letters  of  the  last  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  of  whose  attitude 
Carlyle's  famous  words,  "regarding 
God's  universe  as  a  larger  patrimony  of 
Saint  Peter,  from  which  it  were  well 
and  pleasant  to  hunt  the  Pope,"  are  so 


literally  true.  It  was  not  in  Borrow's 
case  a  case  of  sancta  simplicitas.  He 
has  at  times  flashes  of  by  no  means 
orthodox  sentiment,  and  seems  to  have 
fought,  and  perhaps  hardly  won,  many 
a  battle  against  the  army  of  the 
doubters.  But  when  it  comes  to  the 
Pope,  he  is  as  single-minded  an  enthu- 
siast as  John  Bunyan  himself,  whom, 
by  the  way,  he  resembles  in  more 
than  one  point.  The  attitude  was, 
of  course,  common  enough  among  his 
contemporaries  ;  indeed  any  man  who 
has  come  to  forty  years  must  remem- 
ber numerous  examples  among  his  own 
friends  and  kindred.  But  in  literature, 
and  such  literature  as  Borrow's,  it  is 
rare. 

Yet  again,  the  curiously  piecemeal, 
and  the  curiously  arbitrary  character 
of  Borrow's  literary  studies  in  lan- 
guages other  than  his  own,  is  note- 
worthy in  so  great  a  linguist.  The 
entire  range  of  French  literature,  old 
as  well  as  new,  he  seems  to  have 
ignored  altogether — I  should  imagine 
out  of  pure  John  Bullishness.  He  has 
very  few  references  to  German,  though 
he  was  a  good  German  scholar — a  fact 
which  I  account  for  by  the  other  fact, 
that  in  his  earlier  literary  period  Ger- 
man was  fashionable,  and  that  he 
never  would  have  anything  to  do 
with  anything  that  fashion  favoured. 
Italian,  though  he  certainly  knew  it 
well,  is  equally  slighted.  His  educa- 
tion, if  not  his  taste  for  languages, 
must  have  made  him  a  tolerable 
(he  never  could  have  been  an  exact) 
classical  scholar.  But  it  is  clear  that 
insolent  Greece  and  haughty  Home 
exerted  no  attraction  upon  him.  I 
question  whether  even  Spanish  would 
not  have  been  too  common  a  toy  to 
attract  him  much  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  accidental  circumstances  which 
connected  him  with  Spain. 

Lastly  (for  I  love  to  get  my  devil's 
advocate  work  over),  in  Borrow's 
varied  and  strangely  attractive  gallery 
of  portraits  and  characters,  most  ob- 
servers must  perceive  the  absence  of 
the  note  of  passion.  I  have  sometimes 
tried  to  think  that  miraculous  episode 


George  Borrow. 


173 


of  Isopel  Berners  and  the  Armenian 
verbs,  with  the  whole  sojourn  of 
Lavengro  in  the  dingle,  a  mere  way- 
ward piece  of  irony — a  kind  of  con- 
scious ascetic  myth.  But  I  am  afraid 
the  interpretation  will  not  do.  The 
subsequent  conversation  with  Ursula 
Petulengro  under  the  hedge  might  be 
only  a  companion  piece  ;  even  the 
more  wonderful,  though  much  less  in- 
teresting, dialogue  with  the  Irish  girl 
in  the  last  chapters  of  '  Wild  Wales  ' 
might  be  so  rendered  by  a  hardy 
exegete.  But  the  negative  evidence 
in  all  the  books  is  too  strong.  It  may 
be  taken  as  positively  certain  that 
Borrow  never  was  "in  love,"  as  the 
phrase  is,  and  that  he  had  hardly  the 
remotest  conception  of  what  being  in 
love  means.  It  is  possible  that  he 
was  a  most  cleanly  liver — it  is  possible 
that  he  was  quite  the  reverse  :  I  have 
not  the  slightest  information  either 
way.  But  that  he  never  in  all  his  life 
heard  with  understanding  the  refrain 
of  the  '  Pervigilium ' — 

Cras    amet    qui    nunquam    amavit,    quique 
amavit  eras  amet, 

I  take  as  certain. 

The  foregoing  remarks  have,  I 
think,  summed  up  all  Bor row's  de- 
fects, and  it  will  be  observed  that  even 
these  defects  have  the  attraction  for 
the  most  part  of  a  certain  strangeness 
and  oddity.  If  they  had  not  been 
accompanied  by  great  and  peculiar 
merits  he  would  not  have  emerged 
from  the  category  of  the  merely 
bizarre,  where  he  might  have  been 
left  without  further  attention.  But, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  all,  or  almost  all, 
of  his  defects  are  not  only  counter- 
balanced by  merits,  but  are  them- 
selves for  the  most  part  exaggerations 
or  perversions  of  what  is  in  itself 
meritorious.  With  less  wilfulness, 
with  more  attention  to  the  literature, 
the  events,  the  personages  oc  his  own 
time,  with  a  more  critical  and  com- 
mon-sense attitude  towards  his  own 
crochets,  Borrow  could  hardly  have 
wrought  out  for  himself  (as  he  has  to 
an  extent  hardly  paralleled  by  any 


other  prose  writer  who  has  not  de- 
liberately chosen  supernatural  or  fan- 
tastic themes)  the  region  of  fantasy, 
neither  too  real  nor  too  historical, 
which  Joubert  thought  proper  to  the 
poet.  Strong  and  vivid  as  Borrow' s 
drawing  of  places  and  persons  is,  he 
always  contrives  to  throw  in  touches 
which  somehow  give  the  whole  the  air 
of  being  rather  a  vision  than  a  fact. 
Never  was  such  a  John-a-Dreams  as 
this  solid,  pugilistic  John  Bull  Part 
of  this  literary  effect  of  his  is  due  to 
his  quaint  habit  of  avoiding,  where 
he  can,  the  mention  of  proper  names. 
The  description,  for  instance,  of  Old 
Sarum  and  Salisbury  itself  in  *  Laven- 
gro '  is  sufficient  to  identify  them  to 
the  most  careless  reader,  even  if  the 
name  of  Stonehenge  had  not  occurred 
on  the  page  before ;  but  they  are  not 
named.  The  description  of  Bettws-y- 
Coed  in  'Wild  Wales/  though  less 
poetical,  is  equally  vivid.  Yet  here  it 
would  be  quite  possible  for  a  reader, 
who  did  not  know  the  place  and  its 
relation  to  other  named  places,  to  pass 
without  any  idea  of  the  actual  spot. 
It  is  the  same  with  his  frequent  refer- 
ences to  his  beloved  city  of  Norwich, 
and  his  less  frequent  references  to  his 
later  home  at  Oulton.  A  paraphrase, 
an  innuendo,  a  word  to  the  wise  he 
delights  in,  but  anything  perfectly 
clear  and  precise  he  abhors.  And  by 
this  means  and  others,  which  it  might 
be  tedious  to  trace  out  too  closely,  he 
succeeds  in  throwing  the  same  cloudy 
vagueness  over  times  as  well  as  places 
and  persons.  A  famous  passage — 
perhaps  the  best  known,  and  not  far 
from  the  best  he  ever  wrote — about 
Byron's  funeral,  fixes,  of  course,  the 
date  of  the  wondrous  facts  or  fictions 
recorded  in  'Lavengro '  to  a  nicety.  Yet 
who,  as  he  reads  it  and  its  sequel  (for 
the  separation  of  '.Lavengro'  and  'The 
Romany  Rye '  is  merely  arbitrary, 
though  the  second  book  is,  as  a 
whole,  less  interesting  than  the  for- 
mer), ever  thinks  of  what  was  actually 
going  on  in  the  very  positive  and 
prosaic  England  of  1824-51  The 
later  chapters  of  'Lavengro'  are  the 


174 


George  Borrow. 


only  modern  *  Romance  of  Adventure ' 
that  I  know.  The  hero  goes  "  over- 
thwart  and  endlong,"  just  like  the 
figures  whom  all  readers  know  in 
Malory,  and  some  in  his  originals.  I 
do  not  know  that  it  would  be  more 
surprising  if  Borrow  had  found  Sir 
Ozana  dying  at  the  chapel  in  Lyonesse, 
or  had  seen  the  full  function  of  the 
Grail,  though  fear  he  would  have  pro- 
tested against  that  as  popish.  Without 
any  apparent  art,  certainly  without 
the  elaborate  apparatus  which  most 
prose  tellers  of  fantastic  tales  use,  and 
generally  fail  in  using,  Borrow  spirits 
his  readers  at  once  away  from  mere 
reality.  If  his  events  are  frequently 
as  odd  as  a  dream,  they  are  always 
as  perfectly  commonplace  and  real  for 
the  moment  as  the  events  of  a  dream 
are — a  little  fact  which  the  above- 
mentioned  tellers  of  the  above-men- 
tioned fantastic  stories  are  too  apt 
to  forget.  It  is  in  this  natural  roman- 
tic gift  that  Borrow' s  greatest  charm 
lies.  But  it  is  accompanied  and  nearly 
equalled  both  in  quality  and  degree 
by  a  faculty  for  dialogue.  Except 
Defoe  and  Dumas,  I  cannot  think 
of  any  novelists  who  contrive  to  tell 
a  story  in  dialogue  and  to  keep  up 
the  ball  of  conversation  so  well  as 
Borrow ;  while  he  is  considerably  the 
superior  of  both  in  pure  style  and  in 
the  literary  quality  of  his  talk.  Bor- 
row's  humour,  though  it  is  of  the 
general  class  of  the  older  English — 
that  is  to  say,  the  pre-Addisonian 
humorists — is  a  species  quite  by  itself. 
It  is  rather  narrow  in  range,  a  little 
garrulous,  busied  very  often  about  curi- 
ously small  matters,  but  wonderfully 
observant  and  true,  and  possessing  a 
quaint  dry  savour  as  individual  as 
that  of  some  wines.  A  characteristic 
of  this  kind  probably  accompanies  the 
romantic  Ethos  more  commonly  than 
superficial  judges  both  of  life  and 
literature  are  apt  to  suppose ;  but 
the  conjunction  is  nowhere  seen  better 
than  in  Borrow.  Whether  humour 
can  or  cannot  exist  without  a  dispo- 
sition to  satire  co-existing,  is  one  of 
those  abstract  points  of  criticism  for 


which  the  public  of  the  present  day 
has  little  appetite.  It  is  certain  (and 
that  is  what  chiefly  concerns  us  for 
the  present)  that  the  two  were  not 
dissociated  in  Borrow.  His  purely 
satirical  faculty  was  very  strong  in- 
deed, and  probably  if  he  had  lived  a 
less  retired  life  it  would  have  found 
fuller  exercise.  At  present  the  most 
remarkable  instance  of  it  which  exists 
is  the  inimitable  portrait-caricature  of 
the  learned  Unitarian,  generally  known 
as  "Taylor  of  Norwich."  I  have 
somewhere  (I  think  it  was  in  MissMar- 
tineau's  *  Autobiography ')  seen  this 
reflected  on  as  a  flagrant  instance  of 
ingratitude  and  ill-nature.  The  good 
Harriet,  among  whose  numerous  gifts 
nature  had  not  included  any  great 
sense  of  humour,  naturally  did  not 
perceive  the  artistic  justification  of 
the  sketch,  which  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
call  one  of  the  most  masterly  things 
of  the  kind  in  literature. 

Another  Taylor,  the  well-known 
French  baron  of  that  name,  is  much 
more  mildly  treated,  though  with  little 
less  skill  of  portraiture.  As  for  "  the 
publisher  "  of  '  Lavengro,'  the  portrait 
there,  though  very  clever,  is  spoilt  by 
rather  too  much  evidence  of  personal 
animus,  and  by  the  absence  of  re- 
deeming strokes;  but  it  shows  the 
same  satiric  power  as  the  sketch  of 
the  worthy  student  of  German  who 
has  had  the  singular  ill-fortune  to 
have  his  books  quizzed  by  Carlyle, 
and  himself  quizzed  by  Borrow.  It 
is  a  strong  evidence  of  Borrow's  ab- 
straction from  general  society  that 
with  this  satiric  gift,  and  evidently 
with  a  total  freedom  from  scruple  as 
to  its  application,  he  should  have  left 
hardly  anything  else  of  the  kind.  It 
is  indeed  impossible  to  ascertain 
how  much  of  the  abundant  character- 
drawing  in  his  four  chief  books  (all 
of  which,  be  it  remembered,  are  auto- 
biographic and  professedly  historical) 
is  fact  and  how  much  fancy.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  open  them  any- 
where without  coming  upon  personal 
sketches,  more  or  less  elaborate,  in 
which  the  satiric  touch  is  rarely 


George  Borrow. 


175 


wanting.  The  official  admirer  of 
"  the  grand  Baintham "  at  remote 
Corcubion,  the  end  of  all  the  Euro- 
pean world  ;  the  treasure-seeker,  Bene- 
dict Mol ;  the  priest  at  Cordova,  with 
his  revelations  about  the  Holy  Office ; 
the  Gibraltar  Jew,  are  only  a  few 
figures  out  of  the  abundant  gallery  of 
'The  Bible  in  Spain.'  'Lavengro,' 
besides  the  capital  and  full-length  por- 
traits above  referred  to,  is  crowded 
with  others  hardly  inferior,  among 
which  only  one  failure,  the  disguised 
priest  with  the  mysterious  name,  is 
to  be  found.  Not  that  even  he  has  not 
good  strokes  and  plenty  of  them,  but 
that  Borrow's  prejudices  prevented 
his  hand  from  being  free.  But  Jasper 
Petulengro,  and  Mrs.  Hearne,  and  the 
girl  Leonora,  and  Isopel,  that  vigorous 
and  slighted  maid,  and  dozens  of 
minor  figures,  of  whom  more  presently, 
atone  for  him.  *  The  Romany  Rye ' 
adds  only  minor  figures  to  the  gallery, 
because  the  major  figures  have  ap- 
peared before ;  while  the  plan  and 
subject  of  '  Wild  Wales  '  also  exclude 
anything  more  than  vignettes.  But 
what  admirable  vignettes  they  are, 
and  how  constantly  bitten  in  with 
satiric  spirit  all  lovers  of  Borrow 
know. 

It  is,  however,  perhaps  time  to  give 
some  more  exact  account  of  the  books 
thus  familiarly  and  curiously  referred 
to  ;  for  Borrow  most  assuredly  is  not 
"a  popular  writer."  I  do  not  know 
whether  his  death,  as  often  happens, 
sent  readers  to  his  books.  But  I 
know  for  a  fact  that  not  long  before 
it  *  Lavengro,5  '  The  Romany  Rye/  and 
*  Wild  Wales '  were  only  in  their  third 
edition,  though  the  first  was  nearly 
thirty,  and  the  last  nearly  twenty, 
years  old.  ' The  Bible  in  Spain  '  had, 
at  any  rate  in  its  earlier  days,  a  wider 
sale,  but  I  do  not  think  that  even 
it  is  very  generally  known.  I  should 
doubt  whether  the  total  number 
sold  during  more  than  forty  years 
of  volumes  surpassed  for  interest 
of  incident,  style,  character  and  de- 
scription by  few  books  of  the  cen- 
tury, has  equalled  the  sale  within 


any  one  of  the  last  few  years  of  a  fairly 
popular  book  by  any  fairly  popular 
novelist  of  to-day.  It  probably  would 
not  approach  a  tenth  or  a  twentieth 
of  the  sale  of  such  a  thing  as  '  Called 
Back.'  And  there  is  not  the  obstacle 
to  Borrow's  popularity  that  there  is 
to  that  of  some  other  writers,  not- 
ably the  already-mentioned  author  of 
'Crotchet  Castle.'  No  extensive  literary 
cultivation  is  necessary  to  read  him. 
A  good  deal  even  of  his  peculiar 
charm  may  be  missed  by  a  prosaic  or 
inattentive  reader,  and  yet  enough 
will  remain.  But  he  has  probably 
paid  the  penalty  of  all  originality, 
which  allows  itself  to  be  mastered  by 
quaintness,  and  which  refuses  to  meet 
public  taste  at  least  half  way.  It 
is  certainly  difficult  at  times  to  know 
what  to  make  of  Borrow.  And  the 
general  public,  perhaps  excusably,  is 
apt  not  to  like  things  or  persons  when 
it  does  not  know  what  to  make  of 
them. 

Borrow's  literary  work,  even  putting 
aside  the  "mountains  of  manuscript" 
which  he  speaks  of  as  unpublished, 
was  not  inconsiderable.  There  were, 
in  the  first  place,  his  translations, 
which,  though  no  doubt  not  without 
value,  do  not  much  concern  us  here. 
There  is,  secondly,  his  early  hack 
work,  his  '  Chaines  de  1'Esclavage,' 
which  also  may  be  neglected.  Thirdly, 
there  are  his  philological  speculations 
or  compilations,  the  chief  of  which  is, 
I  believe,  his  '  Romano-Lavo-Lil,'  the 
latest  published  of  his  works.  But 
Borrow,  though  an  extraordinary  lin- 
guist, was  a  somewhat  unchastened 
philologer,  and  the  results  of  his  life- 
long philological  studies  appear  to 
much  better  advantage  from  the 
literary  than  from  the  scientific  point 
of  view.  Then  there  is  « The  Gypsies  in 
Spain,'  a  very  interesting  book  of  its 
kind,  marked  throughout  with  Bor- 
row's characteristics,  but  for  literary 
purposes  merged  to  a  great  extent 
in  «  The  Bible  in  Spain.'  And,  lastly, 
there  are  the  four  original  books,  as 
they  may  be  called,  which,  at  great 
leisure,  and  writing  simply  because  he 


176 


George  Borrow. 


chose  to  write,  Borrow  produced  during 
the  twenty  years  of  his  middle  age. 
He  was  in  his  fortieth  year  when,  in 
1842,  he  published  'The  Bible  in 
Spain.'  *  La.vengro  '  came  nearly  ten 
years  later,  and  coincided  with  (no 
doubt  it  was  partially  stimulated  by) 
the  ferment  over  the  Ecclesiastical 
Titles  Bill.  Its  second  part,  *  The 
Romany  Rye,'  did  not  appear  for  six 
years,  that  is  to  say,  in  1857,  and  its 
resuscitation  of  quarrels,  which  the 
country  had  quite  forgotten  (and  when 
it  remembered  them  was  rather 
ashamed  of),  must  be  pronouncd  un- 
fortunate. Last  came  '  Wild  Wales,' 
in  1862,  the  characteristically  belated 
record  of  a  tour  in  the  principality 
during  the  year  of  the  Crimean  War. 
On  these  four  books  Sorrow's  literary 
fame  rests.  His  other  works  are  in- 
teresting because  they  were  written 
by  the  author  of  these,  or  because  of 
their  subjects,  or  because  of  the  effect 
they  had  on  other  men  of  letters, 
notably  Longfellow  and  Merimee,  on 
the  latter  of  whom  Borrow  had  an 
especially  remarkable  influence.  These 
four  are  interesting  of  themselves. 

The  earliest  has,  I  believe  been,  and 
for  reasons  quite  apart  from  its  bibli- 
cal subject  perhaps  deserves  to  be,  the 
greatest  general  favourite,  though  its 
literary  value  is  a  good  deal  below  that 
of  'Lavengro.'  'The  Bible  in  Spain' 
records  the  journeys,  which,  as  an 
agent  of  the  Bible  Society,-;  Borrow 
took  through  the  Peninsula  at  a  sin- 
gularly interesting  time,  the  disturbed 
years  of  the  early  reign  of  Isabel 
Segunda.  Navarre  and  Aragon,  with 
Catalonia,  Valencia  and  Murcia,  he 
seems  to  have  left  entirely  unvisited  ; 
I  suppose  because  of  the  Carlists. 
Nor  did  he  attempt  the  southern  part 
of  Portugal;  but  Castile  and  Leon, 
with  the  north  of  Portugal  and  the 
south  of  Spain,  he  quartered  in  the 
most  interesting  manner,  riding  every- 
where with  his  servant  and  his  saddle- 
bag of  Testaments  at,  I  should  suppose, 
a  considerable  cost  to  the  subscribers 
of  the  Society  and  it  may  be  hoped,  at 
some  gain  to  the  propagation  of  evan- 


gelical principles  in  the  Peninsula, 
but  certainly  with  the  results  of  ex- 
treme satisfaction  to  himself  and  of  a 
very  delightful  addition  to  English 
literature.  He  was  actually  im- 
prisoned at  Madrid,  and  was  fre- 
quently in  danger  from  Carlists  and 
brigands,  and  severely  orthodox  eccle- 
siastics. It  is  possible  to  imagine  a 
more  ideally  perfect  missionary ;  but 
it  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  a  more 
ideally  perfect  traveller.  His  early 
habits  of  roughing  it,  his  gipsy  initia- 
tion, his  faculties  as  a  linguist,  and 
his  other  faculties  as  a  born  vagrant, 
certain  to  fall  on  his  feet  anywhere, 
were  all  called  into  operation.  But 
he  might  have  had  all  these  advant- 
ages and  yet  lacked  the  extraordinary 
literary  talent  which  the  book  reveals. 
In  the  first  chapter  there  is  a  certain 
stiffness ;  but  the  passage  of  the 
Tagus  in  the  second  must  have  told 
every  competent  reader  in  1842  that 
he  had  somebody  to  read  quite  differ- 
ent from  the  run  of  common  writers, 
and  thenceforward  the  book  never 
flags  till  the  end.  How  far  the  story 
is  rigidly  historical  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  have  to  decide.  The  author 
makes  a  kind  of  apology  in  his  preface 
for  the  amount  of  fact  which  has  been 
supplied  from  memory.  I  dare  say  the 
memory  was  quite  trustworthy,  and 
certainly  adventures  are  to  the  adven- 
turous. We  have  had  daring  travel- 
lers enough  during  the  last  half  cen- 
tury, but  I  do  not  know  that  any  one 
has  ever  had  quite  such  a  romantic 
experience  as  Sorrow's  ride  across  the 
Hispano-Portuguese  frontier  with  a 
gipsy  contrabandista,  who  was  at  the 
time  a  very  particular  object  of  police 
inquiry.  I  dare  say  the  interests  of 
the  Bible  Society  required  the  adven- 
turous journey  to  the  wilds  of  Finis- 
terra.  But  I  feel  that  if  that  associa- 
tion had  been  a  mere  mundane  com- 
pany and  Borrow  its  agent,  trouble- 
some shareholders  might  have  asked 
awkward  questions  at  the  annual 
meeting.  Still,  this  sceptical  attitude 
is  only  part  of  the  ofncial  duty  of  the 
critic,  just  as,  of  course,  Sorrow's 


George  Borrow. 


177 


adventurous  journeys  into  the  most 
remote  and  interesting  parts  of  Spain 
were  part  of  the  duty  of  the  colpor- 
teur. The  book  is  so  delightful  that, 
except  when  duty  calls,  no  one  would 
willingly  take  any  exception  to  any 
part  or  feature  of  it.  The  constant 
change  of  scene,  the  romantic  episodes 
of  adventure,  the  kaleidoscope  of 
characters,  the  crisp  dialogue,  the 
quaint  reflection  and  comment  relieve 
each  other  without  a  break.  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  is  really  true  to 
Spain  and  Spanish  life,  and,  to  tell  the 
exact  truth,  I  do  not  in  the  least  care. 
If  it  is  not  Spanish  it  is  remarkably 
human  and  remarkably  literary,  and 
those  are  the  chief  and  principal 
things. 

'  Lavengro,'  which  followed,  has  all 
the  merits  of  its  predecessor  and 
more.  It  is  a  little  spoilt  in  its  later 
chapters  by  the  purpose,  the  anti- 
papal  purpose,  which  appears  still 
more  fully  in  '  The  Romany  Rye.'  But 
the  strong  and  singular  individuality 
of  its  flavour  as  a  whole  would  have 
been  more  than  sufficient  to  carry  off 
a  greater  fault.  There  are,  I  should 
suppose,  few  books  the  successive 
pictures  of  which  leave  such  an  im- 
pression on  the  reader  who  is  prepared 
to  receive  that  impression.  The  word 
picture  is  here  rightly  used,  for  in 
all  Borrow' s  books -more  or  less,  and 
in  this  particularly,  thie  narrative  is 
anything  but  continuous.  It  is  a  suc- 
cession of  dissolving  views  which  grow 
clear  and  distinct  for  a  time  and  then 
fade  off  into  a  vagueness  before  once 
more  appearing  distinctly ;  nor  has 
this  mode  of  dealing  with  a  subject 
ever  been  more  successfully  applied 
than  in  'Lavengro.'  At  the  same 
time  the  mode  is  one  singularly  diffi- 
cult of  treatment  by  any  reviewer.  To 
describe  *  Lavengro  '  with  any  chance 
of  distinctness  to  those  who  have  not 
read  it,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give 
a  series  of  sketches  in  words,  like 
those  famous  ones  of  the  pictures  in 
'  Jane  Eyre.'  East  Dereham,  the  Yiper 
Collector,  the  French  Prisoners  at 
Norman  Cross,  the  Gipsy  Encampment, 

No.  315. — VOL.  LIII. 


the  Sojourn  in  Edinburgh  (with  a 
passing  view  of  Scotch  schoolboys 
only  inferior,  as  everything  is,  to  Sir 
Walter's  history  of  Green-breeks),  the 
Irish  Sojourn,  with  the  horse  whisper- 
ing and  the  "  dog  of  peace,"  the 
settlement  in  Norwich  with  Borrow' s 
compulsory  legal  studies  and  his 
very  uncompulsory  excursions  into 
Italian,  Hebrew,  Welsh,  Scandinavian, 
anything  that  obviously  would  not 
pay,  the  new  meeting  with  the  gipsies 
in  the  castle  field,  the  fight — only  the 
first  of  many  excellent  fights — these 
are  but  a  few  of  the  memories  which 
rise  to  every  reader  of  even  the  early 
chapters  of  this  extraordinary  book, 
and  they  do  not  cover  its  first  hundred 
pages  in  the  common  edition.  Then 
his  father  dies  and  the  born  vagrant 
is  set  loose  for  vagrancy.  He  goes  to 
London,  with  a  stock  of  translations 
which  is  to  make  him  famous,  and  a 
recommendation  from  Taylor  of  Nor- 
wich to  "the  publisher."  The  pub- 
lisher exacted  something  more  than 
his  pound  of  flesh  in  the  form  of 
Newgate  Lives  and  review  articles,  and 
paid,  when  he  did  pay,  in  bills  of  un- 
certain date  which  were  very  likely  to 
be  protested.  But  Borrow  won  through 
it  all,  making  odd  acquaintances  with 
a  young  man  of  fashion  (his  least  life- 
like sketch) ;  with  an  apple-seller  on 
London  Bridge,  who  was  something 
of  a  "  fence  "  and  had  erected  Moll 
Flanders  (surely  the  oddest  patroness 
ever  so  selected)  into  a  kind  of  patron 
saint ;  with  a  mysterious  Armenian 
merchant  of  vast  wealth,  whom  the 
young  man,  according  to  his  own 
account,  finally  put  on  a  kind  of  fili- 
bustering expedition  against  both  the 
Sublime  Porte  and  the  White  Czar,  for 
the  restoration  of  Armenian  indepen- 
dence. I  do  not  know  whether  there 
is  any  record  of  the  result :  perhaps 
Mr.  Hagopian  will  tell  us  when  he 
next  writes  to  the  '  Times.'  At  last, 
out  of  health  with  perpetual  work  and 
low  living,  out  of  employ,  his  friends 
beyond  call,  he  sees  destruction  before 
him,  writes  *  The  Life  and  Adventures 
of  Joseph  Sell'  (name  of  fortunate 


178 


George  Borrow. 


omen !)  almost  at  a  heat  and  on  a 
capital,  fixed  and  floating,  of  eighteen- 
pence,  and  disposes  of  it  for  twenty 
pounds  by  the  special  providence  of 
the  Muses.  With  this  twenty  pounds 
his  journey  into  the  blue  distance 
begins.  He  travels  partly  by  coach 
to  (I  suppose  Amesbury,  at  any 
rate)  somewhere  near  Salisbury,  and 
gives  the  first  of  the  curiously  un- 
favourable portraits  of  stage  coach- 
men, which  remain  to  check  Dickens's 
rose-coloured  representations  (no  pun 
is  intended)  of  Mr.  Weller  and  his 
brethren.  I  incline  to  think  that 
Borrow's  was  likely  to  be  the  truest 
picture.  According  to  him,  the  aver- 
age stage  coachman  was  anything  but 
an  amiable  character,  greedy,  insolent 
to  all  but  persons  of  wealth  and  rank, 
a  hanger-on  of  those  who  might  claim 
either ;  bruiser  enough  to  be  a  bully 
but  not  enough  to  be  anything  more ; 
in  short,  one  of  the  worst  products  of 
civilisation.  From  civilisation  itself, 
however,  Borrow  soon  disappears,  at 
least  as  any  traceable  signs  go.  He 
journeys  not  farther  west,  but  north- 
wards into  the  West  Midlands  and  the 
marshes  of  Wales.  He  buys  a  tinker's 
beat  and  fit-out  from  a  feeble  vessel 
of  the  craft,  who  has  been  expelled  by 
"the  Flaming  Tinman,"  a  half -gipsy 
of  robustious  behaviour.  He  is  met  by 
old  Mrs.  Hearne,  the  mother-in-law  of 
his  gipsy  friend  Jasper  Petulengro, 
who  resents  a  Gorgio's  initiation  in 
gipsy  ways,  and  very  nearly  poisons 
him  by  the  wily  aid  of  her  grand- 
daughter Leonora.  He  recovers,  thanks 
to  a  Welsh  travelling  preacher  and  to 
castor  oil.  And  then  when  the  Welsh- 
man hag  left  him  comes  the  climax 
and  turning  point  of  the  whole  story, 
the  great  fight  with  Jem  Bosvile,  "  the 
Flaming  Tinman."  The  much  abused 
adjective  Homeric  belongs  in  sober 
strictness  to  this  immortal  battle, 
which  has  the  additional  interest  not 
thought  of  by  Homer  (for  goddesses 
do  not  count)  that  Borrow's  second 
and  guardian  angel  is  a  young  woman  of 
great  attractions  and  severe  morality, 
Miss  Isopel  (or  Belle)  Berners,  whose 


extraction,  allowing  for  the  bar  sin- 
ister, is  honourable,  and  who,  her 
hands  being  fully  able  to  keep  her 
head,  has  sojourned  without  ill  for- 
tune in  "  the  Flaming  Tinman's " 
very  disreputable  company.  Bosvile, 
vanquished  by  pluck  and  good  fortune 
rather  than  strength,  flees  the  place 
with  his  wife.  Isopel  remains  behind 
and  the  couple  take  up  their  joint 
residence,  a  residence  of  perfect  pro- 
priety, in  this  dingle,  the  exact  locality 
of  which  I  have  always  longed  to 
know,  that  I  might  make  an  autumnal 
pilgrimage  to  it.  Isopel,  Brynhild  as 
she  is,  would  apparently  have  had  no 
objection  to  be  honourably  wooed.  But 
her  eccentric  companion  confines  him- 
self to  teaching  her  "  I  love,"  in  Arme- 
nian, which  she  finds  unsatisfactory; 
and  she  at  last  departs,  leaving  a  letter 
which  tells  Mr.  Borrow  some  home 
truths.  But  before  this  catastrophe 
has  been  reached,  '  Lavengro '  itself 
ends  with  a  more  startling  abruptness 
than  perhaps  any  nominally  complete 
book  before  or  since. 

It  would  be  a  little  interesting  to 
know  whether  the  continuation,  *  The 
Romany  Bye/  which  opens  as  if  there 
had  been  no  break  whatever,  was 
written  continuously  or  with  a  break. 
At  any  rate  its  opening  chapters  con- 
tain the  finish  of  the  lamentable 
history  of  Belle  Berners,  which  must 
induce  every  reader  of  sensibility  to 
trust  that  Borrow,  in  writing  it,  was 
only  indulging  in  his  very  considerable 
faculty  of  perverse  romancing.  The 
chief  argument  to  the  contrary  is,  that 
surely  no  man,  however  imbued  with 
romantic  perversity,  would  have  made 
himself  cut  so  poor  a  figure  as  Borrow 
here  does  without  cause.  The  gipsies 
re -appear  to  save  the  situation,  and  a 
kind  of  minor  Belle  Berners  drama  is 
played  out  with  Ursula,  Jasper's  sister. 
Then  the  story  takes  another  of  its 
abrupt  turns.  Jasper,  half  in  gener- 
osity it  would  appear,  half  in  way- 
wardness, insists  on  Borrow  purchasing 
a  thorough-bred  horse  which  is  for 
sale,  advances  the  money,  and  de- 
spatches him  across  England  to  Horn- 


George  Borrow. 


179 


castle  Fair  to  sell  it.  The  usual  Le 
Sage-like  adventures  occur,  the  oddest 
of  which  is  the  hero's  residence  for 
some  considerable  time  as  clerk  and 
storekeeper  at  a  great  roadside  inn. 
At  last  he  reaches  Horncastle,  sells 
the  horse  to  advantage,  and  the  story 
closes  as  abruptly  and  mysteriously 
almost  as  that  of  Lavengro,  by  a  long 
and  in  parts,  it  must  be  confessed, 
rather  dull  conversation  between  the 
hero,  the  Hungarian  who  has  bought 
the  horse,  and  the  dealer  who  has 
acted  as  go-between.  This  dealer  in 
honour  of  Borrow,  of  whom  he  has 
heard  through  the  gipsies,  executes 
the  wasteful  and  very  meaningless 
ceremony  of  throwing  two  bottles  of 
old  rose  champagne,  at  a  guinea  a- 
piece,  through  the  window.  Even  this 
is  too  dramatic  a  finale  for  Borrow' s 
unconquerable  singularity,  and  he  adds 
a  short  dialogue  between  himself  and 
a  recruiting  sergeant.  And  after  this 
again  there  comes  an  appendix  con- 
taining an  apologia  for  '  Lavengro,'  a 
great  deal  more  polemic  against  Ro- 
manism, some  historical  views  of  more 
originality  than  exactness,  and  a  dia- 
tribe against  gentility,  Scotchmen, 
Scott,  and  other  black  beasts  of  Bor- 
row's.  This  appendix  has  received 
from  some  professed  admirers  of  the 
author  a  great  deal  more  attention 
than  it  deserves.  In  the  first  place, 
it  was  evidently  written  in  a  fit  of 
personal  pique ;  in  the  second,  it  is 
chiefly  argumentative,  and  Borrow  had 
absolutely  no  argumentative  faculty. 
That  it  contains  a  great  deal  of  quaint 
and  piquant  writing  is  only  to  say 
that  its  writer  wrote  it,  and  though 
the  description  of  "  Charlie-over-the- 
waterism "  probably  does  not  apply 
to  any  being  who  ever  lived,  except 
to  a  few  schoolgirls  of  both  sexes,  it 
has  a  strong  infusion  of  Borrow's 
satiric  gift.  As  for  the  diatribes 
against  gentility,  Borrow  has  only 
done  very  clumsily  what  Thackeray 
had  done  long  before  without  clumsi- 
ness. It  can  escape  nobody  who  has 
read  his  books  with  a  seeing  eye  that 
he  was  himself  exceedingly  proud,  not 


merely  of  being  a  gentleman  in  the 
ethical  sense,  but  of  being  one  in  the 
sense  of  station  and  extraction — which, 
by  the  way,  the  decriers  of  British 
snobbishness  usually  are,  so  that  no 
special  blame  attaches  to  Borrow  for 
the  inconsistency.  Only  let  it  be  under- 
stood, once  for  all,  that  to  describe 
him  as  "  the  apostle  of  the  ungenteel " 
is  either  to  speak  in  riddles  or  quite 
to  misunderstand  his  real  merits  and 
abilities. 

I  believe  that  some  of  the  small  but 
fierce  tribe  of  Borrovians  are  inclined 
to  resent  the  putting  of  the  last  of 
this  remarkable  series,  '  Wild  Wales,' 
on  a  level  with  the  other  three.  With 
such  I  can  by  no  means  agree.  '  Wild 
Wales  '  has  not,  of  course,  the  charm  of 
unfamiliar  scenery  and  the  freshness 
of  youthful  impression  which  distin- 
guish '  The  Bible  in  Spain ' ;  it  does 
not  attempt  anything  like  the  novel- 
interest  of  '  Lavengro  '  and  '  The 
Romany  Rye '  ;  and  though,  as  has 
been  pointed  out  above,  something  of 
Borrow's  secret  and  mysterious  way  of 
indicating  places  survives,  it  is  a  pretty 
distinct  itinerary  over  great  part  of 
the  actual  principality.  I  have  fol- 
lowed most  of  its  tracks  on  foot  my- 
self, and  nobody  who  wants  a  Welsh 
guide-book  can  take  a  pleasanter  one, 
though  he  might  easily  find  one  much 
less  erratic.  It  may  thus  have,  to 
superficial  observers,  a  positive  and 
prosaic  flavour  as  compared  with 
the  romantic  character  of  the  other 
three.  But  this  distinction  is  not  real. 
The  tones  are  a  little  subdued,  as 
was  likely  to  be  the  case  with  an 
elderly  gentleman  of  fifty,  travelling 
with  his  wife  and  step-daughter,  and 
not  publishing  the  record  of  his  travels 
till  he  was  nearly  ten  years  older. 
The  localities  are  traceable  on  the 
map  and  in  Murray,  instead  of  being 
the  enchanted  dingles  and  the  half- 
mythical  woods  of  'Lavengro.'  The 
personages  of  the  former  books  return 
no  more,  though  with  one  of  his  most 
excellent  touches  of  art,  the  author 
has  suggested  the  contrast  of  youth 
and  age  by  a  single  gipsy  interview 

N  2 


180 


George  Borrow. 


in  one  of  the  later  chapters.  Borrow, 
like  all  sensible  men,  was  at  no  time 
indifferent  to  good  food  and  drink, 
especially  good  ale ;  but  the  trencher 
plays  in  '  Wild  Wales '  a  part,  the  im- 
portance of  which  may  perhaps  have 
shocked  some  of  our  latter-day  deli- 
cates,  to  whom  strong  beer  is  a 
word  of  loathing,  and  who  wonder 
how  on  earth  our  grandfathers  and 
fathers  used  to  dispose  of  "  black 
strap."  A  very  different  set  of  readers 
may  be  repelled  by  the  strong  literary 
colour  of  the  book,  which  is  almost  a 
Welsh  anthology  in  parts.  But  those 
few  who  can  boast  themselves  to  find 
the  whole  of  a  book,  not  merely  its 
parts,  and  to  judge  it  when  found, 
will,  I  think,  be  not  least  fond  of 
*  Wild  Wales.'  If  they  have,  as  every 
reader  of  Borrow  should  have,  the 
spirit  of  the  roads  upon  them,  and  are 
never  more  happy  than  when  jour- 
neying on  "  Shanks  his  mare,"  they 
will,  of  course,  have  in  addition  a 
private  and  personal  love  for  it.  It 
is,  despite  the  interludes  of  literary 
history,  as  full  of  Borrow' s  peculiar 
conversational  gift  as  any  of  its  pre- 
decessors. Its  thumbnail  sketches, 
if  somewhat  more  subdued  and  less 
elaborate,  are  not  less  full  of  charac- 
ter. John  Jones,  the  Dissenting 
weaver,  who  served  Borrow  at  once 
as  a  guide  and  a  whetstone  of 
Welsh  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Llan- 
gollen  ;  the  "  kenfigenous "  Welsh- 
woman who  first,  but  by  no  means 
last,  exhibited  the  curious  local  jea- 
lousy of  a  Welsh-speaking  English- 
man ;  the  doctor  and  the  Italian 
barometer-seller  at  Cerrig-y-Drudion ; 
the  "  best  Pridydd  of  the  world "  in 
Anglesey,  with  his  unlucky  addiction 
to  beer  and  flattery;  the  waiter  at 
Bala ;  the  "  ecclesiastical  cat"  (a  cat 
worthy  to  rank  with  those  of  Southey 
and  Gautier) ;  the  characters  of  the 
walk  across  the  hills  from  Machynlleth 
to  the  Devil's  Bridge ;  the  scene  at 
the  public-house  on  the  Glamorgan 
border,  where  the  above  mentioned 
jealousy  comes  out  so  strongly;  the 
mad  Irishwoman,  Johanna  Colgan  (a 


masterpiece  by  herself) ;  and  the  Irish 
girl,  with  her  hardly  inferior  history 
of  the  faction-fights  of  Scotland  Road 
(which  Borrow,  by  a  mistake,  has  put 
in  Manchester  instead  of  in  Liverpool) ; 
these  make  a  list  which  I  have  written 
down  merely  as  they  occurred  to  me, 
without  opening  the  book,  and  with- 
out prejudice  to  another  list  nearly  as 
long  which  might  be  added.  «  Wild 
Wales,'  too,  because  of  its  easy  and 
direct  opportunity  of  comparing  its 
description  with  the  originals,  is  par- 
ticularly valuable  as  showing  how 
sober,  and  yet  how  forcible  Borrow' s 
descriptions  are.  As  to  incident,  one 
often,  as  before,  suspects  him  of  ro- 
.  mancing,  and  it  stands  to  reason  that 
his  dialogue,  written  long  after  the 
event,  must  be  full  of  the  "cocked- 
hat-and- sword "  style  of  narrative. 
But  his  description,  while  it  has 
all  the  vividness,  has  also  all  the 
faithfulness  and  sobriety  of  the  best 
landscape-painting.  See  a  place  which 
Kingsley  or  Mr.  Huskin,  or  some  other 
master  of  our  decorative  school,  have 
described — much  more  one  which  has 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  small  fry 
of  their  imitators — and  you  are  almost 
sure  to  find  that  it  has  been  overdone. 
This  is  never,  or  hardly  ever,  the  case 
with  Borrow,  and  it  is  so  rare  a  merit, 
when  it  is  found  in  a  man  who  does 
not  shirk  description  where  necessary, 
that  it  deserves  to  be  counted  to  him 
at  no  grudging  rate. 

But  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
distinguished  feature  of  the  book  is 
its  survey  of  Welsh  poetical  literature. 
I  have  already  confessed  that  I  am  not 
qualified  to  judge  the  accuracy  of 
Sorrow's  translations,  and  by  no 
means  disposed  to  overvalue  them. 
But  any  one  who  takes  an  interest  in 
literature  at  all,  must,  I  think,  feel 
that  interest  not  a  little  excited  by  the 
curious  Old  Mortality-like  peregrina- 
tions which  the  author  of  'Wild  Walts' 
made  to  the  birth-place,  or  the  burial- 
place  as  it  might  be,  of  bard  after  bard, 
and  by  the  short  but  masterly  accounts 
which  he  gives  of  the  objects  of  his 
search.  Of  none  of  the  numerous 


George  Borrow. 


181 


subjects  of  his  linguistic  rovings  does 
Borrow  seem  to  have  been  fonder, 
putting  Romany  aside,  than  of  Welsh. 
He  learnt  it  in  a  peculiarly  contraband 
manner  originally,  which,  no  doubt, 
endeared  it  to  him ;  it  was  little  known 
to  and  often  ridiculed  by  most  English- 
men, which  was  another  attraction  ; 
and  it  was  extremely  unlikely  to 
"  pay  "  in  any  way,  which  was  a  third. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  such  an  adept  in 
it,  as  he  would  have  us  believe — the 
respected  Cymmrodorion  Society  or  Pro- 
fessor Rhys  must  settle  that.  But  it 
needs  no  knowledge  of  Welsh  what- 
ever to  perceive  the  genuine  enthusiasm, 
and  the  genuine  range  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  language  from  the  purely 
literary  side.  When  he  tells  us  that 
Ab  Gwilym  was  a  greater  poet  than 
Ovid  or  Chaucer  I  feel  considerable 
doubts  whether  he  was  quite  competent 
to  understand  Ovid  and  little  or  no 
doubt  that  he  has  done  wrong  to 
Chaucer.  But  when,  leaving  these  idle 
comparisons,  he  luxuriates  in  details 
about  AbG  wilym  himself , and  his  poems, 
and  his  lady  loves,  and  so  forth,  I  have 
no  doubt  about  Sorrow's  appreciation 
(casual  prejudices  always  excepted)  of 
literature.  Nor  is  the  charm  which 
he  has  added  to  Welsh  scenery  by  this 
constant  identification  of  it  with  the 
men,  and  the  deeds,  and  the  words  of 
the  past  to  be  easily  exaggerated. 

Little  has  been  said  hitherto  of 
Borrow's  more  purely,  or  if  anybody 
prefers  the  word  formally,  literary 
characteristics.  They  are  sufficiently 
interesting.  He  unites  with  a  general 
plainness  of  speech  and  writing,  not 
unworthy  of  Defoe  or  Cobbett,  a  very 
odd  and  complicated  mannerism,  which, 
as  he  had  the  wisdom  to  make  it  the 
seasoning  and  not  the  main  substance 
of  his  literary  fare,  is  never  disgusting. 
The  secret  of  this  may  be,  no  doubt, 
in  part  sought  in  his  early  familiarity 
with  a  great  many  foreign  languages, 
some  of  whose  idioms  he  transplanted 
into  English,  but  this  is  by  no  means 
the  whole  of  the  receipt.  Perhaps  it 
is  useless  to  examine  analytically  that 
receipt's  details,  or  rather  (for  the 


analysis  may  be  said  to  be  compulsory 
on  any  one  who  calls  himself  a  critic), 
useless  to  offer  its  results  to  the 
reader.  One  point  which  can  escape 
no  one  who  reads  with  his  eyes  open 
is  the  frequent,  yet  not  too  abun- 
dant repetition  of  the  same  or  very 
similar  words — a  point  wherein  much 
of  the  style  of  persons  so  dissimilar  as 
Carlyle,  Borrow,  and  Thackeray  con- 
sists. This  is  a  well-known  fact — so 
well-known  indeed  that  when  a  person 
who  desires  to  acquire  style  hears  of 
it,  he  often  goes  and  does  likewise, 
with  what  result  all  reviewers  know. 
The  peculiarity  of  Borrow  as  far  as  I 
can  mark  it,  is  that,  despite  his  strong 
mannerism,  he  never  relies  on  it  as  too 
many  others,  great  and  small,  are  wont 
to  do.  His  character  sketches,  of 
which,  as  I  have  said,  he  is  so  abund- 
ant a  master,  are  always  put  in  the 
plainest  and  simplest  English.  So  are 
his  flashes  of  ethical  reflection,  which, 
though  like  all  ethical  reflections  often 
one-sided,  are  of  the  first  order  of 
insight.  I  really  do  not  know  that,  in 
the  mint  and  anise  and  cummin  order 
of  criticism,  I  have  more  than  one 
charge  to  make  against  Borrow.  That 
is  that  he,  like  other  persons  of  his 
own  and  the  immediately  preceding 
time,  is  wont  to  make  a  most  absurd 
misuse  of  the  word  individual.  With 
Borrow  "  individual  "  means  simply 
"  person  "  :  a  piece  of  literary  gentility 
of  which  he  of  all  others  ought  to 
have  been  ashamed. 

But  such  criticism  would  be  pecu- 
liarly out  of  place  in  the  case  of  Bor- 
row— whose  attraction  is  one  neither 
mainly  nor  in  any  very  great  degree 
one  of  pure  form.  His  early  critics 
compared  him,  and  the  comparison  is 
natural,  to  Le  Sage.  It  was  natural  I 
say,  but  it  was  not  extraordinarily 
critical.  Both  men  wrote  of  vagabonds, 
and  to  some  extent  of  picaroons  ;  both 
neglected  the  conventionalities  of  their 
own  language  and  literature  ;  both  had 
a  singular  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
But  Le  Sage  is  one  of  the  most  imper- 
sonal of  all  great  writers,  and  Borrow 
is  one  of  the  most  personal.  And  it 


182 


George  Borrow. 


is  undoubtedly  in  the  revelation  of  his 
personality  that  great  part  of  his 
charm  lies.  It  is,  as  has  been  fully 
acknowledged,  a  one-sided  wrong- 
headed  not  always  quite  right-hearted 
personality.  But  it  is  intensely  English, 
possessing  at  the  same  time  a  certain 
strain  of  romance  which  the  other 
John  Bulls  of  literature  mostly  lack, 
and  which  John  Bunyan,  the  king  of 
them  all,  only  reached  within  the 
limits,  still  more  limited  than  Borrow's, 
of  purely  religious,  if  not  purely  eccle- 
siastical, interests.  A  born  grumbler  ; 
a  person  with  an  intense  appetite  for 
the  good  things  of  this  life ;  profoundly 
impressed  with  and  at  the  same  time 
sceptically  critical  of  the  bad  or  good 
things  of  another  life  ;  apt,  as  he  some- 
where says  himself,  "to  hit  people 
when  he  is  not  pleased  "  ;  illogical  ; 
constantly  right  in  general  despite  his 
extremely  roundabout  ways  of  reach- 
ing his  conclusion  ;  sometimes  absurd, 
and  yet  full  of  humour ;  alternately  pro- 
saic and  capable  of  the  highest  poetry  ; 
George  Borrow,  Cornishman  on  the 
father's  side  and  Huguenot  on  the 
mother's,  managed  to  display  in  per- 
fection most  of  the  characteristics  of 
what  once  was,  and  let  us  hope  has 
not  quite  ceased  to  be,  the  English 
type.  If  he  had  a  slight  overdose  of 
Celtic  blood  and  Celtic  peculiarity,  it 
was  more  than  made  up  by  the  readi- 
ness of  literary  expression  which  it 
gave  him.  He,  if  any  one,  bore  an 
English  heart,  though,  as  there  often 
has  been,  there  was  something  perhaps 
more  than  English  as  well  as  less  than 
it  in  his  fashion  of  expression. 

To  conclude,  Borrow  has  —  what 
after  all  is  the  chief  mark  of  a 
great  writer — distinction.  "Try  to 
be  like  somebody,"  said  the  unlucky 
critic-bookseller  to  Lamartine;  and  he 
has  been  gibbeted  for  it  very  justly 
for  the  best  part  of  a  century.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  "  try  not  to 
be  like  other  people,"  though  a  much 
more  fashionable  is  likely  to  be  quite 
as  disastrous  a  recommendation.  But 
the  great  writers,  whether  they  try  to 
be  like  other  people  or  try  not  to  be 


like  them  (and  sometimes  in  the  first 
case  most  of  all),  succeed  only  in 
being  themselves,  and  that  is  what 
Borrow  does.  His  attraction  is  rather 
complex,  and  different  parts  of  it  may, 
and  no  doubt  do,  appeal  with  differ- 
ing force  to  this  and  that  reader.  One 
may  be  fascinated  by  his  pictures  of 
an  unconventional  and  open  air  life, 
the  very  possibilities  of  which  are  to 
a  great  extent  lost  in  our  days,  though 
patches  of  ground  here  and  there  in 
England  (notably  the  tracts  of  open 
ground  between  Cromer  and  Wells  in 
Borrow's  own  county)  still  recall 
them.  To  others  he  may  be  attractive 
for  his  sturdy  patriotism,  or  his  ad- 
venturous and  wayward  spirit,  or  his 
glimpses  of  superstition  and  romance. 
The  racy  downrightnes  of  his  talk ; 
the  axioms,  such  as  that  to  the  Welsh 
alewife,  "  The  goodness  of  ale  depends 
less  upon  who  brews  it  than  upon 
what  it  is  brewed  of  "  ;  or  the  sarcas- 
tic touches  as  that  of  the  dapper  shop- 
keeper, who,  regarding  the  funeral 
of  Byron,  observed,  "  I  too,  am  fre- 
quently unhappy,"  each  and  all  may 
have  their  votaries.  His  literary  de- 
votion to  literature  would,  perhaps,  of 
itself  attract  few;  for,  as  has  been 
hinted,  it  partook  very  much  of  the 
character  of  will-worship,  and  there 
are  few  people  who  like  any  will- 
worship  in  letters  except  their  own ; 
but  it  adds  to  the  general  attraction 
no  doubt  in  the  case  of  many.  That 
neither  it,  nor  any  of  his  other  claims, 
has  yet  forced  itself  as  it  should  on  the 
general  public  is  an  undoubted  fact ; 
not  very  difficult,  perhaps,  to  under- 
stand, though  rather  difficult  fully  to 
explain,  at  least  without  some  air  of 
superior  knowingness  and  taste.  Yet 
he  has,  as  has  been  said,  his  devotees, 
and  I  think  they  are  likely  rather  to 
increase  than  to  decrease.  He  wants 
editing,  for  his  allusive  fashion  of 
writing  probably  makes  a  great  part  of 
him  nearly  unintelligible  to  those  who 
have  not  from  their  youth  up  devoted 
themselves  to  the  acquisition  of  useless 
knowledge.  There  ought  to  be  a 
good  life  of  him,  of  which,  I  believe, 


George  Borrow. 


183 


there  is  at  last  some  chance.  The 
great  mass  of  his  translations,  pub- 
lished and  unpublished,  and  the 
smaller  mass  of  his  early  hackwork, 
no  doubt  deserves  judicious  excerption. 
If  professed  philologers  were  not  even 
more  ready  than  most  other  special- 
ists each  to  excommunicate  all  the 
others  except  himself  and  his  own 
particular  Johnny  Dods  of  Farthing's 
Acre,  it  would  be  rather  interesting  to 
hear  what  some  modern  men  of  many 
languages  have  to  say  to  Sorrow's 
linguistic  achievements.  But  all  these 
things  are  only  desirable  embellish- 
ments and  assistances.  His  real 
claims  and  his  real  attractions  are 
comprised  in  four  small  volumes, 
the  purchase  of  which,  under  modern 
arrangements  of  booksellers,  leaves 
some  change  out  of  a  sovereign,  and 
which  will  about  half  fill  the  ordinary 
bag  used  for  briefs  and  dynamite. 
It  is  not  a  large  literary  baggage, 
and  it  does  not  attempt  any  very 
varied  literary  kinds.  If  not  exactly 
a  novelist  in  any  one  of  his  books, 
Borrow  is  a  romancer  in  the  true  and 


not  the  ironic  sense  of  the  word  in  all 
of  them.  He  has  not  been  approached 
in  merit  by  any  romancer  who  has  pub- 
lished books  in  our  days,  except  Charles 
Kingsley  ;  and  his  work,  if  less  varied 
in  range  and  charm  than  Kingsley's,  has 
a  much  stronger  and  more  concentrated 
flavour.  Moreover,  he  is  the  one  Eng- 
lish writer  of  our  time,  and  perhaps 
of  times  still  farther  back,  who  never 
seems  to  have  tried  to  be  anything 
but  himself;  who  went  his  own  way 
all  his  life  long  with  complete  in- 
difference to  what  the  public  or  the 
publishers  liked,  as  well  as  to  what 
canons  of  literary  form  and  standards 
of  literary  perfection  seemed  to  in- 
dicate as  best  worth  aiming  at.  A 
most  self -sufficient  person  was  Bor- 
row, in  the  good  and  ancient  sense, 
as  well  as  to  some  extent  in  the  bad 
and  modern  sense.  And  what  is  more, 
he  was  not  only  a  self-sufficient  per- 
son, but  very  sufficient  also  to  the 
tastes  of  all  those  who  love  good 
English  and  good  literature. 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 


184 


THE    POETIC    IMAGINATION. 

"  Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality." 

SHELLEY. 


PHYSIOLOGISTS  would,  I  suppose,  tell 
us  that  imagination  is  a  reflex  action 
of  the  brain,  a  definition  more  concise 
than  helpful.  It  is  to  the  psycho- 
logists that  we  shall  more  naturally 
look  for  assistance  on  this  subject. 
According  to  the  most  recent  English 
work  on  the  subject,  Mr.  Sully 's 
1  Outlines  of  Psychology/  imagination 
is  the  picturing  of  objects  and  events 
in  what  are  called  images.  If,  he  says, 
the  images  are  exact  copies  of  past  im- 
pressions, the  process  is  called  repro- 
ductive imagination,  or  memory.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  images  are 
modifications  or  transformations  of 
past  impressions,  the  process  is  marked 
off  as  productive  or  constructive  im- 
agination. This  latter  process,  Mr. 
Sully  points  out,  answers  roughly  to 
the  popular  term  imagination.  But, 
as  he  says,  this  kind  of  imagination 
not  only  transforms  or  idealises  past 
impressions,  it  also  works  them  up 
into  new  imaginative  products. 
Further,  he  might  have  added,  ima- 
gination is  interpretative ;  it  interprets 
the  facts  of  the  world  of  sense,  or,  in 
Wordsworth's  phrase,  it  explains  "the 
moral  property  and  scope  of  things." 

If,  then,  we  take  into  account  these 
three  functions  of  the  imagination, 
shall  we  not  pronounce  that  there  is 
after  all  more  similarity  than  dis- 
similarity between  the  memory  and 
the  imagination  ?  Shall  we  not  say 
that  memory  is  concerned  with  what 
is  old,  imagination  with  what  is  new ; 
that  memory  is  reproductive,  imagina- 
tion productive ;  that  memory  is  imi- 
tative, imagination  original  ?  Allow- 
ing then  for  the  obvious  metaphor  in 
the  use  of  the  word  seeing,  may  we 


not  accept  James  Hinton's  definition 
of  imagination  as  "the  power  of  see- 
ing the  unseen  "  ? 

It  should  here  be  noticed  that  for- 
merly the  word  fancy  was  used  to  de- 
note what  we  now  term  imagination. 
Thus  Milton  speaks  of  Shakespeare  as 
"fancy's  child."  It  was  Coleridge 
who  first  distinguished  between  fancy 
and  imagination,  and,  though  the  dis- 
tinction is  not  considered  of  any  ac- 
count by  modern  psychologists,  it  is,  I 
believe,  a  real  one.  Coleridge  defined 
fancy  as  "a  mode  of  memory  emanci- 
pated from  the  order  of  time  and 
space  ;  and  blended  with  and  modi- 
fied by  that  empirical  phenomenon  of 
the  will,  which  we  express  by  the  word 
choice;"  and  he  pointed  out  that 
"  equally  with  the  ordinary  memory  it 
must  receive  all  its  materials  ready- 
made  from  the  law  of  association."  The 
term  imagination  he  reserved  for  the 
creative  faculty,  but  unfortunately  the 
full  and  complete  account  of  its  powers 
which  he  intended  one  day  to  write, 
remained  one  of  the  many  projects 
which  he  never  put  into  execution.  In 
the  few  but  pregnant  hints,  however, 
which  he  has  left  us  on  the  subject,  he 
especially  insists  on  the  unity  of  the 
imagination,  coining  for  it  the  epithet 
esemplastic  (ets  ev  TrXarretv,  i.e.  to 
shape  into  one)  and  saying  that  it  sees 
il  piu  in  uno.  The  same  idea  is  care- 
fully worked  out  by  Mr.  Kuskin  in  his 
account  of  the  imagination  in  *  Modern 
Painters,'  where  he  points  out  with 
great  appositeness  of  illustration  the 
difference  between  mere  composition, 
or  patchwork,  and  true  imaginative 
production.  Indeed,  one  of  the  strongest 
arguments  in  favour  of  what  may  be 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


185 


called  the  transcendental  theory  of  the 
imagination  is  the  immeasurable  dis- 
tance that  separates  the  patchwork  of 
an  inferior  artist  from  the  seamless 
garment  woven  by  a  master's  hand. 
So  immeasurable  is  it  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  accept  the  explanation  that 
the  secret  of  true  imaginative  work 
consists  merely  in  modifying  and 
piecing  together  past  impressions 
so  rapidly  and  so  deftly  that  we  can- 
not detect  the  join. 

"All  imaginative  activity,"  truly 
says  Mr.  Sully,  "  involves  an  element  of 
feeling."  Love,  pity,  horror,  joy,  indig- 
nation, all  serve  to  kindle  the  imagina- 
tion. But  the  emotions  which  beat  in 
closest  unison  with  it  are  the  aesthetic 
emotions,  that  group  of  nameless 
and  mysterious  feelings  which  are 
generated  by  the  presence  of  beauty. 
Seeing,  then,  that  the  true  character- 
istic of  the  imagination  is  its  creative 
and  life-giving  power,  and  that  it  has 
an  intimate  relation  with  the  aesthetic 
emotions,  it  is  not  surprising  that  it 
should  be  especially  the  art-faculty, 
the  faculty  which  comes  into  play  in 
the  production  of  all  works  of  art. 
The  sculptor  must  be  able  to  model, 
|  the  painter  to  draw  and  to  colour,  the 
|  architect  to  build,  the  musician  must 
[  be  a  master  of  melody  and  harmony, 
the  poet  of  language  and  rhythm  ;  but 
j  all  alike  must  have  imagination. 

Take,  for    instance,  one    of    those 
!  Dutch  pictures,  for  which  Mr.  Ruskin 
i  has  such  contempt  and  George  Eliot 
|  such   sympathy.     The  exclusive  wor- 
shipper of    high  art  condemns  it  at 
!  once  as  wholly  devoid  of  imagination. 
But  let  us  try  the  picture  by  a  simple 
:  test.     Let  us  set  ten  painters  down  to 
paint  a  study  from  the  life  of  an  old 
woman  scraping  carrots.     What  will 
be  the  result  ?     For  certain,  no  two  of 
their  pictures  will  be    exactly  alike. 
'  Each  painter  will  have  added  some- 
I  thing  new,   something  which   to   the 
eye  of  the  ordinary  observer  did  not 
appear  in  the  actual  scene ;  and  this 
i  addition,  this  idealisation,  as  we  should 
\  call    it,    will    have    come    from    the 
painter's  imagination. 


We  speak  of  imagination  as  the 
idealising  faculty ;  but  it  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  to  idealise  necessarily 
means  to  make  beautiful.  Idealisation 
consists  rather  in  throwing  into  relief 
the  characteristic  parts  of  an  object, 
and  discarding  unimportant  details ; 
in  short,  in  presenting  an  idea  of  the 
object  to  the  mind  which,  by  virtue  of 
this  rearrangement  makes  a  deeper 
and  more  lasting  impression ;  and  for 
this  reason,  that  artistic  truth  has 
been  substituted  for  scientific  truth, 
life  for  death. 

Not  only  is  imagination  necessary 
for  the  production  of  a  work  of  art, 
but  it  is  also  necessary  for  the  under- 
standing of  it.  The  conception  which 
is  born  of  imagination  can  only  be 
apprehended  by  imagination.  Hegel 
indeed  makes  a  distinction  between 
the  active  or  productive  imagination 
of  the  artist,  and  the  passive  or  re- 
ceptive imagination  of  the  beholder 
of  a  work  of  art,  and  calls  them  by 
different  names;  but  in  reality  the 
difference  between  them  is  one  of 
degree  and  not  one  of  kind.  The 
impression  which  is  made  upon  the 
beholder  of  a  work  of  art,  though 
doubtless  far  less  intense,  is  no  doubt 
similar  in  kind  to  that  which  the 
artist  himself  had  when  he  conceived 
it. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  law 
that  imagination  is  necessary  to  the 
production  of  a  work  of  art  does  not 
apply  so  strictly  to  poetry  as  to  the 
other  fine  arts,  and  for  this  reason, 
that  poetry  stands  on  a  somewhat 
different  footing  from  other  arts.  It  is, 
so  to  speak,  less  strictly  an  art.  In 
the  first  place,  not  only,  as  is  the  case 
with  other  time  arts,  such  as  music, 
is  the  impression  which  it  makes  upon 
the  imagination  spread  over  a  period 
of  time  instead  of  being  almost 
instantaneous,  as  it  is  in  a  space 
art  like  painting,  but  it  is  not  al- 
ways even  continuous.  When  Edgar 
Poe  declared  that  a  poem  which  could 
not  be  read  through  at  a  single  sitting 
was  an  anomaly,  thus  excluding  the 
'  Iliad '  and  other  epics  from  the  cate- 


186 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


gory  of  poetry,  he  was  only  following 
out  to  its  logical  conclusion,  his 
theory  that  poetry,  like  music,  is  a 
pure  art.  But  the  common-sense  of 
many  generations,  which  is  a  higher 
court  than  any  theory,  has  ruled  him 
to  be  wrong.  The  explanation  is  that 
poetry  is  not  a  pure  art. 

Secondly,  there  is  this  vital  distinc- 
tion between  poetry  and  the  other  fine 
arts.  They  are  addressed  immedi- 
ately to  the  senses,  and  through  the 
senses  to  the  emotions  and  the  imagi- 
nation; but  poetry,  though  it  is  in 
some  measure  addressed  to  the  ear 
and  so  far  partakes  of  the  nature  of 
music,  is  chiefly  and  primarily  ad- 
dressed to  the  intellect — for  language 
implies  intellect  to  understand  it — 
and  through  the  intellect  to  the 
emotions  and  the  imagination. 

There  follow  from  these  special 
characteristics  of  poetry  two  notable 
results.  First,  the  impression  made 
upon  the  imagination  by  a  poem  being 
often  spread  over  a  considerable  space 
of  time,  which  may  not  even  be  con- 
tinuous, we  can  dispense  with  imagi- 
native treatment  in  some  parts  of  a 
poem,  and  we  do  not  necessarily 
condemn  a  whole  poem  because  it  con- 
tains some  unimaginative  passages. 
Secondly,  poetry  not  being  addressed 
primarily  to  the  senses,  there  is  a 
marked  difference  between  the  func- 
tion of  the  imagination  in  poetry  and 
its  function  in  a  sensuous  art  like 
painting.  In  both  arts  alike  it  is  the 
function  of  the  imagination  to  repre- 
sent both  the  visible  and  the  invisible 
world,  both  the  sensuous  object  and 
the  inward  spiritual  meaning  of  that 
object;  but  in  painting  the  sensuous 
object  is  directly  presented,  while  the 
spiritual  idea  can  only  be  suggested  ; 
in  poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  the 
object  itself  which  can  only  be  sug- 
gested, it  is  the  spiritual  idea  which 
receives  direct  presentment. 

It  is  most  important  that  poets  and 
painters  should  bear  in  mind  this 
distinction.  To  paint  pictures  vague 
in  outline  and  blurred  in  colour  under 
the  impression  that  they  thus  become 


spiritual,  is  as  foolish  as  to  write 
poems  full  of  detailed  and  matter-of- 
fact  descriptions  of  material  objects  in 
order  to  make  them  sensuous.  It  is 
quite  true  that  painting  should  be 
spiritual,  it  is  equally  true  that 
poetry  should  be  sensuous;  but  this 
must  be  effected  by  the  method  proper 
to  each  art,  not  by  confusing  their 
two  methods. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  in  those 
noble  chapters  of  '  Modern  Painters ' 
in  which  Mr.  Ruskin  treats  of  the 
imagination  he  classifies  its  powers 
under  three  heads,  Associative,  Pene- 
trative, and  Contemplative.  By  As- 
sociative imagination  he  means  the 
power  of  constructing  images,  or,  as 
Coleridge  calls  it,  the  shaping  power 
of  the  imagination.  Contemplative 
imagination  is,  as  I  shall  try  to  show 
presently,  merely  a  form  of  this,  which 
I  prefer  to  call  by  the  more  ordinary 
term  Constructive.  On  the  other  hand, 
a  faculty  of  the  imagination  which 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  omitted  in  this  classi- 
fication is  the  idealising  faculty.  I 
would  therefore  propose  to  substitute 
for  Mr.  Ruskin's-*  terminology  the 
terms  Constructive,  Idealising,  and 
Penetrative,  as  expressing  the  various 
powers  of  the  imagination. 

Let  us  consider  now  what  is  the 
part  played  by  the  imagination  in  the 
genesis  of  a  poem.  First,  it  is  to  the 
imagination  that  the  first  conception 
of  every  true  poem  is  due.  Some  ex- 
ternal object,  either  animate  or  in- 
animate, either  a  face  or  a  landscape, 
sends  a  rush  of  emotion  to  the  poet's 
soul  and  kindles  his  imagination. 
What  Turgenieff  says  of  himself  is 
probably  true  of  most  great  poets  and 
novelists,  that  they  never  start  from 
the  idea  but  always  from  the  object. 
The  imagination  being  thus  called  into 
life  exercises  its  powers  by  an  instan- 
taneous and  involuntary  process.  It 
transports  the  poet  from  the  world  of 
sense  to  the  spiritual  world  beyond ; 
it  reveals  to  him  as  in  a  vision  the 
inward  meaning  of  the  sensuous  fact 
which  has  aroused  his  emotions,  while 
in  one  and  the  same  moment  the 


I 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


187 


vision  is  embodied  in  the  form  of  a 
poem,  the  general  idea  of  which, 
along  with  the  rhythmical  move- 
ment, flashes  upon  the  poet  instan- 
taneously. Then  follows  the  "  accom- 
plishment of  verse,"  the  filling  up  the 
details  of  the  poet's  design,  in  order  to 
communicate  his  vision  to  those  denser 
intelligences  which  lack  the  "  divine 
faculty."  With  the  true  poet,  to  borrow 
the  words  used  by  Monro  of  Catullus, 
"  there  is  no  putting  together  of  pieces 
of  mosaic ;  with  him  the  completed 
thought  follows  at  once  upon  the 
emotion,  and  the  consummate  form 
and  expression  rush  to  embody  this 
thought  for  ever." 

Of  course  it  is  only  short  poems  that 
require,  as  it  were,  but  a  single 
draught  of  inspiration  from  the 
imagination  for  their  production.  In 
longer  poems  the  poet  must  be  con- 
stantly calling  upon  his  imagina- 
tion for  fresh  efforts.  But  he  must 
call  upon  it  as  a  master,  and  he  must 
never  lose  sight  of  the  original  im- 
pulse which  gave  birth  to  his  work,  of 
the  guiding  idea  which  ought  to  be 
the  central  point  of  his  poem.  The 
reason  why  so  many  poets  who  excel 
in  short  poems  fail  when  they  try  a 
longer  flight  is  that  they  have  not  suffi- 
cient power  of  mental  concentration  to 
keep  their  imagination  steadily  fixed  on 
one  point.  They  follow  it  instead  of 
guiding  it,  and  it  sometimes  leads  them 
into  grievous  quagmires.  The  imagina- 
tion is  partly  an  active  and  partly  a 
passive  faculty.  Visions  often  come 
to  us  without  any  effort  of  our  own  ; 
it  is  only  the  supreme  artist,  the 
really  great  man,  who  can  control  his 
visions. 

The  intensity  and  the  quality  of 
the  imagination  in  a  poem  will  vary 
accoi'ding  to  the  nature  of  the  poet's 
genius  and  the  special  mood  en- 
gendered in  him  by  the  motive  of  the 
poem  •  the  character  of  the  imagina- 
tion will  determine  that  of  the  poem. 
Thus,  if  the  imagination  be  directed 
chiefly  towards  the  human  passions 
and  the  infinite  variations  of  them 
which  make  up  individual  human 


character,  the  result  will  be  a  drama, 
or  at  least  a  dramatic  poem.  If  on 
the  other  hand  it  is  rather  on  the 
actions  than  on  the  passions  of  men, 
rather  on  human  nature  in  its  broad 
outlines  than  on  the  characteristics 
which  mark  off  one  human  being  from 
another,  that  the  imagination  loves  to 
dwell,  we  shall  have  a  narrative,  pos- 
sibly an  epic,  poem.  If  the  imagina- 
tion is  strongly  emotional  the  result 
will  be  a  lyric  ;  if  it  suggest  a  train  of 
thought  rather  than  of  images  it  will 
produce  an  elegy. 

Even  from  the  two  kinds  of  poetry 
which  are  rightly  accounted  the  lowest, 
inasmuch  as  their  aims  are  only  in  a 
small  measure  artistic,  namely  satire 
and  didactic  poetry,  imagination  is  by 
no  means  absent.  There  is  imagina- 
tion in  the  descriptions  of  persons,  and 
in  the  pictures  of  social  life  which 
satire,  not  wholly  unmindful  of  her 
early  Italian  home,  sets  up  as  a  mark 
for  her  arrows  ;  there  is  imagination 
in  the  images  and  metaphors,  and  in 
the  concentrated  and  pregnant  lan- 
guage by  which  a  didactic  poem  like 
*  The  Essay  on  Man '  seeks  to  render 
its  reasoning  more  pointed  and  im- 
pressive. 

The  images  evoked  by  the  Construc- 
tive imagination  are  of  two  kinds. 
They  are  either  complex  images  re- 
presenting some  new  combination  of 
actually  existing  objects,  or  they  are 
simple  images  of  wholly  new  objects, 
of  objects  which  have  no  existence  in 
the  world  of  sense.  The  former  class 
of  images  only  require  a  somewhat 
low  degree  of  imagination  for  their 
production,  and  ordinary  persons,  who 
are  neither  novelists  nor  poets,  have 
frequent  experiences  of  them.  They 
supply  what  are  called  the  scenes  or 
situations  of  fiction,  in  which  some 
new  and  ideal  combination  either  of 
man  or  nature,  or  of  both  together,  is 
presented,  and  which  form  the  frame- 
work for  all  narrative  and  dramatic 
poetry,  as  well  as  for  all  novels. 

The  most  obvious  instance  of  the 
second  class  of  images  are  what  are 
called  imaginary  creatures,  such  as 


188 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


Milton's  Satan,  Ariosto's  Hippogriff, 
Dante's  Nimrod,  Shakespeare's  Ariel. 
But  what  are  we  to  say  of  those  far 
higher  creations,  the  human  beings 
who  live  only  in  the  world  of  fiction  ? 
Are  they  due  to  the  Constructive 
power  of  the  imagination,  or  to  its 
Idealising  power,  or  to  its  Penetrative 
power  1 

It  may  at  once  be  granted  that  all 
fictitious  characters  which  are  drawn 
from  existing  persons  must  be  ascribed 
to  the  Idealising  imagination.  But  1 
believe  that  the  majority  of  characters 
in  fiction,  and  certainly  all  the 
greatest  characters,  are  purely  ideal 
representations  and  not  portraits. 
Although  some  living  person  may  have 
first  suggested  them,  they  are  evolved 
by  the  imagination  without  any  further 
reference  to  that  person.  A  great 
many  characters  for  instance  in  Al- 
phonse  Daudet's  novels  are  said  to  be 
portraits  :  but  they  have  been  claimed 
as  such  by  reason,  not  of  any  essential 
property  of  likeness,  but  of  certain 
details  of  position  and  circumstances. 
Whether  Numa  Roumestan  stands  for 
Gambetta,  or  the  Due  de  Mora  for  the 
Due  de  Moray  or  not,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  both  Numa  and  Mora  are 
absolutely  new  creations. 

If  then  the  characters  of  fiction  are 
creations  and  not  representations,  they 
must,  as  far  as  regards  the  first  con- 
ception of  them,  be  ascribed  to  the 
constructive  power  of  the  imagination. 
But  their  evolution  is  surely  due  to  its 
penetrative  power.  To  evolve  a  great 
character  of  fiction  requires  a  deep 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and 
so  much  of  that  knowledge  as  proceeds 
from  intuition  and  not  from  actual 
experience  can  only  come  from  the 
imagination  as  a  penetrative  faculty. 
It  is  Penetrative  imagination  that 
inspires  the  dramatist  with  those 
touches  that  reveal  a  whole  world  of 
passion  at  a  flash ;  such  touches  as 
those  cited  by  Mr.  Ruskin,  the  "  He 
has  no  children  "  of  Macduff  ;  the  "  My 
gracious  silence  hail !  "  of  Coriolanus  ; 
the  "  Quel  giorno  piu  non  vi  leggemeno 
avanti  "  of  Francesca,  or  that  wonder- 


ful passage  in    *  Lear,'    wonderful  in 
its  simplicity — 

"  Pray,  do  not  mock  me  : 
I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore     and     upward  ;     and,     to    deal 

plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind." 

This  intensity  and  energy  of  concen- 
tration are  unfailing  signs  of  Penetra- 
tive imagination,  the  imagination  which 
pierces  right  to  the  heart  of  things, 
seizes  hold  of  their  most  characteristic 
and  life-giving  quality,  and  reveals  it  in 
language  as  simple  as  it  is  pregnant. 

What  a  picture  of  perfect  beauty 
we  have  in  these  lines  from  *  Chris- 
tabel  '— 

"  Her  gentle  limbs  she  did  undress 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness." 

What     intense     imagination    in    the 
following  from  Keats — 

"Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien." 

Or  in  this  from  Wordsworth's  '  Yei 
trees ' : 

"  Nor  uninformed  with  Phantasy,  and  looks 
That  threaten  the  profane. " 

Or  as  an  instance  of  a  somewl 
more  elaborate,  but  still  intensely 
imaginative,  description  we  have 
Shelley's— 

"  And  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  has,  from  unimaginable  years, 
Sustained  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings  seems  slowly  coming 

down  ; 

Even  as  a  wretched  soul,  hour  after  hour, 
Clings  to  the  ways  of  life  ;  yet  clinging  leans, 
And,  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread 

abyss 

In  which  it  fears  to  fall.    Beneath  this  crag, 
Huge  as  despair,  &c." 

Or  Milton's  description  of  Satan,  the 
sublimest  portrait  ever  painted  in 
words — 

"  He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower ;  his  form  had  yet  not 
lost 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


189 


All  her  original  brightness  ;  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured  :   as  when  the  sun,  new 

risen, 

Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 
Shorn  of  his  beams. 

Darkened  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  archangel  ;  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched  ;  and 

care 

Sat  on  his  faded  cheek  ;  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerable  pride, 
Waiting  revenge." 

There  are  some  lyrics  which  exhibit 
in  the  highest  degree  this  penetrative 
faculty  of  the  imagination,  concen- 
trating themselves  on  some  object 
of  nature,  and  revealing  in  one  lumi- 
nous flash  of  song  the  secret  of  its 
spiritual  life.  Such  are  Wordsworth's 
'  Daffodils ',  «  To  the  Cuckoo ',  and  '  To 
a  Skylark ' ;  Herrick's  '  To  Blossoms ' ; 
Goethe's  '  Auf  alien  Gipfeln'.  But 
on  the  whole  this  intensity  of  imagi- 
nation is  to  be  found  more  often  in 
sonnets  than  in  those  poems  to  which 
the  name  of  lyric  is  generally  re- 
stricted. The  very  form  of  the 
sonnet,  its  forced  concentration,  its 
division  into  two  parts,  its  sober  but 
stately  rhythm,  makes  it  an  admirable 
instrument  for  the  purpose  of  calling 
up  before  the  mind  the  twin  image  of 
a  sensuous  object  and  a  spiritual  idea. 
Wordsworth's  sonnets  especially  are 
characterised  by  this  high  imaginative 
power,  and  of  his  sonnets  there  is  no 
finer  example  than  the  well-known  one 
'  Upon  Westminster  Bridge.' 

"  Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples 

lie 

Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky, 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless 

air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  gilt  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep  ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still !  " 

In   the   great   majority   of   lyrical 
poems  which  deal  with  some  external 


object,  and  not  with  the  poet's  own 
passion,  the  poet  plays  round  his 
subject  rather  than  penetrates  it,  con- 
templates it  rather  than  interprets  it. 
Thus,  sometimes  his  imagination,  in- 
stead of  remaining  concentrated  on 
the  object  which  has  inspired  the 
poem,  flies  off  to  fresh  images,  and  so 
becomes  creative  instead  of  penetra- 
tive. This  is  what  Mr.  Ruskin  means 
when  he  speaks  of  the  imagination  in 
its  contemplative  mood.  We  have  a 
good  instance  of  it  in  those  beautiful 
lines  from  Keats's 'The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes,'  where  the  soul  of  the  sleeping 
maiden  is  said  to  be — 

"  Clasped  like  a  missal,  where  swart  Paynims 

pray  ; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 
again." 

Here   the 
soul  as 


poet,  after   describing  the 


"  Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain," 

— a  touch  of  really  penetrative  imagi- 
nation— is,  as  it  were,  distracted  by 
fresh  images ;  first,  that  of  a  missal 
clasped  tight  for  safety  in  a  land  of 
pagans,  and  then  that  of  a  rose-bud. 

Sometimes  the  imagination  gives 
place  for  a  time  to  fancy,  and  then, 
instead  of  images  which  have  an  es- 
sential likeness  to  the  object  which  is 
being  described,  we  get  images  which 
have  only  some  external  and  acci- 
dental likeness.  There  is  no  better 
example  of  the  difference  between 
fancy  and  imagination  than  that  in- 
stanced by  Mr.  Ruskin,  Wordsworth's 
poem,  *  To  the  Daisy ' — the  one  begin- 
ning, "  With  little  here  to  do  or  see." 
Here  the  flower  is  compared  succes- 
sively to  a  "  nun  demure,"  a  "  sprightly 
maiden,"  a  "  queen  in  crown  of  rubies 
drest,"  a  "  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest," 
a  "  little  cyclops,"  a  "  silver  shield 
with  boss  of  gold,"  and  a  "  star  "  ;  and 
the  poet  himself  notes  the  ephemeral 
character  of  these  images,  which  start 
up  one  after  the  other  at  the  bidding 
of  fancy — 

"  That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 
The  freak  is  over." 


190 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


At  last  his  mind  ceases  from  wan- 
dering, cleaves  to  the  flower  itself  with 
intensity  of  gaze,  and  illumines  it  with 
true  penetrative  imagination. 

"  Sweet  flower !  for  by  that  name  at  last 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  creature  ! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! " 

Defective  imagination  in  lyrical 
poems  is  also  due  to  the  poet's  vision 
being  dimmed  by  the  shadow  of  his 
own  personal  joys  and  sorrows.  In- 
stead of  projecting  himself  by  the 
force  of  sympathy  into  the  external 
world,  whether  of  man  or  nature,  he 
makes  it  sympathise  with  him.  Con- 
sequently, though  he  gives  us  a  faithful 
representation  of  his  own  feelings,  the 
image  that  he  presents  of  the  external 
world  is  blurred  and  misty.  It  is  the 
great  weakness  of  Byron,  as  an  imagi- 
native poet,  that  his  personal  aspi- 
rations and  regrets  are  continually 
passing  across  the  field  of  his  vision, 
and,  as  it  were,  distorting  his  imagi- 
nation. Thus,  even  in  the  splendid 
description  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  in 
the  third  canto  of  '  Child  e  Harold/ 
passages  of  a  really  high  order  of 
imagination  are  interrupted  by  egoistic 
and  commonplace  outbursts,  which  go 
far  to  spoil  that  illusion  which  it  is 
the  business  of  all  poetry  to  create. 
The  same  kind  of  defective  imagination 
is  shown  in  Byron's  often-noticed  inca- 
pacity to  create  real  human  beings, 
his  attempts  at  creation  being  for  the 
most  part  merely  copies  of  himself. 

Shelley, who  with  a  love  even  greater 
than  that  of  Byron  for  the  elemental 
forces  of  nature  had  an  ear  for  her 
more  hidden  harmonies  which  was 
wholly  wanting  to  the  other  poet, 
shows  a  finer  quality  of  imagination 
in  his  treatment  of  nature.  But  in- 
tensely penetrative  though  his  imagi- 
nation sometimes  is,  it  is  on  the  whole 
less  remarkable  for  intensity  than  for 
sensibility  and  productiveness.  No 
poet's  emotions  were  more  easily 


aroused,  and  no  poet's  imagination 
was  in  such  intimate  sympathy  with 
his  emotions.  In  the  presence  of 
nature  to  see  with  him  was  to  feel, 
and  to  feel  was  to  imagine.  But  his 
poetry  for  the  most'part  rather  charms 
us  by  the  marvellous  delicacy  and 
variety  of  its  images  than  seizes  hold 
of  us  by  the  force  of  its  imaginative 
truth.  It  is  not  often  that  he  attains  to 
that  luminous  and  concentrated  depth 
of  imagination  which  distinguishes 
1  The  Cenci ',  and  'Adonais '.  His  poem 
'  To  a  Skylark '  is  probably  far  better 
known  than  Wordsworth's  poem  on 
the  same  subject ; l  in  splendour  of 
colour  and  movement  it  far  surpasses 
its  modest  grey-toned  companion  ;  but 
I  question  whether  out  of  all  its  wealth 
of  beautiful  and  subtle  images  there 
is  one  that  shows  such  high  imagina- 
tive power,  such  intense  penetration, 
as  the  line  which  forms  the  climax  of 
Wordsworth's  poem — 

"  True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and 
Home." 

It  is,  of  course,  not  enough  for  a 
poet  to  have  a  powerful  imagination ; 
he  must  be  able  to  embody  his  visions. 
"  Poetry  is  not  imagination,  but  imagi- 
nation shaped."  2  The  instruments  at 
his  command  are  two,  language  and 
rhythm,  and  it  is  his  business  to  use 
these  in  such  a  way  as  to  assist  as 
much  as  possible  the  imagination  of 
his  readers  in  realising  his  conceptions. 
In  the  first  place  then,  his  vocabulary 
should  be  as  large  as  possible ;  the 
better  the  instrument,  the  easier  it  is 
to  play  on.  But  he  must  also  know 
how  to  play  on  it :  he  must  know  how 
to  vary  his  method  with  his  theme : 
he  must  remember  that  when  he  is 
portraying  great  passion  his  language 
cannot  be  too  simple — the  death  of 
Desdemona,  the  closing  lines  of  '  The 

1  I  mean  the  one  beginning — 

"  Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

2  F.  W.  Robertson,  in  his  lecture  on  the 
'  Influence  of  Poetry  on  the  Working  Classes,' 
which,  with   his    lecture  on  Wordsworth,  I 
warmly  commend  to  all   those  who  are  not 
already  acquainted  with  them. 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


191 


Cenci,'  Heine's  and  Catullus'  lyrics, 
are  models  in  their  bare  simplicity  of 
language.  He  must  also  remember 
that  when  he  wishes  to  call  up  before 
the  mind  of  his  readers  some  sensuous 
object,  he  must  do  this  not  by  an 
accurate  and  detailed  description  of 
that  object,  but  by  using  some  word 
or  expression  which,  by  the  force  of 
association,  immediately  suggests  an 
imaginative  impression  of  that  object. 
It  has  been  truly  said  that  the  poet  is 
a  namer ;  that  all  language  was  in  its 
origin  poetry,  and  that  prose  is  fos- 
silised poetry.  By  which  it  is  meant 
that,  in  the  early  stages  of  human 
society,  things  were  named  after  their 
chief  characteristic — were  called  by 
some  symbolical  name  which  not  only 
served  to  mark  them  off  from  other 
things,  but  interpreted  their  proper- 
ties and  meaning.  Thus,  man  is  the 
thinker,  the  moon  is  the  measurer,  the 
sun  is  the  begetter,  the  serpent  is  the 
creeper.1  But  in  the  process  of  time 
the  meaning  of  these  names  has  been 
forgotten ;  they  no  longer  appeal  to 
the  imagination,  they  are  fossil 
names.  It  is  therefore  the  business 
of  the  poet  to  invent  new  names — 
names  which  do  appeal  to  the  imagi- 
nation, which  do  reveal  to  us  some 
new  quality  in  the  object  named.  The 
difference  between  false  poets  and 
true  poets  is  that  the  false  poet  goes 
for  his  names  to  the  poetical  dictionary, 
the  true  poet  finds  them  in  his  own 
breast.  The  names  of  the  one,  though 
they  were  living  in  the  hands  of  their 
makers,  are  cold  and  dead  ;  the  names 
of  the  other  breathe  with  a  vital 
energy.  It  is  only  the  real  poet,  the 
real  maker  of  names,  who  can  touch 
our  imagination. 

The  second  instrument  which  the 
poet  has  at  his  disposal  is  rhythm. 
Its  effects  are  far  more  subtle  than 
those  of  language,  and  consequently 
far  more  difficult  to  analyse.  But  the 
intimate  connection  between  rhythm 
and  emotion  has  been  pointed  out  by 
several  writers,  notably^by  Mr.  Herbert 

1  Professor  Max  Muller,  '  Lectures  on  the 
Science  of  Language,'  i.  p.  434. 


Spencer.  Not  only  does  strong  emo- 
tion find  a  natural  expression  in  the 
rhythmical  movement  or  language, 
but  conversely  the  effect  of  rhythm  is 
to  excite  emotion.  It  may  therefore 
be  reasonably  inferred  that  the  func- 
tion of  rhythm  in  poetry  is  to  pre- 
dispose the  mind  of  the  reader  to 
emotional  impulses,  and  thus  make 
it  more  sensible  to  the  influence  of 
imagination.  Rhyme,  of  course,  is 
merely  a  method  of  measuring  rhythm, 
but  it  also  serves  to  keep  the  reader's 
mind  concentrated,  to  produce  that 
feeling  of  expectancy  which  is  so 
effective  in  stimulating  the  imagina- 
tion. The  same  purpose  is  served  by 
the  various  forms  of  repetition  used  in 
poetry,  from  alliteration  or  the  repeti- 
tion of  consonantal  and  vowel  sounds, 
to  the  refrain  or  the  repetition  of  a 
whole  sentence. 

The  art  of  using  all  these  rhythmical 
effects  so  as  to  heighten  the  imagina- 
tive impression  of  a  poem,  to  vary 
them  "in  correspondence  with  some 
transition  in  the  nature  of  the  imagery 
or  passion, "as  Coleridge  says,  is  one  of 
the  poet's  most  incommunicable  secrets, 
and  I  for  one  shall  not  try  to  surprise 
it.  I  will  only  point  to  that  supreme 
example  of  rhythmical  effort  in  our 
language,  Coleridge's  '  Christabel.' 
How  weird  is  the  rhythm  of  these 
two  lines ! — 

"Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark." 

And  how  the  effect  of  weirdness  is 
sustained  by  the  repetition  at  inter- 
vals of  "  The  night  is  chill "  !  and  how 
the  rhythm  dances  in  the  following ! — 

"The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can." 

Such  are  the  methods  which  the 
poet  uses  to  bewitch  our  imagination, 
to  draw  us  with  him  into  that  region 
of  truth  and  beauty  and  love  that  lies 
beyond  the  senses'  ken.  But  we  must 
meet  him  half-way.  Our  imagination 
must  not  be  utterly  dead,  or  his  most 
potent  efforts  will  fail  to  elicit  a 
response.  People  are  gifted  with 


192 


The  Poetic  Imagination. 


imagination  in  a  very  various  degree, 
but  every  one  can  cultivate  his  imagi- 
nation, can  make  it  more  sensible  to 
the  calls  of  beauty  and  sympathy. 
People  whose  lives  are  shut  in  by 
sordid  and  commonplace  surroundings 
have  very  little  imagination.  But  the 
spark  is  there,  it  only  wants  fanning. 
By  seeing  great  pictures,  by  reading 
good  literature,  whether  it  be  poems 
or  novels,  above  all  by  intercourse 
with  nature,  the  imagination  may 
certainly  be  stimulated.  What  is  the 
aim  of  art  for  the  people,  and  parks 
for  the  people,  but  that  they  may 
become  more  sensible  to  the  influences 


of  the  spiritual  world,  that  their  lives 
may  be  made  brighter  by  contact  with 
the  ideal  1  But  it  is  in  the  power  of 
all  of  us,  the  educated  and  the  un- 
educated alike,  either  to  quicken  or  to 
deaden  our  imagination.  Sympathy 
with  our  fellow- men,  high  aspirations, 
purity,  unworldliness,  these  are  the 
helps  to  the  imagination.  Selfishness, 
unbelief,  sensuality,  worldliness,  these 
are  the  hindrances ;  these  are  the 
chains  which  bind  us  to  the  earth, 
these  are  the  clouds  which  hide  from 
us  the  light  of  heaven. 

ARTHUR  TILLEY. 


11)3 


THE   KING'S   DAUGHTER   IN   DANGER. 


"THE  king's  daughter  is  all  glorious 
within  :  her  clothing  is  of  wrought 
gold."  Ah!  but  there  are  many 
new  men-milliners  at  work,  tricking 
out  a  new  and  a  rival  princess, 
whose  clothing  is  stitched  by  Radical 
hands,  and  whose  virgin  charms  are 
heightened  by  the  cosmetics  of  the 
Political  Dissenter  and  the  Atheist — 
names,  let  us  here  say,  used  as  acknow- 
ledged parts  of  our  daily  speech,  and 
not  in  any  term  of  reproach.  This 
figure  is  plain  for  all  folk  to  see 
across  the  Channel.  Oar  vivacious 
neighbours,  with  their  facile  fingers 
and  more  subtle  appreciation  of  effect, 
have  brought  their  gold  earrings  and 
precious  things,  and  besought  their 
high  priests,  "Make  us  a  god  to  go 
before  us."  Perhaps  a  few  of  the 
more  hesitating  may  tremble  slightly 
at  the  prospect  of  the  expression  on 
the  face  of  Moses  when  he  descends  j 
but,  after  all,  the  expression  will  soon 
wear  off,  and  since  Caesar's  day  the 
Gauls  have  ever  delighted  in  new 
things.  We  ourselves  have  this  in- 
estimable advantage,  that  we  can 
largely  study  the  picture  whence  our 
future  model  is  to  be  drawn.  Of 
course,  with  our  insular  belief  in  our- 
selves and  our  sagacity,  we  shall  im- 
prove on  the  original,  and  allowance 
must  be  made  for  differences  of  touch 
in  certain  particulars ;  but  we  can 
judge  pretty  accurately  the  general 
effect,  atmosphere,  and  surroundings 
of  our  future  Paradise. 

It  might   have   seemed,   even   to  a 

fairly  observant  eye,  that  twenty  years 

ago    the    possibility    of    liberty    and 

|  equality   in    religion  —  fraternity    we 

I  may  leave  out  of  the  question — was  a 

I  very  slight  one  in  this  future  Paradise. 

j  Then,  it  was  but  the  little  cloud  no 

!  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  ;  and  lo,  now, 

I  there  is  sound  of  abundance  of  rain, 

No.  315— VOL.  LIU. 


even  hail  which  will  run  along  the 
ground  very  vehemently.  Party  fac- 
tion is  a  decimal  that  recurs  despe- 
rately ;  and  there  never  was  a  mustard 
seed  that  was  half  so  prolific  as  the 
letting  out  of  the  (so-called)  religious 
waters. 

It  might  be  interesting,  though  per- 
haps not  very  remunerative,  to  know 
how  many  of  those,  especially  in 
Parliament,  who  are  prepared  to  say 
at  once,  "  I  vote  for  Disestablishment," 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  study  the 
whole  question,  and  to  ascertain  from 
men,  statistics,  and  books,  the  manifold 
intricacies  of  the  case  from  all  its 
aspects.  Nowadays,  professions  of 
faith  are  required  from  candidates 
who,  in  haste  that  is  almost  indecent, 
pledge  themselves  to  lines  of  action 
concerning  matters  of  which  they 
know  absolutely  nothing.  Nothing  is 
easier  than  to  assent  this  evening  and 
to  dissent  to-morrow,  at  greater  leisure 
and  in  a  cooler  moment ;  but  it  takes 
courage  and  honesty  of  purpose,  not 
always  found  in  political  life,  to 
publish  a  more  sober  retractation  of 
statements  and  assents  made  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment.  No  man  likes  to 
appear  to  have  been  ignorant,  and  to 
have  committed  himself  in  ignorance. 
Yet  numbers  do  so.  The  desire  to 
write  M.P.  after  their  names  is  with 
some  men  an  ample,  though  inexplica- 
ble, reason  for  swallowing  all — and 
not  least,  ecclesiastical — camels  and 
gnats  wholesale. 

It  is  undoubtedly  an  argument,  and 
no  mean  one,  in  favour  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church,  that  it  already  exists. 
The  plaintiff,  to  prove  his  case  satis- 
factorily, must  show  conclusively  that 
the  fact  of  an  Established  Church  is  a 
real  tangible  evil ;  a  thing  monstrous 
and  contrary  to  true  liberty ;  an 
anomaly  which  is  no  longer  tolerable  ; 


194 


The     King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


and  further,  that  it  is  of  absolute 
necessity  to  the  weal  of  this  country 
that  all  the  interests  and  associations 
linked  intimately  with  the  cause  of 
such  a  Church  be  plucked  up,  being  all 
nothing  as  compared  with  the  glorious 
sunshine  which  will  then  be  let  into 
the  now  decaying  roots.  And;  he 
must  go  a  step  further.  He  must 
be  prepared  to  offer  in  lieu  of  that 
which  he  has  uprooted  a  substitute 
more  abiding,  more  useful,  more 
thoroughly  and  truly  national.  And 
yet  one  more  point  should  be  clearly 
recognised  in  this,  as  in  all  such  ques- 
tions, whether  religious,  political  or 
social ;  that,  while  men  may  absolutely 
decline  to  found  an  institution  on  such 
lines  as  those  which  are  inherent  in 
the  institution  in  question,  they  may 
be  satisfied  that  to  remodel  and  repair 
is  sufficient.  It  may  be  utterly  un- 
desirable to  set  up  such  an  Established 
Church  as  ours  in  another  country — 
putting  aside  the  question  of  its  prac- 
ticability ;  but  it  would  be  fallacious 
to  argue  therefore  that  the  Established 
Church  in  England  should  cease  to 
exist.  So  far,  it  is  no  desire  of  the 
writer  to  do  more  than  point  out  that 
fair  play  should  be  extended  on  both 
sides ;  only  let  it  be  distinctly  remem- 
bered that  it  is  chimerical  and  danger- 
ous, in  orators  especially,  to  hold  up 
ideal  states  where  liberty  of  religion 
is  dispensed  with  free  hand  and  an 
Established  Church  does  not  exist, 
unless  they  have  carefully  weighed 
the  practical  issues  of  such  a  position, 
and  are  perfectly  convinced  that  in 
England,  after  a  due  and  long  con- 
sideration of  her  history,  such  a  sphere 
is  necessary,  and  demanded  by  the 
majority  of  the  nation. 

For  this  leads  us  to  the  one  real 
question  of  all  questions,  round  which 
all  else,  however  momentous,  centres 
— Is  the  Church  national  ?  Is  the 
Church  fulfilling  her  functions  as  the 
national  Church?  Is  she  justifying 
her  position?  Is  her  work  conspicu- 
ously to  the  front  for  the  nation's 
welfare  and  true  benefit  from  one  end 
of  this  country  to  the  other  1 


Now,  whether  or  no  the  Church  in 
this  large  sense  is  national  it  is  for 
the  decriers  of  such  an  establishment 
to  prove.  They  impeach,  they  raise 
axes  and  hammers,  they  cry  "Down 
with  it  to  the  ground."  Let  us,  then, 
examine  the  nature  of  the  combined 
forces  who  press  forward  to  the  work 
of  destruction,  and  see  for  ourselves 
how  far  they,  on  their  side,  have  a 
just  and  legitimate  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered the  national  party.  This  is 
not  to  shirk  in  the  very  least  the 
main  question  at  issue — Is  the  Church 
truly  national? — but  only  an  endea- 
vour to  see  why  forces,  at  first  sight  a 
little  heterogeneous,  push  on  so  vehe- 
mently under  one  banner  and  with  one 
war  cry. 

First,  let  us  clear  the  ground,  so  that 
we  may  see  with  what  common  cause 
we  are  contending ;  let  us  understand 
distinctly  what  is  meant  by  Establish- 
ment and  Disestablishment — with  En- 
dowment and  Disendowment  we  are 
not   at   present   concerned.     It   may, 
however,   be  remarked  in  passing  (a 
fact  too  often  disregarded),  that  the  \ 
popular   notion   that   at   some   vague  j 
period  in  our   history  the   State   did  j 
make  a  general  national  endowment  ij 
of  religion,  is  quite  erroneous.     The  \ 
conversion   of    England   was   not,   as  n 
some  will  tell  you  can  take  place  in  the  i) 
individual  soul,  a  "  sudden  conversion."  j 
By   no  means.     As  every  student  of  { 
history  knows,  there  was  at  that  time  j 
no   one  national  kingdom.     Nor  was,) 
there    any    system — nor    could    such ' 
system   have  existed — whereby  a  na-  j 
tional  Church  could  be  endowed.    If!1 
such  endowment  of  the  Church  existed] 
in   any  form  whatsoever,   it   was   an] 
action  which  concerned  one  or  other 
small  kingdom,  but  in  no  way  affected 
the    whole   of    England.      That    one 
Church    became    more    favoured    by 
richer  endowment  than  another  was 
due  to  the  fact  that  one  king,  or  one 
earl,   favoured  one  Church  more  than 
another,   and  gave  his  wealth  to  his 
own  particular  favourite. 

There  never  was  a  time  when  b), 
some   deliberate   act   on  the   part   01 


The     King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


195 


king  or  people  the  Church  was  "  estab- 
lished." It  is  a  general  notion  that 
the  Church  and  State  are  two  distinct 
bodies,  existing  as  such  from  some 
ideal  point  of  time,  and  that  a  com- 
pact or  bargain  can  be  struck  between 
these  two.  The  clergy,  such  people 
hold,  or  would  hold  if  they  thought 
over  the  matter  seriously,  form  the 
Church ;  the  State  is  the  Govern- 
ment, or,  as  Mr.  Green  first  taught 
the  general  world,  as  distinguished 
from  those  who  knew  better  before, 
the  Euglish  people.  But  the  Church 
is  not  composed  solely  of  clergy, 
nor  in  any  proper  sense  can  the 
Church  be  anything  else  than  the 
nation  viewed  religiously;  a  religious 
body,  being  either  of  one  mind  or 
of  many  minds,  yet  religious  minds. 
The  State  is  emphatically  not  the 
Government,  but  the  nation  at  large. 
"  The  whole  thing,"  says  Mr.  Freeman, 
"  like  everything  else  in  this  country, 
came  of  itself.  The  Church  Establish- 
ment has  just  the  same  history  as  the 
House  of  Commons,  or  as  trial  by  jury. 
It  is  the  creation  of  the  law ;  but  it  is 
not  the  creation  of  any  particular  law, 
but  of  the  general  course  of  our  law, 
written  and  unwritten."  It  is  vain 
to  argue  that  in  our  day  the  Estab- 
lished Church  is  one  and  the  same 
with  the  English  nation;  but  it  was 
so  co -extensive  once.  There  were  three 
heads  to  the  one  body  of  the  English 
nation — the  head  civil,  the  head  eccle- 
siastical, the  head  military ;  but  they 
all  had  one  and  the  same  body.  Re- 
garding the  nation  from  a  military 
view,  the  nation  was  military ;  re- 
garded from  a  religious  point  of  view, 
it  was  ecclesiastical. 

And  once  more,  on  this  head,  we 
are  not  by  any  means  at  one  with 
those  who  say  that  the  Church  is  a 
sacred  corporation,  and,  like  the 
person  of  the  Roman  tribune,  in 
violable.  We  have  no  sympathy 
with  those  who  sneer  at  the  Church 
as  an  "  Act-of -Parliament  "  Church ;  at 
the  same  time  we  hold  that  the  power 
of  Parliament  is  supreme,  and  that  so 
long  as  the  Church  is  to  call  itself 


national,  so  long  it  must  bow  to  the 
powers  that  be  in  this  country.  "  An 
Act  of  Parliament  may  be  unjust,  but 
it  cannot  be  unlawful."  All  things  are 
"lawful,"  though  not  necessarily  "ex 
pedient,"  for  such  a  power.  If  the 
State,  after  careful  deliberation,  de- 
cides that  the  community  at  large  has 
a  prior  claim  to  any  special  corpora- 
tion, then  the  corporation  must  give 
way.  Unless  so  much  is  admitted,  so 
long  as  the  Church  is  established,  we 
can  hardly  argue  together  further. 
With  the  belief,  natural  to  the  Church, 
that  their  whole  body  is  linked  in  an 
immutable  chain  of  apostles,  fathers, 
confessors,  orders,  and  so  forth  up  to 
the  Founder  of  Christianity,  we  have 
here  nothing  to  do.  Arguments  for 
such  a  perpetual  process  and  for  re- 
cognition of,  and  obedience  to,  the 
voice  of  the  Church  over  the  voice  of 
Caesar,  are  wide  of  the  question  con- 
sidered in  these  pages.  They  do  not 
deal  with  the  Church  as  established ; 
they  do  not  affect  the  national  Church. 
"The  authority  of  the  Church,"  says 
Dr.  Pusey,1  "  was  given  to  her  by  her 
Divine  Lord  within  certain  limits : 
'  Teach  them  whatever  I  command 
you.'  "  This  authority  of  the  Church 
is  for  a  law  to  herself  as  a  Church, 
but  not  as  an  established  and  national 
Church.  "  The  Church  2  is  in  matter 
of  fact  our  great  divinely-appointed 
guide  unto  saving  truth,  under  divine 
grace.  The  Church  is  practically  the 
pillar  and  ground  of  the  truth,  an 
informant  given  to  all  people,  high 
and  low,  that  they  might  not  have  to 
wander  up  and  down  and  grope  in 
darkness,  as  they  do  in  a  state  of 
nature."  The  State  in  no  way  denies 
this.  It  would  be  impossible  for  any 
Church  to  exist  which  had  less  con- 
fidence in  itself  and  its  origin.  But 
the  State  says  that,  while  the  Church 
may  believe  all  this,  like  Gallio,  it 
cares,  as  a  State,  "  for  none  of  these 

1  'An  Eirenicon,'  by  E.  B.  Pusey,  D.D., 
p,  40. 

2  'British  Critic'  for  October,  1838,  quoted 
by  Eev.  W.  G.  Ward,  '  The  Ideal  of  a  Chris- 
tian Church,'  p.  9. 

o  2 


The  King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


things."  So  long  as  the  Established 
Church  is  the  national  Church,  it  is 
liable  to  be  touched  and  handled  by 
the  State,  if  the  State  judges  it  ex- 
pedient to  do  so. 

If  this  matter  be  granted,  let  us 
proceed  to  look  at  the  peculiar  features 
of  the  various  assailants  of  a  national 
Church. 

Broadly  divided,  they  amount  to 
three  classes — (1)  the  Radical ;  (2)  the 
Atheist ;  (3)  the  Political  Dissenter. 

The  Radical  must  always  be  care- 
fully distinguished  from  the  Atheist, 
with  whom  naturally  and  necessarily 
he  has  nothing  in  common.  It  is  a 
stupid,  if  not  an  atrocious,  blunder  to 
mix  up  men  who  have  only  so  much 
of  unity  that  they  desire  to  pull  down 
the  Established  Church.  People  of 
widely  discordant  views  may  get  into 
the  same  lobbies;  as  we  know  ;  but  it 
is  only  a  very  undiscriminating  mind 
which  would  therefore  associate  Mr. 
Gladstone  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh.  It  is 
injudicious  to  do  so,  for  such  conduct  is 
apt  to  force  the  Radical  into  a  still  more 
bitter  antagonism,  and  may  drive  him 
to  unite  with  those  outside  his  camp 
on  other  grave  matters,  if  he  is  so 
constantly  misrepresented.  At  the 
same  time,  the  Radical  may  well 
seriously  ask  himself  how  it  is  that 
he  is  associated  with  such  strange 
bedfellows,  and  whether  he  is  not 
being  hurried  forward  into  actions  and 
into  decisions  without  a  careful  sound- 
ing of  the  deeps  beyond.  Liberty  is 
his  god :  liberty  is  the  phylactery 
which  is  writ  large  on  every  article 
of  his  political  and  religious  attire ; 
in  Liberty's  cause,  and  to  woo  her 
smile,  he,  a  zealous  votary,  ofttimes 
cuts  himself  with  knives  and  lancets — 
and  yet,  who  is  the  gainer  ?  His  argu- 
ment, putting  aside  the  many  minor 
ones,  which  are  again  divided  and  sub- 
divided, is  extremely  intelligible.  The 
Church  no  longer  coincides  with  the 
nation — the  malicious  might  add,  no 
more  does  the  army — and  is  only 
one  of  a  number  of  religious  bodies. 
Other  religious  bodies  enjoy  few  or  no 
privileges ;  why  should  the  Church, 


then,  enjoy  so  many  ?  But  further,  the 
Radical  will  assert  that  the  Church 
blocks  true  liberty,  that  it  has  always 
done  so  in  the  past,  and  that  it  is  the 
flunkey  of  wealth  and  titles. 

"  The  Church  of  England,"  says  the 
most  able  leader  of  the  -Radical  party, 
"  is  the  ally  of  tyranny,  the  organ  of 
social  oppression,  the  champion  of  in- 
tellectual bondage."  And  Mr.  Goldwin 
Smith  writes  in  a  similar  vein  :  "  For 
ages,  Christianity  has  been  accepted  by 
the  clergy  of  the  Established  Church 
as  the  ally  of  political  and  social 
injustice." 

How  much  happier  it  might  have 
been  for  this  world,  if  not  for  the 
next,  if  the  word  "  liberty  "  had  never 
been  written.  And  yet — perhaps,  for 
this  is  not  so  certain  as  some  think — • 
to  paraphrase  Voltaire,  "  If  there  had 
been  no  liberty,  it  would  have  been 
necessary  to  invent  one."  We  shall 
have  plenty  of  employment,  more  than 
plenty,  if  we  stare  "liberty"  in  the 
face  for  a  few  moments.  There  are 
certain  men  of  great  talents,  im- 
mense beneficence,  and  a  large  method 
of  looking  round  about  systems  and 
institutions,  who  yet  appear  either 
to  grow  colour-blind,  or  to  require 
blue  spectacles,  when  they  look  at 
certain  positions !  Take  Mr.  John 
Bright,  for  instance.  A  man  of 
extraordinary  oratorical  talents,  and 
hitherto  of  wonderful  touch  with  the 
English  character,  he  drops  his 
"  liberal "  principles  in  a  moment 
when  he  casts  his  eye  on  the  English 
Church.  Mr.  Chamberlain  has  more 
excuse.  But  Mr.  Chamberlain,  when 
he  poses  as  a  champion  of  liberty,  and 
wins  cheap  applause  by  denouncing  an 
Established  Church  as  an  anomaly 
and  an  ogre  who  eats  up  the  crusts  of 
the  poor,  is  really  talking  quite  off 
the  purpose.  He  wins  cheers  and 
he  wins  votes,  but  what  can  he  really 
know  of  the  working  of,  and  the  work 
of,  the  English  Church  ?  It  is  ex- 
tremely easy  to  glance  superficially 
at  such  an  institution,  and  to  bring 
out  in  bold  relief  the  mistakes  and 
errors  of  particular  men,  or  to  ridicule 


The  King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


197 


the  system  of  a  Church,  the  position, 
bearings,  and  condition  of  which 
neither  speaker  nor  audience  know 
save  in  a  most  cursory  manner.  Any 
third-rate  actor  can  win  the  applause 
of  "the  gods;"  but  "Cato"  together 
with  "the  judicious"  must  grieve,  or 
grow  hot  with  indignation,  that  such 
fustian  should  be  like  to  gain  the 
day. 

But  the  Radical — of  course  we  mean 
the  perfectly  sincere  Radical,  who  does 
not  play  to  the  "  gallery,"  but  has 
large  aims,  and  sincerely  great  aims — 
has  the  ulterior  intention  of  diverting 
the  wealth  of  the  Church  when  dis- 
endowed to  uses  more  beneficial  in  his 
eyes.  This  is,  however,  to  enter  upon 
the  topic  of  Disendowment,  which  we 
have  agreed  not  to  discuss.  The 
Radical  cordially  dislikes  the  Church 
as  a  powerful  engine,  the  one  most 
powerful  engine,  in  the  Conservative 
hands.  The  great  mass  of  the  clergy, 
and  a  very  considerable  share  of  the 
Church,  belong  to  the  "  great  stupid 
party;  "  and  an  attempt  to  attack  the 
status  and  funds  of  the  Church  would 
unite  together  those  within  the  pale 
who  at  present  have  considerable 
differences  of  opinion.  Love  of  mother 
Church  would  in  almost  all  cases 
precede  love  of  political  sentiment. 

With  regard  to  the  Atheist,  little 
need  be  said  as  to  his  attacks.  They 
have  always  been,  and  must  neces- 
sarily be,  against  all  religion ;  but  he 
has  the  skill  to  perceive  when  to  be 
silent,  and  when  to  swell  the  shout 
against  a  cause  which  is  in  some 
quarters  unpopular.  He  would  argue 
that  in  a  free  country  religious  bodies 
must  all  be  treated  alike,  and  that  he 
cares  for  none  of  them,  no,  nor  how 
many  there  may  be  of  them,  provided 
each  man  is  permitted  to  go  his  own 
way.  Religion  in  the  abstract  is 
a  most  unprofitable  study ;  national 
religion  is  an  absolute  torment,  which 
ought  to  be  applied  to  no  man.  And 
if  a  number  of  men  holding  such  a 
view,  unable  or  unwilling  to  believe 
that  God  exists,  were  to  possess  seats 
in  Parliament  and  be  called  upon  to 


legislate  on  matters  relating  to  the 
national  Church — then  indeed  we 
should  witness  a  monstrous  paradox. 

The  Political  Dissenter  is  not — let 
the  present  writer  frankly  confess  for 
himself — a  very  nice  person.  He  never 
says  "I  am  for  peace" — so  much  is 
true ;  it  is  likewise  certain  that  when 
he  speaks,  "they  are  for  war."  He 
is  always  dwelling  in  the  tents  of 
Kedar,  and  he  really  rather  likes  his 
quarters.  Take  away  his  red  rag  of  a 
national  Church,  and  where  is  this  bull 
of  Birmingham  Bashan  1  The  Reverend 
Mr.  Crosskey,  and  the  like  of  him,  are 
the  most  inveterate  and  active  skir- 
mishers in  the  ranks  of  the  Church. 
Their  skill  is  positively  marvellous  ; 
they  surprise  clerical  stragglers  now 
and  again,  and  make  much  of  such 
surprises  in  print  and  on  platform. 
Their  attack  perhaps  lacks  refinement ; 
but  they  hit  hard.  The  air  of  Bir- 
mingham is  good  for  pugilism — it 
runs  in  the  blood.  Mr.  Dale  is  a  finer 
hitter,  and  a  far  superior  man  of  war. 
He  is,  as  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  ob- 
serves,1 "  really  a  brilliant  pugilist." 

The  Wesleyan  body,  the  oldest  of 
the  Methodist  denominations — claim- 
ing upwards  of  a  million  adherents  in 
Great  Britain,  over  and  above  some 
eight  hundred  thousand  younger  mem- 
bers in  the  Sunday  schools — by  no 
means  exercise  themselves  in  a  similar 
tone.  The  closer  historical  relation 
of  Methodism  with  the  Established 
Church  may  in  some  degree  account 
for  this  ;  yet  it  would  be  foolish  to 
suppose  that  by  them  also  Disestablish- 
ment will  not  be  hailed.  But  in  the 
pulpit  they  are  temperate  ;  to  denounce 
the  Church  is  not  one  and  the  same 
thing  as  to  attack  the  devil,  the  world, 
and  the  flesh.  It  is  worthy  of  notice, 
that  this  year,  in  the  annual  Wesleyan 
Conference  at  Newcastle  -  on  -  Tyne, 
Dr.  Osborn  emphatically  declared — 
and  his  words  were  received  with  great 
applause — that  it  would  prove  totally 
destructive  to  the  body  if  Wesleyan 
ministers  were  to  take  sides  in  political 

1  'Last   Essays   on  Church  and  Religion,' 
p.  185. 


198 


The  Kings  Daughter  in  Danger. 


warfare.  And  in  his  address  to  the 
newly-ordained  young  ministers,  the 
ex-president  expressed  the  popular 
conviction  when  he  said  that  the 
minister  most  faithfully  fulfilled  his 
ordination  vows  who  passed  through  a 
circuit  without  letting  his  people  know 
to  what  political  party  he  belonged. 

But  it  would  be  wrong  to  conclude 
that  therefore  this  body  will  vote 
unanimously  for  the  Establishment 
to  continue.  To  them,  as  to  all  Non- 
conformist bodies,  the  tithe  is  an 
injustice.  To  them,  as  to  all  Non- 
conformist bodies,  the  fact  of  a 
church  in  every  parish,  and  a  priest 
in  every  parish,  representatives  of 
nationality,  and  necessarily  regarded 
as  such  formally  or  informally,  is 
a  thing  difficult  to  stomach.  And  it 
may  further  be  conceded  that  the  tone 
and  language  of  many  Church  people, 
and  of  not  a  few  clergymen,  is  of  such 
an  arrogant  nature  as  to  widen  es- 
trangement, and  to  prevent  that  sym- 
pathy which  does  so  much,  if  it  says 
so  little.  The  superior  tone,  as  of  a 
chosen  priesthood,  a  peculiar  people, 
which  some  smooth-faced  curate  will 
often  assume  towards  individuals,  or 
bodies  of  men  of  piety  and  ability, 
whose  convictions  are  deep  and 
sincere,  has  done  incalculable  harm. 
Many  clergymen,  especially  country 
clergymen,  whose  vision  is  at  times 
limited,  speak  of  a  Dissenter  as  to 
be  classed  with  publicans  and  sin- 
ners ;  and  it  is  to  be  noticed  with 
what  far  greater  fairness  and  kindli- 
ness the  mass  of  clergy  refer  to  the 
Roman  Catholics  in  their  parish. 
There  are  many  exceptions — the  ex- 
ceptions are  probably  far  more  fre- 
quent than  before — but  the  mischief 
that  is  done  by  such  slighting  and  un- 
charitableness,  though,  doubtless,  not 
known  to  those  who  so  speak,  is 
never  forgotten.  It  is  no  n^w  thing. 
As  long  ago  as  the  year  1867  we  find 
Dean  Alford  drawing  public  attention 
to  the  unfortunate  exchange  of  feel- 
ing :  "  Nothing,"  he  writes,  "is  more 
strongly  impressed  on  my  mind,  when 
I  look  over  the  religious  state  of  Eng- 


land, than  that  we,  who  are  members 
of  her  Established  Church,  have  need 
to  face  the  whole  important  question 
of  our  relations  to  Nonconformists, 
with  a  view  to  a  readjustment  in  the 
light  of  the  Christian  conscience  of  our 
words  and  our  acts  respecting  them. 
...  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  no 
justification  for  the  present  alienation 
of  affection,  the  present  virtual  sus- 
pension of  intercourse,  the  present 
depreciating  tone  and  manner  which 
prevail  on  the  part  of  English  Church- 
men towards  Dissenters  and  towards 
Churches  which  differ  from  ourselves 
in  organisation."  Dr.  Stoughton,  in 
his  work  on  religion  in  England  (1800- 
1850),  mentions  with  strong  feeling 
how  Nonconformists  appreciated  the 
courtesy  and  fellowship  of  the  late 
Dean  of  Westminster  :  "  No  one  did 
so  much  as  he  to  bring  together 
persons  of  different  communions  ;  and 
under  the  touch  of  his  warm  and  com- 
prehensive sympathy,  prejudice  and 
bigotry,  at  least  for  a  time,  melted 
entirely  away.  Congregations  who 
only  saw  him  as  with  bent  head,  down- 
cast eyes,  and  slow  and  reverent  step, 
he  walked  up  the  pulpit  stair,  could 
not  picture  what  he  was  as  he  came 
forward  at  home  with  rapid  move- 
ment, and  with  smiles  irradiating 
his  finely-chiselled  features,  to  grasp 
the  hands  of  Nonconformist  guests, 
bidding  them  a  welcome  which  glowed 
with  genuine  heartiness."  And  the 
late  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  a 
man  wise  in  his  generation  and 
full  of  discreet  understanding,  in 
a  Charge  delivered  at  Maidstone  on 
"Union  Without,"  tells  his  hearers 
not  to  judge  of  the  Nonconformists  by 
the  "violent  expressions  of  platform 
orators."  "  I  thought  it  wise,"  so  he 
says  in  his  Charge,  "and  gladly  wel- 
comed the  opportunity  to  receive  in 
my  house,  which  might  be  considered 
as  the  very  home  of  the  Church  of 
England,  a  large  and  powerful  deputa- 
tion of  the  chief  Nonconformist  minis- 
ters in  London.  .  .  .  Such  meetings 
can,  I  think,  be  fraught  with  nothing  j 
but  real  good." 


The  King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


199 


In  judging  of  the  grounds  of  com- 
plaint against  the  national  Church 
made  by  Radicals  and  Nonconformists, 
it  is  of  special  importance  that  English 
Churchmen  should  endeavour  to  look 
fairly  at  existing  facts,  to  consider  how 
they  themselves  would  feel  were  con- 
ditions reversed,  whether  their  own 
motives  in  the  desire  to  maintain  the 
Established  Church  are  pure  and  free 
from  alloy.  That  men  of  rare  abilities, 
genuine  sincerity,  and  strong  love  of 
liberty  and  freedom,  should  be  coupled 
with  baser  tools  and  instruments,  and 
should  be  thrown  into  the  same  ranks 
with  men  of  violently  socialistic  and 
atheistic  views,  may  be  cause  for 
regret ;  but  it  is  not  therefore  the 
slightest  evidence  that  the  cause  advo- 
cated has  not  right  and  justice  on  its 
side.  The  better  may  bewail  the  fact 
that  they  have  as  allies  the  baser,  and 
may  have  respect  for  their  enemies  ; 
but  none  the  less  will  they  contend 
ardently  for  that  wherein  they  believe, 
and  believe  to  be  for  the  greatest 
benefit  to  the  country  at  large.  People 
occupied  by  strong  religious  convic- 
tions may  wince  at  unity  for  the 
moment  with  people  detesting  re- 
ligion ;  but  it  is  possible  that  both 
may  fight  under  the  same  banner 
with  the  best  of  conscientious  motives. 

Let  us  now  turn  from  this  neces- 
sarily all  too  brief  survey  of  the  chief 
opponents  of  the  national  Church,  and 
look  down  the  lists  of  those  within  the 
beleaguered  city  to  see  how  they  fare. 
It  is  not  always  the  attack  from  with- 
out which  is  the  most  to  be  dreaded ; 
a  man's  foes  may  be,  and  often  are, 
"  those  of  his  own  household." 

The  camp  within  the  national 
Church  may  be  for  greater  convenience 
divided  into  the  three  well-known 
parties  of  High,  Low,  and  Broad 
Church. 

The  High  Church  man  in  doctrine 
may  not  in  all  cases  correspond  to 
what  is  called  the  Ritualist,  but  in 
several  he  does.  They  at  least  have 
given  back  to  the  Church  the  "  beauty 
of  holiness."  They,  like  the  Radicals, 
have  a  keen  appreciation  of  liberty, 


but — shall  we  say  also  like  the  Radi- 
cals ? — they  have  not  a  vivid  sense  of 
humour.  Recently,  at  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  Holy  Communion  at  a 
church  in  Cornwall,  the  non-celebrant 
priest  was  to  be  seen  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  Communion  ser- 
vice grovelling  on  the  floor,  so 
that,  to  the  congregation  he  ap- 
peared like  unto  a  four-footed  beast, 
"  clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful." It  may  be  said  that  at  such 
a  time  the  attitude  of  the  body  matters 
little,  that  the  devout  have  no  thought 
for  such  things  as  the  posture  of  this 
or  that  person.  Yet  nature  will 
return,  however  so  much  expelled  by 
a  proper  and  becoming  fork;  and 
surely  a  congregation  following  such  a 
lead  would  present  a  truly  appalling 
spectacle.  This  party — the  Ritualists 
— pay  little  attention  to  the  injunc- 
tions of  such  bishops  as  may  run 
counter  to  their  own  desires;  they 
attach  absolutely  none  to  the  admoni- 
tions and  menaces  of  civil  jurisdic- 
tion. In  their  congregations  you  will 
find,  taken  all  through,  a  very  large 
percentage  of  young  people  :  this  is 
natural,  because  the  movement  has 
not  been  of  very  long  growth.  You 
will  find  also  <  a  considerable  mass 
of  women ;  and  this  also  is  natural. 
Ever  since  women  gathered  round 
the  Cross,  their  sex  has  strongly 
supported  religious  causes ;  and  their 
far  greater  leisure,  and  hitherto  more 
untutored  reasoning  powers,  have  con- 
tributed to  make  them  fill  the  seats 
of  churches.  It  will  be  curious  to 
see  if,  under  this  new  and  so-called 
higher  education  of  theirs,  they  will 
continue  equally  loyal  to  the  call  of 
religion.  Without  expressing  a  strong 
opinion  on  any  side,  it  may  be  safely 
affirmed  that  if  once  the  mothers  of 
England  become  careless  of  religion, 
it  will  be  the  worst  blow  for  English 
character  that  could  possibly  be  struck. 
It  is  a  particular  misfortune  of  this 
body,  that  its  members,  and  especi- 
ally its  younger  members,  in  their 
devotional  books,  in  their  gestures 
and  demeanour  in  church,  in  their 


200 


The  King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


whole  religious  attitude,  sail  as  near 
the  Romish  tenets  and  method  of 
service  as  they  can.  The  weaker 
ones,  who  possess  less  common  sense 
and  temperateness,  are  apt  to  get 
on  to  an  inclined  plane,  and  hardly 
know  where  to  stop.  Their  vows  of 
ordination  are  understood  with  much 
mental  reservation  and  elasticity  of 
meaning ;  the  authority  of  "  The  Or- 
dinary "  is  an  excellent  expression  in 
its  way,  but  not  one  to  be  too  strongly 
dwelt  upon,  or  kept  in  inconvenient 
memory.  It  would  be,  however, 
extremely  unfair  to  this  large  and 
important  branch  of  the  Church  not 
to  recognise  to  the  full  the  im- 
mense vitality  of  the  whole  section, 
and  the  never-tiring  work  which  is 
done  by  great  numbers  of  Ritualist 
clergy  in  the  dark  places  of  great  towns. 
It  is  always  an  easy  matter  for  an 
outsider,  who  has  taken  no  trouble  to 
ascertain  the  meaning  of  certain  for- 
mulas, postures,  or  demeanours,  to 
raise  a  cheap  laugh.  It  is  natural 
that  people  who  live  outside  a  religion, 
and  especially  if  their  inclination 
has  nothing  of  sympathy  with  it, 
should  fail  wholly  to  appreciate  its 
symbols.  The  mind  which  struggles 
to  be  calmly  philosophical  insensibly 
imbibes  prejudices,  itself  blind  to  its 
own  partiality.  "  Philosophers,"  says 
M.  Renouf  truly,  "  who  may  pride 
themselves  on  their  freedom  from 
prejudice,  may  yet  fail  to  understand 
whole  classes  of  psychological  pheno- 
mena which  are  the  result  of  religious 
practice,  and  are  familiar  to  those 
alone  to  whom  such  practice  is 
habitual."  To  the  outside  world  the 
Egyptian  worship  of  a  dog,  an  ibis, 
or  a  goat,  seemed  ludicrous,  and  even 
monstrous.  "  The  god  of  the  Egyp- 
tians," says  Clement  of  Alexandria, 
"  is  revealed  ;  a  beast,  rolling  on  a 
purple  couch."  And  yet  it  may  be 
worth  while  to  remember  that  once 
Christianity  itself  was  held  to  be 
a  "damnable  superstition  (exitiabilis 
super stitio)  ; "  and  men  believed  popu- 
larly that  its  followers  worshipped 
the  ass,  a  form  of  religion  derived 


from  the  Jew.  To  the  outer  work 
the  worship  of  the  Lamb  with  seven 
horns  and  seven  eyes,  adored  by  four 
beasts,  can  hardly  have  appeared  other 
than  a  "  damnable  superstition." 

A  portion  of  this  branch  would 
desire  Disestablishment.  Rejecting  all 
outer  authority  they  would  naturally 
wish  the  Church  to  be  a  law  to  itself.  If 
the  Church  were  disestablished  accord- 
ing to  their  wish,  it  is  difficult  to  say  to 
what  excesses  they  might  run,  or  how 
far  they  could  coquet  with  the  blan- 
dishments of  Rome  without  fear  of 
breach  of  promise.  It  is  dangerous 
to  play  on  the  verge  of  precipices ;  it 
is  especially  dangerous  when  the 
player  is  young,  inexperienced,  backed 
up  by  an  excited  crowd  of  fervid 
worshippers,  and  a  little  intoxicated 
by  the  odours  of  incense  and  feminine 
flattery.  What  Pusey  could  hold  and 
do,  with  apparent  impunity,  may  not 
therefore  be  carried  out  and  on  with 
equal  impunity  by  those  who  have  not 
also  imitated  Pusey  in  a  careful 
scrutiny  of  cause  and  effect. 

Nothing  more  beautiful  can  be  ima- 
gined than  the  frame  of  religious 
spirit  which  permeates  the  saintly 
Pusey  in  all  his  writing — a  spirit  of 
love,  of  the  deepest  and  most  pure 
religion.  But  this  spirit  is  temperate 
if  firm,  understanding  if  dogmatic. 
This  is  the  innocence  of  a  child 
combined  with  an  unswerving  faith. 
"  I  believe  explicitly  all  which  I 
know  God  to  have  revealed  in  His 
Church  ;  and  implicitly  (implicite)  any 
thing,  if  He  has  revealed  it,  which  I 
know  not.  In  simple  words,  I  be- 
lieve all  which  the  Church  believes." 
This  spirit  can  hardly  be  reached;  it 
must  be  born,  possibly  in  some  cases 
born  again.  A  spirit  so  bathed,  so 
totally  immersed,  in  thorough  com- 
munion with  the  Church  as  the  sole 
representative  of  God  Himself,  is  one 
which  no  outsider  can  fathom,  no 
system  of  philosophy  explain,  no 
argument  reach.  It  may  be  incon- 
sistent with  a  degree  of  liberty ;  it 
may  lack  the  fresh  play  of  the  keen 
outer  air  so  wholesome,  so  bracing; 


Tke  King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


201 


yet  it  possesses  the  supreme  peace 
which  passes  understanding.  No  ;  the 
name  of  Pusey  is  revered  among  the 
Ritualistic  branch  of  the  Church,  but 
his  spirit  is  too  often  absent  from  it. 

The  Low  Church  party  have  not 
gained  ground.  They  have  been 
obliged  in  many  instances  to  yield  to 
the  prevailing  tendency  of  the  age, 
and  to  allow  greater  ornateness  of 
service,  and  more  colour  in  the  con- 
duct of  their  forms  of  religion.  The 
particular  views  of  such  men  as  Dean 
McNeile,  Dean  Close,  and  Canon 
Stowell,  are  not  the  views  put  for- 
ward popularly  by  the  modern  Low 
Church  party,  though  the  older  men, 
such  as  Canon  Hoare,  would  probably 
adhere  to  them.  At  the  present  day 
it  can  hardly  be  said  that  any  of  the 
great  preachers  or  writers  of  the  Eng- 
lish Church  belong  to  this  school.  Such 
names  as  Liddon — pre-eminently  the 
first  teac/ier  of  the  day — Magee,  Light- 
foot,  Church,  Woodford,  Yaughan,  are 
not  enrolled  in  what  are  called  Evan- 
gelical annals.  There  is,  it  appears,  a 
certain  strait-waistcoat  of  thought 
to  be  worn  by  the  disciples  of  this 
school,  which  cribs  and  confines  over- 
much the  men  of  wider  sympathies 
and  bigger  hearts.  Their  predeces- 
sors in  the  country  parts  were  men  of 
a  different  stamp.  George  Eliot's  Mr. 
Irwine  is  not  a  Low  Church  clergy- 
man ;  his  service  was  the  usual  ser- 
vice of  his  day — unadorned,  simple, 
homely.  He  was  not  what  would  be 
called  "  advanced ;"  but  he  was  not  the 
man  who  would  call  the  Pope  "  Anti- 
christ" every  Sunday  morning  from  his 
cushioned  pulpit.  He  "  dwelt  among 
his  own  people,"  and  was  equally 
interested  in  their  baptisms,  their 
fields  of  potatoes,  their  dairies,  and 
their  first  communions.  The  modern 
type  not  rarely  lacks  this  geniality, 
if  he  has  more  salvational  virtue  in 
him.  As  he  is  seen  at  times  out  for 
a  holiday  on  the  sea-shore  he  does  not 
always  show  to  much  advantage.  But 
we  all  have  our  weak  points,  and  out- 
ward appearances  have  always  been 
deceitful. 


The  Broad  Church  party  has  ad- 
vanced while  the  Low  Church  has 
decreased.  This  is  natural.  The  Low 
Church  party  has  done  great  good  in 
Missions  and  in  putting  the  Bible  into 
people's  hands.  The  savage  has  more 
often  had  a  Bible  put  into  his  hand 
by  an  Evangelical  than  by  all  the 
rest  of  the  Church  put  together.  The 
Broad  Church  party  must  swell  with 
the  increase  of  free  thought.  It  has 
no  exact  horizon;  a  convenient  haze 
ever  floats  over  the  valleys  beyond. 
Maurice,  Hare,  Kingsley,  Robertson, 
Stanley,  Pearson — where  are  now  the 
shoulders  whereon  their  mantles  may 
fitly  rest ! 

The  movement  has  enlarged  its 
mouth  :  it  now  aspires  to  unite  reve- 
lation and  science.  The  error  of  this 
school  is  subtle,  but  yet  manifest.  People 
who  have  no  especial  "views"  on  reli- 
gion, who  pride  themselves  on  being 
"large-minded"  and  "broad-minded," 
who  like  to  hear  some  new  thing ;  men 
who  are  scientific,  and  not  appreciative 
of  dogmatic  religion ;  people  who  like  to 
appear  to  go  to  church  but  "  can't 
stand  orthodoxy;"  ladies  who  have 
read  a  little — a  very  little — Strauss, 
and  are  inclined  to  think  "  there  is  a 
great  deal  in  what  he  says ; "  together 
with  the  sincere  believers  in  the 
elasticity  of  religious  faith — form  a 
congregation  which  requires  to  be  in- 
terested. With  some  of  these  pastors 
and  spiritual  instructors  "  sacerdotal- 
ism "  is  the  red  rag.  They  exhaust  the 
epithets  of  the  English  language,  they 
bring  up  all  their  artillery  of  sesqui- 
pedalian words,  their  big  guns  of  sar- 
castic, scornful,  denunciatory  speech, 
against  the  exaltation  of  the  man  into 
a  priest.  And  when  not  engaged  with 
"  sacerdotalism  "  they  are  at  the  throat 
of  dogma.  Dogma,  they  assert,  is  the 
root  of  all  the  evil  which  retards  the 
Church  of  England  from  being  truly 
and  really  national.  Dogma  interferes 
with  and  maims  liberty.  "  Religentem 
esse  oportet,  religiosum  nefas."1  The 
sentiment  of  M.  Ernest  Renan  is 
theirs,  enlarged  and  writ  plain  :  "  Le 

1  "  Piety  is  a  duty,  Superstition  a  crime.' 


202 


The  King's  Daughter  in  Danger. 


devoir  du  savant  est  d'exprimer  avec 
franchise  le  resultat  de  ses  etudes,  sans 
chercher  a  troubler  la  conscience  des 
personnes  qui  ne  sont  pas  appelees  a 
la  meme  vie  que  lui,  mais  aussi  sans 
tenir  compte  des  motifs  d'interet  et 
des  pretendues  convenances  qui  fans- 
sent  si  souvent  1'expression  de  la 
verite."  l 

It  is  the  cry  of  reason  struggling 
up  to  the  higher  air,  while  faith 
stands  staring  below.  It  is — so  they 
of  this  school  will  tell  you — but  the 
repetition  of  Prometheus  bound,  im- 
potent, yet  potent  to  hurl  defiance  at 
the  presiding  Zeus.  The  old  bottles 
are  worn  out,  the  new  wine  of  our 
vintage  will  be  spilt :  let  us  have 
those  of  new  make.  Forgetful  are 
they  that  ofttimes  when  men  have 
well  drunk  they  turn  with  a  sigh  and 
say,  "The  old  is  better." 

Yet  this  positive  abhorrence  of  dogma 
is  to  be  found  in  the  manifesto  of  the 
politician,  the  literature  of  science, 
and  not  least  in  works  of  fiction.  The 
clergyman  who  abides  by  dogma  is 
nearly  always  contrasted  in  ridicule 
with  his  brother  clergyman  who  pre- 
fers liberty  of  thought  to  catechism 
and  creed.  Says  Canon  Liddon  in  his 
university  sermons  of  about  twenty 
years  ago  :  "  Dogma  is  assumed, 
rather  than  stated  in  terms,  to  be 
untrue.  This  assumption  is  partly 
traceable  to  a  weakened  belief  in  the 
reality  of  an  objective  revelation  com- 
mitted to  the  Church  of  God.  .  .  .  The 
hands  that  direct  the  onslaught  are 
the  hands  of  Esau ;  but  the  voice  gives 
utterance  to  no  native  type  of  English 
thought :  it  is  the  voice  of  the  philo- 
sophy of  Hegel."  Whether  this  phi- 
losophy has  done  more  than  tinge  the 
religious  feelings  of  a  few  more 
thoughtful  souls  is  a  question  foreign 
to  our  purpose.  It  is  certain  that  the 

1  "  The  duty  of  the  man  who  knows  is  to 
express  with  freedom  the  result  of  his  studies, 
without  seeking  to  trouble  the  conscience  of 
those  who  are  not  called  to  the  same  life  as 
himself ;  but  also  without  considering  inter- 
ested motives  and  feigned  conveniences  which 
so  frequently  assume  the  guise  of  truth." 


anti-dogmatic  schools  need  a  strong 
reminder,  and  an  understanding  re- 
minder, of  the  text  on  which  the 
eloquent  Canon's  sermon  is  based, 
Where,  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  is,  there 
is  liberty. 

A  lawless  liberty,  falsely  so  called, 
which  declines  to  submit  except  to 
what  can  be  felt,  tasted,  handled,  can 
of  course  have  no  sympathy  with  a 
decided  and  definite  dogma,  elastic 
indeed,  yet  with  clearly  distinguish- 
able boundaries,  submissive  to  the 
will  of  God  "  whose  service  is  perfect 
freedom."  Without  necessarily  going 
so  far  as  to  affirm  with  St.  Cyril, 
Meyicrrov  TOtVW  KTrjfJLa  ecrri  TO  rcov 
Soy//,aT<oi/  fjidOrjjj,a,z  or  putting  the 
"  science  of  dogmas  "  in  the  foremost 
place,  surely  it  may  be  granted  that 
dogma  is  absolutely  fundamental  to 
any  Church  which  is  to  have  consis- 
tency. Those  who  falsely  try  to  win 
the  popular  sentiment  to  their  side  by 
stripping  teaching  of  every  shred  of 
dogma,  are  anxious  enough  to  set  up 
shibboleths  of  their  own,  which  are  to 
the  full  as  definite,  only  tinged  with 
that  excess  of  arrogance  which  belongs 
to  all  sects  and  parties  which  deviate 
from  the  main  path  by  .reason  of 
supposed  superiority.  An  excellent 
definition  of  dogma — to  sum  up  this 
question — is  given  by  the  preacher 
above  alluded  to,  and  one  which  the 
extreme  latitudinarians  might  well 
read  and  digest — "  Dogma  is  essential 
Christian  truth  thrown  by  authority 
into  a  form  which  admits  of  its  per- 
manently passing  into  the  understand- 
ing, and  being  treasured  by  the  heart 
of  the  people." 

The  attitude  of  the  English  people, 
generally  considered,  is  one  in  the 
main  of  respect.  They  pass  by,  and 
many  touch  their  hats,  simply  because 
they  recognise  the  "  king's  daughter." 
We  shall  not  be  surprised  to  find  that 
the  upper  classes  aft'ect  Church  views. 
Royalty  sets  the  fashion  :  it  is  the 
Court  religion.  But  with  brilliant 
exceptions  the  upper  classes  are  not 

2  "The  study  of  dogma  is  in  truth  the 
most  important  of  all." 


The  Kings  Daughter  in  Danger. 


203 


religious.  Bazaars,  and  suchlike 
eccentric  charities,  do  not  form  the 
basis  of  religion.  There  is  an  enor- 
mous amount  of  indifference  to  reli- 
gion in  this  class,  which  as  a  rule  eats 
too  much — if  Lady  John  Manners  has 
not  belied  her  kind — and  drinks  quite 
enough,  though  less  than  its  grand- 
fathers ;  nor  do  the  clergy  devote  so 
much  of  their  energy  to  changing  the 
lives  of  this  class  as  they  do  to  others. 
There  are  always  brilliant  exceptions ; 
so  there  will  be  always  men  like  the 
present  Bishops  of  Truro  and  Lich- 
field,  who,  as  parish  priests  in  fashion- 
able London  produced  big  results. 

No  !  Religious  feeling  is  not  strong 
in  the  extremes  of  society — the  upper 
and  the  lower  classes.  Religion  and 
true  piety  are  to  be  found  in  the  ranks 
of  the  great  middle  section.  Here 
is  to  be  seen  the  back-bone  of  the 
religious  feelings  and  sympathies  of 
England. 

But  England  is  becoming  more  and 
more  democratic ;  and  among  the 
democracy  Dissent  has  undoubted 
sway.  The  Church  of  England  recog- 
nises this  fact.  The  Church  of  Eng- 
land must  go  out  into  the  highways 
and  hedges  and  compel  them  to  come 
in.  What  the  Tory  Democrat  aims  at 
doing  in  the  political  world,  must  be 
done  by  the  Church  of  England  in  the 
religious  world,  if  it  is  to  be  the 
national  Church.  True,  it  is  an  under- 
taking fraught  with  stupendous  diffi- 
culty. The  teaching  of  the  Board 
Schools  is  simply  neutral  and  colour- 
less, if  it  exists,  in  matters  religious  ; 
the  Church  must  in  its  own  way  colour 
education.  What  the  boy  is,  the  man 
frequently  grows  to  be.  If  the  upper 
classes  are  to  be  a  pillar  of  defence  to 
the  Church  in  perilous  times,  the 
Church  must  educate,  must  instruct, 
must  be  foster-father  and  foster- 
mother,  else  the  apathy  of  the  upper 
classes,  who  regard  Dissent  as  not 
very  respectable  nor  very  much  the 
religion  for  a  gentleman,  will  be  but  a 
broken  reed  when  the  hurricane  falls 
on  the  Church's  devoted  head.  And 
this  applies  more  strongly  in  the  case 


of  the  poor.  The  clergyman,  who  is 
first  gentleman,  or  first  scholar,  must 
first  be  an  imitation  of  his  Master, 
"  the  tribune  of  the  people  :  "  he  must 
be  above,  yet  always  of,  them ;  he 
must  win  their  affections,  be  their 
right  hand.  The  example  of  Lowder 
is  not  uncommon :  it  must  be  pretty 
universal  if  the  Church  is  to  be  the 
Church  of  the  people.  The  Dissenting 
minister,  socially  often  the  inferior  of 
the  clergy  of  the  Established  Church, 
speaks  with  a  popular  voice  in  popular 
tones  understood  of  the  people.  They 
sit  near  each  other  in  the  chapel,  as 
they  live  near  each  other  in  the  street. 
They  like  impassioned  language  and 
fervid  eloquence ;  even  the  Salva- 
tionists' drum  does  not  jar  on  their 
senses.  They  understand  that  Charles 
Wesley  effected  as  much,  or  more,  by 
sweet  melody  and  the  hymn,  as  his 
brother  by  his  oratorical  gifts.  "  Me- 
thodism could  never  have  become  what 
it  did  without  its  unparalleled  hymn- 
book." 

Well,  the  English  clergy,  mostly 
of  the  High  Church  party,  are  compre- 
hending this.  High  Church  in  form 
and  belief,  these  men  are  evangelical 
in  method.  Canons  Body,  Knox- 
Little,  and  others,  have  learnt  the 
secret  of  that  enthusiastic  chameleon, 
Father  Ignatius.  Short,  stirring  mis- 
sionary addresses,  frequent  hymns,  a 
service  which  appeals  to  the  heart 
first  and  indirectly  to  the  head — these 
are  the  weapons  which  will  cause  the 
Church  to  be  the  great  power  among 
the  people.  Its  freedom,  its  liberal 
sentiments,  its  teaching  based  on  the 
Christ  of  the  poor,  the  carpenter's 
Son,  its  beautiful  language,  its  very 
essence,  must  charm  the  English 
people.  The  Gospel  must  knock  at 
their  doors ;  they  will  not  come  to  hear 
it,  sitting  side  by  side  with  the  richer 
folk.  This  working  class  has  no 
strong  prejudices  in  favour  of  one 
religious  form  over  another ;  but  they 
will  very  soon  believe  that  the  Church 
of  England  is  entirely  Tory  and  anti- 
popular.  Dissent  they  will  equally 
soon  believe  to  be  their  champion. 


204 


The  Kings  Daughter  in  Danger. 


The  Church  must  display  itself  as 
the  great  national  organ  for  the  pro- 
motion of  goodness.  If  Dissenters  fcilt 
at  the  Church,  let  it  be  understood 
that  they  are  inconsistent,  attacking 
that  very  quality  which  they  ought 
most  energetically  to  defend.  Let  it 
be  seen — and  no  point  is  more  impor- 
tant than  this — that,  while  those 
outside  the  Church  are  willing  to 
combine  for  party  purposes  entirely  to 
harass,  vex,  and  pull  down  the  bul- 
warks of  the  Established  Church,  yet 
inside,  with  large  divergence  of 
opinion  on  lesser  matters,  there  is 
unity ;  unity  aiming  at  this  one  end — 
the  dissemination  of  goodness.  If 
there  is  within  the  Church  only  a  zeal 
for  party — as  would  certainly  be  the 
case  were  the  Church  disestablished — 
one  man  crying,  "  I  am  of  King," 
another  "  I  am  of  Ryle,"  then  this 


great  aim  must  suffer ;  discredit  must 
be  brought  on  the  Church ;  and  the 
Church  must  cease  to  be  national. 

Then  there  will  be  great  rejoicing, 
even  if  the  moderate  Liberals  sigh  and 
shrug  their  shoulders — those  elastic 
shoulders  capable  of  bearing  so  much  ! 
Then  also  there  will  be  wailing  among 
not  a  few  thinking  men,  who  will  see 
at  last  that  party  has  ascended  the 
throne  in  all  things  supreme  ;  supreme 
at  last  in  matters  religious,  as  it  has 
long  been  in  matters  political. 

Then  will  Mr.  Joseph  Chamberlain, 
still  true  to  that  touch  of  "  senti- 
ment" which  adorned  his  namesake  in 
Sheridan's  immortal  comedy,  turn  to 
his  trusty  henchmen  and  command, 
"  Go,  bury  now  this  cursed  woman  ;  " 
adding  with  a  pious  afterthought,  "  for 
she  is  a  king's  daughter." 


205 


THE    'EUMENIDES'    AT    CAMBRIDGE. 


AMONG  the  many  innovations  which 
the  disturbing  years  have  lately  brought 
to  our  Universities,  these  present- 
ments of  the  Greek  drama  are  among 
the  few  one  suffers  gladly.  Innova- 
tions, indeed,  they  wholly  are  not, 
but  rather  a  revival  of  an  old  and 
honourable  custom.  Whether  the 
halls  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  have 
before  our  day  rung  to  the  mea- 
sures of  the  Attic  tragedians  I  can- 
not say,  but  am  inclined  to  think 
not.  In  those  times  when  the  drama 
was  most  liberally  cultivated  at  the 
Universities,  that  is,  in  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries,  the  general 
knowledge  of  the  Greek  literature  and 
language  seems  by  all  accounts  to  have 
been  no  great  thing.  Mr.  Bass  Mul- 
linger  and  the  Oxford  Historical  Society 
will  no  doubt  tell  us  all  about  that 
some  day.  But  Latin,  and  at  a  later 
time  English,  plays  were  frequent.  The 
performances  were  strictly  confined  to 
members  of  the  Universities.  Against 
the  general  stage-play  the  face  of  au- 
thority was  sternly  set;  "ludus  in- 
honestus"  it  was  contemptuously  styled, 
and  its  professional  exponent  was  by 
no  means  regarded  then  as  the  fine 
flower  of  intellectual  growth.  In  1575, 
for  instance,  the  Vice-Chancellor  of 
Cambridge  was  warned  by  the  Privy 
Council  "  of  some  attempts  of  light  and 
decayed  persons  who  for  filthy  lucre 
there  are  minded  and  do  seek  nowadays 
to  devise  and  to  set  up  in  open  places 
shows  of  unlawful,  hurtful,  pernicious, 
and  unhonest  games  near  to  Cam- 
bridge," whereby  the  youth  of  that 
University  were  like  to  be  "  enticed 
from  their  ordinary  places  of  learning." 
A  few  years  later,  in  1587,  the  Earl 
of  Leicester's  players  were  bribed  with 
a  present  of  twenty  shillings  (a  sum 
signifying,  of  course,  considerably  more 
than  it  would  now)  not  to  act  in 
Oxford. 


But  among  the  students  themselves 
the  drama  was  liberally  encouraged. 
Indeed,  the  first  statutes  of  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  expressly  ordained 
the  performance  of  Latin  tragedies  and 
comedies  in  the  hall  at  Christmas  ;  and 
at  King's  also  they  were  a  regular 
feature  of  the  academical  year,  as  they 
had  been  long  before  with  the  parent  of 
all  colleges,with  Merton  College,  Oxford. 
In  1564  Elizabeth  saw  the  '  Aulularia ' 
of  Plautus  presented  on  a  stage  in  the 
chapel  at  King's,  and  also  an  English 
play,  '  Ezechias,'  by  the  famous 
Nicholas  Udall  of  Eton,  who  bears  the 
honour  of  being  the  father  of  English 
Comedy.  Till  late  years  this  honour  had 
been  always  given  to  one  Still,  after- 
wards Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  and 
Vice-Chancellor  of  his  University  ;  his 
'  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,'  first  played 
at  Christ's  College  in  1566,  was  al- 
ways named  as  the  first  of  the 
race,  till  Collier  deposed  it  and  placed 
the  '  Ralph  Roister  Doister,'  of  Udall, 
written  about  1540,  in  its  stead. 
The  good  bishop  seems  in  his  old  age 
to  have  repented  him  of  his  early  de- 
viation from  the  classic  path  ;  at  least 
when  Vice-Chancellor  he  remonstrated 
with  Elizabeth's  ministers  for  permit- 
ting the  entertainment  of  an  English 
play  to  be  offered  to  her.  These 
performances  for  many  years  made  an 
inevitable  part  of  the  honours  paid  to 
royalty ;  and  the  dramatic  tastes  of 
the  Cambridge  students  seem  more 
than  once  to  have  caused  some  un- 
pleasantness. In  Henry  the  Eighth's 
reign  they  played  a  piece  called  *  Pam- 
machus,'  which  greatly  vexed  the 
loyal  soul  of  Gardiner,  Bishop  of 
Winchester,  and  their  Chancellor. 
He  remonstrated  with  the  Vice- 
Chancellor,  Matthew  Parker,  and  the 
audience  were  put  under  a  rigorous 
examination.  Their  memories  were, 
however,  of  that  convenient  order 


206 


The  '  SJumenides'  at  Cambridge. 


displayed  by  an  important  witness  at 
the  great  trial  of  Queen  Caroline  :  no 
one  could  remember  anything  which 
really  made  against  the  king's 
righteousness,  and  so  the  matter  had 
perforce  to  be  dropped.  Mr.  Froude, 
also,  tells  a  terrible  tale  of  a  mis- 
adventure with  Henry's  great  daughter. 
She  had  been  staying  at  Cambridge 
during  one  of  her  "progresses" 
in  the  summer  of  1564,  and  been 
mightily  pleased  with  all  she  saw  and 
heard.  The  students  prayed  her  to 
stay  yet  one  more  evening  to  see  a 
play  they  had  got  up  for  her  ;  but  she 
could  not,  having  to  travel  far  the  next 
day,  and  intending  to  sleep  some  ten 
miles  or  so  out  of  the  town  to  break 
the  journey.  Then,  says  Mr.  Froude 
(cruelly,  as  one  who  in  his  day  had 
suffered  from  the  "  amateur  "),  "  the 
students,  too  enamoured  of  their  per- 
formance to  lose  a  chance  of  exhibit- 
ing it,  pursued  the  queen  to  her  rest- 
ing-place." With  royal  clemency  she 
suffered  the  performance  ;  but  it  seems 
unfortunately  to  have  been  some  sort 
of  skit  on  the  Catholic  bishops,  Bon- 
ner,  Heath,  Thirlby,  and  the  rest  who 
were  then  waiting  judgment  in  prison, 
and  with  royal  anger  she  resented  it. 
"With  indignant  words  she  rose  from 
her  seat,  and  swept  from  the  room ; 
the  lights  were  turned  out,  and  the 
discomfited  players  left  to  make  the 
best  of  their  way  back  to  Cambridge. 
But  in  the  reign  of  her  successor  a  yet 
greater  humiliation  fell  to  the  lot  of 
the  Oxford  players ;  Elizabeth  had 
been  angry,  but  James  was  bored,  and 
said  so  !  In  1605  the  king  was  at 
Oxford,  and  among  the  entertainments 
provided  for  him  were  three  plays  in 
Christ  Church  hall,  memorable  among 
other  things  for  being,  as  it  is  said, 
the  first  at  which  movable  scenes 
arranged  by  Inigo  Jones)  were  used. 
One  of  these  plays  was  called  the 
'Ajax  Flagellifer/  The  players, 
wrote  Leland,  "had  all  the  goodly- 
antique  apparel,  but  for  all  that,  it 
was  not  acted  so  well  by  many  degrees 
as  I  have  seen  it  at  Cambridge.  The 
king  was  very  weary  before  he  came 


thither,  but  much  more  wearied  by  it, 
and  spoke  many  words  of  dislike."  Nor 
was  Charles  much  more  fortunate  in 
1636,  when  a  piece,  written  by  William 
Strode,  the  public  orator,  full  of  hits 
against  earless  Prynne  and  the  Puri- 
tans, was  performed  in  the  same  hall ; 
the  worst  play,  Lord  Carnarvon  vowed, 
"that  ever  he  saw,  but  one  that  he 
saw  at  Cambridge."  However,  at  the 
same  visit  Cartwright's  '  Royal  Slave  ' 
was  given  in  the  hall  of  Saint  John's 
College,  and  at  this  the  queen  was  so 
pleased  that  she  had  it  repeated  after- 
wards at  Hampton  Court,  with  the 
same  dresses  that  had  been  worn  by  the 
Oxford  players.1  On  another  occasion 
at  the  same  University,  a  pastoral,  but 
what  or  by  whom  is  not  specified,  was 
presented  before  James  and  his  queen, 
in  which  the  players,  according  to 
Winwood,  were  very  sparely  draped 
indeed;  whether  this  entertainment 
also  provoked  words  of  dislike  from 
the  king,  or  whether  it  so  pleased  the 
queen  as  to  command  a  royal  encore, 
I  cannot  say.  No  doubt,  when  a 
French  pastoral  was  played  at  Hamp- 
ton Court  before  Charles,  the  per- 
formers, including  the  queen  and 
several  of  her  maids  of  honour,  were 
more  decently  clad.  Between  1605 
and  1607  Ben  Jonson's  'Yolpone' 
was  presented  very  triumphantly  at 
both  Universities  ;  but  the  plays  seem 
to  have  been  mostly  of  native  pro- 
duction, and,  of  course,  to  have  been 
rather  flouted  by  the  regular  play- 
wrights. In  '  The  Return  from 
Parnassus '  (acted,  by  the  way,  at 
Saint  John's  College,  Cambridge, 
though  possibly  with  this  heretical 
passage  excised),  one  of  the  char- 
acters observes :  "  Few  of  the  Uni- 
versity pen  plays  well ;  they  smell  too 
much  of  that  writer  Ovid  and  that 
writer  Metamorphosis,  and  talk  too 
much  of  Proserpine  and  Jupiter  "- 
much  as  certain  of  our  modern  play- 
wrights take  objection  to  the  style 
of  Shakespeare. 

The  drama  was  much  in  vogue  at 

1  See  Mr.  Gardiner's  'History  of  England,' 
VIII.  150-2. 


The  '  Eumenides'  at  Cambridge. 


207 


Cambridge  when  Milton  was  an  under- 
graduate at  Christ's  College,  but 
whether  he  bore  any  part  in  it  I 
am  not  sure  ;  he  has  written,  peevishly 
says  Johnson,  against  the  custom,  but 
that  was  in  his  later  peevish  years  ;  in 
his  youth  he  seems  to  have  had  no  ob- 
jection to  theatrical  amusements,  and 
from  his  good  looks  and  his  learning 
one  imagines  him  likely  to  have  been 
useful  to  any  cast.  Then  the  clouds 
of  Puritanism  darkened  the  face 
of  the  land,  and  the  theatre  lapsed 
into  disgrace.  We  read  of  Cowley's 
'  Guardian '  being  played  privately 
at  Cambridge  in  those  times,  and  ap- 
parently by  a  professional  company  ; 
but  till  the  Restoration  the  students 
of  either  University  were  probably 
allowed  few,  if  any,  such  relaxations 
from  their  graver  studies.  In  1669, 
however,  Cosmo  de  Medicis,  prince  of 
Tuscany,  was  present  at  a  Latin 
comedy  in  Trinity  College,  Cambridge  ; 
and  two  years  later  the  king  himself 
was  entertained  with  an  English  play 
in  the  same  collegers  he  had  been  when 
Prince  of  Wales  j  ust  thirty  years  before. 
So  far  as  my  fragmentary  researches 
have  led  me  this  was  the  last  occasion 
of  such  honours  being  paid  to  royal 
guests.  Neither  James,  nor  William, 
nor  Anne  received  them,  though  the 
latter  was  entertained  at  Oxford  with 
a  concert  in  the  Theatre.  Then  the 
royal  visits  altogether  ceased,  till  that 
memorable  one  whose  painful  tale  is 
told  in  Madame  D'Arblay's  journal. 
When  the  author  of  'Cecilia,'  half 
fainting  from  hunger  and  fatigue, 
was  dragged  through  Oxford  in  the 
train  of  her  royal  mistress  it  is 
not  recorded  that  any  theatrical 
performance  enabled  the  poor  lady-in- 
waiting  to  snatch  a  few  minutes 
of  rest.  But,  indeed,  through  the 
greater  part  of  the  last  century  the 
atmosphere  of  Oxford  at  least  seems 
to  have  been  little  favourable  to  such 
erudite  amusements.  The  evidence  of 
Swift,  Chesterfield,  Gibbon,  to  mention 
but  a  few  notable  witnesses,  shows  but 
too  clearly  how  sadly  Oxford  had  in 
those  days  fallen  from  her  high  estate. 


But  to  get  to  our  Greek  play  ;  and 
indeed,  it  is  well  that  the  Eumenides 
should  be  gracious  goddesses,  for  they 
have  been  kept  a  long  time  waiting. 
Every  one  knows  the  genesis  of  these 
antique  reproductions  :  how  Oxford 
(that  "  mother  of  great  movements,"  as 
one  of  the  most  gifted  of  her  later- 
born  sons  has  called  her)  led  off  with 
the  '  Agamemnon '  of  ^Eschylus,  and 
how  Cambridge  followed  with  the 
'  Ajax  '  of  Sophocles  and  the  '  Birds ' 
of  Aristophanes.  In  intrinsic  interest 
the  'Eumenides  '^of  ^Eschylus  is  hardly 
in  the  first  rank.  It  has  not  the  hu- 
manity, nor  the  majesty,  nor  the  pity 
of  such  plays,  for  instance,  as  '  Aga- 
memnon '  or  '  Prometheus,'  '  CEdipus, 
the  King '  or  '  (Edipus  at  Colonos,' 
the  'Medea'  or  the  'Alcestis.'  It 
has  what  to  a  modern  critic  would  be 
a  radical  fault,  it  deals  with  a  past 
event ;  it  is  disputatious  rather  than 
active.  On  the  other  hand,  certain 
extrinsic  circumstances  give  it  an  im- 
portance above  its  purely  dramatic 
qualities ;  an  importance  to  us,  and 
gave  it  one,  we  may  suppose,  to  its 
first  audience.  It  is,  in  the  first  place, 
a  part  of  the  only  trilogy  extant ;  it 
is  the  final  act  of  one  great  drama, 
the  story  of  Orestes,  of  which  the 
'  Agamemnon '  and  the  '  Choephori,' 
or  '  Libation-bearers,'  form  the  first 
two.  To  the  Athenian,  then,  who  had 
seen  the  whole  tale  evolved,  from  the 
primal  curse  of  blood  wrought  on  the 
house  of  Atreus  through  the  murder 
of  the  husband  by  the  wife,  on  through 
the  revenge  of  the  son  upon  the 
mother,  down  to  the  final  expiation, 
there  was  naturally  no  such  sense  of 
inaction  as  we  feel  who  see  only  now 
the  last  act.  During  something  over 
n^y  years  it  was  the  common,  though 
probably  not  indispensable,  custom  for 
each  competing  tragedian  to  produce 
four  plays ;  three  serious  ones  (not 
necessarily  connected  with  each  other) 
and  a  shorter  piece,  called  a  crarv/ao?,  or 
satyric  drama,  from  the  Chorus  being 
composed  of  satyrs;  of  which  the 
'  Cyclops '  of  Euripides,  familiar,  let 
us  hope,  even  to  those  who  are  not 


208 


The  ' Eumenides'  at  Cambridge. 


Grecians,  through  Shelley's  admirable 
translation,  is  the  sole  example.  This 
combination  was  known  as  a  rerpoAoyta, 
or  tetralogy ;  sometimes  the  fourth 
piece  was  omitted,  and  then  the 
three  tragedies  were  styled  a  rpiXoyia, 
or  trilogy.  The  earliest  of  such  tri- 
logies is  that  one  of  ^Eschylus  which 
contained  the  'Persse,'  exhibited  B.C. 
472  ;  the  last  recorded  tetralogy  was 
one  exhibited  by  Euripides  B.C.  415,  of 
which  the  '  Troades '  alone  remains. 
The  three  plays  by  .^Eschylus,  which 
form  the  ( Oresteia '  or  story  of  Orestes, 
is  the  only  perfect  trilogy  which  has 
survived.  This  fact  (which  is,  of  course, 
common  knowledge  to  all  students  of 
the  Greek  drama,  but  for  such  I  do 
not  presume  to  write),  it  is  well  to 
bear  in  mind  when  considering  the 
'  Eumenides  '  as  a  play. 

But  to  the  Athenians  it  had 
another  importance ;  one,  indeed,  not 
altogether  proper  "  to  the  purpose 
of  playing/'  yet  one  which  even  those 
fine  critics  could  not  have  wholly  put 
by.  At  the  time  of  the  play,  about 
458  B.C.,  the  time  of  the  rupture  with 
Sparta  and  the  alliance  with  Argos, 
the  feeling  between  the  Aristocratic 
party,  or  Conservatives  as  we  should 
now  say,  led  by  Cimon,  and  the  Demo- 
cratic party  led  by  Pericles,  was  at 
its  height.  Progress  was  the  order  of 
the  day,  and  one  of  the  most  popular 
movements  on  that  dim  uncertain 
road  was  the  abolition  of  the  Areo- 
pagus, which  one  fond,  like  Mr. 
Courthope,  of  political  parallels, 
might  explain  as  the  disestablishment 
of  the  House  of  Lords.  At  any  rate 
that  old  aristocratic  assembly  was  to 
go,  or  at  least  to  be  reformed  away 
into  practical  nothingness.  It  was, 
said  the  Democrats,  old-fashioned,  un- 
wieldy, superfluous,  the  stronghold  of 
a  selfish  nobility :  it  must  go.  One 
of  its  especial  privileges  was  that  of 
supreme  jurisdiction  in  all  cases  of 
homicide.  Ephialtes,  the  most  popular 
champion  of  the  Democratical  party 
next  to  Pericles,  is  believed  by  some 
to  have  brought  forward  a  motion 
to  abolish  this  special  privilege.  He 


had  certainly  caused  the  laws  of 
Solon  to  be  brought  down  from  the 
Acropolis  and  deposited  in  the  market- 
place, so  as  to  signify  the  transfer 
of  their  guardianship  from  the  senate 
to  the  people,  a  piece  of  impiety, 
as  many  of  course  called  it,  for  which 
he  not  long  after  paid  with  his 
life.  Others,  however,  and  among 
them  both  Thirlwall  and  Grote,  hold 
that  the  jurisdiction  in  cases  of 
murder  was  still  to  be  left,  and  in 
fact  to  be  the  sole  power  left,  to 
the  Areopagus.  It  is  certain  that 
some  such  power,  nominally  at  any 
rate,  belonged  to  that  assembly  very 
nearly  down  to  the  Christian  era  ;  but 
that  any  real  attempt  had  ever  been 
made  to  annul  it  is  not  so  certain.  This 
uncertainty  throws  a  curious  doubt  on 
the  exact  tendency  of  the  political  al- 
lusions in  the  last  scene  of  the  play. 
^Eschylus,  as  became  "a  man  of  Mara- 
thon," might  certainly  be  supposed  to 
have  been  on  the  side  of  the  Tories,  and 
the  charge  of  Athena  to  the  twelve 
citizens  whom  she  had  summoned  to 
decide  between  the  Furies  and  Orestes, 
seems  surely  to  point  that  way. 

"  0  men  of  Athens,  ye  who  first  do  judge 
The  law  of  bloodshed,  hear  me  now  ordain — 
Here  to  all  time,  for  ^Egeus'  Attic  host, 
.  Shall    stand  this   council-court  of  judges 

sworn  ; 

Here  the  tribunal,  set  on  Ares'  Hill 
Where  camped  of  old  the  tented  Amazons, 
What  time  in  hate  of  Theseus  they  assailed 
Athens,  and  set  against  her  citadel 
A  counterwork  of  new  sky-pointing  towers, 
And  there  to  Ares  held  their  sacrifice, 
Where  now  the  rock  hath  name,  even  Ares' 

Hill. 
And  hence  shall  Eeverence  and  her  kinsmar 

Fear 
Pass  to  each  free  man's  heart,  by  day  and 

night, 

Enjoining,  '  Thou  shalt  do  no  unjust  thing,' 
So  long  as  Law  stands  as  it  stood  of  old 
Unmarred  by  civic  change.     Look  you,  the 

spring 

Is  pure  ;  but  foul  it  once  with  influx  vile 
And   muddy    clay,    and    none    can   drink 

thereof. 

Therefore,  0  citizens,  I  bid  ye  bow 
In  awe  to  this  command,  '  Let  no  man  live 
Uncurbed  by  Law  or  curbed  by  tyranny, 
Nor  banish  ye  the  monarchy  of  Awe 
Beyond    the    walls ;     untouched    by    fear 

divine 
No  man  doth  justice,  in  the  world  of  men 


The  '  Eumenides  '  at  Cambridge. 


209 


Therefore  in  purity  and  holy  awe 

Stand  and  revere  ;  so  shall  ye  have  and  hold 

A  saving  bulwark  of  the  state  and  land, 

Such  as  no  man  hath  ever  elsewhere  known, 

Nor  in  far  Scythia,  nor  in  Pelops'  realm. 

Thus  I  ordain  it  now, 

A  court  unsullied  by  the  lust  of  gain, 

Sacred  and  swift  to  vengeance,  wakeful  ever 

To  champion  men  who  sleep,  the  country's 

guard. 

Thus  have  I  spoken,  thus  to  mine  own  clan 
Commended  it  for  ever. "  J 

It  certainly  seems  hard  to  under- 
stand this  in  any  other  light  than  that 
of  an  emphatic  appeal  against  meddling 
with  an  august  and  precious  institu- 
tion. But  others  have  thought  that 
the  poet's  real  design  was  to  urge  the 
Athenians  to  be  content  with  the  juris- 
diction over  murderers  still  to  be  left 
by  the  reformers  in  the  hands  of  the 
old  tribunal ;  and  they  argue  from  this 
and  from  a  later  passage  praising  the 
alliance  with  Argos,  that  JEschylus 
was  really  on  the  side  of  Pericles.  It 
is  impossible  for  any  man  to  say  pre- 
cisely how  this  may  have  been.  It 
may  be  that  the  poetic  voice  had  after 
all  some  influence,  and  that  Ephialtes 
thought  it  prudent  to  moderate  his 
first  proposal.  This,  however,  could 
only  be  settled  by  a  knowledge  of  the 
precise  dates  of  the  passing  of  the 
measure  and  the  production  of  the 
play;  and  perhaps  it  is  the  safest 
way  to  believe  that  the  poet,  like 
a  wise  man,  so  framed  his  words  that 
his  hearers  might  take  them  each 
according  to  his  disposition.  But  the 
political  turn  is  there,  clear  enough, 
whichever  way  it  tended ;  and  one 
can  well  understand  how  keen  a  zest 
it  must  have  given  to  the  closing  scene 
among  that  curious,  eager,  restless 
people,  at  a  time  when  the  current  of 
party-feeling  ran  so  high. 

Other  causes  than  these  had,  no 
doubt,  too,  their  share  in  the  selection 
of  the  play  by  those  responsible  for 
its  choice  at  Cambridge.  The  feel- 
ings which  stirred  the  Greek  audience 
of  old,  and  the  feelings  which  stir 

'The  House  of  Atreus,'  by  E.  D.  A. 
Morshead,  M.A.,  late  Fellow  of  New  College, 
Assistant  Master  of  Winchester  College  ;  from 
which  the  translations  of  the  play  here  used 
are  taken. 

No.  315 — VOL.  LIIT. 


the  Greek  student  of  to-day,  could 
hardly  with  reason  be  allowed  an 
Areopagitic  supremacy  of  jurisdiction. 
The  spectacular  quality  of  the  drama 
now,  as  then,  must  come  into  the  ac- 
count, and  in  this  quality  the  'Eu- 
menides '  is  particularly  rich  ;  especially 
in  that  side  of  the  quality  which  turns 
most  strongly  to  modern  melodrama. 
The  Chorus  of  Furies  obviously  was 
full  of  possibilities :  the  three  scenes, 
the  temple  of  Apollo  at  Delphi,  the 
temple  of  Athena  on  the  Acropolis, 
the  Areopagus,  all  so  closely  bound  up 
with  the  national  history  and  religion 
of  the  Athenians,  these,  too,  would 
naturally  play  their  part  in  determin- 
ing the  choice  of  a  play  designed  to 
reproduce  to  modern  eyes  so  essential 
a  feature  of  old  Greek  life.  And  from 
one  point  of  view  no  possibility  had 
been  missed.  Allowing  for  the  small- 
ness  of  the  stage — and  when  one  con- 
siders how  large  a  share  in  the  pomp 
and  majesty  of  the  performance  the 
spacious  Athenian  theatre  must  have 
played,  the  allowance  is  no  slight  one 
—allowing  for  this,  the  furnishing  of 
the  scene,  the  grouping  of  the  charac- 
ters, and  all  what  we  call  generally 
stage  -  management,  was  admirably 
picturesque  and  effective.  Especially 
so  was  the  last  scene  of  all,  when 
the  fair  words  of  Athena  had  pre- 
vailed upon  the  baffled  Furies  to  put 
by  their  anger  and  become  gracious 
goddesses  indeed ;  and  when  the  white- 
robed  attendants  filed  past  the  judg- 
ment-seat, with  solemn  chant  escorting 
'Night's  childless  children"  to  their 

new  home  beneath  the  Sacred  Hill : 

"  With  loyalty  we  lead  you  :  proudly  crO, 
Night's  childless   children,    to   your  home 

below ! 

(0  countrymen,  a  while   from  words  for- 
bear ! ) 

To  Darkness'  deep  primeval  lair, 
Far  in  Earth's  bosom,  downward  fare, 
Adored  with  prayer  and  sacrifice  ! 
(0  citizens,  forbear  your  cries  !) 
Pass  hitherward,  ye  powers  of  Dread, 
With  all  your  wrath,  that  was,  allayed 
Into  the  heart  of  this  loved  land  ; 
With  joy  unto  your  temple  wend, 
The  while  upon  your  steps  attend 
The  flames  that  feed  upon  the  brand— 
(Now,  now  ring  out  your  chant,  your  ioy's 
acclaim!) 

P 


210 


The  '  JSumenides '  at  Cambridge. 


Behind  them,  downward  as  they  fare, 
Let  holy  hands  libations  bear, 

And  torches'  sacred  flame. 
All -seeing  Zeus  and  Fate  come  down 
To  battle  fair  for  Pallas'  town  ! 
Ring  out  your  chant,   ring  out  your  joy's 
acclaim  !  " 

Even  there,  cabined  and  confined 
within  the  narrow  compass  of  the  little 
Cambridge  theatre,  the  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance of  the  scene  were  singularly 
fine  and  stirring.  What  must  it  not 
have  been  in  Athens  itself,  in  Athens 
of  the  prime !  in  the  great  theatre  of 
Dionysus  on  the  very  slope  of  the 
Sacred  Hill,  as  the  stately  pageant 
paced  along  in  the  delicate  air  and 
gracious  sunlight  of  the  Attic  spring, 
and  the  rhythmic  chant  of  the  Chorus 
swelled  to  its  final  notes  of  triumph  ! 

"  Then  what  golden  hours  were  for  us, 

As  we  sat  together  there, 
When  the  white  vests  of  the  Chorus 

Seemed  to  wave  up  a  live  air ! 
When  the  cothurns  trod  majestic 

Down  the  deep  iambic  lines, 
And  the  rolling  anapaestic 

Curled  like  vapour  over  shrines  !  " 

How  were  these  plays  acted  1  What 
the  plays  were  themselves  we  know, 
and  with  tolerable  certainty  we  know 
what  the  theatrical  arrangements  were, 
the  building  and  furnishing  of  the 
stage,  the  number  of  the  actors  and 
the  chorus,  the  scenes,  the  dresses. 
But  the  acting  ?  Of  that  we  really 
know  nothing ;  each  man  is  free  to 
form  his  own  conclusions  from  his  own 
consciousness,  or  the  learning  of  others. 
For  my  part  I  must  frankly  own  that, 
save  for  that  last  scene,  and  a  moment- 
ary picture  or  two,  the  performance  in 
no  way  tallied  with  my  notions  of  a 
Greek  play ;  clever  it  indisputably  was, 
picturesque,  animated,  striking ;  but, 
even  allowing  for  the  inevitable  and 
impassable  gulf  which  divides  the  old 
world  from  the  new,  root  and  branch 
opposed  to  all  my  poor  intellect  had 
ever  conceived  of  the  original.  Of 
acting,  as  we  take  the  word,  I  can- 
not imagine  the  Greeks  to  have 
had  any  idea,  at  least  before  the 
day  of  the  New  Comedy.  We  know 
that  the  actors  wore  huge  masks, 
constructed  in  some  forgotten  fashion 


to  swell  the  volume  of  the  voice,  which 
must  otherwise  in  that  vast  unroofed 
theatre  have  been  but  a  feeble  pipe ; 
we  know  that  they  increased  their 
stature  by  various  means.  Surely  thus 
accoutred  and  encumbered  their  move- 
ments must  necessarily  have  been  more 
deliberate  and  measured  than  those 
the  brisk  vivacious  style  of  the  modern 
stage  affects.  Would  the  shade  of 
Clytemnestra,  for  example  (and  how 
admirable  it  was  in  its  first  inception ! ) 
would  that  "  dim  sheeted  ghost,"  with 
the  red  gash  still  marring  the  white 
throat,  have  rushed  like  a  mere  angry 
mortal  down  among  the  sleeping 
Furies  ?  Nothing  could  have  been. 
more  impressive  than  its  entrance, 
and  the  way  it  spoke  its  first  re- 
proaches, from  the  inmost  recesses  of* 
the  shrine,  half  shrouded  in  the  altar- 
smoke — 

"Sleep  on!     Awake!  what  skills  your  sleep* 
to  me  !  " — 

seemed  very  much  to  me  the  right  way. 
Should  it  not  have  been  so  to  the 
end  1  Should  not  the  voice  alone  have 
been  suffered  to  rouse  the  sleepers? 
Something  one  fancies  this  ghost  to 
have  been  like  that  shape  Saul  saw  at 
Endor,  and  so  to  have  spoken : 

"  From  lips  that  moved  not  and  unbreathing 

frame, 

Like   cavern'd   winds  the    hollow  accents 
came. " 

Or,  if  the  phantom  must  have  em- 
ployed some  more  human  action, 
might  it  not  have  been  something 
more  deliberate  and  dignified  ? 

*  Awake  and  hear — for  mine  own  soul  I  cry — 
Awake,  ye  powers  of  hell !  the  wandering 

soul 
That  once  was  Clytemnestra  calls — arise  !  " 

Surely  in  these  words  one  finds  no 
indication  of   mere  human  hurry  and 
bustle,  of  rousing  the  sleepers  as  one 
might  rouse  a  lazy  'Jboy  from  his  bed 
for  morning  school  !    Again,  when  the   ' 
Pythian  priestess  rushes  out  from  the   j 
inner  shrine  where  she  has  seen  the  j 
slumbering  monsters,  and  falls  in  her  ! 
terror    supine   upon    the    stage,    how  i 
does  the  text  support  this  action  ? 


The  '  Eumenides '  at  Cambridge. 


211 


"  Things  fell  to  speak  of,  fell  for  eyes  to  see, 
Have    sped  me   forth   again  from   Loxias' 

shrine, 
"With  strength  unstrung,   moving  erect  no 

more, 

But  aiding  with  my  hands  my  failing  feet, 
Unnerved  by  fear." 

True,  there  was  a  time  when  an 
ingenious  Scholiast,  foreshadowing 
the  age  of  realism,  supposed  this  to 
signify  that  the  priestess  came  crawl  - 
ing  in  on  her  hands  and  knees  ;  but 
then  a  Scholiast  is  capable  of  anything. 
And,  indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  even 
so  very  literal  an  interpretation  would 
not  match  the  text  better  than  this 
"  back  fall  "  ! 

But  there  is  another  reason,  which, 
to  me  at  least,  carries  yet  greater 
weight  ;  there  is  the  quality  of  the 
verse.  I  cannot  think  that  those  ma- 
jestic Greek  iambics  were  spoken  in 
the  conversational  style  of  modern 
dialogue,  just  as  I  cannot  conceive 
~k  the  style  of  the  modern  stage  to  suit 
the  scarce  less  majestic  iambic  of 
Shakespeare.  Let  me  be  permitted 
for  once  to  quote  the  native  Greek  : 

yap  of/id  /col  papaivcrai 


iro-raiviov  yap  ov  irpbs  ec-rio  0eot) 
Ka.6apij.dis 


Place  beside  it  such  a  passage  as  this  — 

"  Five  hundred  poor  I  have  in  yearly  pay, 
Who  twice  a  day  their  withered  hands  -hold 

up 
Toward  Heaven,    to   pardon  blood  ;  and  I 

have  built 
Two  chantries,  where  the  sad  and  solemn 

priests 
Sing  still  for  Eichard's  soul.  " 

Surely  it  is  not  considering  too  curi- 
ously to  consider  that  verse  of  this 
great  quality  demands  a  style  and  tone 
of  speech  altogether  different  from  that 
modern  custom,  and  perhaps  I  may  add 
modern  language,  prescribes.  Surely 

'  '  Look,  how  the  stain  of  blood 
Is  dull  upon  my  hand,  and  wastes  away, 
And  laved  and  lost  therewith  is  the  deep 

curse 
Of  matricide.     For  while  the  guilt  was 

new, 
'Twas    banished    from   me    at  Apollo's 

hearth, 
Atoned  and  purified  by  death  of  swine.  " 


a  grand  manner  of  speech  is  needful 
here,  if  ever  needful  anywhere  ;  some 
larger  utterance  than  our  frail  modern 
tongues  are  taught  to  frame,  to  do 
fit  service  to  these  imperial  cadences. 
"  They  stand  generally  still  in  solemn 
dignified  attitudes,  so  as  to  look  very 
much  like  coloured  statues  or  figures 
in  a  bas-relief;  and  they  utter  the  sonor- 
ous verse  in  a  kind  of  recitative,  yet 
so  distinctly  that  the  words  may  be 
accurately  heard  by  all  the  audience."2 
In  this  passage  seems  to  me  to  lie  the 
very  purpose  of  the  old  Greek  playing. 
About  the  Chorus  there  must  be  even 
more  uncertainty  ;  about  all  Greek 
music  there  is  uncertainty.  It  seems, 
however,  to  be  generally  agreed  that 
the  accompaniment  to  the  choric  odes 
of  tragedy  and  to  the  movements  of 
the  singers  was  of  some  very  solemn 
and  simple  kind.  One  fancies,  at 
least,  that  it  could  never  have  been 
loud  enough  to  drown,  or  even  to  in- 
terfere with,  the  voices  of  the  singers  ; 
that  it  must  have  been  essentially 
an  accompaniment.  If  one  most 
ignorant  of  the  musical  art  may  be 
permitted  to  guess,  I  should  be  in- 
clined to  think  it  might  possibly  have 
been  something  like  that  we  call 
the  Gregorian  chant.  However,  it  is 
but  impertinence  in  me  to  speak  of 
such  things,  and  I  certainly  should 
not  presume  to  criticise  Mr.  Stanford's 
music.  It  was  said  to  be  very  good, 
and  I  can  well  believe  it  was  so.  Cer- 
tainly, even  to  an  unskilled  ear,  there 
were  many  passages  in  it  most  pleas- 
ing and  it  seemed  most  congenial  to 
the  words  and  motive  ;  the  closing 
chant,  for  example,  and  the  song  be- 
ginning — 


"  aye  5$j  Kal 

arvyepav 


"Weave  the  weird  dance,  —  behold,  the  hour 
To  utter  forth  the  chant.of  hell—" 

2  'JSschylus/  by  Eeginald  S.  Copleston, 
Fellow  and  Lecturer  of  St.  John's  College, 
Oxford  (the  present  Bishop  of  Colombo)  ;  in 
Blackwood's  'Ancient  Classics  for  English 
Eeaders'  —  one  of  the  best  volumes  in  an 
admirable  series. 

p  2 


212 


The  '  JZumenid-es'  at  Cambridge. 


and  probably  only  to  an  unskilled  ear 
could  it  at  any  time  have  sounded  too 
loud,  too  overpowering,  too  noisy. 

But,  after  all,  these  things  can  only 
be  to  us  as  the  judicious  may  deter- 
mine. And  probably  the  most  judi- 
cious will  determine  only  that  he 
knows  nothing.  It  must  all  be  mere 
guesswork;  and  the  cleverest  guess  will 
be  leagues,  it  may  be,  away  from  the 
reality.  How  far  probably  from  the 
reality  are  all  our  efforts  to  bring  back 
the  form  and  colour  of  the  vanished 
past  !  And,  to  take  another  view,  who 
shall  say  that  the  responsible  authori- 
ties were  not  wise  in  their  kind  to  mo- 
dernise on  every  side  this  old-world 
scene  'J  To  a  generation  which  can 
find  in  Shakespeare  only  an  excuse 
for  carpentering  and  upholstery,  what 
yawning  abysses  of  despair  would  not 
a  Greek  play  reveal,  if  it  were  any 
thing  such  as  I  have  here  feebly 
essayed  to  conceive.  And  from  the 
modern  view  how  good  it  was  !  How 
thoroughly  done,  how  smooth  and  well 
ordered  !  In  how  few  English-speak- 
ing theatres  would  one  find  anything 
like  the  precision,  intelligence,  and  ac- 
curacy with  which  these  players  had 
mastered  assuredly  no  holiday  task ! 
How  refreshing  even  to  think  of 
the  long  hours  these  buoyant  young 
spirits — 

"  There  in  the  joy  of  their  life  and  glory  of 
shooting-jackets, " — 

must  have  passed  without  a  murmur 
in  the  mere  acquisition  of  the  text 
and  the  dull  routine  of  rehearsal ! 
How  incomparably  superior  an  occupa- 
tion to  agitating  for  the  franchise,  or 
riding  on  bicycles,  or  any  other  of  those 
debasing  enjoyments  which  a  younger 
generation  has  adopted  for  the  en- 
chantments that  once  were  ours  of 
the  middle  age  !  What  a  succession  of 
bright  engaging  pictures,  of  radiant 
figures !  What  ideal  gods  of  Hellas 
were  Apollo  and  Hermes  !  Like  the 
lonians  glorified  in  the  old  Homeric 
hymn,  one  might  have  thought  them 


immortal  and  unaging;  or  as  that 
conqueriDg  son  of  Archestratos  whom 
Pindar  saw  in  his  spring-tide  bloom 
beside  the  altar  at  Olympia.  The  pro- 
priety of  assigning  Athena's  part  to  a 
woman  is  not  so  certain.  The  fact  that 
all  the  personages  of  the  Attic  theatre 
were  presented  by  males  we  may  pass 
by ;  that  is  a  sentiment,  and  those 
who  after  due  thought  determined  to 
"do  it  after  the  high  modern  fashion  " 
were  surely  wise  to  discard  all  senti- 
ment. But  the  voice !  The  female 
voice,  that  excellent  thing  in  woman, 
is,  as  a  woman  has  herself  said, 

"  Somewhat  low  for  ats  and  ots." 

It  is  hardly  competent  to  give  the 
necessary  volume  and  emphasis  to 
those  grand  Greek  syllables,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  inevitable  contrast  with 
the  deeper  voices  around  it.  But, 
when  this  has  been  said,  it  must  be  also 
said  that  hard  indeed  it  would  have 
been  to  find  either  man  or  woman 
to  deliver  the  words  with  more  clear- 
ness and  perception ;  or  to  present  a 
more  charming  figure  in  the  white  robe, 
glancing  helmet,  and  long-shadowing 
spear — even  if  charm  be  not  the 
capital  idea  we  should  get  from  the 
vision  of  her  whose  eyes  could  "  shine 
terribly." 

The  Furies  must  have  been  difficult 
creatures  to  deal  with,  even  as  Orestes 
found  them.  As  a  Chorus  certainly 
they  were  most  exactly  trained,  and 
marshalled  by  a  most  earnest  and 
skilful  leader.  Their  guise  is  said  to 
have  been  copied  as  literally  as  might 
be  from  some  old  vase-paintings,  and 
so  one  must  not  dispute  it.  Certainly 
they  made  a  grim  and  ghastly  band 
enough,  if  possibly  a  shade  more  gro- 
tesque than  necessary. 

And,  for  the  last  word,  may  one  say, 
without  being  impertinent  or  captious, 
that  it  was  all  indeed  a  very  pretty 
poem,  if  one  must  not  call  it! 
^Eschylus  1 

MOWBRAY  MORRIS. 


213 


ODE  ON  A  NEAR  PROSPECT  OF  ETON  COLLEGE. 

THE  SHADE  OF  DR.  HAWTREY  SPEAKS. 

WAKED  from  my  sleep  on  thy  dear  breast, 
Etona,   by   some  strange  unrest 

Thy  hallowed  stones  I  tread  ; 
Beholding  startled,   sad,   dismayed, 
The  spot  wherein  my  boyhood  played, 

My  manhood  ruled  as  Head. 

A  narrower,   less  pellucid  air 

Pervades  thy  courts  and  cloisters,  where, 

Scholars  and  gentlemen, 
Of  ampler  thought,  serener  brow, 
\afJL7rpOTOLTOv 


Here,   in  those   generations  gone, 
Fairer  than  their  own  Helicon 

The  Muses  found  a  home  ; 
Here  taught  our  lisping  tongues  to  raise 
Some  echoes  of  those  deathless  lays, 
The  glory  of  the  golden   days 

Of   Athens  and  of   Rome. 

Vanished  is  now  that  heavenly  Choir; 
The  thoughts  that  burn,   the  poet's  fire 

A  colder  age  disdains; 
The  mighty  roll  of   Homer's  verse 
Gives  way  to  German,   French,  or  worse, 

And  Prose   triumphant  reigns. 

Strange  studies  whose  outlandish  name 
My   shuddering  lips  refuse  to  frame 

The  place  of   Classics  fill  ; 
Long  Chamber  is  improved  away, 
King's  Scholars  gownless  now  may  stray  ; 

The   Brewery  is  still. 

To  "Absence"  oft,  to  chapels  more, 
To   schools  far  longer  than  of   yore 

Thy   sad  Alumni  flock  ; 
More  frequent  "  Pcenas  "   to  be  done, 
More  stern  commands  to   "  Come  at  one," 
And  —  shade  of    Keate,   forgive  them  !  —  none 

To  worship  at  the  block  ! 


214  Ode  on  a  Near  Prospect  of  Eton  College. 

These  changes,  to  an  Eton  mind 
So  rude,  so  needless  and  unkind, 

I  might  perchance  condone, 
If  but  the  Vandal's  ruthless  hand 
Would  let  thine  ancient   buildings  stand, 

Would  leave  thy  walls  alone. 

But  no !   the   whirlwind   of  reform 

E'en  Upper  School  must   wreathe  in  storm, 

And  desolation  spread 
O'er  those   old  panels  that  enshrine, 
Column   on  column,  line  on  line, 

The  memories  of  thy  dead. 

What  stories  could  those  panels  tell 

Of    sons  of   thine,  who,  through  the  spell 

And  magic  of   thy  name, 
Tn  England's  victories  have  bled, 
Her  fortunes  ruled,  her  senates  led, 
O'er  Letters,   Art,   Keligion,   shed 

The  lustre  of  thy  fame  ! 

The  Library  whose  precincts  yield 
Some  quiet  hours  from  stream  and  field, 

Whose  wealth  of  lettered  lore 
'Twas  mine  to  cherish  and  adorn, 
From  old  associations  torn, 

Must  know  its  place  no  more  ! 

That  home  which  Savile,  Keate,  and  I, 
Found  good  enough  in  days  gone  by, 

Is  this  too  doomed  to  fall, 
And  in  one  common  ruin  blend 
Each  old  familiar  gabled  friend 
Whose  roofs  in  dear  disorder  trend 

Down  to  the  Sacred  Wall ! 

If   gentle  Henry's  holy  shade 

But  dreamed  the  havoc  to  be  made, 

Not  e'en  the  crack  of  doom 
Would  in   more  consternation  call 
His  statue  from  its  pedestal, 

His   spirit  from  its  tomb  ! 

Sons  of   our  Gracious  Mother,  wake ! 
Ere  yet  the  billows  o'er  her  break, 

Roll  back  the  rising  tide; 
That  unborn  ages   may  behold 
On  her  high  banner's  blazoned  fold 
"  Esto  perpetua,"  still?  enrolled 

The  motto  of  her  pride  ! 

B.  M.  T. 


215 


A   STRANGE   TEMPTATION. 


I  WENT  to  Alderthwaite  for  rest  and 
change  of  scene.  Perhaps  the  place 
was  ill  chosen,  for  I  knew  it  to  have 
been  a  favourite  haunt  of  Wilfrid 
Gale's.  This  very  knowledge  attracted 
me  to  the  spot,  when  it  ought  to 
have  driven  me  away ;  for  if  I  wanted 
a  real  mental  change  I  should  have 
gone  to  some  retreat  wholly  uncon- 
nected with  the  memory  of  my  friend. 

Wilfrid  Gale  had  died  young; 
weary,  heart-sick,  and  disappointed. 
His  ambition  had  brought  to  him  only 
humiliation,  his  talent  had  led  him  on 
to  despair.  He  was  a  literary  genius, 
undeveloped,  but  full  of  promise,  and 
his  hopes  of  early  success  had  been 
withered  by  neglect,  or  nipped  by  cruel 
criticism.  If  he  had  been  a  strong 
man  he  might  have  faced  the  world's 
indifference  until  it  had  changed  to 
applause ;  but  his  health  was  delicate 
and  his  organisation  sensitive  ;  and  he 
may  be  said  to  have  died  of  his  last 
failure,  a  failure  which  a  little  waiting 
might  have  turned  to  success. 

The  story  of  his  life  was  a  sad  one, 
and  it  seemed  to  his  sister  Alison  a 
real  tragedy.  In  her  eyes  his  genius 
seemed  immense,  his  difficulties  unpre- 
cedented. He  had  been  her  hero,  his 
talents  had  been  her  glory,  and  his 
defeat  brought  to  her  the  keenest 
disappointment.  He  was  one  of  the 
immortals,  and  she  the  favoured  being 
destined  to  minister  at  his  side,  and 
shine  in  the  reflected  brightness  of  his 
success.  So  she  had  dreamed  in  happier 
days,  before  she  knew  that  her  lot 
would  be  darker  than  this ;  that  she 
was  fated  only  to  soothe  his  sorrows 
and  to  watch  by  him  in  the  weary  days 
of  his  passing  away. 

I  had  always  believed  in  Wilfrid's 
talent  and  ultimate  success,  and  I 


admired  his  sister  a  great  deal.  When 
he  died  I  readily  undertook  the  task 
of  editing  his  works  ;  this  was  proposed 
to  me  by  his  publishers,  and  I  carried 
it  out  with  zeal  and  enjoyment.  His 
writing  was  good,  though  somewhat 
immature,  and  the  last  of  his  books 
was  full  of  an  irregular  but  highly 
original  power.  He  had  accepted 
its  defeat  too  soon.  The  literary  world 
was  still  hesitating  whether  to  forget 
it  and  let  it  pass  by,  to  be  stranded  on 
a  lonely  shore  for  ever ;  or  to  take  it 
up  with  enthusiasm  and  to  waft 
it  down  the  tide  of  the  generations 
in  a  whirlwind  of  applause.  The 
death  of  the  author  turned  the 
scale  ;  the  work  received  immediate 
and  general  attention;  my  little  in- 
troductory Life  of  Wilfrid  Gale 
was  read  with  interest ;  there  was  a 
demand  for  a  complete  edition  of  his 
writings.  He  was  declared  to  be 
among  the  immortals  who  had  died 
young,  leaving  the  world  only  a  faint 
indication  of  their  undoubted  powers. 
His  neglected  productions  were  neatly 
bound  in  volumes  suitable  for  a  library 
of  classical  literature;  some  of  his 
characters  were  declared  to  be  crea- 
tions of  such  power  that  they  could 
never  be  forgotten  ;  they  must  secure 
to  their  author  a  permanent  niche  in 
the  great  temple  of  fame. 

Nothing  else  could  have  consoled 
Alison  Gale  so  much  for  the  death  of 
her  brother.  His  most  earnest  desire 
had  been  realised — though  he  might 
not  know  it — and  his  life  had  not  been 
thrown  away.  She  chose  to  believe 
that  it  was  mainly  through  my 
instrumentality  that  "  justice"  had  at 
last  been  done  to  him. 

"  They  would  not  listen,"  she  said. 
"I  knew  if  he  could  only  get  their 
attention  once,  all  difficulty  would  be 
over.  You  have  made  them  hear 


216 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


against  their  will,  and  now  they  can 
never  forget,  never  be  indifferent 
again." 

Her  gratitude  was  very  pleasant  to 
nie,  though  I  thought  it  overstrained. 
I  had  certainly  spoken  from  a  vantage 
ground  which   her  brother  had  never 
reached.       I    was    nob    a   clever   man 
myself,   but  I  had  the  reputation  of 
one,    which     was    a    more    profitable 
thing.    I  belonged  to  a  literary  family. 
I  had  run  in   the  grooves  of  publica- 
tion all  my  life.      I   wrote  for  critical 
papers,  my  name  carried  weight,  and 
I  was  credited  with   more   judgment 
than  I  possessed.   Perhaps  I  had  given 
my  poor  friend's  little   bark  the  final 
shove  that  was  wanted  to  get  it  off 
the  shallows  into  the  current  of   popu- 
larity ;    I    stood   at   a   good    spot  for 
making  such  pushes,  and  1  was  some- 
times inclined  to  regret  that  I  had  no 
large  venture  of  my  own  to   embark. 
On   this  occasion    I    had    put   more 
strength  than  usual  into  the  effort  of 
launching ;  I  had  been  moved   by  my 
friend's  death,  interested  in  his  works, 
and  excited   by  his  sister's  appeal  to 
me  to  do  my  best.     My  nerves  were 
overstrained,  my  identity  seemed  lost 
in  that  of  Wilfrid    Gale  ;  I  lived  in 
the  world  of  his  creations  and   could 
not   get   back   into   a  wholesome   at- 
mosphere   of   cynical  selfishness ;    his 
enthusiasm   possessed  me ;  I   was   in 
one    of    those    moods    in    which — if 
the  exponents  of  fashionable  modern 
Buddhism     are     right — the     wander- 
ing    earthly     shell,      the      discarded 
mortal  will  of  my  dead  friend,  might 
easily  have  taken  hold  of  me,  and  bent 
me  to  its  service.     My  poor  friend's 
will  had  never  been  a  very  strong  one, 
however,  never  so  strong  as  his  genius, 
and  something  happened  to  me  wholly 
different  from  this. 

I  went  down  to  Alderthwaite  to 
have  a  quiet  time,  boating  on  the  lake 
and  wandering  on  the  moors.  Alison 
Gale  bade  me  good-bye  with  tears  in 
her  eyes  ;  and  I  felt,  as  I  pressed  her 
hand  and  looked  into  her  sad  face, 
that  she  who  had  been  the  inspiration 
of  my  recent  task  might  tbe  willing 


soon  to  become  its  reward.  The  devo- 
tion she  had  lavished  on  her  brother 
might  be  transferred  at  last  to  his 
best  friend,  as  she  persisted  in  calling 
me. 

This  thought  was  a  pleasant  one, 
and  I  hoped  to  fill  up  idle  moments  at 
Alderthwaite  with  happy  day-dreams 
of  my  own.  I  intended  to  think  of 
Alison  and  of  my  own  future,  and  to 
have  done  for  the  present  with 
Wilfrid  and  his  melancholy  fate. 

When  I  got  down  to  the  place  I 
found  that  the  inn  at  which  my  friend 
had  usually  stayed  was  closed  for  re- 
pairs. I  was  obliged  to  take  lodgings 
at  a  farmhouse  on  the  shore  of  the 
lake.  It  was  a  tumble-down,  pic- 
turesque place,  which  had  once  been 
the  manor-house,  and  still  held  the 
proud  name  of  Alderthwaite  Hall. 
Two  half  ruined  towers  rose  at  its 
corners,  smothered  in  ivy,  and  one 
window  only  looked  out  on  the  lonely 
waters  of  the  lake,  with  the  unpeopled 
fells  rising  from  its  further  shore. 
The  farm  people  occupied  some  build- 
ings at  the  back,  with  a  cheerful  view 
into  their  own  stable-yards  and  pig- 
styes.  The  east  side  of  the  house  was 
reserved  for  lodgers,  artists,  fishermen, 
and  such  eccentric  creatures,  who  pre- 
ferred scenery  to  comfort.  It  had  a 
separate  entrance,  and  was  tolerably 
furnished.  The  great  attractions  of  the 
place  were  the  vicinity  of  the  water 
and  the  use  of  the  shabby  boat. 

I  fancied  that  I  could  be  very  com- 
fortable there  for  a  couple  of  weeks ; 
so  I  engaged  rooms,  sent  for  my  traps, 
and  established  myself  in  the  place. 

Before  proceeding  further  I  must 
explain  that  I  did  not  believe  in 
ghosts,  and  had  no  connection  with 
any  psychical  society.  I  was  not  on 
the  look-out  for  spiritual  experiences, 
and  I  believed  that  a  healthy  mind 
in  a  healthy  body  would  enable  any 
man  to  laugh  at  suggestions  of  the 
supernatural. 

Perhaps  at  this  time  my  mind  was 
not  in  a  healthy  condition,  and  I  be- 
came subject  to  delusions,  like  some 
other  unfortunate  persons.  In  that 


I 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


217 


case  I  have  done  a  grievous  wrong  to 
a  friend  whom  I  loved,  and  wrecked 
my  own  life  without  any  reason 
whatever.  I  am  impelled  to  tell  my 
story  in  the  hope  that,  if  it  does  not 
justify  my  conduct,  it  will  at  least 
explain  the  terrible  temptation  in 
which  I  was  unexpectedly  placed.  It 
may  be  also  that  some  persons  will  take 
my  own  view  of  the  case,  and  believe 
that  I  was  impelled  to  put  an  end  to 
much  unmerited  and  useless  suffering, 
at  the  cost  of  trouble  to  myself  and 
disappointment  to  the  woman  I  loved. 

My  first  evening  at  Alderthwaite 
Hall  was  a  pleasant  one ;  the  weather 
was  fine,  and  I  strolled  out  along  the 
shore  of  the  lake.  Afterwards  I  re- 
turned to  my  room,  and  wrote  a  few 
letters.  The  room  was  comfortable 
and  cheerful  in  the  lamp-light ;  the 
only  thing  that  troubled  me  about  it 
was  a  perplexing  sense  of  familiarity, 
as  if  I  had  been  in  the  place  before, 
and  had  some  sad  association  with  it. 
This,  of  course,  was  impossible. 

The  quietness  of  the  place  was 
agreeable  to  me  in  the  irritated  state 
of  my  nerves.  The  farmyard  sounds 
had  ceased  ;  the  farm  people  were  out 
of  hearing  at  the  other  side  of  the 
building.  There  was  a  glimmer  of 
moonlight  on  the  lake,  and  I  had  not 
drawn  down  the  blind  of  my  window, 
so  that  I  could  see  the  still  shining 
water  whenever  I  lifted  my  head  from 
my  paper. 

It  was  strange  that  this  deep  silence 
did  not  produce  an  impression  of  soli- 
tude. On  the  contrary  I  continually 
felt  as  if  some  one  were  sitting  in  the 
room  watching  me.  More  than  once 
I  looked  over  my  shoulder  with  a  start 
to  see  who  it  was.  Then  I  smiled  at 
my  own  imagination,  which  peopled 
this  solitude  with  personages. 

Nevertheless,  the  impression  re- 
turned as  soon  as  I  had  become 
absorbed  in  my  work:  I  felt  that  a 
woman — a  woman  whom  I  knew  quite 
well — sat  in  a  chair  behind  me,  watch- 
ing with  folded  hands.  The  impres- 
sion always  grew  upon  me  in  an 
I  indirect  sort  of  manner  as  my  attention 


became  more  and  more  diverted  to  my 
work ;  when  it  had  become  sufficiently 
intense  to  be  disturbing,  and  so  to 
rouse  me  to  think  of  it  seriously,  it 
vanished. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  nature  of 
terror  in  this  unusual  sensation  of  a 
familiar  presence  when  nobody  was 
there.  I  had  something  of  the  same 
feeling  in  the  passages  of  the  house, 
and  when  I  went  up  to  my  bedroom, 
just  as  if  the  place  were  occupied  by 
persons  whom  I  knew  quite  well,  and 
might  expect  to  meet  without  any  sur- 
prise on  the  landings  or  the  stairs. 
The  closed  doors  which  I  passed  on  my 
way  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  shut  on 
empty  rooms — persons  who  were  not 
strangers  lived  behind  them,  and  might 
come  out  and  speak  to  me  at  any 
moment. 

This  impression  was  not  unpleasant, 
though  I  smiled  at  its  unreality.  I 
supposed  that  living  in  a  crowd  had 
made  it  impossible  for  me  to  realise 
all  at  once  the  fact  of  solitude,  and  the 
complete  stillness  of  deserted  rooms. 
My  imagination  peopled  them  with 
beings  full  of  life  and  business,  going 
about  in  a  silent  manner  something 
like  my  own.  Once  I  had  a  fancy 
that  I  met  a  young  girl  on  the  stairs, 
who  smiled  at  me  as  she  passed.  I 
found  myself  smiling  in  return  before 
I  had  time  to  consider  the  folly  of  it. 
Another  time  I  thought  a  child's 
laugh  disturbed  the  air  outside,  but 
no  child  was  near  when  I  went  to  the 
door  to  look  round. 

On  the  second  evening  I  went  for  a 
row  on  the  lake  by  moonlight.  I  kept 
near  the  shore,  and  I  was  coasting  a 
promontory,  where  a  great  tree  hid 
from  me  the  tiny  bay  on  the  other 
side,  when  I  was  startled  by  a  faint 
cry  beyond  the  darkness  of  the  foliage. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  shiver  of  the 
water,  a  shining  of  ripples  in  the 
moonlight,  and  then  all  was  still  again. 
When  I  rowed  round  the  point,  the 
little  bay  was  quiet  enough;  there 
was  no  sign  of  any  movement  or  any 
presence  there. 

Nevertheless,    as   I  made  my  way 


218 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


home  again  I  was  oppressed  by  the 
consciousness  of  something^  in  the 
atmosphere  more  tragic  and  intense 
than  usual ;  my  mental  feelings  were 
analogous  to  those  physical  ones  de- 
scribed by  many  when  there  is  "  thun- 
der in  the  air."  Something  remarkable 
was  going  to  happen,  nay,  was  happen- 
ing, just  outside  the  range  of  my 
perceptions ;  I  groped  in  the  darkness, 
and  had  not  the  sense  necessary  to 
discover  what  was  going  on  around 
me.  To  all  outward  appearance  the 
world  was  quiet,  and  at  rest ;  to  my 
uneasy  consciousness  it  was  full  of  a 
painful  life  which  depressed  without 
revealing  itself  to  me. 

When  my  landlady  brought  my 
supper  that  night  I  took  occasion  to 
ask  if  the  place  had  ever  been  haunted, 
but  she  repelled  the  idea  with  indig- 
nation. Nothing  had  ever  happened 
there  to  make  it  haunted,  she  said. 
It  had  always  been  a  well-to-do  place, 
with  well-to-do  and  well-behaved  folks 
living  there.  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  my  own  nerves  were  at  fault,  and 
that  a  period  of  rest  and  quiet  would 
dissipate  all  unpleasant  fancies. 

But  the  next  night  as  I  sat  at  the 
table  writing  a  hand  seemed  to  be 
laid  on  my  shoulder.  I  turned  quickly, 
and  seemed  to  see  a  woman's  eyes  fixed 
on  me  in  the  dimness  behind.  There 
was  something  commanding  in  the 
look^  and  the  hand  held  me  as  if  to 
compel  attention.  I  roused  myself  to 
an  attitude  of  repellent  observation, 
and  as  I  looked  defiantly  into  the 
shadow  the  sensations  faded  away  ; 
there  was  no  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
there  were  no  eyes  in  the  dimness : 
yet,  before  they  went,  their  look  had 
seemed  to  change  from  passionate 
insisting  to  entreaty,  reproach,  despair. 

I  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room 
impatiently,  determined  to  shake  off 
my  nervous  weakness  ;  something 
stopped  me  once,  like  a  sob  of  dis- 
appointment, but  when  I  listened, 
again  there  was  silence. 

I  moved  the  furniture  ;  I  looked 
into  the  cupboards  ;  finally,  I  took  my 
hat  and  went  out.  But  from  that 


time  forward  I  was  haunted  not  only 
by  the  consciousness  of  a  life  which 
moved  unseen  around  me,  but  also 
by  that  of  a  reproachful  personality, 
which  followed  me  sadly  from  hour  to 
hour,  and  vainly  strove  to  open  some 
communication  with  me. 

I  did  not  want  the  communication, 
for  my  part.  I  avoided  it,  and  re- 
pelled it.  It  seemed  to  me  the 
beginning  of  madness,  or  of  some 
knowledge  too  sad  to  be  borne.  When 
in  my  idler  moments  the  conscious- 
ness grew  upon  me,  and  the  look  and 
the  touch  took  more  definite  form, 
until  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  blend 
at  last  into  a  voice  which  I  must  hear, 
then  I  roused  myself  defiantly,  and 
said  to  the  unknown  presence,  "  You 
are  not  there;  I  do  not  believe  in 
you  ;  I  will  not  see  you,"  and  stared 
hard  into  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

With  the  sound  of  a  little  sigh,  the 
breath  of  a  hope  gone  out,  the  pre- 
sence would  cease  to  be,  and  I  stood 
free  for  a  time. 

In  all  these  strange  visitations, 
which  grew  more  frequent  and  more 
defined,  I  could  not  say  that  I  ever 
heard,  or  saw,  or  felt  any  distinct 
thing;  I  was  only  conscious  through 
my  brain,  through  my  intelligence,  as 
distinguished  from  my  senses  at  the 
moment,  that  they  were  there  to  be 
heard,  or  felt,  or  seen. 

I  knew  that  some  one  spoke,  I  felt 
certain  that  some  one  looked  at  me, 
but  it  was  with  the  consciousness  with 
which  we  realise  things  told  in  clever 
books  that  I  knew  it.  My  senses  had 
little  to  do  with  this  experience ;  as 
soon  as  I  roused  myself  to  have  full 
command  over  them,  I  became  con- 
vinced that  my  impressions  had  no 
foundation  in  fact ;  they  were  woven 
out  of  my  own  vivid  imagination  and 
seemed  real  because  my  nerves  were 
weak. 

This  feeling  of  being  continually 
followed  by  a  presence  which  was 
sometimes  reproachful  and  sometimes 
beseeching  was,  however,  very  un- 
pleasant. The  vague  curiosity  which 
I  occasionally  felt  concerning  the  other 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


219 


visionary  personalities  which  appeared 
to  live  round  me  was  quelled  by  my 
instinctive  resistance  to  the  one  who 
seemed  to  have  some  claim  or  to  make 
some  demand  upon  me.  I  felt  at 
times  as  if  an  effort  was  being  made 
to  reach  me  in  some  way  and  to  com- 
pel my  conscious  attention.  There 
was  something  I  was  to  be  made  to 
know,  something  I  was  to  under- 
stand. 

I  had  no  desire  to  understand  it. 
The  only  world  with  which  I  had,  so 
far,  had  any  personal  acquaintance, 
contained  a  great  deal  of  unpleasant- 
ness, and  a  large  number  of  respon- 
sibilities. I  did  not  wish  to  be 
introduced  to  another  one,  and  to  be 
entangled  in  its  troubles.  I  felt  sure, 
already,  that  it  was  full  of  troubles. 
If  it  was  a  real  world  I  wished  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  if,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  was  the  creation  of  my 
ill-controlled  fancy,  this  fancy  must 
be  resisted  in  the  interest  of  my  own 
sanity. 

As  my  health  improved  and  I  began 
to  eat  and  to  sleep  well,  and  yet  the 
strange  impressions  did  not  pass  away, 
I  resolved  to  leave  Alderthwaite,  and 
so  to  get  rid  of  them.  I  announced 
my  resolution  to  my  landlady,  without 
telling  her  my  reason,  and  I  began  to 
pack  up  my  things.  But  from  the 
moment  when  I  determined  to  go  the 
struggle,  if  I  may  call  it  so,  became 
more  intense.  I  never  felt  alone ; 
beseeching  hands  followed  me,  entreat- 
ing voices  spoke  to  me,  angry  eyes 
looked  at  me.  What  they  asked  I 
did  not  know  ;  I  only  knew  that  I 
could  not  be  rid  of  them  however 
much  I  absorbed  myself  in  activity. 

At  last  I  was  tired,  and  sat  down  to 
rest  in  my  sitting-room.  It  was  late 
in  the  evening ;  I  had  only  a  couple 
of  letters  to  write,  giving  my  change 
of  address.  The  farm  people  had  gone 
to  bed  early  as  usual,  and  most  of  the 
haunting  images  of  the  daytime  had 
faded  away  with  it.  I  was  alone,  yet 
not  alone ;  for  one  was  with  me,  per- 
sistent, demanding,  unwearied. 

I  sat  at  the  table  and  felt  that,  as 


before,  eyes  watched  me  and  waited, 
eyes  that  I  could  not  see,  but  which 
strove  to  make  me  feel  their  presence. 
Another  will  besides  mine  penetrated 
the  gloom  of  the  place,  and  a  resolve, 
strong  with  the  strength  of  despair, 
seemed  to  struggle  with  my  resolution 
to  go  away  ignorant.  The  strength 
of  this  resolve,  and  the  painfulness  of 
it,  impressed  itself  upon  me  ever  more 
and  more.  It  seemed  to  myself  that, 
at  last,  with  a  certain  outbreak  of 
impatience,  I  yielded  to  the  demand 
made  upon  me,  and  turned  round  from 
the  window  with  a  look  of  inquiry  in 
my  eyes. 

At  first  I  saw  nothing  unusual  in 
the  shadow  of  that  corner  where 
rested  an  apparently  empty  chair. 
But  I  knew  that  some  one  was  there, 
and  I  felt  that  my  momentary  surren- 
der had  been  accepted.  A  certain 
power  from  the  darkness  seemed  to 
reach  me  and  hold  my  attention  fixed  ; 
and  then  without  any  feeling  of  sur- 
prise I  began  to  see  that  some  one 
sat  in  the  chair,  and  to  meet  the  gleam 
of  eager  eyes  fixed  on  me  with  intent- 
ness.  I  knew  then  that  —  whether 
madness  or  knowledge  lay  before  me 
— it  was  too  late  to  escape.  My 
former  experiences  had  been  vague 
impressions  ;  my  present  was  one  of 
deliberate,  though  unwilling,  obser- 
vation. 

The  eyes  grew  clearer  and  more 
luminous,  and  the  outlines  of  the  face 
became  more  distinct.  It  was  a  dark 
and  angry  countenance,  the  face  of  a 
woman  of  thirty,  handsome,  but  very 
unhappy.  Her  look  was  fixed  upon 
me  with  something  like  a  command, 
yet  it  was  not  a  command,  it  was 
rather  a  conscious  and  determined 
force  ;  she  did  not  order  me  to  sur- 
render to  her  all  my  thoughts,  she 
made  me  do  it ;  she  held  me  with 
the  strength  of  a  desperate  resolve,  as 
if  aware  of  a  reluctance  on  my  part,  of 
a  desire  to  escape. 

As  the  features  took  distinctness 
the  pale  lips  quivered,  a  flash  of 
sombre  triumph  lightened  the  gloomy 
eyes. 


220 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


"At  last!"  she  said,  "at  last! 
How  long  you  have  resisted." 

Her  voice  came  to  me  like  a  new 
consciousness,  with  which  my  hearing 
had  little  to  do ;  it  was  a  human  voice, 
but  with  a  tone  and  quality  which  I 
had  never  heard  before.  I  did  not  at- 
tempt to  speak  in  return ;  I  waited  to 
hear  more. 

"  You  knew,  yet  you  would  not 
know,"  she  went  on ;  "  you  saw,  but 
you  would  not  believe.  You  have 
fought  against  my  will  and  persisted 
in  a  blindness  which  would  not  be  en- 
lightened. But  I  could  not  give  way. 
You  were  my  only  hope." 

I  was  tormented  by  a  sense  of  recog- 
nition, which  overcame  my  reluctance 
to  acknowledge  by  any  words  this 
strange  presence.  To  speak  would  add 
to  the  power  of  this  mysterious  being, 
woman  or  spirit,  who  had  taken  form 
in  the  gloom,  and — according  to  her 
own  declaration — forced  herself  upon 
my  consciousness  ;  but  my  wonder  was 
stronger  than  my  fear,  and  so  I 
answered  her. 

"  Who  are  you  ?      I  seem  to  know 
you.     Have  I  ever  seen  you  before?  " 
She  smiled  a  sombre  smile. 
"  You   know    me.       "Who    better  ? 
Have  you  not  worked  me  up  to  fuller 
life,  given  to  me  a  more  vivid  person- 
ality, a  distincter  consciousness  ?  Your 
friend,  who  made  me,  hardly  knew  me 
so  well." 

This  was  a  strange  answer  ;  my  head 
was  throbbing  with  a  heated  confu- 
sion of  ideas  and  images.  The  clue  to 
the  woman's  identity  seemed  only  just 
out  of  my  reach ;  she  was  familiar  to 
me  as  an  old  friend ;  but  when, 
where,  and  how  could  I  have  seen  her 
before  1 

"  But  for  you,"  she  went  on,  "I 
might  have  died  an  easy  death,  an 
early  death.  He  had  little  vital  force 
to  put  into  me.  I  should  hardly  have 
known  or  understood  before  the  end 
came  and  I  faded  out  of  life,  how  I 
came  to  be,  and  what  I  was.  I  could 
not  have  resented  the  cruelty  of  him — 
and  you." 

"  Of  me  ! "    I  answered,  in  deeper 


wonder.     "  How  can  I    have  injured 
you — and  when  I  " 

"  Do  you  not  understand  yet  ?  "  she 
said.  "And  there  are  the  others, 
too." 

"  What  others  V  I  demanded,  with 
a  feeling  of  growing  chilliness  and  dis- 
comfort. Could  I  be  in  a  world  of 
ghosts,  of  ghosts  gone  mad  with 
trouble,  who  mistook  me  for  their 
injurer?  I  seemed  to  have  wandered 
into  a  strange  corner  of  spirit-land, 
and  to  have  at  last  learnt  to  see  the 
sights  there,  and  hear  the  sounds  ;  but 
the  land  was  a  dismal  one  indeed. 

"  Come  with  me  and  see,"  she  an- 
swered ;  and  rising  from  the  chair  in 
which  she  had  seemed  to  sit,  she  walked 
towards  the  door. 

I  had  no  choice  of  action ;  the  possi- 
bility of  resistance  did  not  even  occur 
to  me.  Her  will  was  stronger  than 
mine,  and,  when  once  she  had  over- 
come the  preliminary  difficulty  of  my 
stupidity  (a  stupidity  which  had  proved 
serviceable  for  once  in  delaying  this 
unpleasant  experience),  when  she  had 
forced  upon  me  the  consciousness  of 
her  presence,  I  was  compelled  to  follow 
her  and  to  receive  the  end  of  the 
revelation. 

She  led  me  up  the  dark  staircase  to 
a  little  unused  bedroom.  It  had,  at 
least  since  my  residence  in  the  house, 
been  always  empty  before  of  any 
human  presence.  As  the  door  opened 
before  her  now,  I  was  conscious  that 
some  one  was  within.  The  woman 
with  the  dark  eyes  turned  and 
watched  the  effect  upon  me  of  the 
scene  she  revealed. 

At  first  I  was  hardly  aware  what  I 
saw ;  my  hold  on  the  spirit- world 
seemed  slight,  its  sights  and  sounds 
reached  me  with  difficulty  ;  but  as  my 
guide  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  me, 
frowning  with  displeasure  at  my  per- 
plexity, the  whole  scene  grew  into  dis- 
tinctness as  she  had  done. 

A  candle  burnt  on  the  little  table  ; 
beside  it,  on  a  low  chair,  sat  a  lovely 

firl  with  a  little  baby  in  her  arms, 
he  could  hardly  be  twenty  years  old, 
but  her  face  was  wan,  her  large  eyes 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


221 


bright  with  suffering.  She  was  watch- 
ing with  anxiety  a  young  man  who 
paced  up  and  down  the  room  with  an 
angry  countenance. 

"  I  am  sick  of  it  all,"  he  said,  "  sick 
of  you  and  the  child,  and  the  whole  lot 
of  it.  I  shall  be  off  to  the  colonies  and 
begin  a  new  life.  To-morrow  will  see 
the  end  of  this  one.  You  may  go 
back  to  your  friends." 

"  George  !  "      She  rose  to  her  feet 
with  a  cry  of  dismay.     "  They  will  not 
have  me.     I  quarrelled  with  them  all 
for  your  sake." 
"  More  fool  you !  " 
"  George  !  "    she   repeated,   as    she 
put  the  baby  in  the  cradle  and  went 
forward  to  catch  at  his  hand ;  "if  you 
go,  take  me  with  you.      I  will  go — 
anywhere." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  sick  of  the 
sight  of  you?"  he  growled. 

"  But,  George,  it  is  for  the  child," 
she  answered,  with  a  catch  of  the 
breath.  "  I  am  sick,  I  am  ill ;  I 
cannot  work  for  him ;  if  you  leave  us 
I  shall  die,  and  then — my  little  baby ! " 
She  held  his  hand  passionately, 
and,  partly  through  weariness,  partly 
in  terrified  entreaty,  she  sank  on  her 
knees  beside  him,  arresting  his  im- 
patient walk. 

"  You  ought  to  be  precious  glad  to 
get  rid  of  me,"  he  answered  roughly  ; 
"you  can't  pretend  to  be  fond  of  me 
yet." 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  passionate  im- 
prudence, "  I  can't ;  I  know  you  too 
well.  It  is  because  of  the  child  !  " 

He  snatched  his  hand  from  her  in 
his  sudden  rage,  and  struck  her  a  fierce 
blow  on  the  forehead.  With  a  low 
cry  she  fell  to  the  ground,  and  lay 
there  sobbing  painfully. 

I  stood  in  my  place  dumb  with 
horror  and  indignation  ;  but  my  guide 
aroused  me  with  an  impatient  word, 
drove  me  with  the  force  of  her  look  (I 
can  describe  it  in  no  other  way)  back 
into  the  passage,  and  shut  the  door 
of  the  room  again. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  us 
at  last  ? " 

"  It  is,"  I  answered  in  a  low  voice 


of  wonder  and  dismay,  "  it  is  a  scene 
out  of  Wilfrid  Gale's  novel." 

It  was  with  a  smile  almost  of 
triumph  that  my  companion  led  me 
back  to  the  sitting-room.  She  pressed 
her  wasted  hands  on  the  table  there, 
and  leaned  over  it  towards  me  as  she 
said,  "  Is  it  satisfactory  to  you  1  Would 
you  like  it  to  go  on  for  ever  ?  " 

"  I  ?"  was  my  perplexed  and  troubled 
answer. 

"  Yes,  you,"  she  repeated,  with 
gentle  insisting,  as  if  she  could  now 
afford  to  be  forbearing  with  me.  "  Do 
you  realise  it  all,  and  the  weary  length 
of  it?  Would  you  like  us  never  to 
reach  the  end  ? " 

"You?"    I   repeated    again,    help- 


Yes,  I ;  I  and  the  others.  It  is 
no  better  for  me,  knowing  what  we 
are  and  all  the  thin  uselessness  of 
our  existence,  than  for  the  others, 
who  do  not  guess,  who  go  through  it 
all  again  and  again  as  if  it  were  for 
the  first  time  and  the  last.  Does  it 
help  me,  do  you  suppose  it  can  help 
me,  in  the  misery  of  my  life  here,  to 
know  that  I  am  but  the  shadow  of  a 
man's  thought — a  shadow  that  would 
have  faded  away  if  it  had  not  been 
strengthened  by  the  force  of  another 
man's  will,  and  stamped  by  the  recog- 
nition of  so  many  others  with  the 
seal  of  a  miserable  continuance? " 

"  I  do  not  think  I  understand  you," 
I  replied,  although  I  began  to  fear 
that  I  did. 

She  smiled  incredulously. 

"  It  adds  to  the  bitterness  of  my 
sufferings — from  which  I  cannot  es- 
cape, because  they  are  myself  and  I 
am  them — to  know  that  they  are 
nothing,  the  reflection  of  a  man's  dis- 
appointment, of  his  sadness,  which  he 
put  into  form  and  made  alive  in  this 
way  ;  to  know  that  I  can  never  escape, 
never  feel  or  think  for  myself,  but 
must  live  over  and  over  again  the 
wretchedness  which  he  mapped  out  for 
me,  in  order  to  buy  for  himself  fame 
— and  a  fame  of  which  he  knows 
nothing !  " 

"This,  at  least,"  I  said.,  "is  not  in 


222 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


Wilfrid  Gale's    story ;  this   scene   he 
did  not  plan." 

"  No,"  she  said,  her  brow  darkening, 
' '  but  it  is  not  much ;  it  is  the  effort 
of  despair.  You  can  help  us,  and  no 
one  else.  I  knew  that,  and  the  know- 
ledge gave  me  strength  for  once  to 
break  through  the  fetters  of  his  mind, 
and  to  act  for  myself.  I  am  not  like 
the  others,"  she  went  on  gloomily, 
"who  guess  nothing,  but  feel  on  the 
lines  that  he  laid  down  and  have  no 
thought  of  escape.  I  suppose,"  she  said, 
a  faint  smile  showing  through  the 
bitterness  of  her  speech,  "that  the 
evolution  which  explains  all  things  to 
you  may  work  also  in  the  world  of 
fancy,  where  we,  like  the  creations  of 
other  artists,  are  doomed  to  live  ;  and 
he  had  made  me  so  self-conscious  and 
analytical,  and  you  had  thrown  so 
much  reality  into  his  sketch  of  me, 
that  it  is  not  wonderful  for  the  self- 
consciousness  to  have  deepened  into  a 
knowledge  of  what  I  am,  and  how  I 
came  to  be.  I  fought  and  struggled 
towards  the  knowledge  as  soon  as  I 
dimly  guessed  it,  in  the  hope  that  it 
might  set  me  free ;  for  if  I  knew  myself 
to  be  only  the  dream  of  a  novelist, 
would  not  the  dream  vanish  at  the 
touch  of  the  daylight  truth  ?  But  it 
was  not  so;  my  knowledge  helped 
me  no  more  than  yours  does.  Do  not 
the  Buddhists  teach  that  consciousness 
is  ignorance,  and  that  knowledge  will 
destroy  it  and  absorb  all  life  into  the 
eternally  Unconscious  ?  But  who  among 
you  has  reached  this  height,  except  by 
those  gates  of  death  which  are  closed 
to  us  ?  Some  of  your  poets  have  said 
that  creation  is  only  a  breath  of  God, 
which  He  will  inhale  again  and  so 
destroy.  But  the  man  who  gave  life 
to  us  by  his  fancy  is  dead  himself,  and 
has  left  us  to  survive  him.  Some  of 
you  have  said  again  that  you  are  only 
a  thought  of  your  Creator ;  but  do  you 
suffer  less  because  it  is  only  in  His 
thought  that  you  suffer  !  If  you  know 
that  you  are  nothing,  does  it  help  you 
when  you  feel  cold  or  hunger  1  It 
helps  me  no  more  than  that,  when  I 
go  through  those  pangs  which  your 


friend  appointed  for  me  to  suffer. 
And  there  is  no  more  any  hope  of 
appeal  to  him ;  he  has  gone  away  and 
left  us  to  take  our  chance.  Nay,  he 
wanted  our  sufferings  to  have  the 
immortality  which  he  had  not  \  and, 
because  his  will  was  too  weak  to 
enforce  his  desire,  you  came  forward 
to  help  with  the  strength  of  yours." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  I  said,  "  that  it  is 
at  all  my  fault  that  you  suffer  so 
much?" 

"Whose  fault  besides?"  she 
answered  indignantly.  "  Your  friend's 
fancy  created  us,  but  it  was  not 
strong  enough  to  give  us  lasting  life. 
We  should  have  passed  away  and 
been  forgotten,  as  lie  would  have  been ; 
but  you  have  given  us  a  place  in  the 
thoughts  of  men  from  which  we  cannot 
escape  ;  you  have  breathed  new  vitality 
into  what  was  dying  before.  As  long 
as  we  are  real  in  the  minds  of  many 
we  must  be  real  to  ourselves  too ;  we 
must  work  out  over  and  over  again 
the  problems  of  our  existence,  and 
love,  and  hate,  and  suffer,  even 
though  we  may  come  to  have  the 
bitterness  of  knowing — as  I  know — 
that  our  passion  is  foolishness,  our 
pain  a  shadow,  and  ourselves  the 
mere  playthings  of  a  vain  man's 
ambition." 

"  But,"  I  said,  slowly  and  wonder- 
ingly,  "  if  you  exist,  there  must  be  so 
many  of  you." 

"And  why  not?"  she  asked,  with 
a  bitter  laugh.  "  Are  there  not  so 
many  of  all  created  things,  all  things 
that  suffer  ?  And  to  each  one  the 
problem  is  as  terrible  as  if  no  others 
felt  it.  The  fact  of  the  consciousness 
of  a  creature  does  not  stay  the  forces 
that  create  it.  They  go  on  turning 
the  machine  just  as  much  as  ever, 
even  when  the  grain  begins  to  feel 
and  to  suffer  for  the  grinding  of  the 
wheels.  Consciousness  does  not  count 
in  the  laws  of  nature ;  it  does  a  little 
in  the  morality  of  man,  but  not 
much — not  outside  the  region  of  his 
own  interests.  Did  not  your  friend, 
who  gave  me  so  much  knowledge  and 
so  many  thoughts,  did  he  not  reveal 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


223 


to  me  also  what  your  clever  men,  your 
most  cultivated  men,  the  advanced 
men  of  your  age,  think  about  con- 
sciousness! How  they  tell  us  that 
when  there  is  an  end  to  be  achieved — 
any  end,  whether  of  knowledge  or  of 
benevolence — it  cannot  be  counted  that 
the  instruments  may  suffer  ?  Do  they 
not  say  that  in  the  hands  of  science 
the  throbbing  nerves  of  an  inferior 
creature  are  but  as  the  lifeless  quartz 
lines  in  the  unvitalised  rock,  that 
the  mere  fact  of  consciousness  can 
make  no  difference  in  the  treatment  of 
them  ?  When  you  read  these  things, 
can  you  help  knowing  that  the  increase 
of  suffering  is  regarded  as  no  check  on 
the  multiplication  of  energy  ?  Men 
must  do  things  and  make  things, 
even  if  the  things  are  only  made  to 
suffer." 

"  Some  men,  if  they  knew,  would 
cease  to  make,"  I  answered  abruptly. 

Her  dark  sad  eyes  fixed  themselves 
more  intently  upon  me  with  the 
eagerness  of  a  great  anxiety. 

"  Are  you,"  she  said,  "  one  of  those 
men  1 " 

I  felt  myself  flush  under  her  search- 
ing gaze.  The  oppression  of  finding 
myself  closed  in  by  an  unpleasant  yet 
just  demand  was  beginning  to  weigh 
upon  me  ;  but  I  answered  briefly,  "  I 
am  not  one  of  the  men  who  make." 

"  You  have  given  life  to  the  dying 
creations  of  another  man.  Oh,"  she 
said,  clasping  her  hands  together,  and 
stretching  them  before  her  in  an  out- 
break of  passionate  appeal,  "I  have 
fought  for  the  strength  to  speak  to 
you,  for  the  power  to  burst  the  limits 
of  my  life,  and  to  make  an  independ- 
ent effort ;  it  was  not  for  myself 
only,  it  was  for  the  others  too,  all  the 
others  who  suffer  and  do  not  know. 
Perhaps  I  am  the  first  who  ever  did 
it,  but  I  shall  not  be  the  last.  For, 
ever  more  and  more,  the  artists,  the 
creators,  strive  to  give  us  more  reality 
and  more  individual  life.  They  are 
not  satisfied  to  make  us  pictures  or 
types ;  they  want  us  to  be  real  men 
and  women  like  themselves.  They  do 
not  make  us  very  great,  or  very  good, 


only  very  real — and  unhappy.  And  no 
man  ever  tried  harder  to  escape  from 
the  sadness  of  his  life  by  putting  it  into 
the  lives  of  his  characters  than  Wilfrid 
Gale.  No  one  knows  this  better  than 
you  do.  Yet  for  a  long  time  you 
would  not  see  my  appeals  to  you,  you 
would  not  hear  me  when  I  spoke. 
You  have  looked  into  my  face  with 
the  cruel  reality  and  incredulity  of 
your  eyes  until  you  drove  me  back 
into  the  shadowy  hopelessness  of  that 
existence  from  which  I  tried  to  reach 
you.  Now,  when  you  can  doubt  no 
longer,  you  are  going  away,  away 
where  I  cannot  follow  you.  Will  you 
leave  us  then  to  our  misery  ?  " 

The  intensity  of  the  woman's  look, 
the  reality  of  her  speech  impressed  me 
strangely.  I  could  not  refuse  to  answer 
even  as  if  she  were  all  she  seemed  to 
be. 

"What  can  I  do  to  help  you?" 
I  asked  her  at  last. 

"  Undo  what  you  have  done.  You 
write  in  many  papers  without  signing 
your  name,  write  in  all  of  them  the 
opposite  of  what  you  have  said  before ; 
speak  slightingly  of  us,  say  that  we 
are  nothing,  encourage  the  world  to 
pass  us  by  and  forget  us." 

"  But  /shall  never  forget  you." 

She  sighed  a  little.  "  That  is  the 
danger  of  it ;  and  I  knew  that.  You 
will  forget  the  others  at  least.  It  was 
only  for  your  friend's  sake  that  you 
thought  of  them  so  much.  When  you 
go  to  other  work  it  will  wipe  out  the 
memory  of  what  you  really  never  cared 
for.  As  for  me,  I  must  take  my  chance. 
Even  if  you  don't  forget,  the  world's 
hold  on  me  will  grow  less  and  less.  I 
shall  fade  out  of  other  minds,  until  at 
length  my  thread  of  suffering  will 
become  very  slight  indeed ;  then,  at 
last,  when  you  die — "  she  smiled  here 
faintly,  and  did  not  finish. 

"  I  see — your  troubles  will  be  over," 
I  answered  somewhat  dryly.  "  But 
does  it  not  occur  to  you — capable  as 
you  seem  to  be  of  independent  thought 
— that  my  position  has  its  duties  2  " 

"You  strained  your  convictions 
for  the  sake  of  your  friend  ;  you  have 


224 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


only  to  do  as  much  in  another  direc- 
tion and  the  mischief  will  be  coun- 
teracted," she  answered  quickly. 

"  There  is  also  the  memory  of  my 
friend  to  consider,  and  his  wishes," 
I  replied,  determined  to  argue  the 
question  out. 

"  A  dead  man,  one  who  does  not 
know,  who  has  escaped,"  she  said 
scornfully,  as  if  indeed  the  gate  of 
death  was  a  haven  of  refuge  denied  to 
her. 

"  And  his  sister,  whose  happiness  is 
bound  up  in  his  success  ? " 

She  looked  at  me  keenly  then,  press- 
ing her  thin  fingers  heavily  on  the 
table  again. 

"  One  woman,"  she  said,  "  only 
one.  You  must  love  her  much  to 
put  her  happiness  against  that  of  so 
many." 

"  She  is  living,  and  my  friend." 

"  And  we  only  dream  that  we  live. 
Ah,  but  the  dreaming  is  bitter ! " 
She  caught  her  breath  in  as  if  with 
the  horror  of  some  remembrance. 
"  And  she  can  go  her  own  way,  and 
make  her  own  life;  help  those  she 
loves,  and  leave  those  she  hates  •  die 
at  the  end  and  have  done  with  it. 
Would  you  sacrifice  us  to  her  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing  that  you  ask 
me  to  do." 

"  And  a  terrible  thing  which  I  beg 
you  to  undo." 

"  If  I  did  it,  and  told  why,  no  one 
would  understand  me,  or  believe  me," 
I  said,  speaking  more  to  myself  than 
to  her. 

"Has  that  anything  to  do  with  the 
rightness  of  it  1 "  she  asked,  quite 
gently,  and  moving  a  little  nearer  to 
me.  When  I  started  at  the  movement 
she  stopped  and  flushed  all  over  her 
pale  face,  as  if  recognising  my  instinct 
of  separation  ;  but  she  resumed  her 
speaking  softly — "  You  do  not  always 
act  for  such  reasons,"  was  what  she 
added. 

I  looked  at  her  surprised. 

"  You  are  a  clever  woman/'  I  said, 
"  and  have  worked  your  way  to  a 
very  individual  life :  you  have  got 
quite  beyond  my  friend  and  me.  I 


doubt   if   even   I  can  help  you  to- 
escape." 

Her  eyes  saddened  perceptibly. 

"  That  is  what  I  fear.  On  my  way 
to — this,  I  have  learned  many  things. 
When  we  begin  to  help  ourselves,  we 
get,  sometimes,  beyond  the  help  of 
others.  We  grope  our  way  to  death 
through  fuller  life,  and  if  we  do  not 
quite  get  there  it  would  have  been 
better  perhaps  not  to  start.  This  I 
did  not  know  at  the  beginning ;  but 
even  if  I  had  known  I  might  have 
gone  on  for  the  others'  sake.  You 
know  how  much  I  mean  when  I  say 
that.  I  have  shown  you  very  little 
of  all  the  truth,  but  the  rest  you 
can  remember.  You  have  guessed 
dimly  what  has  been  going  on 
around  you  before  to-night,  all  the 
sorrow  of  it,  and  the  pain ;  all  the 
shame  that  some  suffer  undeserved, 
and  the  wretched  remorse  of  others 
who  were  created  to  do  the  sin,  and 
make  the  trouble.  You  cannot  let  it 
go  on  as  before,  and  go  away,  and 
forget." 

There  was  a  certain  dignity  in  her 
address  which  lifted  it  above  the  level 
of  an  entreaty,  while  its  gentleness 
kept  it  away  from  the  harshness  of  a 
demand.  The  consciousness  that  the 
release  she  asked  for  might  not  include 
herself  had  purified  her  mood  of  its 
bitterness,  and  ennobled  her  whole 
attitude. 

"  I  cannot  answer  you  now,"  I  said, 
"you  must  give  me  time  to  think  it 
out  and  to  realise  that  this  is  no 
dream." 

"At  least  you  will  not  go  away 
without  speaking  to  me  again  1 "  she 
said. 

"  No,  I  will  not.  If  you  are  here 
to  be  spoken  to  again  you  shall 
speak  :  I  will  certainly  not  deny  you 
that  chance." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  smiling 
sweetly,  and  lifting  her  hands  from 
the  table.  There  was  a  swift  look 
of  farewell  in  her  eyes,  and  then 
she  was  gone ;  and  I  was  alone, 
more  alone  than  I  had  been  for  many 
days. 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


225 


II. 

WHEN  the  morning  came  I  broke  my 
promise,  and  ran  away.  It  was  a 
cowardly  thing  to  do,  but  I  said  to 
myself  that  I  had  dreamt  a  dream 
which  ought  not  to  interfere  with  my 
waking  movements  ;  that  I  had  no 
need  to  keep  a  promise  made  to  a 
vision  ;  and  that,  if  I  wished  to  pre- 
serve my  sanity,  I  must  leave  at  once 
the  place  where  I  had  been  subject  to 
such  a  strange  delusion. 

As  I  walked  to  the  station,  a  letter 
was  put  into  my  hand  from  Alison 
Gale— 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  where  you  are 
staying,"  she  wrote.  "That  is  the 
house  in  which  my  brother  wrote  his 
great  book — his  last  book.  The  whole 
place  must  be  haunted  by  his  thoughts, 
and  beautified  by  the  memories  of 
those  creations  which  had  their  begin- 
ning there." 

I  crumpled  the  paper  up  in  my  hand 
with  a  feeling  of  irritation.  This  fact 
I  had  not  known  before,  for  I  had 
always  believed  that  Wilfrid  Gale 
stayed-^  at  the  inn  to  which  I  had 
meant  .to  go ;  it  was  a  fact  which  I 
did  not  feel  pleased  to  have  put  before 
me  at  this  moment.  I  desired  to  learn 
no  new  circumstance  which  would  add 
to  the  vividness  of  my  recent  impres- 
sions, or  confirm  any  haunting  belief 
in  their  reality.  I  wanted  to  forget 
'  The  Yalley  of  Utter  Darkness,'  and 
all  the  other  books  which  my  friend 
had  written,  and  all  the  characters  in 
them.  I  decided  that  fiction  was  a 
nuisance,  and  ambition  a  vulgar  mis- 
take. I  bought  a  morning  paper  to 
divert  my  mind  to  politics. 

The  first  person  I  went  to  see  when 
I  reached  London  was  Alison  Gale.  I 
did  not  ask  myself  why  I  did  it,  nor 
try  to  decide  whether  I  desired  to 
strengthen  my  resolution  to  escape,  or 
only  to  receive  the  reward  of  it. 

The  reward  was  given  to  me  un- 
grudgingly. I  still  looked  ill  and  worn  ; 
my  residence  at  Alderthwaite  had 
failed  to  restore  me  to  my  ordinary 
condition  of  cynical  cheerfulness ;  the 

No,  315 — VOL.  xxxin. 


memory  of  what  I  had  left  behind 
stood  between  me  and  my  personal 
hopes ;  I  could  get  little  enjoyment 
out  of  them  ;  they  were  at  best  but  a 
necessary  consolation. 

Alison  perceived  my  melancholy 
mood,  and  was  full  of  compassion  and 
sympathy.  These  feelings  gave  the 
touch  of  tenderness  to  her  gratitude 
which  had  been  wanting  before ;  and 
her  surrender  to  me  was  very  easy  and 
simple.  She  promised  to  be  my  wife 
with  a  gentle  humility,  as  if  she  would 
not  refuse  anythiDg  I  wished,  yet 
doubted  the  sufficiency  of  herself  to 
be  all  that  I  deserved  to  have. 

But  then,  so  she  was  pleased  to  say, 
no  one  could  be  sufficiently  paid  for 
being  good  and  noble  and  great. 
When  people  did  very  good  things, 
their  own  generosity  had  to  be  their 
reward.  As  for  herself — and  here  she 
looked  down,  blushing  very  prettily, 
and  playing  with  the  flowers  in  her 
belt — it  would  be  a  great  happiness  to 
her  to  spend  her  life  with  one  who  had 
come  forward  with  so  much  perception 
and  generosity  to  make  the  world 
understand  what  Wilfrid  was,  and  to 
save  his  genius  from  being  wasted. 
She  had  always  thought  that  she 
would  never  marry,  because  marriage 
would  take  her  from  Wilfrid,  and  she 
would  rather  care  for  him  most  of  all  j 
but  to  become  my  wife  now  seemed 
only  like  going  on  with  her  life  with 
him,  and  she  felt  sure  that  her 
brother  in  heaven,  if  he  could  know 
about  it,  would  be  happy  to  think  of 
our  spending  the  rest  of  our  lives 
together. 

I  saw  that  she  over-estimated  my 
opinion  of  her  brother's  genius,  and 
placed  me  in  a  false  position  as  a 
fellow-worshipper  with  herself  at  his 
shrine.  I  could  also  have  wished  that 
she  had  shown  more  personal  regard  for 
me,  instead  of  putting  me  forward  as  a 
substitute  for  the  brother  she  had  lost. 
But  the  personal  feeling  would  come 
with  time,  and  she  would  also  learn  to 
understand  that  I  had  a  career  of  my 
own,  and  talents  worth  considering. 

In  the  meantime,  her  excess  of  sub- 


226 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


missive  gratitude  was  somewhat  em- 
barrassing, and  it  made  it  all  the 
more  painful  for  me  to  oppose  any 
wish  of  hers  when  she  brought  it 
forward.  Almost  the  first  suggestion 
she  made  on  her  own  behalf  was  a 
painful  one. 

"  I  should  like,"  she  said,  blushing 
brightly,  "  when  we  are  married,  in- 
stead of  going  to  the  places  that  so 
many  go  to,  to  stay  at  Alderthwaite 
Hall  for  a  little  while.  He  liked  it  so 
much,  and  you  know  it  already,  and 
could  show  it  to  me." 

I  answered  quite  abruptly  that  this 
was  out  of  the  question ;  the  place  was 
altogether  unsuitable.  Then  I  re- 
covered myself,  and  said  I  was  sorry 
not  to  agree  to  anything  she  would 
like ;  but  the  situation  was  melancholy, 
the  house  old-fashioned  and  uncom- 
fortable. It  would  not  do  at  all. 

She  was  a  little  hurt  and  surprised 
at  first,  having  evidently  felt  confident 
of  my  sympathy  with  this  desire.  She 
had  a  great  deal  of  sentiment,  and  was 
sure  that  I  had  it  too,  in  a  cleverer 
way ;  but,  being  satisfied  with  the 
main  thing,  my  devotion  to  her 
brother's  memory,  she  was  willing  to 
be  guided  and  corrected  in  smaller 
things.  After  a  time  she  began  to 
seem  somewhat  abashed  at  herself 
for  having  meddled  in  an  arrangement 
which  she  ought  to  have  left  altogether 
in  my  hands. 

Her  shyness  and  submission  troubled 
me,  and  I  was  sorry  to  have  driven  her 
back  into  the  mood  of  grateful  devo- 
tion. However,  it  could  not  be  helped, 
and  I  did  not  doubt  that  we  should 
learn  to  understand  one  another  better 
in  course  of  time. 

Our  marriage  was  to  take  place  after 
an  interval  of  a  few  months,  and  Alison 
went  to  pay  a  series  of  visits  to  friends 
meanwhile.  I  was  left  without  the 
solace  of  her  society,  and  felt  disin- 
clined to  go  back  into  my  own  circle, 
or  to  accept  invitations  in  general. 
Alison's  suggestion  about  Alder- 
thwaite Hall  had  come  upon  me  with 
a  kind  of  shock  ;  it  brought  back  all 
the  memories  from  which  I  was  trying 


to  escape  ;  for  I  could  not  help  realis- 
ing the  impossibility  of  taking  to  that 
trouble-haunted  place  the  young  wife 
for  whose  sake  I  had  shut  my  ears  to 
the  appeal  made  to  me. 

I  could  never  tell  her  all  that  hap- 
pened to  me  there,  how  I  had  nearly 
yielded  to  the  strange  demand  forced 
upon  me,  or  how  I  had  fled  in  a 
cowardly  manner  from  the  considera- 
tion of  it.  After  my  marriage  that 
chapter  of  my  memory  must  be  a 
closed  book,  and  Alderthwaite  a  for- 
bidden place.  I  could  never  face  the 
reproaches  possibly  waiting  for  me, 
nor  could  I  mingle  my  love  for  Alison 
with  my  sympathy  for  that  strange 
vision  of  a  woman  who  had  appealed  to 
me  so  passionately  for  herself  and  her 
fellow  victims. 

I  tried  to  think  that  it  had  all  been 
an  illusion,  a  dream  ;  and  that  now,  in 
my  happier  mood,  it  could  never  re- 
turn. And  yet  the  perplexity  of  it 
haunted  me  ;  and  I  asked  myself  con- 
tinually whether  I  had  run  away  before 
the  visions  of  a  disordered  fancy,  or 
broken  a  promise  to  a  creature  who  was 
capable  of  judgment  and  consciousness, 
I  felt  a  great  desire  to  settle  the  pro- 
blem while  my  life  was  my  own,  before 
it  was  quite  bound  up  with  Alison's. 
Her  absence  at  this  time  gave  me  an 
opportunity  of  testing  my  recovered 
nerve,  and  proving  that  Alderthwaite 
Hall  had  been  haunted  only  by  my  own 
dreams.  To  convince  myself  of  this 
fact  seemed  really  necessary  to  my 
peace  of  mind. 

I  did  not  write  to  Alison  to  tell  her 
where  I  was  going,  for  I  knew  that  her 
letters  would  be  forwarded  to  me ;  but 
I  packed  up  my  portmanteau  and  went 
down  again  to  the  old  house  by  the 
lake. 

I  shall  not  tell  all  that  happened  to 
me  after  I  went  back  to  Alderthwaite 
Hall ;  the  recital  of  it  would  be  pain- 
ful, and  would  bring  back  too  vividly 
the  memory  of  all  that  I  endured  at 
the  time. 

At  first  indeed  there  was  a  false  air 
of  peace  and  quietness  about  the  place, 
as  if  it  held  no  secret  and  hid  no 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


227 


trouble ;  and  yet  this  calm  failed  to 
satisfy  me.  I  was  not  convinced  that 
there  was  nothing  strange  to  hear  or 
see  ;  T  only  felt  that  I  had  perhaps 
sacrificed  my  power  of  hearing  and 
seeing,  and  with  it  all  hope  of  helping 
those  who  had  appealed  to  me. 

The  sunny  quietness  of  the  fells  and 
the  shining  stillness  of  the  lake  were 
not  without  their  sense  of  desolation. 
Somewhere,  pushed  out  of  sight  by  my 
determined  action,  the  miserable  lives 
might  go  on,  with  the  power  of  prayer 
or  reproach  denied  to  them.  I  felt 
like  one  of  those  pitiless  experimenters 
on  living  animals  who  content  them- 
selves with  administering  the  cruel  drug 
curari,  which  binds  their  victims  in  a 
hopeless  stillness  and  silence,  while  it 
leaves  them  full  powers  of  perception 
and  pain.  Of  all  prisons  such  a  one 
must  be  the  .most  horrible,  because  it 
is  the  narrowest ;  the  walls  of  it  are 
the  tortured  flesh  of  the  creature, 
within  which  it  can  make  no  Struggle, 
beyond  which  it  can  cast  out  no  cry. 
Had  I  done  something  like  this  in 
refusing  to  hear  the  appeal  so  pain- 
fully made  to  me ;  in  cutting  myself 
off  at  once  from  sympathy  and  commu- 
nion with  those  I  might  have  helped  ? 
This  was  my  first  sensation  when 
I  found  only  a  commonplace  world 
awaiting  me  at  Alderthwaite,  the 
chickens  cheerfully  scratching  in  the 
yard,  the  sandpipers  crying  shrilly 
over  the  water.  It  was  succeeded  by 
one  of  relief  and  triumph.  My  past 
experiences  had  been  delusions  born  of 
weakened  nerves  and  solitude.  I  had 
broken  no  promise  after  all,  and  been 
guilty  of  no  unkindness. 

This  happy  assurance  was,  however, 
very  soon  to  be  dispelled,  and  I  was  to 
go  through  more  than  my  last  experi- 
ence of  horror.  Gradually  the  power 
of  knowing  what  was  going  on  around 
me  returned,  at  first  with  a  painful 
sense  of  awakening  to  a  lost  conscious- 
ness and  of  fighting  with  intervening 
I  dreams.  I  knew  that  there  was  trouble 
|  near  me,  and  strove  vainly  to  under- 
i  stand  what  it  was ;  I  was  certain  that 
i  voices  spoke  and  people  moved  around 


me,  but  the  thread  seemed  lost  which 
would  guide  my  perceptions  to  a  clear 
knowledge  of  what  they  were. 

This  time  I  had  to  grope  my  way 
alone  out  of  the  spiritual  darkness  ; 
my  old  guide  had  abandoned  me,  dis- 
couraged by  my  unfaithfulness.  And 
when  at  last  I  forced  my  way  back 
into  the  shadowy  world  from  which  I 
seemed  shut  out,  no  one  recognised  my 
presence  there  :  I  was  a  stranger  even 
to  her. 

My  experience  was  a  remarkable 
one ;  I  doubt  if  any  one  ever  went 
through  the  like  before.  By  the  force 
of  my  sympathy,  communicated  to  me 
in  the  first  instance  by  the  strange 
woman  who  had  spoken  to  me,  I  was 
admitted  into  a  world  which  had  little 
to  do  with  my  own,  and  enabled  to  see 
all  that  happened  there. 

I  saw  many  unpleasant  things, 
nearly  everything  that  one  would  de- 
sire not  to  see  :  a  grey-haired  father 
insulted  by  his  worthless  son  ;  a  noble 
woman  cast  off  and  scoffed  at  by  an 
inferior  lover ;  a  child  murdered  by  its 
mother ;  a  wife  weeping  over  her  dead 
husband.  Even  the  pleasanter  scenes 
brought  their  own  horror;  I  knew 
they  were  but  the  flowery  ways  which 
lead — without  any  hope  of  a  turning 
— straight  to  a  wretched  end.  I  grew 
sick  of  them  at  last ;  sick  of  watching 
the  bright  beginnings  of  a  young 
affection  which  must  turn  to  hatred 
and  humiliation  ;  the  budding  of  hopes 
whose  fruit  would  be  despair.  The 
whole  thing  was  a  horrid  mockery, 
with  the  dreadful  sense  of  reality 
behind  it.  It  was  I  who  was  a  phan- 
tom, my  presence  disregarded  and 
even  ignored,  while  the  tragedy  went 
on  around  me. 

One  of  the  most  painful  experiences 
was  to  see  the  woman  who  had  ap- 
pealed to  me,  who  had  shown  herself 
capable  of  self-sacrifice  and  noble 
thoughts,  lavish  her  fondness  on  a 
vulgar  villain  who  laughed  at  her. 
The  sight  was  revolting  to  every 
instinct  I  had.  She  seemed  to  have 
gone  back,  at  least  at  times,  to  the 
ignorant  completeness  of  her  original 

Q  2 


228 


A.  Strange  Temptation. 


life ;  at  other  times  she  would  half 
awake,  look  around  her  in  a  kind  of 
horror  and  perplexity,  and  struggle 
to  understand  the  second  consciousness 
which  slumbered  within  her. 

At  such  times  I  wondered  if  it  could 
be  the  shock  of  my  desertion  which 
had  driven  her  back  from  the  higher 
station,  if  the  violence  of  the  effort 
which  she  had  made  in  vain  had  re- 
sulted in  a  hopeless  relapse  into  her 
old  helplessness. 

Perhaps  it  was  my  sympathy  which 
helped  her  at  last  to  re-emerge,  for 
she  began  once  more  to  show  some  con- 
secutive consciousness  of  the  shadowi- 
ness  of  her  life,  and  to  revolt  against 
the  things  it  compelled  her  to  be  and 
to  do.  Then  she  recognised  my  pre- 
sence, and — though  she  did  not  speak 
to  me — looked  at  me  often  with 
mingled  humiliation  and  reproach ; 
as  if  ashamed  that  I  should  see  the 
things  she  was  forced  to  do,  and 
yet  indignant  that  I  should  have 
left  her  with  no  choice  but  to  do 
them. 

It  was  long'  before  she  attempted  to 
speak  to  me  again,  or  to  take  that 
place  of  leader  and  advocate  which 
had  been  hers  before.  She  was  too 
proud  to  appeal  for  herself,  and  at 
first  too  miserable  to  appeal  for  others. 
Meanwhile  it  was  my  fate  to  watch, 
from  hour  to  hour,  so  many  creatures 
go  helplessly  on  the  way  marked  out 
by  the  caprice  of  a  man's  fancy  to 
inevitable  sorrow. 

I  could  not  interfere,  I  could  not 
influence — I  was  entirely  outside  ; 
but  a  week's  watching  made  me  feel 
like  Dante  in  his  journey  through 
the  Inferno  ;  or,  worse  than  that,  like 
a  brute  who  is  beguiling  helpless  crea- 
tures into  torture  for  some  purpose  of 
his  own. 

I  had  forgotten  my  own  future ; 
I  had  forgotten  Alison  ;  I  struggled 
only  with  the  one  thought  that  these 
victims  were  Wilfrid  Gale's,  and  not 
mine  ;  that  I  had  no  right  to  interfere 
and  put  an  end  to  their  sorrows.  This 
was  the  argument  with  which  I  lulled 
my  conscience,  or  fought  against  my 


temptation — whichever  way  you  like 
to  put  it. 

After  many  days  of  the  struggle  I 
felt  quite  broken  down ;  all  power  of 
resistance  seemed  to  have  gone  from 
me ;  I  must  yield,  or  once  more,  like 
a  coward,  find  safety  in  flight. 

"It  is  enough,"  I  felt  inclined  to 
cry ;  "  the  brightness  of  life  is  gone 
for  ever  if  I  must  buy  it  at  the  price 
of  this  knowledge.  I  will  have  no 
more  of  it." 

And  then  I  knew  that  for  the  first 
time  since  my  return  my  old  guide 
waited  for  me,  patiently,  quietly  ;  and 
that,  however  much  I  might  desire  to 
refuse,  I  must  get  up  and  follow  her. 

She  led  me  out  to  the  lake,  and 
there,  as  we  stood  beside  the  shining 
water,  bright  with  gleaming  moon- 
light, I  became  aware  of  a  presence 
near  us.  It  was  the  girl  whom  I  had 
first  seen  the  night  before  I  fled  from 
Alderthwaite. 

She  had  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
she  bent  over  it,  speaking  to  it  softly. 

"Little  baby,"  she  said,  in  her 
childlike  voice,  "he  will  not  come 
back  to  us  any  more  ;  and  my  mother 
is  dead,  and  my  father  will  never  for- 
give. If  I  left  you  to  grow  up  as  I' 
did,  would  you  leave  me  for  some  one 
who  did  not  care  much,  as  I  left  my 
mother,  and  should  I  have  to  die 
alone  1  Little  baby,  it  is  better  to  die 
now  —  now  —  before  your  heart  is," 
broken  as  mine  is  ;  before  you  break 
some  one  else's  as  I  did.  It  is  not 
worth  while  living ;  it  is  better  to 
die.  The  trouble  is  so  long,  and  the 
happiness  so  short."  She  spoke  plead- 
ingly, as  if  the  child  could  under- 
stand and  might  reproach  her  for 
what  she  meant  to  do,  rocking  it 
gently  all  the  while  in  her  arms.  "  I 
am  hungry,  baby,  and  very  ill.  When 
you  wake  you  will  cry  because  I  have 
so  little  food  to  give  you.  It  is 
better  never  to  wake,  never  to  feel 
any  more." 

She  stopped  with  a  shudder,  and 
looked  round  as  if  frightened,  and 
I  saw  then  how  thin  she  was,  and 
how  wan  her  cheeks. 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


229 


"It  is  dreadful  to  do  it  myself," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  if  some  one 
would  only  do  it  for  me,  and  I  never 
know,  as  I  can  do  it  for  baby  !  Oh  ! 
if  he  would  not  give  me  the  means  to 
live  he  might  have  given  me  death 
instead ;  but  I  must  seek  that  for 
myself,  even  that." 

She  seemed  to  be  relenting  in  her 
purpose,  and  looked  back  along  the 
path  by  which  she  had  come ;  but  the 
child  stirred  in  her  arms  and  uttered 
a  faint  moan,  more  pitiful  to  hear  than 
any  cry.  She  bent  over  it  with  pas- 
sionate kisses,  and  said,  "  I  will  do  it, 
baby,  for  your  sake;  I  will  not  be 
afraid." 

She  laid  it  down  then,  very  gently 
and  carefully,  in  a  boat  moored  to  the 
beach.  With  her  wasted  fingers  she 
undid  the  fastening  and  put  the  oars 
into  their  places ;  then,  slowly  and 
painfully,  she  began  to  row  into  the 
deeper  water.  She  paused  once  among 
the  water-lilies  and  looked  at  her 
baby,  as  if  she  thought  of  laying  him 
down  among  their  roots ;  but  she  re- 
membered the  uncertainty  of  her  own 
resolution  and  went  further  away  from 
the  shore.  In  the  still,  deep  water 
near  the  centre  of  the  lake  she  stood 
up,  letting  the  oars  fall  away  out  of 
her  reach.  She  took  the  baby  up 
and  remained  for  a  moment,  a  dark, 
straight  figure  in  the  moonlight ;  the 
boat  had  drifted  a  little,  the  oars  were 
black  lines  some  feet  away.  Then  she 
held  out  the  child  suddenly  at  arm's 
length,  uttering  a  strange  despairing 
cry,  which  was  no  appeal  for  help,  but 
rather  a  protest  and  a  last  declaration 
of  pain  to  the  indifferent  universe. 
The  cry  rang  down  the  lake,  and  the 
fells  cast  it  back ;  it  was  followed  by 
a  splash.  She  had  opened  her  arms 
and  let  the  child  fall  into  the  water. 

A  strange  thing  followed.  She  had 
evidently  meant  to  spring  in  after  her 
baby,  but  now  her  courage  failed  her, 
and  she  cowered  down  shuddering  in 
the  boat.  Then  she  leaned  over  and 
tried  to  reach  the  oars,  but  they  were 
too  far  away;  after  that  she  burst 
into  a  fit  of  bitter  sobbing,  and  covered 


her  face  with  her  hands,  longing  per- 
haps for  courage  to  finish  what  she 
had  begun. 

In  another  moment  she  stopped  and 
looked  round  her,  timidly  and  cau- 
tiously. She  seemed  afraid  of  what 
she  might  see,  and  her  fear  was  not 
without  foundation,  for  a  dark  object 
was  apparent  in  the  water  near  her. 
At  the  sight  of  it  she  rose  as  if  she 
had  been  struck,  and,  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  leapt  over  the  side 
of  the  boat  towards  it. 

"  My  baby,  come  back  to  me  !  "  was 
her  cry  as  the  ruffled  waters  closed 
over  her.  In  the  gleaming  moonlight 
only  the  boat  was  left  drifting,  and 
near  it  the  floating  oars. 

I  turned  away  with  something  be- 
tween a  shudder  and  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Yes,  it  is  over,"  said  my  guide, 
speaking  for  the  first  time  since  my 
return,  and  answering  my  thought. 
"  Must  it  begin  again  and  go  on, 
through  all  the  weary  course  of  it,  to 
the  dreadful  end  ? " 

I  looked  at  her  actually  with  some- 
thing of  anger  and  repugnance.  She 
was  like  an  accusing  spirit  from  which 
I  could  not  escape.  I  uttered  no  word 
in  reply,  but  I  went  in-doors,  took 
pen  and  paper,  and  wrote  through  all 
that  night  and  into  the  following 
morning. 

It  was  not  one  thing  that  I  wrote, 
but  many.  There  was  a  serious  essay 
pointing  out  the  intrinsic  weakness  of 
my  friend's  writings  and  the  sketchi- 
ness  of  his  characters ;  there  was  a 
jesting  discourse,  which  laughed  at 
the  public  for  having  taken  seriously 
what  was  only  worth  a  passing  thought ; 
there  were  other  papers  in  other  styles. 
The  substance  of  all  was  the  same,  but 
the  forms  were  different,  and  each,  as 
I  wrote  it,  I  addressed  to  the  magazine 
for  which  it  was  most  suited,  among 
those  to  which  I  was  an  accepted 
contributor. 

I  did  this  work  without  pause  or 
hesitation.  When  it  was  done  I  had 
my  breakfast,  packed  up  my  port- 
manteau, and  departed.  I  posted  my 
productions  en  route,  paid  a  nying 


230 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


visit  to  my  lodgings,  and  took  the 
earliest  train  to  Dover.  My  next 
letter  to  Alison  was  dated  from  Paris. 
I  told  her  that  I  had  been  suddenly 
obliged  to  go  abroad  on  business,  that 
I  should  travel  from  place  to  place, 
and  that  I  could  not  at  present  give 
her  any  address  to  write  to. 

My  great  desire  at  that  time  was  to 
get  out  of  the  reach  of  letters  and 
magazines.  If  my  papers  were  printed, 
it  must  be  without  any  proof  correc- 
tion from  me.  I  was  determined  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  them. 
If  they  came  into  my  hands  again,  it 
could  only  be  to  renew  the  old  struggle, 
which  I  hoped  to  have  concluded  for 
ever. 

When  I  next  saw  Alison  more  than 
three  months  had  passed  away.  I 
had  written  to  her  several  times,  but 
always  when  on  the  point  of  changing 
my  quarters,  and  I  had  taken  care  to 
avoid  giving  any  instructions  for  the 
forwarding  of  letters.  If  this  thing 
had  to  be  done,  let  it  be  done  irre- 
trievably before  I  had  any  more 
knowledge  of  it. 

I  spoke  to  Alison  in  my  brief 
letters  of  much  business  and  travel 
in  which  I  was  involved  :  and  I  spoke 
truthfully,  for  I  had  chosen  to  absorb 
myself  in  an  exhaustive  study  of  cer- 
tain districts  of  the  Continent,  on 
which,  with  their  people  and  their 
history,  I  had  been  invited  to  write  a 
series  of  papers. 

"  I  cannot  create,"  I  wrote  to  her, 
with  a  ghastly  effort  to  be  playful, 
"  but  I  can  at  least  amass ;  and  I  am 
trying  hard  to  lay  the  foundation  of 
some  future  fame  before  I  come  back 
to  you.  This  sort  of  travelling  will 
be  out  of  the  question  for  you,  and 
after  we  are  married  I  shall  not  like 
to  do  it  alone." 

When  I  had  actually  started  on  my 
return  journey,  I  telegraphed  the  time 
at  which  I  expected  to  arrive  at  home, 
and  on  reaching  my  London  lodgings 
I  found  a  note  from  Alison  awaiting 
me.  It  was  very  brief,  and  only 
stated  where  she  was  to  be  found  ;  but 
I  guessed  from  the  tone  of  it  that 


something  was  wrong,  and  that  she 
had  some  revelation  to  make. 

When  I  actually  stood  before  her, 
she  looked  very  pale  and  sad.  The 
mourning  which  she  wore  for  her 
brother  before  I  went  away  had  not 
been  changed  for  anything  brighter ; 
it  had  not  even  been  modified.  She 
listened  to  my  greetings  quietly,  and 
then  sat  down,  clasping  her  hands  in 
the  intensity  of  some  emotion. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said,. "of 
something  dreadful  that  has  happened 
since  you  went  away,"  and  then  I 
knew  that  the  thing  had  been  done, 
and  that  my  wild  shots  had  not  missed 
their  mark. 

A  heap  of  papers  and  magazines  lay 
beside  her ;  she  took  them  up  now, 
and  began  to  finger  them  in  an 
agitated  manner. 

"  Some  one,"  she  said,  "  has  done  a 
wicked  thing — some  one  who  must 
have  hated  my  brother,  and  been 
angry  that  justice  had  been  done  to 
him  at  last.  See  !  "  she  went  on,  hold- 
ing the  papers  towards  me,  "  every  one 
of  them  contains  something  written 
against  his  books." 

I  took  them  from  her,  and  was  glad 
to  hold  my  head  down,  examining 
them.  As  I  turned  over  the  pages 
rapidly,  I  perceived  that  the  writing 
in  question  was  all  mine.  Some  of  it 
had  been  abbreviated,  some  a  little 
altered,  the  editors  having  taken  the 
responsibility  of  correction  in  my 
absence.  One  little  essay,  light  and 
sarcastic  in  tone,  had  evidently  fallen 
in  altogether  with  the  editorial  mood  ; 
it  had  been  polished  to  a  keener  in- 
tensity of  mocking  evil,  and  some  very 
sharp  strokes  of  severity  had  been 
added  to  it. 

"  What  is  so  strange,"  said  Alison, 
in  her  low,  troubled  voice,  "  is,  that 
people  believe  those  wicked  things.  I 
know  they  do.  I  can  see  it  by  the 
way  they  begin  to  look  at  me,  as  if 
they  were  a  little  sorry,  but  it  did  not 
matter  much.  They  are  not  interested 
as  they  were  before,  and  glad  to  talk 
of  my  brother ;  they  just  look  at  me 
for  a  moment  in  an  observing  sort  of 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


231 


manner,  and  then  turn  away.  The 
most  they  will  say  now  is,  '  What  a 
pity  your  brother  died  so  young,' — as 
if  he  did  not  do  enough  to  make  his 
fame  first!" 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,"  I  an- 
swered, still  turning  over  the  leaves, 
and  wondering  how  I  could  have 
thought  of  so  much  severe  criticism 
in  one  night ;  "  such  a  change  cannot 
take  place  all  at  once." 

"  Yet  it  has }  and  oh !  how  I  have 
wished  for  you  to  come  back  and  do 
something.  My  friends  talk  to  me, 
and  say  that  my  brother's  fame  had 
not  been  established  long  enough  to 
resist  this  attack  ;  that  your  praise  of 
him  had  started  it,  and  that  now  every 
one  remembers  that  you  were  his  par- 
ticular friend.  Nobody  cared  for  his 
writing,  really — that's  what  they  try 
to  tell  me  in  other  words,  to  make  me 
patient,  but  people  were  ashamed  of 
not  seeming  to  care  when  they  heard 
that  he  was  so  clever,  and  a  real 
genius.  Now  they  can  please  them- 
selves, because  some  one  has  dared  to 
write  slightingly  of  him ;  and  the  sale 
of  his  books  has  stopped  quite  sud- 
denly. It  must  be  a  very  jealous  and 
wicked  person  who  has  done  it !  " 

"  Why  do  you  think  it  is  one  per- 
son 1  There  are  six  essays  here,  in 
different  papers." 

"  They  are  none  of  them  signed ; 
and  I  do  not  believe  there  are  two 
persons  in  the  world  so  cruel  as  that," 
she  ended  conclusively. 

I  put  the  papers  down  and  looked 
at  her  at  last. 

"  Alison,"  I  said,  "  you  know  that 
I  love  you." 

"I  believe  that  you  do,"  she 
answered,  her  face  flushing,  "  that  is 
why  I  ask  you  to  help  me." 

"  And  that  I  was  your  brother's 
friend,  and  liked  to  be  of  service  to 
him?" 

"  You  have  been  before,  and  you 
will  be  again  now,"  she  said ;  but  I 
went  on  without  heeding  her. 

"  How  will  you  believe  me,  then, 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  wrote  these 
papers,  every  one  of  them  1  " 


"  You  !  "  She  rose  to  her  feet,  con- 
fronting me. 

"  Yes,  I !  "  I  answered,  rising  too, 
and  putting  the  papers  down. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you.  You  are 
mad.  You  are  ill.  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  saying." 

"  I  know  very  well.  It  was  to  get 
away  from  this  trouble  that  I  left  you 
and  went  abroad." 

She  trembled  a  little,  and  leaned  on 
the  table  to  support  herself,  looking 
at  me  with  a  white  face. 

"  You  could  not  do  it,"  she  said. 
"  There  was  no  motive.  It  is — some 
cruel  joke." 

"It  is  the  miserable  truth ;  and  I 
will  tell  you  the  motive." 

Then  I  sat  down  again,  and  told 
her,  as  rapidly  and  yet  as  fully  as  I 
could,  the  history  of  my  temptation, 
how  I  had  fled  from  it,  returned  to  it, 
yielded  to  it. 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair  as  she 
listened,  a  look  of  perplexity,  of  incre- 
dulity, of  pain,  on  her  face.  Once  I 
thought  there  was  a  glimpse  of  fear 
there;  but  my  calm  manner,  my 
steady  voice,  the  coherence  of  my  dis- 
course, in  spite  of  its  strange  subject, 
reassured  her.  She  could  not  think 
that  I  was  dangerously  mad  ;  it  was 
easier  to  believe  that  I  was,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  deceiving  her. 

When  I  had  finished  she  looked  at 
me  quietly,  and  said,  "  You  have  had 
a  strange  delusion  ;  and  now  you  will 
confess  all,  and  undo  it." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  much  as  I  love  you, 
I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  undo  it." 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  "that 
you  will  let  the  world  go  on  reading 
those  papers,  not  knowing  why  they 
were  written?  " 

"  Does  the  world  know  why  I  wrote 
the  first ;  because  he  was  my  friend, 
and  you  were  his  sister  1 " 

She  paled  a  little  at  this,  but 
answered,  "  It  was  true  ;  you  believed 
it." 

"With  modifications.  And  these 
papers  are  true,  and  I  believe  them, 
with  modifications.  No,  I  will  inter- 
fere no  more.  I  have  but  undone 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


what  I  did.  If  your  brother's  fame 
is  a  real  thing,  if  his  genius  is  a  suffi- 
cient thing,  his  works  will  survive 
this  attack.  If  they  cannot  survive 
it,  if  they  owed  their  success  entirely 
to  what  I  wrote  before,  let  them  be 
forgotten ;  it  is  their  proper  fate." 

"But  I,"  she  said,  her  eyes  begin- 
ning to  flame  somewhat,  "  I  can  tell 
the  world  what  you  will  not." 

"  You  can  please  yourself,"  I 
answered;  "the  world  will  not,  any 
more  than  you  do,  believe  in  my  true 
motive.  They  will  think  my  explana- 
tion a  mere  excuse  to  escape  your 
anger.  Will  it  then  benefit  your 
brother's  fame  for  it  to  be  known  that 
the  critic  who  praised  him  so  highly 
at  first  repented  afterwards  and  wrote 
these  things  ? " 

She  became  very  pale  indeed,  and 
faltered,  "  You  are  too  clever  for  me. 
I  did  not  think  of  that." 

I  was  touched  with  pity  and  tender- 
ness at  the  sight  of  her  trouble. 

"  Alison,"  I  said,  "  forgive  me,  and 
let  this  go  by.  You  cannot  believe  or 
understand  what  I  have  told  you,  but 
you  can  at  least  suppose  that  I  have 
some  good  reason,  and  would  not 
grieve  you  without  cause.  I  have 
but  undone  what  I  did  :  your  brother's 
fame  stands  as  it  was  before  I  touched 
it.  If  it  fades  away  and  he  is  forgot- 
ten, he  is  spared  the  trouble  of  know- 
ing it.  He  is  gone,  and  can  suffer  no 
more  from  the  world's  caprices;  but 
we  have  years  of  life  before  us.  Let 
this  be  a  closed  book  in  the  future. 
If  you  can  forgive  me  I  will  strive  to 
make  up  in  other  ways  for  this  trou- 
ble ;  why  should  we  not  be  happy  yet, 
since  we  love  one  another  '£ " 

"I?"  she  said,  drawing  back,  and 
speaking  with  scorching  emphasis. 
"  Do  you  think  that  /  can  love  you, 
the  traitor,  the  wicked  injurer  of  the 
dead?" 

"  I  hoped  you  loved  me,"  I  an- 
swered, "  since  you  promised  to  be 
my  wife." 

"  I  will  not  break  my  promise,"  she 
said,  "  if  you  will  undo  this  wickedness 
that  you  have  done." 


"It  is  impossible,  much  as  I  love 
you." 

"  Then  let  me  never  have  the  misery 
of  looking  on  your  face  again,"  she 
answered  passionately.  And  so  she 
turned  and  left  me. 

I  have  never  seen  Alison  since  that 
day,  but  I  have  heard  of  her  marriage 
to  a  clergyman,  a  very  second-rate  sort 
of  man,  who  fancies,  entirely  without 
foundation,  that  he  has  a  talent  for 
composing  hymns. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  have  ever  re- 
pented what  I  did,  though  it  has  made 
my  life  lonely,  and  brought  trouble  to 
the  girl  I  loved.  If  I  made  a  mistake, 
the  error  was  a  cruel  one,  to  me  as 
well  as  to  others ;  but  I  am  to-day  as 
convinced  of  the  reality  of  what  I  saw 
and  heard  as  when  I  sat  down  and 
wrote  those  papers. 

Alison  did  not  exaggerate  the  con- 
sequence of  their  almost  simultaneous 
appearance.  Wilfrid  Gale  had  not 
the  qualities  necessary  to  ensure  popu- 
larity, though  he  was  clever  enough 
for  people  to  admire  him  when  told — 
with  authority — that  they  ought  to 
do  so.  When  told,  however,  with 
equal  authority,  and  more  numerical 
force,  that  they  might  please  them- 
selves, they  pleased  themselves  in 
the  direction  of  forgetfulness  and 
neglect. 

After  my  parting  with  Alison  Gale 
I  went  abroad  again,  and  did  not  re- 
turn to  England  for  some  years. 
During  my  absence  Alison  married, 
and  many  of  my  friends  had  time  to 
forget  me. 

They  had  time  also  to  forget  the 
poor  genius  who  had  died  too  young, 
and  for  whom  the  mistaken  zeal  of  a 
friend — as  gossip  said — had  achieved  a 
momentary  popularity.  When  I  came 
back  I  found  that  his  name  had  slipped 
from  people's  memories,  and  his  books 
had  disappeared  from  the  stalls.  There 
was  no  demand  for  his  works  in  the 
libraries,  no  reference  to  his  produc- 
tions in  the  current  literature.  Very 
few  read  him^  and  nobody  quoted  him. 
He  was  remembered,  as  a  name,  by 
one  or  two  literary  persons,  but  his 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


233 


writings  had,  even  with  them,  sunk 
into  the  haze  of  oblivion. 

I  went  down  to  Alderthwaite  Hall 
once  more,  and  found  a  great  peace 
and  silence  resting  on  its  ivied  chim- 
neys and  dwelling  in  its  ancient  walls. 
The  ghosts  had  gone,  set  free  at  last 
from  the  sadness  of  their  unreal  exist- 
ence. None  thought  of  them,  none 
remembered  them ;  that  mission  of 
reflecting  in  a  shadowy  life  the  intense 
consciousness  of  men  and  women  who 
believed  in  their  identities,  was  over 
and  done  with.  All  were  gone,  except 
one,  whose  sad  face  still  haunted  the 
place  with  its  patient  sweetness. 

It  was  even  as  she  had  guessed.  The 
effort  which  broke  the  narrow  bonds 
of  her  life,  and  rendered  her  capable 
of  original  action,  had  set  her  in  a 
higher  circle  of  existence  than  those 
who  were  her  companions.  As  their 
consciousness  grew  less  intense,  their 
joy  and  sorrow  less  real,  her  individu- 
ality remained  the  same.  Gradually 
she  became  more  and  more  separated 
from  those  for  whom  she  had  done  so 
much,  and  also  from  the  old  chain  of 
circumstances  and  feelings  which  had 
bound  her  before.  She  stood  aloof  in 
her  solitude,  and  saw  the  old  life  fall 
away,  saw  the  old  companions  die  out, 
till  they  were  only  faint  echoes,  or 
dim  visions. 

Then  she  was  left  alone,  with  no 
life  to  live,  her  career  ended  ;  her  work 
successful  for  others,  a  failure  for  her- 
|  self  alone. 

"  But  I  do  not  repent/' '  she  said, 
speaking  to  me  for  the  last  time,  "  it 
was  a  good  thing  to  do,  and  the  rest 
are  free.  I  would  have  done  it  for 
that  alone.  It  used  to  seem  a  terrible 
thing  to  me,  when  first  I  grew  to 
understand  it,  to  think  of  all  those 
lives  marked  out  to  live,  those  loves  to 
be  felt,  those  sins  to  be  done,  without 
any  choice.  But  since  then  I  have 
wondered  in  my  great  loneliness 
whether  you  in  the  larger  world 
have  any  more  choice,  though  you 
think  you  have.  Those  poor  things 
thought  they  had,  too,  and  I  thought 
it  once  ;  and  I  have  wondered  whether 


if  any  of  you  get  far  enough  to  see 
what  you  are,  the  hopelessness  and  the 
triviality  of  it  will  drive  you  to  de- 
spair, as  it  did  me.  But  I  cannot  tell. 
Will  any  of  you  be  strong  enough  to 
reach  a  higher  knowledge,  and  will  it 
also  prove  to  be  death  and  oblivion  1 
Will  it  be  the  fate  of  one,  as  it  has 
been  mine,  to  find  that  greater  truth 
which  is  the  end  of  life,  and,  having 
opened  the  door  by  which  the  others 
go  out,  to  be  left  alone  in  all  eternity 
with  no  way  of  passing  through  ? " 

11 1  should  never  have  the  courage 
to  seek  such  a  way,"  I  answered, 
shuddering. 

"You  cannot  tell  what  you  would 
do  if  the  need  proved  strong  enough. 
And  now  I  want  to  ask  one  thing  for 
myself  :  this  is  for  myself  alone.  It 
is  that  you  will  go  away  from  this 
place  again,  and  never  return  to  it.  I 
think  of  you  always  with  gratitude  and 
kindness.  To  have  known  you  is  some 
compensation  for  having  been  com- 
pelled, in  the  existence  from  which  you 
delivered  me,  to  love  " — she  stopped 
and  shuddered.  "  I  will  not  go  back 
to  that  evil  thought,  which  covers  me 
still  with  humiliation.  Your  memory 
is  pleasant  to  me,  but  your  presence 
fills  me  with  too  strong  a  life.  Too 
strong  because  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  and  am  as  purposeless  as  a 
shadow.  When  you  are  far  away  my 
thoughts  are  dim  like  a  dream.  I 
hardly  know  that  I  go  on  existing:; 
one  day  perhaps  I  may  go  out  alto- 
gether. For  you  will  forget  me,  per- 
haps, and  it  is  only  in  your  mind  that 
I  now  live — not  the  old  life,  a  newer 
though  a  lonelier  one." 

"  I  fear  that  I  shall  never  forget 
you,"  I  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  must  wait  longer  then,"  she 
answered  with  a  wan  sweet  smile ; 
"  when  the  end  comes  for  you  it  will 
come  for  me  too.  There  is  some  plea- 
sure in  the  thought.  We  have  never 
lived  the  same  life,  I  have  been  only  a 
vision  to  you ;  but  we  may  at  least 
die  together,  and  that  will  be  a  kind 
of  meeting.  Good-bye." 

She  smiled  with  a  quivering  lip,  and 


A  Strange  Temptation. 


I  put  out  my  hand  to  touch  hers.  It 
seemed  so  real  to  me  that  I  felt  as  if 
I  might  clasp  it,  and  draw  her  from 
her  shadowy  world  to  my  real  one. 
But  she  drew  back,  shook  her  head, 
and  smiled  again. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  said;  "never 
call  me  to  this  stronger  life  again.  It 
can  only  be  an  added  pain  to  us  both." 

My  hand  dropped.  I  had  no  strength 
to  protest,  but  watched  her  as  she 
faded  from  my  sight,  and  then  put  my 
hand  over  my  eyes,  feeling  as  if  I  had 
parted  from  a  friend  who  was  very 
dear  to  me. 

I  never  saw  her  again.  If  she  still 
haunts  the  old  Hull  at  Alderthwaite  I 
shall  not  know.  Peace  be  with  her 
sweet  strong  spirit  if  it  has  not  yet 
found  its  rest ! 


I  shall  never  marry.  Alison  was 
my  first  love  ;  after  I  lost  her  I  never 
looked  on  another  woman  whom  I 
desired  to  make  my  wife.  About 
them  all,  in  spite  of  their  fairness, 
there  was  something  hard,  and  cold, 
and  worldly.  That  vision  that  I  had 
had  of  a  suffering  creature,  who  was 
willing  to  suffer  still  if  her  companions 
might  be  set  free,  came  between  me 
and  all  the  bright  beauty  of  girls  who 
hardly  knew  what  trouble  was.  It 
comes  between  me  and  my  old  am- 
bitions now. 

What  a  strange  thing  it  is  to  look 
forward  to  my  own  death,  knowing 
that  it  will  bring  her  freedom  and 
therefore  her  reward ! 


235 


AMERICAN   LEADS   AT  WHIST. 


EVER  since  whist  became  a  scientific 
game  authorities  have  been  agreed 
on  one  fundamental  point,  viz.,  that 
the  original  lead  should  be  from  the 
strongest  suit. 

About  the  year  1728,  so  far  as  is 
known,  whist  was  first  studied  scien- 
tifically by  a  party  of  gentlemen  fre- 
quenting the  Crown  coffee-house  in 
Bedford  Row.  It  is  on  record  that 
these  players  laid  down  as  their  first 
rule,  "  Lead  from  the  strong  suit." 

Shortly  after  this  (1743)  appeared 
Hoyle's  '  Short  Treatise  on  the  Game 
of  Whist.'  Hoyle  echoes  the  Crown 
dictum.  His  first  "  general  rule  "  is, 
"  When  you  lead,  begin  with  the  best 
suit  in  your  hand."  Payne,  '  Maxims  ' 
(1773),  says,  "  Begin  with  the  suit  of 
which  you  have  most  in  number." 
Matthews,  'Advice'  (1805),  recom- 
mends leads  from  sequences  of  three 
cards  or  more,  and  adds,  "  If  you  have 
none,  lead  from  your  most  numerous 
suit ; "  but  when  weak  in  trumps,  he 
does  not  like  leading  from  a  long  weak 
suit.  This,  however,  is  rather  a  con- 
tradiction in  terms,  as  one  of  the 
elements  of  strength  is  number. 
"  Ccelebs,"  '  Laws  and  Practice  of 
Whist'  (1851),  states  that  "generally 
the  primitive  lead  is  from  the  strong- 
est or  most  numerous  suit."  Clay, 
'Treatise  on  Short  Whist'  (1864),  re- 
marks, "  Let  your  first  lead  be  from 
your  strongest  suit."  The  above  list- 
could  be  extended,  but  enough  has 
been  quoted  to  carry  the  point  that 
there  is  a  general  consensus  among 
writers  on  the  game,  as  also  among 
players,  that  the  original  lead  should 
be  from  the  strongest  suit. 

By  "  the  "  original  lead  is  meant  the 
very  first  lead  of  all.  When  the  ori- 
ginal leader  loses  the  lead,  and  some 
one  else  opens  a  fresh  suit,  his  lead  is 
original  in  one  sense,  but  is  not  the 
original  lead.  After  one  or  two  tricks 


have  been  played,  the  fall  of  the  cards 
may  influence  the  next  lead.  It  is  not 
proposed  to  discuss  here  leads  late  in 
a  hand.  The  following  observations 
apply  in  their  absolute  form  to  "  the  " 
original  lead  only. 

By  the  strongest  suit  is  meant  the 
suit  of  greatest  number.  It  is  not 
denied  that  there  are  exceptional  hands, 
from  which  the  suit  of  greatest  number 
is  not  led  originally.  Thus  a  player 
may  hold  five,  four,  three,  two,  in  one 
suit,  and  ace,  king,  queen,  in  another, 
and  in  his  judgment  it  may  be  ad- 
visable to  open  the  tierce  major  in 
preference  to  the  suit  of  four  small 
cards.  But.  in  a  theoretical  discussion, 
such  hands  may  be  ignored,  for  the 
very  reason  that  they  are  exceptional. 

Four  cards  is  the  minimum  number 
of  a  strong  suit.  Three  is  somewhat 
below  the  average  of  cards  of  the  same 
suit  in  one  hand ;  four  is  somewhat 
above  the  average.  Hence,  for  pre- 
sent purposes,  it  may  be  taken  that  a 
strong  suit  is  a  suit  of  four  or  more 
cards. 

The  selection  of  card  depends  on  the 
number  of  the  cards  in  the  suit,  and 
on  the  number  and  value  of  the  high 
cards. 

Thus,  a  small  card  is  led  when  the 
suit  contains  no  honour  ;  or,  with  two 
exceptions,  when  it  contains  only  one 
honour.  The  honours  are,  of  course, 
ace,  king,  queen,  knave. 

With  ace  and  more  than  three  small 
cards  in  a  plain  suit,  ace  is  led,  as, 
owing  to  the  number  of  cards  held  in 
the  suit  (five  at  least),  it  is  not  great 
odds  against  the  second  round  being 
trumped.  Also  when  the  only  honour 
is  the  knave,  and  it  is  accompanied  by 
at  least  the  ten  and  the  nine,  then  the 
knave  is  led. 

When  the  suit  contains  two  honours, 
if  they  are  ace  and  king,  it  is  ob- 
viously right,  in  plain  suits,  to  lead 


236 


American  Leads  at  Whist. 


them  in  preference  to  a  low  card.  If 
the  two  honours  are  king  and  queen, 
the  king  is  led.  Further,  if  the  ten 
accompanies  queen,  knave,  queen  is 
led ;  and  if  ten  accompanies  king, 
knave,  ten  is  led.  In  other  cases  a 
small  card  is  led  with  two  honours  in 
the  suit.  With  more  than  two  honours 
in  the  suit,  a  high  card  is  always  led. 
And  observe,  in  three  combinations 
from  which  a  high  card  is  led  the 
second  lead  is  a  low  card,  viz.,  ace  and 
four  small  cards  ;  king  (led  from  king, 
queen),  when  the  king  wins  the  trick  ; 
and  ten  (led  from  king,  knave,  ten), 
when  the  ten  wins  the  trick. 

In  all  other  cases  (bar  exceptional 
conditions  owing  to  the  fall  of  the 
cards  in  the  first  trick,  which  can 
only  be  taken  into  account  in  a  com- 
plete treatise),  when  a  high  card  is 
led,  the  lead  is  followed  by  another 
high  card. 

A  strong  suit,  then,  may  be  opened 
in  one  of  three  ways  : — 1.  A  low  card 
may  be  led.  2.  A  high  card  may  be 
led,  followed  by  a  low  card.  3.  A  nigh 
card  may  be  led,  followed  by  a  high 
card. 

Take  first  the  case  of  a  low  card 
led.  Which  of  the  low  cards  of  the 
strong  suit  should  the  original  leader 
select  ? 

A  player  somewhat  advanced  in 
the  game  would  answer  that,  having 
no  pretension  to  win  the  trick,  the 
lowest  card  of  all  should  be  led,  so  as 
to  avoid  the  possibility  of  any  un- 
necessary sacrifice.  He  might  add 
that,  as  between  such  cards  as  a  two 
and  a  three,  it  is  true  there  can  be  no 
sacrifice  in  leading  the  three ;  but 
that,  having  a  rule  of  play,  it  is 
advisable  to  apply  it  uniformly,  and 
that  consequently  he  would  always 
lead  his  lowest  when  opening  a  strong 
suit  with  a  small  card.  And,  indeed, 
this  was  the  practice  from  the  earliest 
period  of  scientific  whist,  until  the 
year  1872. 

About  that  time  a  number  of  highly 
intelligent  players  were  in  the  habit 
of  pursuing  their  favourite  pastime  at 
the  County  Club,  in  Albemarle  Street. 


They  observed  that  the  invariable 
lead  of  the  lowest  sometimes  lost 
a  trick  to  a  very  small  card  on  the 
first  round,  should  the  third  hand 
happen  to  be  very  weak  in  the  leader's 
suit.  Thus,  leader  has  king,  ten,  nine, 
eight,  two ;  second  hand  has  queen, 
knave,  five,  four  ;  third  hand  has  six, 
three ;  fourth  hand  has  ace,  seven. 
The  old-fashioned  game  was  to  lead 
the  two.  The  second  and  third  hands 
would  play  the  four  and  the  six  respec- 
tively, and  the  fourth  hand  would 
win  the  trick  with  the  seven.  If,  with 
these  cards,  the  first  lead  is  the  eight, 
it  forces  the  ace  from  the  fourth  hand, 
and  leaves  the  leader  with  the  winning 
card.  From  such  a  combination  as  the 
above  there  can  be  no  doubt,  as  was 
soon  decided,  that  the  eight,  and  not 
the  lowest  card,  is  the  most  favourable 
one  for  the  original  lead. 

Then  the  question  arose — How  far 
is  this  scheme  to  be  carried  ?  Holding 
an  intermediate  sequence  of  knave, 
ten,  nine  (say  with  the  king  above 
and  the  two  below  the  sequence) 
even  the  old-fashioned  players  would 
begin  with  the  nine  in  preference  to 
the  two.  The  example  set  out  at 
length  has  already  shown  that  if  the 
intermediate  sequence  is  ten,  nine, 
eight,  it  is  also  right  to  begin  with  the 
eight.  Who  shall  say  that  it  is  not 
right  to  begin  with  the  seven,  holding 
an  intermediate  sequence  of  nine, 
eight,  seven  ?  And  how  about  an  in- 
termediate sequence  of  eight,  seven, 
six? 

The  line  could  not  be  drawn,  so  the 
knot  was  cut  by  pursuing  a  uniform 
practice  with  all  intermediate  sequences 
of  three  cards.  That  is  to  say,  with 
such  a  suit  as  queen,  seven,  six,  five, 
two  (containing  an  intermediate  se- 
quence of  seven,  six,  five),  the  leader 
would  open  the  game  with  the  five, 
and  not  with  the  two. 

And  "  Lo  !  a  marvel  came  to  light." 
Given  the  original  lead  from  a  strong 
suit,  it  was  remarked  that  when  the 
leader  first  produced,  say,  a  five,  and 
afterwards  played  a  two,  he  must 
necessarily  have  led  from  great  nume- 


American  Leads  at  Whist. 


237 


rical  strength,  that  is  from  a  suit  of 
at  least  five  cards. 

Now  it  has  been  a  maxim  of  scien- 
tific whist  from  time  immemorial  that 
it  is  an  advantage  to  inform  partner 
of  strength  in  any  particular  suit,  and 
especially  of  great  strength.  Hence, 
it  having  been  discovered  that  a  player 
could  inform  his  partner  of  great 
strength  by  first  leading  his  pen- 
ultimate card,  when  he  held  an  inter- 
mediate sequence,  it  began  to  be 
considered  whether  he  should  confine 
this  advantage  to  suits  containing  such 
sequences.  Why  should  he  not,  it  was 
suggested,  extend  the  rule  to  all  suits 
of  five  or  more  cards,  irrespective  of 
their  containing  an  intermediate  se- 
quence ?  To  give  a  concrete  example. 
From  queen,  six,  five,  four,  two,  the 
four  was  led,  and  the  information  was 
given.  But  from  queen,  six,  four, 
three,  two,  the  two  was  led,  and  the 
information  was  withheld.  Why  1  Be- 
cause the  four,  three,  two  sequence  was 
not  "  intermediate."  It  was  soon  felt 
that  this  was  splitting  straws,  and  the 
rule  to  lead  the  penultimate  card  from 
all  suits  of  five  cards  opened  with  a 
small  card  (whether  containing  an  in- 
termediate sequence  or  not),  became 
established. 

It  was,  however,  hotly  disputed  in 
some  quarters  whether  it  is  advisable 
to  inform  partners  of  such  details  of 
strength,  bearing  in  mind  that  the 
information  is  also  imparted  to  the 
adversaries.  It  would  require  a  separ- 
ate essay  to  thresh  out  the  pros  and 
cons  of  the  Battle  of  the  Penulti- 
mate. Suffice  it  to  say  that,  with  the 
exception  of  a  small  contingent  of 
Irreconcilables,  the  penultimate  sys- 
tem is  now  approved  of  by  good  players. 
And  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  pen- 
ultimates are  led,  by  gentlemen  who 
play  to  win,  out  of  any  compliment  to 
Drayson,  Pole,  "  Cavendish  "  or  other 
writers  who  uphold  the  system.  Far 
from  it.  The  plan  is  followed  because 
it  has  been  found  to  answer. 

There  is  yet  one  step  further.  What 
is  to  be  done  with  suits  of  more  than 
five  cards? 


For  a  long  time  (that  is,  from  1872 
to  1884)  the  penultimate  was  led  from 
suits  of  five  or  more  cards.  The  lead 
of  the  ante-penultimate  from  suits  of 
six  cards  had  been  several  times  pro- 
posed, notably  by  Drayson  in  1879. 
But  the  proposals  fell  flat  until  a  year 
or  two  back,  when  Mr.  Nicholas 
Browse  Trist,  of  New  Orleans,  U.S.A., 
hit  the  nail  on  the  head.  He  laid  it 
down  as  a  general  principle  that  all  long 
suits  opened  with  a  low  card  should 
be  treated  as  though  they  contained 
the  minimum  of  numerical  strength 
only  (that  is,  four  cards),  and  that 
the  fourth-best  card  should  always  be 
the  one  chosen  for  the  first  lead — lower 
cards  being  disregarded.  Thus,  from 
king,  ten,  nine,  six,  lead  the  six.  From 
king,  ten,  nine,  six,  five,  lead  the  six. 
From  king,  ten,  nine,  six,  five,  four,  lead 
the  six.  And  so  on,  whatever  the 
procession  of  small  cards  lower  than 
the  six.  The  difference  between  the 
two  schemes  may  be  briefly  stated 
thus  : — for  "  lowest  "  and  for  "  pen- 
ultimate "  read  "  fourth-best." 

The  advantage  of  this  uniformity  of 
lead  is  that  partner  always  knows 
the  leader  holds  exactly  three  cards 
in  his  suit  higher  than  the  one  led. 
If  the  leader  afterwards  plays  lower 
cards  he  still  retains  the  three  higher 
cards.  An  example  will  render  the 
working  of  the  fourth -best  rule 
apparent.  Put  out  the  cards  of  one 
suit,  and  give  the  leader  queen,  knave, 
eight,  seven,  four,  three.  Give  the 
second  hand  the  ten  ;  the  third  hand 
ace,  king,  nine ;  and  the  fourth  hand 
six,  five,  two.  The  penultimate  leader 
starts  with  the  four.  Second  hand 
plays  ten  ;  third  hand  plays  king ;  and 
fourth  hand  plays  two.  To  the  second 
trick  the  third  hand  leads  ace.  The 
fourth  hand  (now  second  to  play)  plays 
five ;  the  original  leader  (now  third 
hand)  plays  three ;  the  other  player 
renounces. 

Now  the  original  leader's  partner 
knows  (owing  to  the  penultimate) 
that  the  lead  was  from  at  least 
five  cards;  but  he  cannot  infer  the 
value  of  any  one  of  the  three  or 


238 


American  Leads  at  Whist. 


more  cards  remaining  in  the  leader's 
hand. 

Replace  the  suit  as  at  first,  and  let 
the  leader  open  with  his  fourth-best 
card — the  American  lead.  He  leads 
the  seven  ;  the  others  play  ten,  king, 
two,  as  before. 

The  third  hand  knows  that  the  leader 
holds  three  cards  all  higher  than  the 
seven  ;  ten  having  been  played,  and 
holding  ace,  nine,  himself,  he  can  mark 
queen,  knave,  eight  in  the  leader's 
hand,  just  as  though  he  saw  them 
there.  And,  what  is  most  valuable, 
the  third  hand  knows  at  once  that  the 
leader  has  the  entire  command  of  the 
suit.  This  he  did  not  know,  even 
after  the  second  round,  according  to 
the  penultimate  way  of  leading.  The 
second  trick  the  cards  are  played  thus 
— ace  ;  five  ;  three  ;  renounce.  The 
play  of  the  five  shows  that  the  leader 
holds  the  four,  in  addition  to  queen, 
knave,  eight ;  and  the  only  card  the 
leader's  partner  cannot  place  is  the 
six. 

The  difference,  then,  as  regards 
partner's  knowledge  under  the  two 
methods  is,  that  according  to  penulti- 
mate play  the  third  hand  knows  almost 
nothing  about  the  leader's  suit ;  ac- 
cording to  fourth-best,  or  American, 
play  the  third  hand  knows  nearly 
everything.  Especial  attention  is 
drawn  to  the  fact  that  the  most  use- 
ful information,  namely,  that  the  leader 
commands  the  suit,  is  imparted  by  the 
American  lead  on  ihejirst  round. 

It  is  amazing  that  players  who  have 
got  as  far  as  penultimates  should 
hesitate  about  adopting  fourth-bests. 
They  lead  the  fourth-best  from  a  suit 
of  four  cards,  they  lead  the  fourth- 
best  from  a  suit  of  five  cards ;  but 
many  of  them  will  not  lead  the  fourth- 
best  from  a  suit  of  six  cards.  They 
have  swallowed  the  camel  and  they 
strain  at  the  gnat.  For  the  first  rule 
of  American  leads  is  simplicity  itself. 
All  it  asks  is  this — 

When  you  open  your  strong  suit  with 
a  low  card,  lead  your  FOURTH-BEST. 

There  are  three  cases,  already  enu- 
merated, where  a  high  card  having 


been  first  led,  the  second  lead  is  a 
low  card.  If  these  combinations  are 
calculated  it  will  be  found  that,  bar 
trumping,  the  original  lead  of  the 
low  card  is  more  likely  to  win  tricks 
than  that  of  the  high  card.  So  having 
led  the  high  card  the  leader  of  the  low 
card,  to  the  next  trick,  is  in  much  the 
same  position  as  though  he  were  about 
to  open  his  suit  with  a  low  card,  sub- 
ject, of  course,  to  contrary  indications 
from  the  previous  fall  of  the  cards. 

It  is  pretty  evident  then,  if  the 
fourth -best  law  is  adopted,  that  the 
leader  should  continue  with  the  low 
card  he  would  originally  have  selected 
had  he  led  that  first.  For  instance  ; 
with  ace,  eight,  seven,  five,  two.  if  the 
suit  were  opened  (as  it  is  in  trumps) 
with  a  low  card,  the  five  would  be 
chosen.  In  plain  suits  the  ace  is  led. 
Prior  to  the  introduction  of  fourth- 
bests  the  two  was  next  led.  But  the 
fourth-best  law  points  to  the  original 
fourth- best,  viz.,  the  five,  as  the  card 
to  be  proceeded  with.  Hence  the 
second  rule  of  American  leads  (which 
is  only  supplementary  to  the  first) 
is — 

On  quitting  the  head  of  your  suit, 
after  the  first  round,  lead  your  ORIGINAL 

FOURTH-BEST. 

The  Battle  of  the  Fourth-Best  is 
now  raging,  as  did  years  ago  the 
battle  of  the  penultimate.  The  old 
stock  arguments  against  penultimates 
are  urged  against  fourth-bests.  It 
will  be  well  to  examine  these  argu- 
ments. They  are  three : — 1.  That  the 
lead  of  the  fourth-best  complicates  the 
game.  2.  That  fourth-bests  seldom 
affect  the  result.  3.  That  the  exact 
information  given  by  fourth-bests  is 
more  advantageous  to  the  adversaries 
than  to  the  leader  and  his  partner. 

The  complication  argument,  if  sound, 
might  be  met  by  remarking  it  is  no 
objection  to  the  rules  of  play  of  an 
intellectual  game  that  they  should 
exercise  the  brains  of  the  players. 
But  it  is  more  readily  met  by  denying 
its  soundness  in  fact.  The  leader's 
partner  is  only  expected  to  observe 
that  the  leader  holds  three  cards 


American  Leads  at   Whist. 


239 


higher  than  the  one  he  first  led  in  the 
suit  of  his  own  choosing ;  or,  in  the 
case  of  a  high  card  followed  by  a  low 
one,  that  the  leader  holds  two  cards 
higher  than  the  one  led  on  the  second 
round.     That  is  all.     If   the  leader's 
partner  is  clever  enough  also  to  note 
the  absence  of  certain  small  cards,  he 
may    mentally    place     them     in    the 
leader's   hand.     But   should   he  be   a 
moderate  player  he  is  not  obliged  to 
do  this.     If  he  can  do  it  he  will  derive 
the   fullest   possible    advantage   from 
the   lead   of    the   fourth- best;    if   he 
cannot   (owing  to  inexperience  or  to 
want   of    observation),    he    will   only 
derive  part  of  the  advantage  he  might 
obtain.     As  Clay  wisely  puts  it,  "The 
beginner  should  at  first  content  him- 
self by  carefully  observing  the  broad 
indications  of  the  game.     With  care, 
and  his   eyes   never  wandering  from 
the  table,    each  day  will  add  to  the 
indications  which  he  will  observe  and 
understand.    Memory  and  observation 
will  become   mechanical  to   him   and 
will  cost   him   little  effort,  when  all 
that  will  remain  for  him  to  do  will  be 
to  calculate  at  his  ease  the  best  way 
of  playing  the  remainder  of  his  own 
and  his  partner's  hands,  in  many  cases, 
as  though  he  saw  tlie  greater  portion  of 
the   cards    laid  face   upwards  on   the 
table."     The  italics  are  ours. 

The  result  argument  overlooks  the 
fact    that,    in   their   most   important 
features,  American  leads   have   been 
anticipated.  Whenever  a  young  player 
leads  his  lowest  from  a  suit  of  four 
cards,  he,  like  M.  Jourdain,  who  spoke 
prose  without  knowing  it,  makes  an 
American   lead   without  knowing   it. 
So,  whenever  he  leads  the  penultimate 
from  a  suit  of  five  cards,  he  makes  the 
American  lead  without  knowing  it.    It 
is  only  when  he  comes  to  a  six  card  suit, 
or  to  a  suit  of  more  than  four  cards 
from  which  he  first  leads  a  high  card 
and  then  a  low  one,  that  he  is  invited 
to  lead  a  card  which,  but  for  American 
leads,  he  would  not  have  led.      Conse- 
quently, the  American  lead  only  differs 
from  the  ordinary  lead  in  a  few  cases  ; 
and   it   necessarily   follows   that   the 


result  can  only  be  affected  in  some  of 
these  few  cases. 

The  advantage-to-adversary  argu- 
ment is  more  troublesome  to  combat. 
It  is  freely  admitted  that  hands  can 
be  so  arranged  as  to  give  the  adver- 
saries an  advantage,  in  consequence  of 
the  adoption  of  the  American  system. 
The  question  remains — On  which  side 
will  the  balance  of  advantage  lie  in 
the  long  run  ?  This  question  can  only 
be  answered  by  experience.  So  far  as 
our  experience  goes  no  one  who  has 
once  practised  American  leads  has 
abandoned  them  because  the  practice 
has  resulted  in  a  loss. 

And,  it  being  admitted  that  it  is  an 
advantage  to  convey  information  of 
strength,  it  is  contrary  to  all  ex- 
perience that  incomplete  information 
should  be  better  than  precise  informa- 
tion. It  may  turn  out  to  be  so  in  this 
particular  instance;  but  more  than 
mere  assertion  is  required  to  convince 
American  leaders  of  the  soundness  of 
the  doctrine  that  the  leader  ought  to 
give  his  partner  not  too  much  infor- 
mation but  just  information  enough. 

When  a  suit  is  opened  with  a  high 
card,  and  another  high  card  is  next 
led,  it  will  in  most  instances  be 
because  the  leader  holds  a  third  high 
card.  Thus,  with  ace,  queen,  knave, 
&c.,  ace  is  first  led,  and  then  queen  or 
knave.  It  is  well  established  that 
with  ace,  queen,  knave,  four  in  suit, 
ace  should  be  followed  by  queen ;  with 
more  than  four  in  suit,  that  ace  should 
be  followed  by  knave. 

The  reason  is  that,  with  the  four 
card  combination,  the  leader  is  not 
strong  enough  to  tempt  his  partner  to 
unblock  the  suit  on  the  second  round 
by  playing  the  king  ;  but  that,  with 
the  five  card  combination,  if  partner 
originally  holds  king  and  two  small 
ones,  the  leader  wants  the  king  out  of 
the  way,  on  the  second  round,  to  free 
his  suit.  The  same  applies  to  queen, 
knave,  ten,  four  in  suit  or  five  in  suit. 
With  four  lead  queen,  then  knave ; 
with  more  than  four,  lead  queen,  then 
ten.  And,  by  analogy,  from  knave, 
ten,  nine,  four  in  suit,  lead  knave, 


240 


American  Leads  at  Whist. 


then  ten ;  from  knave,  ten,  nine,  more 
than  four  in  suit,  lead  knave,  then 
nine. 

It  will  be  noticed  that,  in  the  ex- 
amples, the  higher  of  two  indifferent 
cards  is  led  when  the  lead  was  from  a 
suit  of  four  cards  ;  that  the  lower  of 
two  indifferent  cards  is  led  when  the 
lead  was  from  a  suit  of  more  than 
four  cards.  About  these  leads  happily 
there  is  no  dispute. 

It  must  be  assumed  that  the  reader 
knows  the  usual  leads  from  combina- 
tions of  high  cards.  The  only  point 
sought  by  the  American  plan  is  to 
procure  a  uniform  system  of  leading 
from  high  indifferent  cards.  And 
seeing  that,  in  the  cases  quoted,  the 
second  lead  depends  on  the  number  of 
cards  held  in  the  suit,  the  American 
law  follows  almost  as  a  matter  of 
course,  viz. : — 

With  two  high  indifferent  cards,  on 
the  second  round  lead  THE  HIGHER  if 
you  had  four  in  suit  originally ;  THE 
LOWER  if  you  had  more  than  four. 

Thus,  with  king,  knave,  ten,  &c., 
the  ten  is  led.  If  the  queen  is  not 
played  to  the  first  trick  the  remaining 
cards  are  not  indifferent,  and  the  rule 
does  not  apply.  But  if  queen,  or 
queen,  ace,  come  out  on  the  first  round 
and  the  leader  now  obtains  the  lead 
again,  his  king  and  knave  are  indif- 
ferent cards.  If,  then,  he  proceeds 
with  the  king,  the  higher  of  the  in- 
different cards,  he  tells  his  partner  he 
remains  with  knave  and  one  small 
card  ;  if  he  proceeds  with  the  knave, 
the  lower  of  the  indifferent  cards,  he 
tells  his  partner  that  he  remains  with 
king  and  at  least  two  small  cards. 

Or,  in  trumps,  if  the  lead  is  from 
ace,  king,  queen,  the  queen  is  first  led. 
Now  king  and  ace  are  indifferent 
cards.  Ace  being  the  second  lead,  the 
leader  still  holds  king  and  at  most 
one  small  trump ;  king  being  the 
second  lead  the  leader  still  holds 
ace  and  at  least  two  small  trumps. 
Or,  from  king,  queen,  knave,  at 
least  two  small  cards,  knave  is 
led,  both  in  trumps  and  in  plain 
suits ;  and  king  and  queen  are  in- 


different cards.  If  the  king  is  the 
second  lead,  the  cards  in  the  leader's 
hand  are  queen  and  two  small  ones 
exactly }  if  the  queen  is  the  second 
lead,  the  leader  has  still  in  hand  king 
and  at  least  three  small  ones. 

In  order  to  lead  properly  from  high 
cards  it  is  essential  to  be  sure  that 
the  high  cards  are  indifferent.  In 
this  consists  the  only  trouble  with  re- 
gard to  these  leads.  Players  who 
know  the  ordinary  leads  can  apply  the 
rule  readily.  Players  who  are  not 
familiar  with  leads  from  high  cards 
will  first  have  to  learn,  by  heart,  what 
everybody  who  pretends  to  play  whist 
ought  to  know. 

Some  few  writers  have  recently 
advised  the  adoption  of  the  American 
system  when  the  leader  is  strong  in 
trumps,  and  the  retention  of  the  old- 
fashioned  system  when  the  leader  is 
weak  in  trumps.  This  may  be  all 
very  well  as  a  matter  of  judgment 
on  obtaining  the  lead  and  opening  a 
suit  for  the  first  time  towards  the 
middle  of  the  hand.  But  as  regards 
"the"  original  lead  it  can  hardly  be 
argued  that  a  mixed  system — or  rather 
no  system — is  preferable  to  a  uniform 
method.  "The"  original  lead  pro- 
ceeds on  the  assumption  that  the  third 
player  holds  his  average  of  good  and 
bad  cards.  Hence,  if  the  leader's 
partner  has  a  strong,  or  even  an 
average  hand,  his  play  may  be  seri- 
ously hampered  by  withholding  infor- 
mation which  must  be  given  by  the 
first  lead  of  all  or  not  at  all. 

It  may  be  asked,  Why  should  players 
trouble  themselves  to  learn  American 
leads  when  in  many  cases  the  old- 
fashioned  lead  answers  nearly  or  quite 
as  well?  The  answer  is  simple. 
American  leads  propose  a  systematic 
course  when  opening  the  strong  suit, 
and  substitute  general  principles  for 
rule  of  thumb.  They  thus  elevate  the 
character  of  the  game,  and  they  enable 
even  beginners  to  speak  the  Language 
of  Whist  intelligibly  for  the  benefit  of 
partners  who  understand  it. 

CAVENDISH. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


FEBRUARY,  1886. 


THE   GREAT    GLADSTONE   MYTH.1 


IN  the  post  -  Christian  myths  of 
the  Teutonic  race  settled  in  England 
no  figure  appears  more  frequently  and 
more  mysteriously  than  that  of  Glad- 
stone, or  Mista  Gladstone.  To  un- 
ravel the  true  germinal  conception 
of  Gladstone,  and  to  assign  to  all  the 
later  accretions  of  myth  their  proven- 
ance and  epoch,  are  the  problems 
attempted  in  this  chapter.  It  is 
almost  needless  (when  we  consider 
the  perversity  of  men  and  the  lasting 
nature  of  prejudice)  to  remark  that 
some  still  see  in  Gladstone  a 
shadowy  historical  figure.  Just  as 
our  glorious  mythical  Siegfried  has 
been  falsely  interpreted  as  the 
shadowy  traditional  Arminius  (the 
Arminius  of  Tacitus,  not  of  Leo 
Adolescens,)  projected  on  the  mists  of 
the  Brocken,  so  Gladstone  has  been 
recognised  as  a  human  hero  of  the 
Fourth  Dynasty.  In  this  capacity  he 
has  been  identified  with  Gordon  (pro- 
bably the  north  wind),  with  Spurgeon,2 
whom  I  have  elsewhere  shown  to 
be  a  river  god,  and  with  Living- 
stone. In  the  last  case  the  identity 
of  the  suffix  "  stone,"  and  the  resem- 
blance of  the  ideas  of  "  joy "  and 
of  "  vitality,"  lend  some  air  of  spe- 
ciousness  to  a  fundamental  error. 
Livingstone  is  ohne  zweifel,  a  form 
(like  Cox)  of  the  midnight  sun,  now 
fabled  to  wander  in  the  "  Dark  Con- 

1  A  chapter  from   Prof.   Boscher's    '  Post- 
Christian  Mythology. '    Berlin  and  New  York, 
A.D.  3886. 

2  Both  these  names  are  undoubtedly  Greek 
neuter  substantives. 

No.  316.— VOL.  LIU. 


tinent,"  now  alluded  to  as  lost  in  the 
cloudland  of  comparative  mythology. 
Of  all  these  cobwebs  spun  by  the 
spiders  of  sciolism,  the  Euhemeristic 
or  Spencerian  view — that  Gladstone 
is  an  historical  personage  —  has 
attracted  most  attention.  Unluckily 
for  its  advocates,  the  whole  contem- 
porary documents  of  the  Fourth 
Dynasty  have  perished.  When  an 
over-educated  and  over-rated  populace, 
headed  by  two  mythical  figures,  Wat 
Tyler  and  one  Jo,3  rose  in  fury  against 
the  School  Boards  and  the  Department, 
they  left  nothing  but  tattered  frag- 
ments of  the  literature  of  the  time. 
Consequently  we  are  forced  to  recon- 
struct the  Gladstonian  myth  by  the 
comparative  method,  that  is,  by  com- 
paring the  relics  of  old  Ritual  treatises, 
hymns,  imprecations,  and  similar  re- 
ligious texts,  with  works  of  art,  altars, 
and  statues,  and  with  popular  tradi- 
tions and  folk-lore.  The  results, 
again,  are  examined  in  the  light  of 
the  Yedas,  the  Egyptian  monuments, 
and  generally  of  everything  that,  to 
the  unscientific  eye,seems  most  turbidly 
obscure  in  itself,  and  most  hopelessly 
remote  from  the  subject  in  hand.  The 
aid  of  Philology  will  not  be  rejected 
because  Longus,  or  Longinus,  has 4 
meanly  argued  that  her  services  must 
be  accepted  with  cautious  diffidence. 
On  the  contrary,  Philology  is  the  only 

3  Lieblein    speaks    ('Egyptian    Eeligion,' 
1884,  Leipzig,)  of  "the  mythical  name  Jo." 
Already  had  Continental  savants  dismissed  the 
belief  in  a  historical  Jo,  a  leader  of  the  Demos. 

4  There  seems  to  be  some  mistake  here. 


242 


The  Great  Gladstone  Myth. 


real  key    to  the  labyrinths  of    post- 
Christian  myth. 

The  philological  analysis  of  the 
name  of  Gladstone  is  attempted,  with 
very  various  results,  by  Roth,  Kuhn, 
Schwartz,  and  other  contemporary 
descendants  of  the  old  scholars.  Roth 
finds  in  "Glad"  the  Scotch  word 
"  gled,"  a  hawk  or  falcon.  He  then 
adduces  the  examples  of  the  Hawk- 
Indra,  from  the  Rig  Yeda,  and  of  the 
Hawk-headed  Osiris,  both  of  them 
indubitably  personifications  of  the 
sun.  On  the  other  hand,  Kuhn,  with 
Schwartz,  fixes  his  attention  on  the 
suffix  "  stone,"  and  quotes,  from  a 
fragment  attributed  to  Shakespeare, 
"the  all-dreaded  thunder  stone." 
Schwartz  and  Kuhn  conclude,  in  har- 
mony with  their  general  system,  that 
Gladstone  is  really  and  primarily  the 
thunder-bolt,  and  secondarily  the 
spirit  of  the  tempest.  They  quote  an 
isolated  line  from  an  early  lay  about 
the  "  Pilot  who  weathered  the 
storm,"  which  they  apply  to  Gladstone 
in  his  human  or  political  aspect,  when 
the  storm- spirit  had  been  anthropo- 
morphised,  and  was  regarded  as  an 
ancestral  politician.  But  such  scanty 
folklore  as  we  possess  assures  us  that 
the  storm,  on  the  other  hand, 
weathered  Gladstone ;  and  that  the 
poem  quoted  refers  to  quite  another 
person,  also  named  William,  and 
probably  identical  with  William  Tell 
— that  is,  with  the  sun,  which  of 
course  brings  us  back  to  Roth's  view 
of  the  hawk,  or  solar  Gladstone, 
though  this  argument  in  his  own 
favour  has  been  neglected  by  the 
learned  mythologist.  He  might  also, 
if  he  cared,  adduce  the  solar  stone  of 
Delphi,  fabled  to  have  been  swallowed 
by  Cronus.  Kuhn,  indeed,  lends  an 
involuntary  assent  to  this  conclusion 
(Ueber  Untwick.  der  Myth.)  when  he 
asserts  that  the  stone  swallowed  by 
Cronus  was  the  setting  sun.  Thus  we 
have  only  to  combine  our  information 
to  see  how  correct  is  the  view  of  Roth, 
and  how  much  to  be  preferred  to  that 
of  Schwartz  and  Kuhn.  Gladstone, 
philologically  considered,  is  the  "  hawk- 
stone,"  combining  with  the  attributes 


of  the  Hawk-Indra  and  Hawk-Osiris 
those  of  the  Delphian  sun-stone,  which 
we  also  find  in  the  Egyptian  Ritual 
for  the  Dead.1  The  ludicrous  theory 
that  Gladstone  is  a  territorial  surname, 
derived  from  some  place,  "  Gledstane  " 
(Falkenstein),  can  only  be  broached  by 
men  ignorant  of  even  the  grammar 
of  Sanskrit ;  dabblers  who  mark  with 
a  pencil  the  pages  of  travellers  and 
missionaries.  We  conclude,  then,  that 
Gladstone  is,  primarily,  the  hawk-sun, 
or  sun-hawk. 

From  philology  we  turn  to  the 
examination  of  literary  fragments, 
which  will  necessarily  establish  our 
already  secured  position  (that  Glad- 
stone is  the  sun),  or  so  much  the 
worse  for  the  fragments.  These  have 
reached  us  in  the  shape  of  burned  and 
torn  scraps  of  paper,  covered  with 
printed  texts,  which  resolve  them- 
selves into  hymns,  and  imprecations 
or  curses.  It  appears  to  have  been 
the  custom  of  the  worshippers  of 
Gladstone  to  salute  his  rising,  at  each 
dawn,  with  printed  outcries  of  adora- 
tion and  delight,  resembling  in 
character  the  Osirian  hymns.  These 
are  sometimes  couched  in  rhythmical 
language,  as  when  we  read — 

"[Gla]   dstone,   the  pillar    of   the    People's 
hopes, "; — 

to  be  compared  with  a  very  old  text, 
referring  obscurely  to  "  the  People's 
William,"  and  "a  popular  Bill," 
doubtless  one  and  the  same  thing, 
as  has  often  been  remarked.  Among 
the  epithets  of  Gladstone  which  occur 
in  the  hymns,  we  find  "  versatile," 
"  accomplished,"  "  philanthropic," 
"  patriotic,"  "  statesmanlike,"  "  sub- 
tle," "eloquent,"  "illustrious,"  "per- 
suasive," "brilliant,"  "clear,"  "un- 
ambiguous," "resolute."  All  of  those 
are  obviously  intelligible  only  when 
applied  to  the  sun.  At  the  same 
time  we  note  a  fragmentary  curse  of 
the  greatest  importance,  in  which 
Gladstone  is  declared  to  be  the  be- 
loved object  of  "the  Divine  Figure 
from  the  North,"  or  "the  Great 
1  "Lepierre  sorti  du  soleil  se  retrouve  au 
Livre  des  Souffles."  Lefebure,  'Osiris,'  p. 
204.  Brugseh,  'Shai-n.  sinsin,'  i.  9. 


The  Great  Gladstone  Myth. 


243 


White  Czar."  This  puzzled  the 
learned,  till  a  fragment  of  a  Muel- 
lerian  disquisition  was  recently  un- 
earthed. In  this  text 1  it  was  stated, 
on  the  authority  of  Brinton,  that 
"  the  Great  White  Hare  "  worshipped 
by  the  Red  Indians  was  really,  when 
correctly  understood,  the  Dawn.  It 
is  needless  to  observe  (when  one  is 
addressing  scholars)  that  "  Great 
White  Hare"  (in  Algonkin,  Mani- 
bozho)  becomes  Great  White  Czar  in 
Victorian  English.  Thus  the  Divine 
Figure  from  the  North,  or  White 
Czar,  with  whom  Gladstone  is  mythi- 
cally associated,  turns  out  to  be  the 
Great  White  Hare,  or  Dawn  Hero,  of 
the  Algonkins.  The  sun  (Gladstone) 
may  naturally  and  reasonably  be 
spoken  of  in  mythical  language  as 
the  "Friend  of  the  Dawn."  This 
proverbial  expression  came  to  be  mis- 
understood, and  we  hear  of  a  Liberal 
statesman,  Gladstone,  and  of  his 
affection  for  a  Russian  despot.  The 
case  is  analogous  to  Apollo's  fabled 
love  for  Daphne  =  Dahana,  the  Dawn. 
While  fragments  of  laudatory  hymns 
are  common  enough,  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  dirges  or  curses  (Dirce) 
are  also  discovered  in  the  excavations. 
These  Dirce  were  put  forth  both  morn- 
ing and  evening,  and  it  is  interesting 
to  note  that  the  imprecations  vented 
at  sunset  ("evening  papers,"  in  the 
old  mythical  language)  are  even  more 
severe  and  unsparing  than  those 
uttered  ("morning  papers")  at  dawn. 
How  are  the  imprecations  to  be  ex- 
plained? The  explanation  is  not 
difficult,  nothing  is  difficult — to  a 
comparative  mythologist.  Gladstone 
is  the  sun,  the  enemy  of  Darkness. 
But  Darkness  has  her  worshippers  as 
well  as  Light.  Set,  no  less  than 
Osiris,  was  adored  in  the  hymns  of 
Egypt,  perhaps  by  kings  of  an  invad- 
ing Semitic  tribe.  Now  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  enemies  of  Glad- 
stone, the  Rishis,  or  hymn-writers 
who  execrated  him,  were  regarded 
by  his  worshippers  as  a  darkened 
class,  foes  of  enlightenment.  They 
are  spoken  of  as  "  the  stupid  party," 
1  'Nineteenth  Century,'  December,  1885. 


as  "  obscurantists,"  and  so  forth,  with 
the  usual  amenity  of  theological  con- 
troversy. It  would  be  painful,  and  is 
unnecessary,  to  quote  from  the  curses, 
whether  matins  or  vespers,  of  the 
children  of  night.  Their  language  is 
terribly  severe,  and,  doubtless,  was 
regarded  as  blasphemy  by  the  sun- 
worshippers.  Gladstone  is  said  to 
have  "  no  conscience,"  "  no  sense  of 
honour,"  to  be  so  fugitive  and  evasive 
in  character,  that  one  might  almost 
think  the  moon,  rather  than  the  sun, 
was  the  topic  under  discussion.  But, 
as  Roth  points  out,  this  is  easily  ex- 
plained when  we  remember  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  English  weather,  and  the  in- 
frequent appearances  of  the  sun  in 
that  climate.  By  the  curses,  uttered 
as  they  were  in  the  morning,  when 
night  has  yielded  to  the  star  of  day, 
and  at  evening,  when  day  is,  in  turn, 
vanquished  by  night,  our  theory  of 
the  sun  Gladstone  is  confirmed  beyond 
reach  of  cavil;  indeed  the  solar 
theory  is  no  longer  a  theory,  but  a 
generally  recognised  fact. 

Evidence,  which  is  bound  to  be  con- 
firmatory, reaches  us  from  an  altar 
and  from  works  of  art.  The  one  altar 
of  Gladstone  is  by  some  explained  as 
the  pedestal  of  his  statue,  while  the  an- 
thropological sciolists  regard  it  simply 
as  a  milestone  !  In  speaking  to  scholars 
it  is  hardly  necessary  even  to  touch  on 
this  preposterous  fallacy,  sufficiently 
confuted  by  the  monument  itself.  •< 

On  the  road  into  western  England, 
between  the  old  sites  of  Bristol  and 
London,  excavations  recently  laid  bare 
the  very  interesting  monument  figured 
here. 


Though  some  letters  or  hieroglyphs 
are  defaced,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  inscription  is  correctly  read  G.  0.  M. 


244 


The  Great  Gladstone  Myth. 


The  explanation  which  I  have  pro- 
posed (Zeitschrift  fur  Ang.  Ant.)  is 
universally  accepted  by  scholars.  I 
read  Gladstonio  Optimo  Maximo,  "  To 
Gladstone,  Best  and  Greatest,"  a  form 
of  adoration,  or  adulation,  which  sur- 
vived in  England  (like  municipal  in- 
stitutions, the  game  laws,  and  trial  by 
jury)  from  the  date  of  the  Roman 
occupation.  It  is  a  plausible  conjec- 
ture that  Gladstone  stepped  into  the 
shoes  of  Jupiter  Optimus  Maximus. 
Hence  we  may  regard  him  (like 
Osiris)  as  the  sum  of  the  monotheistic 
conception  in  England. 

This  interpretation  is  so  manifest, 
that,  could  science  sneer,  we  might 
laugh  at  the  hazardous  conjectures  of 
smatterers  ignorant  even  of  the  gram- 
mar of  Sanskrit.  They,  as  usual,  are 
greatly  divided  among  themselves.  The 
Spencerian  or  Euhemeristic  school, — 
if  that  can  be  called  a  school 

""Where  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  brawling  judgments  all  day  long 
On  all  things,  unashamed," — 

protests  that  the  monument  is  a  pe- 
destal of  a  lost  image  of  Gladstone. 
The  inscription  (G.  0.  M.)  is  read 
"  Grand  Old  Man,"  and  it  is  actually 
hinted  that  this  was  the  petit  nom,  or 
endearing  title,  of  a  real  historical 
politician.  Weak  as  we  may  think 
such  reasonings,  we  must  regard  them 
as,  at  least,  less  unscholarly  than  the 
hypothesis  that  the  inscription  should 
be  read 

"90    M." 

meaning  "  ninety  miles  from  London." 
It  is  true  that  the  site  whence  the 
monument  was  excavated  is  at  a  dis- 
tance of  ninety  miles  from  the  ruins  of 
London,  but  that  is  a  mere  coincidence, 
on  which  it  were  childish  to  insist. 
Scholars  know  at  what  rate  such  acci- 
dents should  be  estimated,  and  value 
at  its  proper  price  one  unimpeachable 
equation  like  G.  0.  M.rr  Gladstonio 
Optimo  Maximo. 

It  is,  of  course,  no  argument  against 
this  view  that  the  authors  of  the 
Diroa  regard  Gladstone  as  a  male- 
ficent being.  How  could  they  do 
otherwise  ?  They  were  the  scribes  of 


the  opposed  religion.     Diodorus  tells 
us   about    an    Ethiopian   sect   which 
detested    the    Sun.      A    parallel,    as 
usual,  is  found  in   Egypt,  where  Set, 
or  Typhon,  is  commonly  regarded  as  a 
maleficent  spirit,  the  enemy  of  Osiris, 
the  midnight  sun.     None  the  less  it  is 
certain   that    under    some    dynasties 
Set  himself  was  adored — the  deity  of 
one  creed  is  the  Satan  of  its  opponents. 
A  curious  coincidence  seems  to  show 
(as  Bergaigne  thinks)  that  Indra,  the 
chief  Indo-Aryan  deity,  was  occasion- 
ally confounded  with  Yrittra,  who  is 
usually  his  antagonist.     The  myths  of 
Egypt,  as  reported  by  Plutarch,  say 
that  Set,   or  Typhon,  forced  his  way 
out  of  his  mother's  side,  thereby  show- 
ing his   natural  malevolence  even  in 
the  moment  of  his  birth.     The  myths 
of  the  extinct  Algonkins  of  the  Ameri- 
can  continent   repeat    absolutely   the 
same  tale  about  Malsumis,  the  brother 
and  foe  of  their  divine  hero,  Glooskap. 
Now  the  Rig  Veda  (iv.  18,  1-3)  attri- 
butes this  act  to  Indra,  and  we  may 
infer  that  Indra  had  been  the  Typhon, 
or  Set,   or  Glooskap,  of  some  Aryan 
kindred,  before  he  became  the  chief 
and    beneficent   god    of    the    Kusika 
stock     of     Indo-Aryans.       The     eyil 
myth    clung  to  the  good  god.     By  a 
similar  process  we  may  readily  account 
for  the  imprecations,  and  for  the  many 
profane  and  blasphemous  legends,  in 
which    Gladstone    is    represented    as 
oblique,    mysterious,    and     equivocal. 
(Compare  Apollo  Loxias.)     The  same 
class   of    ideas   occurs   in   the  myths 
about  Gladstone  "  in  Opposition  "  (as 
the  old  mythical  language  runs),  that 
is,  about  the  too  ardent  sun  of  summer. 
When  "  in  Opposition,"  he  is  said  to 
have  found  himself  in  a  condition  "  of 
more  freedom  and  less  responsibility," 
and  to    "have   made   it   hot   for  his 
enemies,"    expressions    transparently 
mythical.      If     more    evidence    were 
wanted,    it   would    be    found   in   the 
myth  which  represents    Gladstone  as 
the  opponent  of  Huxley.      As  every 
philologist  knows,  Huxley,  by  Grimm's 
law,     is    Huskley,     the    hero     of    a 
"  husk  myth  "  (as  Ralston  styles  it), 
a  brilliant  being  enveloped  in  a  husk, 


The  Great  Gladstone  Myth. 


245 


probably  the  night  or  the  thunder- 
cloud. The  dispute  between  Glad- 
stone and  Huskley  as  to  what  occurred 
at  the  Creation  is  a  repetition  of  the 
same  dispute  between  Wainamoinen 
and  Jonkahainen,  in  the  Kalewala  of 
the  Finns.  Released  from  his  husk 
the  opponent  becomes  Beaconsfield  = 
the  field  of  light,  or  radiant  sky. 

In  works  of  art  Gladstone  is  repre- 
sented as  armed  with  an  axe.  This, 
of  course,  is  probably  a  survival 
from  the  effigies  of  Zeus  Labran- 
deus,  den  Man  auf  Miinzen  mit  der 
streitaxt  erblickt  (Preller,  i.  112). 
We  hear  of  axes  being  offered  to 
Gladstone  by  his  worshippers.  Nor 
was  the  old  custom  of  clothing  the 
image  of  the  god  (as  in  the  sixth 
book  of  the  'Iliad')  neglected.  We 
read  that  the  people  of  a  Scotch  manu- 
facturing town,  Galashiels,  presented 
the  Midlothian  Gladstone  (a  local  hero) 
with  "  trouserings,"  which  the  hero 
graciously  accepted.  Indeed  he  was 
remarkably  unlike  Death,  as  described 
by^Eschylus,  "Of  all  gods,  Death  only 
recks  not  of  gifts."  Gladstone,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  the  centre  of  a  lavish 
system  of  sacrifice — loaves  of  bread, 
axes,  velocipedes,  books,  in  vast  and 
overwhelming  numbers,  were  all  dedi- 
cated at  his  shrine.  Hence  some  have 
identified  him  with  Irving,  also  a  deity 
propitiated  (as  we  read  in  Hatton)  by 
votive  offerings.  In  a  later  chapter 
I  show  that  Irving  is  really  one  of 
the  Asvins  of  Vedic  mythology,  "the 
Great  Twin  Brethren,"  or,  in  mythic 
language,  "the  Corsican  Brothers" 
(compare  Myriantheus  on  the  Asvins). 
His  inseparable  companion  is  Wilson- 
Barret. 

Among  animals  the  cow  is  sacred 
to  Gladstone ;  and,  in  works  of  art, 
gems  and  vases  (or  "  jam-pots  ").  He 
is  represented  with  the  cow  at  his 
feet,  like  the  mouse  of  Horus,  of 
ApolloSmintheus,  and  of  the  Japanese 
God  of  Plenty  (see  an  ivory  in  the 
Henley  Collection).  How  are  we  to 
explain  the  companionship  of  the  cow  ? 
At  other  times  the  Sun-hero  sits  be- 
tween the  horns  of  the  Cow-Goddess 
Dilemma,  worshipped  at  Westminster. 


(Compare  Brugsch.  'Religion  und  My- 
thologie  der  alten  Aegypter,'  P.  168, 
"  Die  Darstellungen  Zeigen  uns  den 
Sonnengott  zwischen  den  Hornern  der 
Kuh  sitzend.")  The  idea  of  Le  Page 
Renouf,  and  of  Pierret  andDe  Rouge,  is 
that  the  cow  is  a  symbol  of  some  Glad- 
stonian  attribute,  perhaps  "squeez- 
ability," a  quality  attributed  to  the  hero 
by  certain  Irish  minstrels.  I  regard  it 
as  more  probable  that  the  cow  is  (as 
in  the  Yeda)  the  rain-cloud,  released 
from  prison  by  Gladstone,  as  by 
Indra.  At  the  same  time  the  cow,  in 
the  Veda,  stands  for  Heaven,  Earth, 
Dawn,  Night,  Cloud,  Rivers,  Thunder, 
Sacrifice,  Prayer,  and  Soma.  We  thus 
have  a  wide  field  to  choose  from,  nor 
is  our  selection  of  very  much  import- 
ance, as  any,  or  all,  of  these  interpre- 
tations will  be  welcomed  by  Sanskrit 
scholars.  The  followers  of  McLennan 
have  long  ago  been  purged  out  of  the 
land  by  the  edict  of  Oxford  against 
this  sect  of  mythological  heretics. 
They  would  doubtless  have  maintained 
that  the  cow  was  Gladstone's  totem, 
or  family  crest,  and  that,  like  other 
totemists,  he  was  forbidden  to  eat 
beef. 

It  is  curious  that  on  some  old  and 
worn  coins  we  detect  a  half-obliterated 
male  figure  lurking  behind  the  cow. 
The  inscription  may  be  read  "  Jo,"  or 
"  lo,"  and  appears  to  indicate  lo,  the 
cow-maiden  of  Greek  myth  (see  the 
'  Prometheus '  of  JEschylus). 

In  addressing  scholars  it  is  needless 
to  refute  the  Euhemeristic  hypothesis, 
worthy  of  the  Abbe  Banier,  that  the 
cow  is  a  real  cow,  offered  by  a  real 
historical  Gladstone,  or  by  his  com- 
panion, Jo,  to  the  ignorant  populace  of 
the  rural  districts.  We  have  already 
shown  that  Jo  is  a  mythological  name. 
The  tendency  to  identify  Gladstone 
with  the  cow  (as  the  dawn  with  the 
sun)  is  a  natural  and  edifying  ten- 
dency, but  the  position  must  not  be 
accepted  without  further  inquiry. 
Caution,  prudence,  a  tranquil  bal- 
ancing of  all  available  evidence,  and 
an  absence  of  preconceived  opinions, 
these  are  the  guiding  stars  of  com- 
parative mythology. 


246 


THE   SITUATION   IN   EGYPT. 


So  much  has  been  written  and  said 
about    Egypt    during   the    past    few 
years  that  it  may  be  asked,  "  "What 
circumstances  can  justify  a  further  in-  . 
fliction  upon  such  a  tiresome  subject  ?  " 
The  question  is  so  reasonable  that  I 
will  at  once  explain  the  motives  which 
induce   me   to   give  publicity  to  the 
impressions  produced  upon  my  mind 
by  a  visit  in  November  last  to  that 
interesting     country.       The    circum- 
stances  in   which   I    visited   it    were 
in  some  respects    exceptional.       Ten 
years  ago  I  left  Egypt  after  a  resi- 
dence of  about  four  years,  having  in- 
terested myself  in  all  its  concerns,  and 
especially  in  its  financial  position,  and 
having  mixed  freely  with  its  people, 
with  whom  I   had  the  advantage  of 
conversing    in   their    own    language. 
Thus,  in  revisiting  the  scene  of  former 
labours,    I    was   perhaps   enabled    to 
realise  more  fully  than  those  who  had 
followed  events  from  day  to  day  the 
importance    and    significance    of    the 
changes  which  had  taken  place  since 
Egypt  was  administered  by  a  Govern- 
ment  under  British  guidance.     Over 
those    who   visited    the    country   for 
the   first    time,    I    had    the    decided 
advantage   of    comparing   the   actual 
situation  with  well-known  past  condi- 
tions.    Further,  from  a  varied  circle 
of    acquaintances,    both    native    and 
foreign,  and  in  virtue  of  my  absolutely 
independent    position,    I    heard    the 
views   of    all   parties,   from  the  con- 
tented   foreign     functionary    to    the 
rabid      anti  -  British     foreigner,    and 
the     simple     peasant.      I     went     to 
Egypt    entirely    unbiassed  ;     indeed, 
rather  prepared  to  find  the  situation 
better   than    many   supposed   it.       I 
heard  with  perfect  impartiality  what 
every  one  had  to  say,  and  I  am  cer- 
tain no  one  had  cause  to  play  a  part 
before  me.     My  motive,  therefore,  in 
writing    my   impressions   upon   some 


important  questions  affecting  our 
position  in  Egypt  is  the  belief  that 
an  altogether  impartial  opinion,  in 
the  exceptional  circumstances  just 
described,  may  prove  interesting  and 
profitable. 

The  subject  is  one  of  far  wider 
and  more  intense  interest  to  our 
nation  than  I  find  is  appreciated  by 
the  mass  of  the  British  public.  It 
is  no  party  question,  but  essentially 
an  imperial  one,  involving  our  national 
honour  and  affecting  the  pockets  of 
the  British  taxpayers.  We  have 
assumed  in  Egypt  a  position  of  the 
gravest  responsibility,  and  it  is  now 
too  late  to  examine  whether  the 
assumption  of  that  responsibility  was 
wise  or  necessary.  My  conviction  is 
that  a  series  of  diplomatic  acts,  I  had 
almost  said  errors,  led  us  into  respon- 
sibilities which  we  might  have  avoided, 
and  which  there  was  no  imperious 
necessity  to  assume  j  but  in  the  life  of 
nations,  as  well  as  of  individuals, 
there  are  often  created  situations  from 
which  retreat  is  impossible,  and  when 
the  acts  of  yesterday  can  neither  be 
ignored  nor  annulled  to-day. 

Rightly  or  wrongly,  we  upset  the 
order  of  things  which  existed  in 
Egypt,  and  in  doing  so,  perhaps  un- 
wittingly but  no  less  truly,  we  excited 
foreign  jealousies  and  aroused  national 
and  natural  prejudices.  We  wrought 
havoc  in  our  course  with  individual 
interests,  and  destroyed  the  fortunes  of 
many.  The  ruins  of  Alexandria  and 
the  extinction  of  a  trade  with  the 
Soudan  which  represented  at  the  lowest 
calculation  a  value  of  two  millions 
sterling  per  annum  are  only  some  of 
the  more  palpable  evidences  of  that 
havoc.  We  undertook  the  respon- 
sibility of  guiding  the  destinies  of  a 
people  who  did  not  seek  our  guidance, 
and  we  promised  to  create  a  new  order 
of  administration  which  would  be  more  j 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


247 


beneficial  to  the  people  than  that 
which  existed  in  the  past.  In  our 
efforts  to  accomplish  this  we  have 
already  squandered  some  twenty  mil- 
lions of  British  money,  and,  including 
indemnities,  have  burdened  Egypt 
with  some  six  or  seven  millions  ster- 
ling, have  sacrificed  thousands  of 
precious  lives,  and  have  lost  to  Egypt 
territory  of  vast  extent  and  of  vital 
importance  to  the  tranquillity  of  what 
remains.  Terrible  as  all  this  seems  to 
be,  it  is  so  well  known  that  it  requires 
no  detailed  proof  to  the  even  cursory 
reader  of  newspapers  during  the  past 
three  years.  But  what  is  still  more 
sad  is  that  our  action,  as  far  as  I  could 
see  in  Egypt,  has  been  so  barren  of 
results  as  to  fill  us  with  feelings  of 
despair.  Thanks  to  a  military  occu- 
pation of  the  country  by  some  fifteen 
thousand  British  soldiers,  our  road  to 
India  may  be  considered  secure ;  but 
every  one  of  these  soldiers  is  required 
to  hold  in  check  enemies  which  we 
should  never  have  heard  of  had  we 
not  assumed  our  Egyptian  responsi- 
bilities, and  which  probably  would 
never  have  existed  had  we  left  the 
country  alone. 

In  these  sentiments  no  one  would 
more  willingly  advocate  than  I  the 
oft  talked-of  policy  of  scuttling  from 
Egypt.  But  it  is  with  infinite  regret 
that  I  have  been  brought  to  the  con- 
viction that  such  a  policy  is  now 
impossible,  and  would  involve  disaster 
to  Egypt,  and  dishonour  as  well  as 
disaster  to  England.  It  would  be  to 
intensify  all  the  evils  we  have  already 
unintentionally  caused  to  Egypt — to 
kill  brutally  the  patient  we  had  in 
moments  of  heedlessness  interfered  to 
possess  and  engaged  to  cure.  I  desire 
distinctly  to  be  at  one  with  my  readers 
on  this  point ;  for  it  is  the  conviction  of 
the  impossibility  now  to  throw  off:  the 
responsibilities  we  have  assumed  which 
leads  me  to  examine  the  causes  of  the 
unsatisfactory  position  in  Egypt,  to 
indicate  certain  modifications  in  our 
mode  of  action,  and  to  draw  attention 
to  evils  which  require  to  be  remedied 
even  at  the  cost  of  some  inconvenience 


to  ourselves.  The  past  as  well  as  the 
present  Government  have  invariably 
admitted  that  we  cannot  quit  Egypt 
until  we  can  leave  behind  us  a  settled 
Government ;  and  this  essential  con- 
tingency places  the  policy  of  scuttling 
in  a  future  of  which  there  is  no 
possible  vision  in  the  present.  The 
statement  may  be  proper  in  diplomatic 
correspondence  with  other  powers, 
but  it  is  of  no  practical  interest  to  the 
British  public,  whose  purses  and  blood 
have  to  be  drawn  upon  until  that 
problematic  contingency  occurs. 

Some,  and  I  found  their  number 
numerous  among  foreign  residents  of 
all  nationalities  in  Egypt,  advocate, 
as  a  remedy  for  a  situation  which  they 
find  intolerable,  the  taking  over  en- 
tirely by  Great  Britian  of  the  govern- 
ment of  Egypt ;  and  another  solution, 
of  which  we  often  hear,  is  the  pro- 
claiming of  a  Protectorate  by  England. 
I  will  not  waste  time  in  examining  the 
possibility  or  the  opportunity  of  either 
of  these  propositions.  To  my  mind 
the  first  would  be  a  folly,  the  second  a 
useless  formality. 

The  only  practical  view  of  the  ques- 
tion is  this.  Seeing  that  we  cannot 
reverse  our  action  in  the  past,  can  we 
not,  guided  by  apparent  defects  in  its 
execution  hitherto,  and  undertaking 
courageously  its  manifest  obligations, 
hope  to  redeem  our  pledges,  and  work- 
ing upon  clearly  defined  lines  gradu- 
ally obtain  the  objects  we  have  in  view  ? 
It  is  because  I  think  we  can  that  I 
undertake  the  invidious  task  of  criti- 
cising what  has  been  done,  and  the 
duty  of  stimulating  the  British  public 
to  discard  from  the  consideration  of 
the  Egyptian  question  all  party  feel- 
ings, and  to  assist  in  the  improvement 
of  the  material  situation  of  Egypt. 

Our  first  necessity  is  clearly  to  define 
the  position  which  England  has  taken 
up  in  regard  to  Egypt.  Our  direct 
interference  in  Egypt — an  interference 
supported  by  a  military  force —  had,  in 
general  terms,  three  objects  in  view  : 
first,  to  establish  a  settled  native 
government  there ;  second,  to  advance 
the  material  interests  of  the  country  \ 


248 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


and  third,  to  see  that  its  international 
engagements  were  properly  respected. 
Such,  I  think,  fairly  represent  the 
expressed  views  of  the  past  and  pre- 
sent government  of  England  in  regard 
to  Egypt.  -.Now,  the  impression  which  I 
carried  away  with  me  from  Egypt  was, 
that  the  progress  we  have  made  and 
are  making  to  the  first  and  second  of 
these  objects  is  very  small. 

Let  us  examine  the  situation  in 
reference  to  the  first  of  them. 
Tewfik  Pasha,  the  Khedive-elect  of 
England,  seems  to  have  an  easy  posi- 
tion, and  looks  the  very  picture  of 
health  and  happiness.  But  ask  whe- 
ther His  Highness  is  gaining  pos- 
session of  the  hearts  of  his  people ; 
whether  he  is  becoming  such  a  part  of 
the  national  existence  as  to  give  us 
the  near  prospect  of  seeing  him  the 
cherished  father  of  his  people — the  head 
of  an  established  order  of  things  which 
exists  on  account  of  its  inherent 
vitality?  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I 
did  not  meet  any  one  who  would  have 
answered  those  questions  affirmatively. 
On  the  contrary,  the  consensus  of 
opinions  which  I  heard  was  that 
Tewfik  Pasha,  notwithstanding  his 
many  deserving  qualities,  exists  only 
as  Khedive  in  virtue  of  the  presence 
of  British  bayonets  in  the  country. 
The  Council  of  Ministers  in  Egypt 
means  Nubar  Pasha,  just  as  the 
Liberal  party  in  England  means  Mr. 
Gladstone.  The  reputation  of  Nubar 
Pasha  is  European.  He  is  certainly  the 
ablest  man  in  Egypt,  and  a  statesman 
who  would  make  his  mark  in  any 
country.  Yet  no  one  could  pretend  that 
the  Council  of  Ministers  in  Egypt 
possesses  the  sympathy  of  the  nation. 
Little  need  be  said  of  the  Legislative 
Assembly  which  forms  part  of  the  ad- 
ministrative machinery  to  which  Lord 
Dufferin's  mission  gave  existence.  It 
is  treated  as  a  kind  of  enfant  terrible, 
whose  voice  is  to  be  heard  as  little  as 
possible,  for  it  is  sure  to  utter  discord- 
ant notes.  The  fact  is  the  Legislative 
Assembly  simply  expresses  the  unpo- 
pularity of  the  present  administrative 
state  of  things.  It  is  not  that  Tewfik 


Pasha  is  a  bad  Khedive,  or  that  Nubar 
Pasha  is  an  incompetent  Minister. 
Quite  the  contrary.  But  it  is  that 
the  foreign  counsel  which  we  impose 
upon  them  is  too  patent,  too  fussy,  too 
arbitrary  and  too  absorbing.  They 
cannot  acquire  popular  sympathy,  for 
they  are  no  other  in  the  eyes  of  the 
people  than  the  executive  agents  of  a 
foreign  power.  No  effort  is  made  to 
conceal  this  foreign  action.  It  is 
flaunted  in  the  face  of  the  public  on 
every  possible  occasion,  and  served  out 
to  it  in  financial,  judicial,  and  adminis- 
trative literature  in  foreign  languages, 
which  seem  to  know  no  end.  We  do 
not  leave  the  initiative  to  the  native 
rulers,  but  we  take  every  means  of 
demonstrating  that  all  the  initiative 
comes  from  foreigners.  And  as  that 
initiative  is  most  frequently  the  in- 
vention of  Western  innovators,  incon- 
sonant with  Eastern  ideas,  it  is  not  only 
popularly  distasteful,  but  renders  the 
executive  agents,  through  whom  it  is 
dispensed,  odious  to  the  country.  The 
"  masterful  hand  of  the  resident,"  to 
which  Lord  Dufferin  alluded  in  his 
able  report,  would  have  been  a  hundred 
times  more  beneficial — for  its  essen- 
tial characteristic  is  that  it  works  un- 
seen by  the  people,  and  does  not  lessen 
the  prestige  of  the  ruler.  Our  counsel 
in  Egypt  is  not  of  the  nature  of  advice 
given  in  a  discreet  and  entirely  confi- 
dential way,  which  may  influence 
while  publicly  unheard  of,  but  rather 
the  noisy  imposition  of  new-fangled 
schemes.  Given  that  we  wish  to 
create  a  native  government  which  pos- 
sesses the  sympathy  of  the  country,  we 
have  hitherto  gone  a  strange  way  to 
work  in  its  creation.  We  have  seemed 
to  fancy,  or  proceeded  as  if  we  fancied, 
that  the  foreign  element  we  have  put 
into  the  administration  might  become 
popular  either  from  its  individual  cha- 
racteristics or  from  its  exploits.  No 
greater  fallacy  can  be  indulged  in,  and 
we  shall  never  succeed  in  our  objects 
until  we  frankly  recognise  this.  The 
Egyptian  people  do  not  differ  in  this 
respect  from  any  other  peoples.  It  is 
in  human  nature  that  an  element 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


249 


foreign  in  sympathies,  essentially  dif- 
ferent in  education  and  experience, 
destitute  of  the  direct  touch  which 
comes  from  intercourse  and  knowledge 
of  the  language  of  the  country,  should 
be  antipathetic  to  the  native  popula- 
tion. And  it  is  in  recognition  of  this 
fact  that  we  preferred  to  select  as  our 
object  the  strengthening  of  a  native 
element  rather  than  the  imposition  of 
a  foreign.  But  in  the  execution  of  cm- 
plan  we  have  miserably  failed.  The 
task  which  we  set  ourselves  was  not 
the  reformation  of  Egypt  by  substitut- 
ing a  highly-civilised  administration 
in  place  of  a  semi-civilised,  but  rather 
the  gradual  strengthening  of  the  ex- 
isting semi-civilised  organisation.  This 
latter  is  a  work  of  patience — the 
achievement  of  years  of  persevering 
effort,  whose  progress  must  not  be 
judged  by  results  obtained  in  a  few 
months,  but  by  a  steady  advance  to- 
wards the  desired  object  during  a 
series  of  years.  And  yet  we  intro- 
duce in  feverish  haste  far-reaching  in- 
novations before  the  country  is  pre- 
pared for  them ;  ignore  native  opinion 
when  it  is  not  in  harmony  with  our 
Western  ideas ;  allow  our  agents  to 
assume  the  part  of  initiators  when 
their  duty  ought  to  be  to  eclipse  them- 
selves as  much  as  possible  from  public 
view ;  and  we  impair  the  authority  of 
the  authorised  native  agents  by  the 
high-handed  action  of  foreign  function- 
aries. A  few  examples  will  suffice  to 
justify  this  statement. 

An  important  foreign  functionary 
was  justly  indignant  at  the  number  of 
persons  he  found  under  arrest  during 
several  months  without  trial ;  but  his 
remedy  of  opening  the  prison  doors 
and  letting  all  go  free  was  an  unwise 
and  high-handed  proceeding,  which 
might  be  justifiable  on  the  part  of  a  con- 
queror desirous  of  making  himself  popu- 
lar, but  subversive  of  all  discipline  on 
the  part  of  a  subordinate  functionary. 

We  have  introduced  judicial  innova- 
tions in  regard  to  the  forced  sale  of 
land  for  debt.  However  reasonable  the 
measure  may  appear  to  Western  legis- 
lators, it  is  entirely  opposed  to  the 


principles  of  legislation  which  have 
always  existed  in  all  Mussulman 
countries,  where  the  doctrine  is  estab- 
lished that  "  no  sale  or  transfer  of 
land  can  take  place  without  the  express 
consent  of  the  proprietor,  except  for 
the  unique  purpose  of  public  utility." 
Under  this  system  creditors  and 
debtors  had  got  along  for  centuries, 
and  all  conventions  between  the  two 
had  been  established  in  conformity 
with  these  conditions.  Justice  at 
least  demanded  that  in  introducing 
an  innovation  which  improved  the 
position  of  the  creditor,  the  terms  of 
the  bargain  to  which  the  debtor  had 
consented,  should  have  been  modified. 
Because  the  produce  of  the  land 
was  the  security  of  the  debt,  the 
debtor  had  consented  to  pay  a  usuri- 
ous rate  of  interest ;  but  when,  by 
a  forced  innovation,  the  security  of 
the  debt  became  supplemented  by  the 
land  itself,  no  more  than  a  legal  rate 
of  interest  should  have  been  accorded 
to  the  creditor.  To  the  imprudence, 
therefore,  of  hastily  modifying  the  long- 
established  principles  which  had  regu- 
lated the  possession  of  property,  was 
added  a  neglect  of  the  first  elements  of 
justice  towards  the  weakest  of  the  two 
parties  interested.  Instead  of  content- 
ing ourselves  with  improving  the  ad- 
ministration of  justice  gradually,  we 
introduce  precipitately  new  principles 
of  law ;  and  it  is  to  such  precipitate  in- 
novations, which  were  entirely  outside 
our  programme,  that  we  owe  the  largest 
amount  of  the  antipathy  and  hostility 
to  foreign  intervention  which  exists  in 
the  great  mass  of  the  Egyptian  people.1 

1  In  connection  with  the  anti-Mussulman 
innovation  of  judicial  sale  of  land  for  debt  a 
circumstance  often  repeated  to  me  shows  how 
strong  are  the  prejudices  of  the  natives  and 
how  little  confidence  they  have  in  the  perma- 
nency of  the  present  order  of  things.  Even 
when  the  natives  desire  to  acquire  land  exposed 
for  sale  judicially  they  prefer  to  pay  a  much 
higher  price  to  a  first  purchaser  who  accepts 
the  risk  of  what  they  consider  an  illegal  sale, 
and  who  gives  them  a  title-deed  before  a 
"Kadi."  They  have  the  conviction  that  on 
the  return  of  purely  Mussulman  jurisdiction 
in  Egypt  all  the  present  judicial  sales  would 
be  declared  illegal  and  the  title-deeds  worthless. 


250 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


Again,  from  time  immemorial  a 
common  punishment  in  Egypt  was 
what  is  known  as  the  kourbash,  a  pun- 
ishment resembling  the  "cat  o'  nine 
tails"  in  common  use  in  our  own 
country  thirty  years  ago.  The  kour- 
bash was  the  weapon  of  order  in  the 
country.  From  sentimental  motives 
we  forced  the  native  government, 
against  its  better  judgment,  to  throw 
away  that  weapon,  not  gradually  but 
precipitately.  We  might  have  recom- 
mended the  suppression  of  the  penalty 
in  trivial  cases,  and  that  its  illegal  use 
should  be  a  misdemeanour  of  the  highest 
gravity;  but  its  precipitate  abolition 
was  unwise  because  we  had  prepared 
nothing  to  replace  it  in  a  country 
where  imprisonment  is  only  looked 
upon  as  a  transfer  to  more  comfortable 
quarters  than  are  enjoyed  at  home. 
Thus  along  with  the  shout  of  triumph 
upon  the  abolition  of  the  kourbash, 
which  is  recorded  in  the  Blue  Book 
No.  15  of  1885,  we  hear  on  all 
hands  of  the  difficulties  created  in  the 
preservation  of  order,  and  in  the 
execution  of  necessary  works  of  public 
utility, 

At  a  railway  station  in  Egypt  I 
heard  a  native  farmer  loudly  crying 
out  that  he  had  been  forcibly  deprived 
of  the  produce  of  twenty-five  acres  of 
his  best  land,  and  adding  a  variety  of 
maledictory  expressions  towards  the 
foreign  administration  represented  by 
two  Englishmen  whom  he  was  ad- 
dressing. I  had  occasion  to  converse 
with  the  latter  at  the  next  station,  and 
was  informed  of  the  cause  of  this 
scandal.  Complaint  had  been  made 
to  the  irrigation-officers  that  the  land 
of  a  certain  peasant  was  receiving 
no  water.  On  repairing  to  the  spot 
the  officer  found  that  the  owner  of  the 
piece  of  ground  between  the  water- 
course and  the  dry  patch  of  land  had 
ploughed  up  and  sown  the  passage 
through  which  the  water  should  have 
been  led.  The  matter  was  reported  to 
the  local  Mudir,  and  he  was  requested 
to  remedy  the  evil  Some  days  passed 
during  which  no  action  was  taken. 
Losing  patience,  the  young  English- 


man proceeded  himself  to  discharge 
the  functions  of  the  local  Mudir,  and 
cut  a  channel  through  the  intervening 
land.  "I  admit,"  he  said,  "that  I 
took  a  deal  of  the  man's  land,  but  he 
deserved  it.  There  will  be  a  grand 
row  about  the  thing ;  at  all  events  the 
patch  is  watered."  No  doubt  there 
was  a  case  of  injustice,  and  some  days 
would  have  been  required  to  bring 
pressure  upon  the  local  Mudir  to  do 
his  duty  ;  yet  the  pressure  would 
have  delivered  the  Mudir  from  the 
ill-will  of  the  perpetrator  of  the  in- 
justice, who  was  an  influential  pro- 
prietor, and  the  disagreeable  action 
would  have  been  taken  in  a  legal 
way.  The  "  grand  row  "  which  the 
officer  foresaw  as  the  result  of  his  extra- 
judicial  procedure  would  have  been 
avoided,  and  possibly  a  solution  less 
disastrous  to  the  proprietor  of  the 
intervening  land  might  have  been 
found.  Our  young  and  zealous  func- 
tionaries boil  over  at  the  sight  of 
injustices  which  they  find  existing 
around  them ;  they  are  impatient  of 
the  slowness  which  characterises  all 
action  in  Oriental  countries ;  but  they 
are  too  apt  to  forget  that  a  violent 
remedy  is  often  more  hurtful  than  a 
slow  but  patient  curing.  In  this  case 
the  land  was  watered  a  few  days 
sooner,  but  the  authority  of  the  local 
Mudir  was  impaired  and  his  adminis- 
trative superiors  were  ignored.  This 
is  only  a  trivial  example  of  what  goes 
on  in  frequent  instances  and  in  im- 
portant matters. 

To  create  a  native  government 
which  can  hope  for  popular  sym- 
pathy we  must  be  more  careful 
than  in  the  past  to  allow  it  all  the 
prestige  of  power ;  we  must  leave  it  to 
work  towards  its  ends  in  the  way 
which  its  local  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience dictates,  and  we  must  di- 
minish to  its  utmost  minimum  all 
foreign  interference  and  the  use  of 
foreign  officials.  This  course  may 
imply  slower  progress  and  the  con- 
tinuance of  much  that  is  discordant  to 
the  notions  of  Western  civilisation, 
but  only  by  it  can  we  hope  to  work 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


251 


out  a  plan  which  has  no  other  preten- 
sion than  to  assist  Egypt  to  govern 
herself.  The  plan  may  not  succeed, 
but  at  least  it  deserves  a  fair  and 
favourable  trial,  which  it  has  not  yet 
had,  and  never  will  have  until  the 
Egyptian  ministry  is  left  more  free 
to  administer  according  to  its  own 
lights  and  to  devise  in  its  own  way  its 
projects  for  the  general  good.  What- 
ever we  may  individually  think  of  the 
corruption  of  subordinate  Egyptian 
officials  we  must  remember  that 
they  are  the  only  properly  available 
administrative  element  in  the  country, 
and  that  they  must  be  used  and  im- 
proved, not  set  aside.  We  have  joined 
in  imposing  upon  Egypt  international 
obligations  of  a  most  grievous  and 
burdensome  nature  for  the  benefit  of 
foreign  creditors,  and  our  duty  is  to 
diminish  to  the  utmost  in  our  power, 
and  even  accept  certain  sacrifices 
to  alleviate,  the  load  and  the  vexations 
which  we  too  heedlessly  assisted  in 
imposing. 

This  last  observation  leads  me 
naturally  to  explain  the  impression 
which  I  formed  of  the  present  and 
future  condition  of  agriculturists  in 
Egypt.  I  had  hoped  to  find  a  decided 
improvement  in  the  position  of  that 
interesting  class  upon  which  the  welfare 
of  Egypt  depends.  Greater  regularity 
in  the  collection  of  the  taxes  which 
weigh  upon  property,  and  the  improve- 
ments in  irrigation  from  the  able  and 
experienced  efforts  of  Colonel  Scott- 
Moncrieff,  led  me  to  anticipate  that  I 
should  find  the  farmers  in  a  materially 
better  condition  than  they  were  before 
we  upset  the  government  of  Ismail 
Pasha  and  undertook  to  guide  the 
destinies  of  Egypt.  Both  of  these 
benefits,  I  was  glad  to  find,  existed 
in  reality.  The  system  pursued  in  the 
collection  of  the  taxes  upon  land  is 
admirable.  By  the  tax-paper  which  is 
furnished  to  the  proprietor  of  land  at 
the  beginning  of  each  financial  year 
not  only  does  he  know  the  exact 
amount  which  he  owes,  but  also  the 
date  before  which  each  instalment  has 
to  be  paid.  Thus  the  farmer  is  freed 


from  all  vexatious  exactions,  and  is 
enabled  to  provide  beforehand  for 
his  engagements  to  the  State.  Also 
the  good  work  which  Colonel  Scott - 
Moncrieff  has  already  been  able  to 
achieve  was  demonstrated  by  the  fact 
that  last  year,  notwithstanding  a  most 
unfavourable  Nile,  the  irrigation  of  the 
land  was  accomplished  with  an  almost 
perfect  regularity,  and  the  employ- 
ment of  artificial  and  costly  means  of 
raising  water  to  its  requisite  height 
was  greatly  diminished.  On  this  last 
point  I  heard  an  indirect  testimony 
of  the  highest  value.  The  most  ex- 
tensive furnisher  of  steam-pumps  for 
irrigation  was  summoned  to  the  Com- 
mission sitting  at  Alexandria  to  ex- 
amine into  the  causes  of  the  general 
depression  in  trade.  His  frank  ex- 
planation of  the  depression  in  the 
trade  with  which  he  and  English  engi- 
neers were  concerned  was  that  Colonel 
MoncriefE's  administration  had  dimin- 
ished largely  the  number  of  farmers 
who  required  to  raise  the  water  for 
their  lands  by  artificial  means.  This 
testimony  confirms  in  the  most  em- 
phatic way  the  value  of  Colonel  Mon- 
crieiFs  services. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  reality 
of  these  two  important  benefits, 
I  heard  a  general  wail  from  all  agri- 
culturists as  to  their  prospects  in 
consequence  of  the  steady  and  persis- 
tent reduction  in  the  value  of  cotton 
and  grain  during  recent  years.  *'  Prices 
have  fallen  to  such  a  point  that  agri- 
culture leaves  no  longer  a  reasonable 
profit,"  was  the  remark  of  cultivators, 
both  small  and  great.  I  had  heard 
in  Cairo  and  Alexandria  of  the  large 
number  of  peasants  who  were  unable 
to  repay  the  advances  which  they  had 
contracted  towards  money-lenders,  of 
the  ruinous  depreciation  in  the  value 
of  lands  and  the  impossibility  to  find 
purchasers  for  it ;  but  it  was  only  in 
the  interior  that  I  found  the  real  cause 
of  these  unsatisfactory  symptoms. 
Government  functionaries  in  Cairo 
told  me  that  the  peasants  were  paying 
their  taxes  with  fair  regularity;  but 
in  the  interior  I  heard  that  to  do  so 


252 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


many  had  to  resort  to  loans  at  the 
ruinous  rates  of  four  or  five  per  cent, 
per  month.  A  Greek  capitalist  in 
Alexandria  told  me  that  the  peasants 
were  not  paying  their  debts  because 
the  British  administration  had  trans- 
formed these  formerly  honest  debtors 
into  rogues  of  the  worst  class  ;  but  in 
the  interior  I  was  convinced  that  after 
paying  expenses  and  taxes  there  was 
little  left  for  the  peasant  to  become 
rogue  upon.  As  I  was  conscious  that  the 
opinion  which  I  had  formed  was  at  vari- 
ance with  very  largely  circulated  state- 
ments I  took  especial  pains  to  examine 
with  care  and  impartiality  the  allega- 
tions of  agriculturists.  If  true,  these 
allegations  afford  an  explanation  of 
the  discontent  to  which  all  give  utter- 
ance, with  the  exception  of  a  few 
foreign  functionaries. 

The  productions  which  chiefly  affect 
Egypt  are  cotton  and  grain.  Of  the 
total  exportations  from  Egypt,  amount- 
ing to,  in  round  numbers,  twelve 
millions  and  a  half  sterling,  cotton 
and  cotton  seed  contribute  about  ten 
millions,  and  grain  about  half  a  mil- 
lion, so  that  cotton  represents  in  the 
proportion  of  four-fifths  all  the  im- 
ported wealth  of  the  country.  It  may 
therefore  be  said  that  upon  cotton  the 
agricultural  prosperity  of  Egypt  de- 
pends. The  steady  shrinking  in  the 
value  of  that  article  is  a  fact  of  which 
all  are  cognisant ;  but  to  show  the 
full  effect  of  that  circumstance  upon 
Egypt  we  must  define  its  extent.  I 
did  so  in  two  ways  :  first,  from  prices 
obtained  by  growers  in  Egypt,  and 
secondly,  from  independent  statistics  of 
the  value  of  cotton  in  Liverpool,  the 
largest  market  in  the  world  for  the 
staple. 

From  accurately  kept  accounts  of  a 
native  proprietor,  which  I  was  allowed 
to  examine,  I  ascertained  that  the 
average  price  at  which  he  sold  his 
cotton  in  1878  (in  no  wise  an  excep- 
tional year)  was  350  piastres  per 
cantar  (98  Ibs.),  whereas,  the  highest 
price  which  he  could  obtain  last  No- 
vember was  200  piastres  per  cantar. 
Thus,  the  extent  of  the  reduction  in 


price   since    1878   is   forty-three    per 
cent. 

By  statistics  of  the  price  of  "  fair  " 
Egyptian  cotton  in  Liverpool,  I  find 
that  its  average  price  during  the 
decade  of  1861  to  1870  was  seventeen- 
pence  per  pound,  and  from  1871  to 
1880  it  was  eightpence  per  pound, 
whereas  it  was  quoted  on  the  twenty- 
fourth  of  December  last  at  five  and  a 
half  pennies  per  pound.  The  shrinking 
thus  represents  fifty-three  per  cent,  in 
the  second  decade  as  compared  with  the 
first,  and  thirty  per  cent,  in  the  present 
price  as  compared  with  the  average 
price  between  1871  and  1880.  It  may 
therefore  be  asserted,  without  exagge- 
ration, that  the  fall  in  the  value  of 
Egyptian  cotton  since  1878  is  equiva- 
lent to  thirty-five  per  cent. 

Although  grain  is  not  an  article  of 
large  export  from  Egypt  it  is  one  of 
large  local  consumption,  and  its  price 
consequently  affects  materially  the 
producer.  From  the  accounts  before- 
mentioned,  I  ascertained  that  in  1878 
the  wheat  crop  realised  to  the  farmer 
at  the  place  of  production,  one  hun- 
dred and  fourteen  piastres  per  ardeb 
(9|  bushels),  whereas  last  year  it  only 
obtained  fifty-six  piastres  per  ardeb. 
The  fall,  therefore,  represents  close 
upon  fifty  per  cent. 

To  appreciate  properly  the  disast- 
rous result  of  the  reductions  in  the 
value  of  cotton  and  grain,  we  must 
bear  in  mind  the  undeniable  fact  that 
all  of  these  reductions  fall  upon  the 
profits  of  the  farmer.  His  charges 
for  production  have  not  diminished 
since  1878,  and  his  land-tax  has  re- 
mained the  same,  if  it  has  not 
increased.  Consequently,  if  the  profit 
of  farmers  in  Egypt  represented  forty 
per  cent,  of  the  gross  income  in  1878 
it  dwindled  away  to  nearly  zero  in 
1885. 

It  is  extremely  difficult  in  all 
countries  to  estimate  with  accuracy  the 
profits  of  farming,  and  especially  so  in 
a  country  like  Egypt,  where  compara- 
tively few  farmers  keep  accounts. 
The  majority  of  native  farmers  in 
Egypt,  when  asked  on  the  subject  of 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


253 


their  profits,  reply  in  a  general  way, 
that  "  in  former  years,  when  the  value 
of  wheat  was  above  one  hundred 
piastres  per  ardeb,  their  cotton  crop 
remained  as  clear  profit,  the  other  pro- 
duce of  the  farm  sufficing  to  cover  all 
expenses.  But  this  is  no  longer  the 
case  since  wheat  has  fallen  to  nearly 
half  that  price."  As  only  one  acre 
out  of  every  three  can  or  ought  to  be 
devoted  to  cotton,  the  produce  of  that 
acre  of  cotton  was,  in  former  times, 
considered  to  be  the  profit  of  three 
acres  of  land.  Taking  the  average 
yield  of  cotton  as  three  cantars  per 
acre,  the  profit  of  three  acres  in  1878 
might  be  estimated  at  101.  10s.  To- 
day, however,  the  value  of  three 
cantars  of  cotton  is  only  61.,  and 
from  this  last  sum  a  deduction  has 
to  be  made,  seeing  that,  on  account 
of  the  fall  in  the  value  of  grain,  all 
expenses  of  production  are  not  other- 
wise covered. 

Yague  though  this  system  of  appre- 
ciation may  appear,  my  inquiries  led 
me  to  believe  that  it  represents  the 
most  favourable  view  of  the  present 
situation.  It  indicates  that  the  pro- 
fits of  farmers  are  to-day  about  forty 
per  cent,  less  than  they  were  seven 
years  ago.  I  heard  it  very  commonly 
remarked  in  Egypt  that  now  the 
farmers  are  entirely  delivered  from 
the  irregular  exactions  of  Ismail 
Pasha,  and  so  far  this  is  true.  But 
it  is  easy  to  exaggerate  these  exac- 
tions. They  were  chiefly  in  the 
nature  of  advances  upon  future  pay- 
ments, and  we  must  not  forget  that 
Ismail  Pasha  was  constantly  bringing 
new  money,  borrowed  from  foreigners, 
into  the  country,  and  that  at  least  he 
paid  the  interest  of  debt  by  these 
borrowings.  I  admit  that  Ismail 
Pasha  participated  largely  in  the  good 
profits  which  farmers  made  in  his 
day ;  but  the  participation  which  he 
extorted  did  not  amount  to  anything 
like  the  depreciation  which  has  since 
taken  place  in  profits. 

I  cannot  pretend  to  say  positively 
that  the  present  reduced  profits  do 
not  give  a  fair  return  in  a  good  year 


to  a  farmer  who  is  not  burdened 
with  debt.  But  seeing  the  risks 
which  are  incident  to  farming — 
disease  of  cattle,  ravages  of  worms 
and  various  atmospheric  contrarieties 
— the  profit  of  II.  10s.  per  acre  upon 
land  worth  at  a  minimum  251.  per  acre 
appears  to  me  a  feeble  and  uninviting 
return.  Certainly  it  cannot  sup- 
port usurious  interest  upon  advances ; 
and  such  interest  must  necessarily 
extinguish  the  profits  of  those  whose 
circumstances  have  obliged  them  to 
borrow  to  an  extent  which  nearly 
represents  the  value  of  their  land  as 
well  as  the  outlay  necessary  to  bring 
their  crops  to  maturity.  By  all  com- 
petent to  express  an  opinion  I  was 
informed  that  the  majority  of  the 
peasants  are  heavily  burdened  with 
debt,  and  consequently  the  condition 
of  that  majority  is  now  reduced  to  a 
painful  struggle  for  existence. 

The  results  of  the  Daira  and  Do- 
main administrations  might  be  cited 
as  proof  of  the  feeble  return  obtain- 
able from  farming  in  Egypt.  These 
administrations  cultivate  the  best 
lands  in  Egypt,  and  the  land-tax 
which  they  pay  is  proportionately 
much  lighter  than  that  imposed  upon 
other  proprietors,  yet  they  do  not 
yield  a  net  profit  of  more  than  two 
per  cent,  upon  the  value  of  the  estates. 
It  may  be  said  that  these  administra- 
tions, being  managed  by  an  interna- 
tional trinity,  two  members  of  which 
are  ignorant  of  the  country  and  its 
language,  do  not  fairly  represent  the 
results  of  intelligent  farming,  and  in 
this  opinion  I  agree.  Still  I  cannot 
admit  that  the  most  perfect  system  of 
administration  possible  would  succeed 
in  doing  more  than  double  the  present 
return,  and  in  that  case  we  have  a 
right  to  ask  whether  four  per  cent,  as 
net  profit  is  either  a  reasonable  or  invit- 
ing return  upon  operations  exposed  to 
considerable  risks  and  in  a  country 
where  capital  is  scarce. 

By  the  courtesy  of  a  most  intelligent 
native  proprietor  I  was  allowed  to 
examine  his  farming  accounts  of  the 
past  eight  years.  They  were  ap- 


254 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


parently  kept  with  great  accuracy, 
and  treated  of  the  most  minute  de- 
tails. The  land  which  he  farms 
amounts  to  twelve  hundred  acres  of 
moderately  good  quality,  but  far 
from  being  the  best  land  of  Egypt. 
With  the  exception  of  thirty-seven 
acres,  all  the  lands  pay  taxes  under 
the  class  of  ouchouri,  and  the  re- 
sults therefore  represent  those  of  the 
most  lightly-taxed  lands  in  Egypt. 
However  interesting  all  the  details 
might  be,  it  is  impossible  for  me  in 


such  an  article  as  the  present  to  give 
a  translation  of  them,  but  I  will 
burden  my  readers  with  their  results 
on  two  points,  namely,  the  net  profits 
per  acre  and  the  annual  burden  of  the 
land-tax.  These  two  points  furnish 
us  with  facts  of  great  importance  in 
regard  to  present  profits  as  compared 
with  the  profits  previous  to  1880,  and 
also  the  present  burden  of  taxation  as 
compared  to  what  it  was  before  1880. 
The  following  table  represents  these 
results : — 


Year. 

/~ 

Egyptian 
Era. 

Our  Era. 

Net  Profit  per  Acre. 

Burden  of  Land-Tax 
per  Acre. 

Piastres. 

Shillings. 

Piastres. 

Shillings. 

1593 

1876-7 

138| 

284 

51 

104 

1594 

1877—8 

107J 

22 

48 

9| 

1595 

1878—9 

218| 

45 

48 

9| 

1596 

1879—80 

171| 

35£ 

75 

16i 

1597 

1880—81 

97i 

20 

75 

15* 

1598 

1881—82 

1091 

214 

75 

15* 

1599 

1882—83 

73f 

15 

69| 

lit 

1600 

1883—84 

68| 

14 

694 

14* 

The  accounts  were  not  made  up 
for  last  year,  as  the  cotton  crop  had 
not  been  entirely  gathered  before  I 
left  Egypt.  Its  yield  was  expected  to 
be  twenty  per  cent,  inferior  to  that  of 
1884,  which  was  the  largest  yield  ever 
known.  But  without  taking  into  ac- 
count a  reduced  yield  in  1885,  the 
reduction  in  the  price  of  cotton  would 
alone  diminish  the  net  profit  per  acre 
to  sixty  piastres,  or  12s.  3d.,  as  against 
14s.  3d.  of  land-tax. 

The  total  outlay,  for  farm  buildings, 
cattle,  and  utensils,  was  about  1,800£., 
equal  to  II.  10s.  per  acre,  and  the 
value  of  the  land  minimum  201.  per 
acre.  Thus  we  have  a  capital  outlay 
of  2,11.  10s.  per  acre  yielding  only  a 
net  return  of  12s.  3d.,  equal  to  a  shade 
less  than  three  per  cent.  I  may  add 
that  all  the  information  which  I  ob- 
tained from  other  native  proprietors 
confirmed,  in  a  general  way,  these 
results.  In  my  notes  I  find  the  fol- 
lowing clear  statement  by  a  most  in- 
fluential proprietor:  "I  pay  upon  my 


lands  1,3001.  of  taxes — ouchouri  lands 
— and  the  profit  they  left  me  last  year 
was  SOOL  Had  they  been  kharadge 
lands  I  should  have  paid  480£.  more 
of  taxes,  which  would  have  reduced 
the  profit  to  3201.  If  present  low 
prices  continue  all  this  small  profit 
will  disappear." 

From  the  preceding  remarks  it  would 
appear  therefore  evident  that  the  re- 
duction in  the  prices  of  grain  and 
cotton  has  diminished  the  profits  of 
farmers  to  such  an  extent  that,  even 
upon  the  exceptionally  favoured  lands 
of  the  class  "  ouchouri," l  the  return  is 
feebly  remunerative.  What  then  must 
be  the  condition  of  those  lands  called 
"  kharadge," l  which  pay  a  much  greater 
burden  of  taxation  1  By  an  official 
return  we  learn  that  in  Upper  and 
Lower  Egypt  there  are  three  million 
four  hundred  and  forty-one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  forty-four  acres  of 

1  The  word  '  ouchour '  means  a  tenth  part 
or  tithe,  and  'kharadge'  means  a  servitude 
without  indication  of  quantity. 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


255 


"  kharadge  "  lands,  and  only  one  mil- 
lion three  hundred  and  sixty-two  thou- 
sand two  hundred  and  twenty  acres 
of  "  ouchouri"  lands ;  and  that  the  ave- 
rage taxation  upon  the  former  is 
piastres  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight 
(II.  6s.  3d.)  as  against  piastres  fifty-one 
and  a  half  (10s.  6d.)  upon  the  latter. 
The  classification  does  not  indicate  a 
difference  of  quality  in  the  lands  but 
simply  a  difference  in  tenure.  The 
"  ouchouri "  lands  were  ceded  upon  ex- 
ceptional conditions  by  the  Viceroys, 
whereas  the  "kharadge"  lands  repre- 
sent the  most  ancient  tenure  in  the 
country.  We  have  already  found  that 
on  a  farm  almost  entirely  composed  of 
ouchouri  lands  the  profit  was  only 
12s.  3d.  per  acre,  while  the  land-tax 
amounted  to  14s.  3d.  per  acre.  But 
had  these  lands  been  kharadge  lands 
the  results  would  have  been,  on  the 
most  favourable  conditions,  a  profit  of 
only  7s.  Qd.  as  against  19s.  of  land- 
tax! 

When  we  take  these  facts  into  ac- 
count is  it  marvellous  that  we  find 
throughout  the  rural  population  of 
Egypt  sentiments  of  general  discon- 
tent 1  Is  it  extraordinary  creditors 
should  cry  out  that  their  debtors  do 
not  repay  them  their  advances,  or  that 
land  should  find  no  serious  purchasers  1 
Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  shop- 
keepers should  complain  that  trade 
with  the  peasants  is  bad,  and  that 
credit  in  the  country  is  at  the  lowest 
ebb  ?  Superficial  observers  invoke  the 
increased  value  during  the  past  two 
years  of  importations,  but  they  forget 
that  these  increases  are  the  result  of  the 
repairs  necessitated  after  the  havocs 
of  war  (of  which  the  four  millions  of 
indemnities  represent  only  a  portion) 
and  of  the  exceptional  expenditure 
supported  by  the  British  tax-payer, 
which  our  recent  military  expeditions 
and  present  military  occupation  give 
rise  to.  Underneath  the  surface,  over 
which  a  certain  calm  is  shed  by  ex- 
ceptional and  regrettable  causes,  there 
exists  a  rottenness  which  is  bringing 
the  most  important  interests  of  the 
country  to  the  brink  of  ruin,  and  we 


are  blindly  disregarding  it.  The  first 
of  Egyptian  statesmen  has  been  warn- 
ing us  of  the  danger  for  more  than  a 
year,  but  the  optimistic  views  of  our 
counsellors  have  been  preferred,  and 
we  have  followed  those  who  cry, "  Peace, 
peace,  when  there  is  no  peace."  To 
the  credit  of  Lord  Northbrook  I  must 
say  that  those  who  had  occasion  to 
know  the  real  impressions  which  he 
carried  away  from  Egypt  assured  me 
he  was  fully  convinced  of  the  dangers 
ahead,  and  foresaw  the  necessity  of  a 
radical  remedy,  but  obedience  to  party 
induced  him  to  change  his  original 
report.  Still  in  his  compromise  he 
obtained  a  reduction  of  456,000£.  on 
the  land-tax,  which  has,  however,  not 
yet  been  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the 
Egyptian  Government,  although  nearly 
a  year  has  passed  since  it  was  sanc- 
tioned. 

There  is  evidently  a  pressing  neces- 
sity of  relieving  the  burden  of  tax- 
ation upon  "  kharadge  "  lands  if  we 
would  save  their  owners  from  ruin, 
and  advance  the  material  interests  of 
the  country.  In  view  of  the  reduced 
values  of  produce  this  measure  is  not 
only  necessary  but  is  also  equitable. 
In  1868,  when  one-sixth  was  added 
to  the  land-tax,  cotton  was  worth 
double  its  present  value,  and  an  in- 
creased taxation  could  be  supported. 
But  such  is  no  longer  the  case.  Not 
only  is  it  equitable  to  remit  the  in- 
crease imposed  in  1868,  but  a  further 
reduction  is  necessary.  In  the  opinion 
of  the  most  moderate  and  most  com- 
petent authorities  in  Egypt,  "  the 
minimum  of  reduction,which  ought  to 
be  made  is  one  million  sterling,  tem- 
porarily accorded  for  the  few  years 
until  the  cadastre  is  terminated  and 
proportioned  upon  the  most  necessitous 
lands."  Nearly  half  of  that  reduction 
has  already  received  the  sanction  of 
the  Powers,  and  it  should  be  made  at 
once  without  stint  or  hesitation.  It 
might  be  expected  that  I  should 
prove  that  the  financial  situation 
renders  the  remission  of  the  other 
half  possible;  but  besides  that  my 
present  space  will  not  admit  of  such 


56 


The  Situation  in  Egypt. 


an  examination,  I  have  no  desire  to 
inflict  upon  my  readers  its  tiresome 
details.  Fully  a  year  before  Mr.  Cave 
went  to  Egypt  I  published  the  details 
of  the  Egyptian  budget  as  they  were 
communicated  to  me  by  the  then 
Minister  of  Finance,  and  I  have  seen 
nearly  identical  figures  reappear  in  the 
reports  of  the  various  financial  missions 
since  that  time.  Figures  were  trans- 
posed and  the  groupings  were  changed, 
but  in  all  the  main  features  the  budget 
was  the  same. 

The  great  blot  in  the  financial  posi- 
tion in  Egypt  has  always  been  that 
too  much  money  is  exported  out  of  the 
country  in  payment  of  interest  and 
tribute.  More  than  a  half  of  the 
revenue  leaves  the  country  for  these 
two  purposes,  and  as  long  as  this  is 
the  case,  capital  cannot  grow  in  the 
hands  of  the  people.  Notwithstanding 
this,  the  last  financial  year  left  the 
large  surplus  of  about  three-quarters 
of  a  million  sterling,  and  competent 
authorities  assured  me  this  surplus 
would  be  largely  increased  at  the  end 
of  the  current  year.  In  these  circum- 
stances it  need  not  be  difficult  to 
sacrifice  a  sum  of  half  a  million  to 
save  the  most  vital  interest  in  the 
country — a  sacrifice  which  would  do 
much  to  allay  the  general  discontent, 
and  which  would  have  the  immediate 
effect  of  giving  a  value  to  land,  and  of 
restoring  credit,  thus  assisting  in  the 
material  development  of  the  resources 
of  the  country.  The  commercial  inter- 
ests of  all  the  European  countries  are 
deeply  concerned  in  the  attainment 
of  this  desirable  result,  and  were  it 
necessary  we  might  profitably  lend,  in 
a  small  measure,  our  credit  to  make  it 
certain.  The  debt  of  Egypt  pays  five 
and  six  per  cent,  to  its  creditors.  To 


twenty-five  millions  of  it  we  might 
attach  our  guarantee,  and  thus  econo- 
mise to  Egypt  a  sum  of  nearly  half  a 
million.  The  risk  run  by  the  guar- 
antee is  nil,  and,  doing  so,  we  may 
get  rid  of  two  of  the  most  unpopular 
and  costly  foreign  administrations  in 
the  country.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
the  financial  situation  of  Egypt  pre- 
sents no  insuperable  difficulties,  if  the 
material  interests  of  the  country  are 
husbanded  and  not  killed.  The  pros- 
perity of  all  classes  in  Egypt  depends 
upon  her  agriculture,  and  if  we  can 
raise  that  from  its  present  dejection 
we  shall  inaugurate  a  new  era  for  the 
country,  and  give  a  stimulus  to  her 
trade  both  at  home  and  abroad. 

It  has  often  been  said  to  me  that 
the   British   Parliament    will,  shrink 
from   accepting  further  pecuniary  re- 
sponsibilities   towards    Egypt.      This 
would   be  to   strain  at  a  gnat  after 
having  swallowed  a  camel ;  to  prefer 
costly  sacrifices  to  inexpensive  facili- 
ties.    It  is  vain  to  expect  to  secure 
the  goodwill  of   the  Egyptian  people 
unless    we    are  ready,    on   our    part, 
to   confer   upon    them   such    benefits 
as    it    is    in     our    power     easily 
bestow.     Without   risk   and    without 
cost  we  can  ease  her  burdens,  and  ii 
is    both    our    duty   and  our   interes 
to  do   so.      It   is   our   duty,  as  some 
reparation   for   the  severe   losses 
have  inflicted  upon  Egypt.     It  is  01 
interest,    because    whatever    we 
economise  to  her  of  her  revenues  anc 
devote   to  the    improvement    of    h( 
agricultural  position  will  return  to 
multiplied  a  hundred-fold,  and  creal 
cargoes  for  our  ships,  orders  for  01 
looms,  and  food  for  our  poor. 

R   HAMILTON  LANG, 


257 


POETRY   AND    POLITICS.1 


WITH  almost  all  that  Mr.  Lang  has 
said  on  this  subject 2  I  entirely  agree. 
It  appears  to  me  to  be  manifest  that 
political  party  names  ought  not  to  be 
allowed  to  beset  the  mind  when  it  is 
engaged  to  the  enjoyment  and  estima- 
tion of  poetry.  And  he  would  be  a 
hard-hearted  man  who  would  not  sym- 
pathise with  Mr.  Lang's  distress  at  this 
confusion  of  boundaries.  He  feels  the 
pang  of  a  romantic  traveller  confronted 
lay  a  London  advertisement  in  a  moun- 
tain glen.  Like  some  hart  in  a  secret 
covert,  he  starts  sadly  as  he  hears,  or 
thinks  he  hears,  the  political  horn 
wound  suddenly  in  the  grove  of  the 
Muses,  and  the  hunter  preparing  to 

"  lay  his  hounds  in  near 
The  Caledonian  deer." 

It  appears  to  me  also  plain  that  al- 
though such  argument  and  analysis  as 
are  undertaken  by  Mr.  Courthope  in  his 
ingenious,  but  rather  confusing  book, 
may  incidentally,  perhaps  accidentally, 
throw  light  on  poetical  qualities,  yet 
they  may  more  easily  lead  to  fallacies 
and  strained  judgments.  Above  all 
do  I  most  emphatically  agree  that  in 
such  lines  as  those  quoted  by  Mr.  Lang 
from  Homer  and  Virgil,  and  Milton 
and  Wordsworth  (to  which  hundreds 
more  might,  happily  for  the  world,  be 
added),  there  dwells  a  peculiar  en- 
chantment at  once  indefinable  and 

1  Since  I  wrote  this  paper  I  have  read  Mr. 
Courthope's  reply  to  Mr.  Lang  in  the  '  Na- 
tional Review.'    With  part  of  it  I  can  agree  ; 
with  part   I   cannot.     But  as  it  belongs  to 
a  special  controversy,  I  think  that  probably 
any  value  my  remarks  may  possess  will   be 
better  retained  by  leaving  them  as  they  are 
than  by  modifying  them  to  follow  the  course 
of  Mr.  Courthope's  argument.     I  need  hardly 
say  that  this  is  from   no  want    of   respect 
toward   what   he  has   written,    but,    on   the 
contrary,  because   I    would   avoid   the    least 
semblance  of  a  pretension  to  play  the  arbiter 
between  him  and  Mr.  Lang. 

2  'Macmillan's  Magazine/  December,  1885. 
No.  316. — VOL.  LIII. 


indispensable  to  the  highest  poetry; 
and  that  the  appreciation  of  this 
quality  is  matter  "  not  of  argument, 
but  of  perception." 

Being  thus  so  entirely  at  one  with 
Mr.  Lang  as  to  his  main  positions  and 
his  mental  attitude  toward  poetry,  I 
am  disappointed  to  find,  further  on  in 
his  paper,  what  seems  to  make  an  excep- 
tion to  this  agreement.  The  attitude 
with  which  I  sympathise  is  that  of  dis- 
trust and  aversion  toward  the  arbitrary 
labels  which  many  attempt  to  affix  to 
the  works  of  poets,  and  toward  the  ex- 
aggerated desire  to  classify  and  assign 
them  to  definite  "  schools."  But  Mr. 
Lang  himself  seems  to  lend  some  counte- 
nance to  the  mistaken  hankering  after 
such  labels  in  his  use  of  the  cant  terms 
"classical"  and  "romantic,"  as  ap- 
plied to  poetry.  The  terms,  I  conceive, 
were  first  used  in  French  or  German 
literature,  and  it  might  be  of  a  certain 
interest  to  trace  their  origin  in  those 
countries  ;  but  I  cannot  but  think  that 
they  are  likely  to  do  at  least  as  much 
ill  service  as  good  in  general  discus- 
sion of  the  poetry  of  any  race  or 
country,  and  especially  of  our  own. 
When  Mr.  Lang  says  that  he  is  "  a 
romanticist,"  and  that  "the  best  things 
in  Aristophanes,  and  Racine,  and  the 
Book  of  Job,  are  romantic,"  what  does 
he  mean?  Does  he  mean  anything 
more  than  that  the  best  things  are  what 
he  likes  best  1  What  will  he  say  of  the 
two  lines  concerning  Helen's  brothers 
which  he  quotes  from  the  third  book 
of  the  '  Iliad,'  or  of  the  other  lines  from 
Virgil?  Are  these  "romantic?"  If 
the  epithet  "  classical "  has  any  mean- 
ing applicable  to  poetic  qualities,  it 
would  surely  be  the  appropriate  one 
in  these  cases.  It  should,  I  imagine, 
imply  restrained  force,  chastened 
grace,  pregnant  simplicity  of  phrase, 
as  opposed  to  more  fantastic  and  start- 

s 


258 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


ling  methods  of  appealing  to  the  imagi- 
nation;   and    such   force,    grace,    and 
simplicity    are    eminently  present   in 
these  passages.       Is  Mr.  Lang,  then, 
as    a    "  romanticist "    to    recant     or 
qualify  his  admiration  of  them  1    And 
why     is     this     misused      epithet     of 
"  classical "    to    be    bestowed    on    the 
Euglish  poets  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury?     What    makes    poetry   classic 
unless  it  be   the    possession    of    high 
poetic  genius  ?    Even  by  the  admission 
of   its   admirers,    the    genius    of    the 
eighteenth  century  poets  was  prosaic 
compared  with  that  of  those  preceding 
and  succeeding   them.     It   cannot  be 
held  that  there  is  more  to  be  found  in 
this  period  of  either  the  spirit  or  the 
form  (if,  indeed,  these  can  be  rightly 
viewed  apart  in  poetry)  of  the  great 
poets   of   antiquity.     What   influence 
from   antiquity  is  to   be  found   here 
seems  rather  to  be  that  of  the  silver 
age  of  Latin  poetry.     Shall  we  not  do 
more  wisely  to  discard,  or  at  least  use 
with   great    wariness,   all    such    cant 
terms    as    these    of    "  classical "    and 
"romantic,"  as  belonging,  or  tending 
to  belong,  to  a  cloud  of  parasitic  pe- 
dantries,  invented  for  the  benefit  of 
lecturers  and  critics,  but  merely  ob- 
scuring and  obstructing  our  enjoyment 
of   poetry?      Undoubtedly  a   poet  is 
influenced  by  his  age  and  its  action, 
and  also  by  his  predecessors  and  con- 
temporaries in  his  own  art,  as  well  as 
by  the  more  permanent  elements  of  hu- 
man life,  and  by  the  phenomena  of  the 
visible  universe.  But  who  shall  foretell 
from  his   multiform    "environment" 
what  part  of  it  is  to  find  expression 
in  his  poetry  ?      That  depends  on  his 
own  free  genius. 

No  definitions  of  the  nature  of 
poetry  can  ever  be  entirely  satisfac- 
tory, but  it  is  generally  interesting  to 
hear  what  a  poet  has  to  say  of  his  art. 
Well  worthy  of  attention  is  Mr. 
Swinburne's  remark,  quoted  by  Mr. 
Couithope,  that  the  two  primary  and 
essential  qualities  of  poetry  are 
im  gination  and  harmony.  There  is 
no  discrepancy,  and  no  less  significance, 
in  the  words  of  an  older  poet,  a  fold  of 


whose  lyric  mantle  has  fallen  on  Mr. 
Swinburne.  Pindar  is  somewhere 
speaking  of  the  qualities  by  which 
poetry  lives.  It  will  live,  he  says, 
"  whensoever  by  favour  of  the  Graces 
the  tongue  hath  drawn  it  forth  out  of 
the  depth  of  the  heart."  1  The  favour 
of  the  Graces — that  is,  the  power  of 
imagination  to  conceive,  and  of  har- 
monious words  to  express — this  is 
indispensable  ;  but  so  also  is  a  certain 
state  of  the  heart,  of  the  feelings.  It 
is  not  meant,  of  course,  that  a  poet 
has  deeper  or  stronger  feelings  than 
men  who  have  not  the  gift  of  express- 
ing them  in  poetry,  still  less  that  his 
feelings  need  exceptionally  affect  his 
moral  action.  Yery  likely  they  are 
too  transient  or  too  imaginative,  or 
have  little  reference  to  practical  life. 
A  man  of  any  other  kind  is  as  likely 
to  "  make  his  life  a  poem."  But  strong 
and  pervading  feeling,  however  tran- 
sient, however  merely  imaginative, 
there  surely  must  be  to  produce  real 
poetry.  Whatsoever  things  are  lovely, 
or  majestic,  or  piteous,  or  terrible  (if 
there  be  beauty  in  their  pity  and  terror) 
— all  these  can  draw  poetry  from  a  poet, 
and  that  whether  the  images  come  to 
him  in  woods  and  mountains,  or  in  oral 
tradition,  or  in  books,  from  his  own 
time,  or  from  times  remote.  No  classi- 
fication as  "  classical  "  or  "  romantic  " 
can  debar  him  from  his  common  rights 
on  all  these  pastures  of  the  mind. 
Only  these  things  must  have  possessed 
his  imagination,  and  through  his 
imagination  his  feeling,  before  they 
will  call  forth  his  best  poetry.  It  is 
indeed  this  need  of  penetrated  and 
penetrative  feeling,  and  presentation  of 
beauty  and  grandeur,  combined  with 
the  intellectual  formative  effort,  that 
makes  the  production  of  poetry  of 
sustained  excellence  so  hard  and  rare, 
and  makes  us  feel  that  almost  all 
poems  would  have  been  better  if  they 
had  been  shorter.  Now  in  this  newly- 
revived  question  of  the  claims  of 
Pope  and  kindred  writers  to  be 
counted  poets,  is  it  not  primarily  the 
continuous  absence  of  deep  imaginative 
1  'Nemean/iv.  7,  8. 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


259 


feeling    which    prevents    some    of  us 
from  so  counting  them  in  any  but  a 
very    imperfect    sense  ?       Neglect  of 
inanimate  nature — possibly  even  glar- 
ingly false    description    of    it,   as  in 
Pope's  Homer — need   not   argue   the 
absence  of  poetry,  any  more  than  mere 
accurate   and  picturesque  description 
need  argue  its  presence.     Descriptions 
of    picturesque    phenomena   are  used 
with  much  greater  reserve  by  the  great 
poets  of  antiquity  than  by  most  Eng- 
lish writers  since  Thomson  and  Cow- 
per ;  yet  they  are  by  no  means  used 
with  less  effect,  for  they  are  always 
strictly  relevant  to  the  human  interest. 
But  the  most  fatal  want  in  Pope  and 
his  fellows  is  a  want  of  passion.     By 
passion  is  not  necessarily  meant,  of 
course,  any  tumult  of  the  mind ;  more 
often  a  kind  of  fervent  stillness  ;  but 
at  any  rate  a  condition  in  which  the 
intellectual  perception  is,  so  to  speak, 
steeped  throughout  in  emotional  con- 
templation of  a  possessing  idea,  with 
which  it  is  for  the  time  identified,  yet 
without  losing  its  intellectual  forma- 
tive energy.      Only  by  "  possession  " 
of  this  kind,  coinciding  with  the  re- 
quisite faculty  of  words,  is  the  perfect 
poetic  expression  of  the  idea  elicited. 
Though  it  often  includes,  it  yet  differs 
from,  that  "  ardour  and  impetuosity  of 
mind "    allowed    by    Wordsworth    to 
Dryden.       Ardour    of    this    kind    is 
necessary  to  the  orator  also,  but  then 
the  orator  is  always  thinking  first,  or 
at  least  equally,  of  his  audience,  and 
the  effect  of  his  words  on  them  :  the 
poet  is   entirely    occupied    with    the 
object    of    his    imagination.     In  this 
lies  the  reason  why  didactic  poems  are 
in  continual   danger  of   degenerating 
into  mere  rhetorical  verse — a  danger 
which   even    the   genius  of  Lucretius 
could   not    altogether   surmount,  and 
which  repeatedly  compelled  Virgil  to 
choose  in   the  '  Georgics  '  between  in- 
struction and  poetry.     He  seldom  fails 
to  choose  the  latter  alternative.     It  is 
not  of  students  of  agriculture  that  he 
is  thinking  when  he  loses  himself  in 
imagination  among  the  cool  glens  of 
Hsemus,  beneath  the  umbrage  of  the 


giant  boughs.  But  in  Pope  and 
Addison  and  Dryden,  and  the  eigh- 
teenth-century poets  generally,  the 
rhetorical  quality  is  predominant,  and 
it  is  only  in  this  rhetorical  quality 
that  I  can  see  plausible  justification  of 
Mr.  Courthope's  attributing  to  that 
century  a  closer  connexion  between 
poetry  and  public  life  than  is  found 
during  other  periods.  In  the  sonnets 
alone  of  the  recluse  Wordsworth  there 
would  seem  to  be  more  memorable 
witness  to  things  of  national  concern. 
It  is  by  no  means  intended  here  that 
a  man  may  not  be  both  a  rhetorician 
and  a  poet.  Macaulay,  for  instance, 
was  both  ;  and  though  his  vein  of 
poetic  metal  is  a  small  thing  among 
the  vast  mines  of  his  rhetoric,  it  runs 
pure  and  unconfused  when  it  appears 
in  his  '  Lays.'  Rhetoric  must  be  in- 
cluded in  the  genius  of  a  dramatic,  and 
even  of  an  epic,  poet.  Yet  there  are 
few  momentous  speeches  in  Homer  or 
in  Shakespeare  which  do  not  contain 
a  poetic  element  far  beyond  the  rhetoric 
with  which  it  blends.  Through  the 
stern  brief  utterances  of  Achilles 
avenging,  pierce  such  haunting  strains 
as  the  lines  — 


ij&s  ^  SeiXr)  f)  /j.fffov 
Tts  Kal  e/teto  "Apei  e/c  6v/j.bv 
076  Sovpl  j8aA&>J>  $j  curb 


It  is  only  through  the  presence  of 
imaginative  passion  that  the  metrical 
form  of  expression  justifies  its  use,  at 
once  as  a  necessity,  and  as  an  inex- 
haustible charm.  Metre  not  only  pro- 
vides, as  has  not  seldom  been  remarked, 
a  balance  and  law  which  harmonises 
the  passionate  flow  of  imaginative 
emotion  ;  but  it  also  deepens  and  in- 
tensifies that  emotion  by  bringing  it 
into  accord,  so  to  speak,  with  the  inner 
music  which  is  at  the  heart  of  things, 
and  through  which  alone  their  exist- 
ence can  have  its  fullest  meaning,  and 
be  the  object  of  vivid  conception.  Thus 
the  art  of  poetry,  instead  of  removing 
us  from  nature,  brings  us  closer.  This 

1  "  There  cometh  morn  or  eve  or  some  noon- 
day when  my  life  too  some  man  shall  take  in 
battle,  whether  with  spear  he  smite  or,  arrow 
from  the  string." 

2 


260 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


is  an  effect  of  metre  far  beyond  the 
conciseness  and  power  of  impressing 
the  memory  in  which  Pope  seems  to 
have  seen  its  chief  merits. 

The  things  which  fertilise  one  poet's 
imagination  may  be  very  different 
from  those  which  fertilise  another's ; 
the  seed  may  be  Wafted  from  mediaeval 
romance,  or  from  Hellenic  mythology, 
from  the  idea  of  the  fall  of  man,  or 
of  the  founding  of  a  state,  from  clouds 
or  from  flowers,  from  mountains  or 
from  the  sea.  It  may  even  be 
found,  under  limitations  to  which  I 
will  return,  in  some  of  the  political  in- 
terests shudderingly  repudiated  by  Mr. 
Lang.  But  whatever  it  may  be,  it  is 
something  which  the  poet  must  trans- 
fer, so  to  speak,  from  his  imagination 
to  ours,  by  means  of  his  art  and  his 
feeling  combined,  or  rather  interfused. 
Some  degree  of  sympathy,  of  course,  is 
needed :  the  subject  which  interests 
him  may  seem  so  remote  from  hu- 
manity in  general,  or  perhaps  so 
trivial,  that  such  transference  is  hardly 
possible  ;  but  this  is  only  a  question  of 
degree.  Now  Pope  not  only  generally 
chooses  things  to  write  about  which 
are  unlikely  to  inspire  poetic  feeling  ; 
but  even  when  his  subjects  are 
moving  (as  the  grief  of  Eloisa),  they 
ueem  to  contend  in  vain  with  the  anti- 
thetical point-making  of  the  expres- 
sion. The  fact  of  his  writing  in  metre, 
and  giving  his  readers  pleasure  by  his 
epigrammatic  skill  in  wielding  it,  is 
surely  beside  the  mark  in  considering 
whether  he  is  to  be  called  a  poet.  The 
mere  terseness  and  compendious  con- 
venience of  metre  can  give  pleasure 
when  they  fix  a  witty  epigram  on  the 
mind,  but  this  is  not  a  poetic  pleasure. 
Pope's  deficiency  may  be  well  seen  by 
comparing  him  with  Gray,  of  whom 
Mr.  Courthope  speaks  ,as  "  carrying  on 
the  ethical  impulse  communicated  to 
poetry  by  Pope."  Many  lines  of  Gray 
share  largely  the  mannerism  of  Pope's 
age,  and  yet  by  their  interpenetrative 
glow  of  imaginative  feeling  are  stamped 
as  indisputable  poetry.  And  not  only 
in  Gray,  but  also  in  Crabbe,  there  is 
at  times  imaginative  passion ;  it  is 


lack  of  beauty,  rather  than  lack  of 
passion,  that  gives  Crabbe  but  a  low 
place  among  poets.  For  in  high  poetry 
this  penetrative  feeling  must  have  its 
cause,  however  indirectly,  in  the  con- 
templation of  beauty  of  some  kind ; 
this  is  part  of  what  Pindar  means 
when  he  speaks  of  the  favour  of  the 
Graces  as  indispensable.  Yerse  of 
which  the  pervasive  feeling  and  im- 
agination are  mainly  excited  by  mean 
or  hideous  things  may  attain  great 
power  as  satire,  but  not  as  pure  poetry. 
It  is  as  a  satirist  rather  than  as  a  poet 
that  Byron  seems  to  me  to  be  entitled 
to  rank  high,  in  spite  of  the  directness 
and  facility,  the  rhetorical  force  which 
his  prodigious  ability  gave  him  on 
subjects  of  many  kinds.  The  '  Vision 
of  Judgment '  and  '  Don  Juan '  seem 
to  me  his  most  successful  works.  I 
do  not  forget  that  this  postulate  of 
beauty  might  seem  to  deprive  most  of 
Dante's  '  Hell '  of  its  place  in  pure 
poetry.  Some  parts  must  be  so  ex- 
cepted,  I  think,  and  also  such  parts 
of  the  '  Purgatory  '  and  '  Paradise  '  as 
treat  of  matters  where  there  is  not 
enough  feeling  transmitted  to  the 
reader  to  prevent  his  thinking  that 
they  might  as  well  have  been  in  prose. 
Such  are  most  of  the  theological  and 
philosophical  disquisitions.  But  even 
in  the  '  Inferno,'  besides  the  broken 
lights  of  pathetic  beauty,  such  as  the 
meetings  with  Francesca,  or  with  Bru- 
netto  Latini,  the  horrors  are  redeemed 
to  poetry  by  the  sense  both  of  the 
noble  and  melancholy  presence  of  the 
guide  Virgil,  and  of  the  righteous 
judgments  of  God  which  overshadow 
the  whole.  Nor  can  there  be  a  nobler 
poetical  idea  than  that  of  the  progress 
and  purgation  of  the  human  spirit, 
symbolised  through  the  entire  poem  by 
Dante's  upward  journey  through  hell 
and  purgatory  to  the  spheres  of  heaven. 
The  argument  has  somewhat  led  us 
away  from  the  title  of  this  paper  and 
of  Mr.  Lang's,  but  a  few  further  re- 
marks more  directly  relevant  to  it  may 
yet  find  room.  On  the  principles  sug- 
gested above,  it  is  plain  what  kind  of 
power  political  theories  or  interests 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


261 


may  have  in  affecting  poetry.  If  they 
attract  a  poet's  imagination  by  some- 
thing in  them  which  he  happens  to  feel 
vividly  noble  or  imposing,  they  may 
contribute  an  element  to  his  poetry. 
But  it  is  also  plain  that  this  is  not 
likely  to  happen  in  the  case  of  contem- 
porary party  politics,  because  these  are 
commonly  involved  in  a  cloud  of  pro- 
saic and  even  mean  associations,  which 
render  an  imaginative  presentment 
practically  impossible.  Of  course  a 
poet  may  be  a  politician,  like  any  one 
else,  when  not  concerned  with  his  art, 
and  the  broad  fundamental  principles 
on  which  his  politics  are  based  may  be 
capable  of  poetical  expression.  But  it 
can  only  be  when  remoteness  has  caused 
the  prosaic  details  to  disappear  that 
the  imagination  will  be  sufficiently  im- 
pressed by  some  moral  or  picturesque 
beauty  discoverable  beneath  these  to 
find  material  for  poetry.  And  English 
politics  of  the  eighteenth  century  would 
be  among  the  least  likely  to  afford 
such  material.  Tn  the  preceding  age 
there  was  obviously  far  more  idealism 
in  the  political  world.  And  a  know- 
ledge of  Milton's  ardent  political  aspi- 
rations, and  of  his  part  in  public 
affairs,  repeatedly  add  great  interest 
to  his  poetry.  But  from  his  poetry 
itself  politics  are  excluded,  unless  it 
be  in  a  few  of  his  sonnets.  Even 
these,  though  they  are  inspired  by 
contemporary  men  and  things,  deal 
only  with  the  generalities  and  morali- 
ties of  politics.  Scott  also,  though  of 
course  in  a  far  less  degree,  was  in- 
volved in  the  party  politics  of  his 
time.  But  it  is  one  of  the  especial 
glories  of  his  sane  and  kindly  genius 
that  this  fact  could  never  be  discovered 
from  his  works  of  imagination.  When 
he  presents  historical  characters  and 
parties  in  which  analogies  to  modern 
politics  might  be  found,  no  tinge  of 
partisanship  ever  disturbs  the  serene 
and  frank  impartiality  with  which  he 
depicts  all  the  lights  and  shades  of  the 
"  mighty  opposites,"  who  have,  under 
whatever  flag,  animated  the  stage  of 
human  life  by  battling  for  the  fulfil- 
ment of  some  political  or  religious 


ideal,  or,  it  may  be,  for  little  but  the 
satisfaction  of  a  barbaric  love  of 
strife.  It  is  only  natural,  perhaps, 
that,  among  political  ideas,  those  of  a 
"  Liberal  "  or  progressive  kind  should 
have  been  more  often  and  more  directly 
expressed  in  poetry,  for  the  vague 
future  lends  itself  more  readily  to  the 
moulding  of  imagination  than  the 
familiar  order  of  things  seen  in  the 
light  of  common  day.  Even  if  the 
idealisation  be  of  the  past,  this  is  hardly 
more  corroborative  of  a  practical  and 
political  Conservatism  of  existing  insti- 
tutions. But  happily  the  instinct  of 
poets  has  pretty  nearly  banished  party 
politics  and  definite  political  specifics 
of  all  kinds  from  poetry — at  any  rate 
from  the  best.  The  one  great  excep- 
tion is  an  exception  that  may  really  be 
said  to  go  far  to  prove  the  rule.  Dante 
not  only  argued  systematically  for  his 
cherished  political  theory  in  prose,  but 
also  eagerly  welcomed  all  occasions  for 
vindicating  it  in  his  great  poem.  The 
doctrine  of  the  divinely  appointed 
ordinance  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire 
may  be  said  to  be  incorporated  in  the 
fabric  of  the  '  Divina  Commedia.'  Going 
beyond  generalities  in  praise  of  free- 
dom or  tradition,  progress  or  order, 
Dante  urges  his  specific  remedy  for  the 
political  ills  and  difficulties  of  the 
world — its  repose  under  the  wing  of 
the  imperial  "bird  of  God."  But  then 
this  was  a  remedy  at  which  no  practi- 
cal politician  had  at  that  time  any  in- 
tention of  aiming.  Doubtless  the  idea 
of  the  Roman  Empire  had  still  some 
traditional  authority  over  the  minds 
of  men.  But  the  then  emperor  was 
too  fully  occupied  with  affairs  on 
a  much  smaller  scale  to  listen  to 
Dante's  cry  to  him  on  behalf  of 
"widowed  "  Rome.  As  to  the  Ghi- 
bellines,  they  only  profaned  il  sacro- 
santo  segno  by  usurping  it. 

"  Faccian  gli  Ghibellin,  faccian  lor  arte 
Sott'  altro  segno  ;  che  mal  segue  quello 
Sempre  chi  la  giustizia  e  lui  diparte."  * 

1  "  Let  the  Ghibellines  practice  their  arts 
under  some  other  banner  than  this  ;  for  ever 
is  he  an  ill  follower  thereof  who  dissevers  it 
from  justice." 


262 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


If  the  universal  empire  of  Rome  had 
been  before  Dante's  view  as  a  mili- 
tant or  a  triumphant  reality,  instead 
of  as  a  visionary  ideal  of  the  reign  of 
justice  and  peace,  it  would  probably 
soon  have  lost  its  power  of  inspiration. 
When  we  speak  of  the  failure  of 
politics  to  inspire  poetry,  it  need  hardly 
be  said  that  such  politics  do  not  in- 
clude the  sentiment  of  patriotism,  of 
resistance  to  oppressors  or  invaders, 
or  to  national  enemies  generally.  This 
is  happily  a  sentiment  which  has 
known  no  distinction  of  parties  in  our 
country,  and  has  found  expression 
alike  in  the  Conservative  Wordsworth, 
the  Liberal  Tennyson,  and  the  Radical 
Burns ;  and  I  am  glad  to  see  that  Mr. 
Lang  reminds  his  readers  that  in  the 
falsely-named  "  classical  period  "  of  the 
eighteenth  century  English  patriotism 
found  no  poetic  expression  comparable 
to  that  achieved  in  the  age  when  it 
has  been  alleged  that  the  Revolution 
had  corrupted  our  literature  with 
cosmopolitan  indifference.  To  the 
eighteenth  century  in  England  belong 
great  and  solid  achievements,  but  not 
the  imaginative  aspirations  of  the 
Reformation,  or  of  the  Revolution,  or 
of  the  age  of  the  Crusades  and  the 
foundation  of  the  great  monastic  orders 
of  Dominic  and  Francis.  Out  of  all 
the  nineteen  centuries  since  the  Chris- 
tian era,  only  in  the  three  periods  con- 
taining those  three  great  movements 
can  Europe  claim  to  have  felt  the  full 
influence  of  those  "golden  stars" 
beneath  which  poets  are  said  to  be 
born. 

But  such  wide  fields  of  disquisition 
are  not  to  be  entered  now.  In  con- 
clusion I  would  merely  say  a  word  to 
deprecate  any  imputation  of  dogmatism 
in  these  matters.  In  the  first  place,  I 
am  well  aware  that  if  several  people 
write  about  a  subject  of  this  kind  they 
are  very  likely  to  misunderstand  each 
other,  and  also  to  use  the  same  words 
in  senses  that  differ  with  the  user. 
They  may  be  repeating  when  they 
mean  to  controvert,  and  possibly  con- 
troverting when  they  mean  to  repeat. 
Further,  with  regard  to  the  view  here 


supported — the  view  that  the  estimate 
of  poetry  is  ultimately  a  matter  of 
perception  rather  than  argument,  that 
the  highest  poetic  qualities  are  ap- 
prehensible but  indefinable  —  those 
who  think  thus  are  by  virtue  of  their 
faith  especially  bound  (however  hard 
it  seem)  to  be  most  careful  to  hold 
frankly  to  the  principle,  and  not 
merely  to  "respect  the  right  of  pri- 
vate judgment,"  but  to  try  to  believe 
that  when  a  judgment  differs  from 
theirs  it  may  be  based  on  some  real 
perception  of  qualities  not  apparent 
to  themselves,  perhaps  overlaid  with 
defects  which  their  idiosyncrasy  makes 
exceptionally  disfiguring  in  their  eyes, 
perhaps  appealing  to  associations 
which  to  them  are  insignificant.  Per- 
sonally, for  instance,  I  would  most 
willingly  sacrifice  the  whole  of  '  Childe 
Harold,'  if  need  were,  to  preserve 
Coleridge's  '  Kubla  Khan,'  or  Words- 
worth's l  Solitary  Reaper,'  or  one  of 
Macaulay's  'Lays.'  Yet  it  is  un- 
deniable that  a  great  body  of  opinion 
would  be  opposed,  that  a  great  number 
of  persons  who  derive  genuine  pleasure 
from  poetry  think  as  highly  of  Byron 
as  a  poet  as  I  think  of  him  as  a 
satirist.  Others,  again,  may  hold 
Wordsworth's  '  Reaper '  a  simple  and 
graceful  piece  without  any  especial 
rare  and  penetrative  charm.  Others 
(including  a  greater  number  of  respect- 
able judges)  will  allow  little  to  Macau- 
lay's  poetry  except  "a  certain  ardour 
and  impetuosity."  Dr.  Mommsen 
classes  the  '^Eneid'  with  the  'Hen- 
riade ' ;  and  we  know  Voltaire's 
opinions  on  Dante  and  Shakespeare. 
All  this  only  shows  how  subtle  is  the 
appeal  of  poetry,  and  on  what  complex 
associations  it  depends  in  each  indi- 
vidual case.  Probably,  therefore,  not 
very  much  is  to  be  gained  by  discus- 
sion of  whether  this  or  that  is  true 
poetry,  still  less  by  too  elaborate 
attempts  at  artificial  classification  of 
poets.  Let  us  by  all  means  know  all 
we  can  of  what  there  was  in  the  con- 
cerns of  a  poet's  age, — political,  religi- 
ous, social,  literary,  artistic  —  which 
was  likely  to  influence  his  mind  and 


Poetry  and  Politics. 


263 


his  work,  so  that  we  may  hereby 
apprehend  more  fully  the  significance 
of  what  he  wrote.  There  will  be 
natural  and  legitimate  occasions  when 
such  knowledge  will  contribute  an 
element  in  our  appreciation  of  him. 
But  let  his  poetry  be  judged  as  poetry, 
on  the  ground  of  its  own  merits,  its 
own  appeal  to  the  perception  of  the 


reader,  and  without  reference  to 
theories  as  to  its  supposed  connexion 
with  something  else,  to  find  which  the 
mind  must  leave  its  due  enjoyment, 
and  travel  forth  on  a  barren  quest 
among  academic  formulae  and  illusive 
classifications  and  definitions  of  the 
indefinable. 

ERNEST  MYERS. 


FEBRUARY  FILLDYKE. 


0  February  Filldyke !  darkly  pour 

Rivers  of  rain  from  out  your  cloudy  sky, 

And  heed  not  slanderous  men.     Right  glad  am  I 

To  see  thee  soften  earth  so  hard  and  frore. 

Thine  aconites  do  make  a  golden  floor; 

And  snowdrops,  winter's  kindest  legacy, 

Droop  dainty  heads,  and  are,  like  maidens,  shy, 

Knowing  that  boisterous  March  rs  at  the  door. 

Thy  scented  breath,  thy  blackbird's  broken  stave, 

Do  charm  delight;  and  thrice  more  welcome  thou, 
"With  hazel  catkins  twined  about  thy  brow, 

Than  that  last  gleam  that  old  October  gave. 

The  Indian  summer  let  my  rivals  sing, 

But  I  will  praise  the  Spring  before  the  Spring. 


264 


A   CHAMPION   OF    HER    SEX. 


CLARISSA  HAELOWE  has  recently  been 
spoken  of  in  a  flippant  and  mocking 
spirit  as  "the  aboriginal  woman's 
rights  person."  The  same  claim  has 
been  advanced  for  more  than  one  of 
the  three  daughters  of  King  Lear,  and 
one  might  make  out  a  case  for  abori- 
ginals of  much  earlier  date,  our  choice 
ranging  from  Medea  to  Hypatia, 
according  to  our  fancy  of  what  con- 
stitutes the  type.  But  there  is  a  real 
aboriginal  of  considerably  greater 
antiquity  than  is  commonly  supposed, 
a  "  woman's  rights  person "  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  whose  claims  to  this 
high  honour  rest  on  the  substantial 
foundation  that  she  not  merely  ac- 
quired fame  as  a  writer  in  man's  most 
peculiar  fields,  composing  the  best 
mediaeval  manual  of  military  tactics 
and  international  law,  but  also  wrote 
a  formal  treatise  on  the  disabilities 
of  women,  in  which  she  defended  her 
sex  against  the  aspersions  of  monks 
and  men  of  the  world,  and  antici- 
pated most  of  the  arguments  familiar 
to  the  present  generation. 

This  mediaeval  paragon,  who  has  to 
her  credit  more  than  fifteen  thousand 
verses  besides  her  prose  works,  was 
Christine  de  Pisan.  She  is  mostly 
known  to  historians  as  the  author  of 
the  '  Livre  des  Fais  et  Bonnes  Meurs  du 
sage  Roy  Charles  V.,'  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  court  and  the  policy  of  that 
monarch ;  but  this  was  only  a  small 
part  of  her  literary  work.  There 
was  no  kind  of  composition  known  in 
her  day  which  she  did  not  attempt, 
from  ballades  and  virelays  to  moral 
and  scientific  treatises.  Of  course 
she  was  obliged  to  take  part  in  politics. 
She  had  no  other  means  of  attracting 
the  notice  and  conciliating  the  support 
of  noble  patrons ;  and  six  persons, 
besides  herself,  were  dependent  on^her 
pen.  It  is  to  Christine's  honour  that, 


living  in  the  troubled  reign  of  Charles 
the  Sixth,  she  used  what  influence  and 
eloquence  she  had  on  the  side  of  peace. 
The  woman's  influence  was  used  as 
women's  influence  ought  to  be,  but 
according  to  the  satirists,  with  whom 
Christine  exchanged  many  words, 
so  seldom  is.  She  was  driven  at  last 
to  take  shelter  in  an  abbey,  and  from 
this  seclusion,  in  1429,  she  issued  her 
last  writing,  a  song  of  triumph  over 
the  victory  of  Joan  of  Arc. 

Thus  Christine  vindicated  the  dignity 
of  her  sex  by  example  as  well  as  by 
precept.  Her  reputation  was  de- 
servedly great  among  her  contempor- 
aries, and  it  stood  high  throughout  the 
fifteenth  century.  At  that  time  it 
was  already  an  object  of  ambition 
with  princes  to  attach  learned  persons 
to  their  courts,  and  Christine  seems 
to  have  received  tempting  offers  from 
more  than  one  to  leave  her  adopted 
country.  Gian  Galeazzo  Visconti, 
whose  honours  in  this  kind  were 
not  conferred  without  good  reason, 
invited  her  to  Milan.  Henry  the 
Fourth  was  so  pressing  in  his  in- 
vitation to  England  that  she  could 
evade  him  only  by  stratagem.  One  of 
her  sons  was  in  the  service  of  the  Earl 
of  Salisbury,  who  had  made  Christine's 
acquaintance  and  conceived  a  great 
admiration  for  her  when  he  visited  the 
French  court  to  negotiate  the  marriage 
of  the  child  Isabella  with  Richard 
the  Second.  After  the  execution 
of  Salisbury,  Henry  took  possession 
of  the  boy,  and  would  not  allow 
him  to  return  to  France,  but  in- 
vited his  mother  to  join  him  in 
England.  Thereupon  Christine  prac- 
tised what  she  would  have  called 
a  "  cautel ; "  she  professed  herself 
highly  honoured  by  the  king's  invita- 
tion, and  requested  that  her  son 
should  be  sent  to  fetch  her;  then. 


A  Champion  of  her  Sex. 


265 


when  she  had  him  safe  and  sound,  she 
excused  herself  and  remained  in 
France.  Christine  herself  records 
these  evidences  of  her  high  reputa- 
tion, and  modestly  suggests  that  the 
wide  fame  of  her  writings,  which 
spread  rapidly  into  many  lands,  was 
less  owing  to  their  worth  than  to  the 
strange  fact  that  they  were  written  by 
a  woman. 

All  through  the  century  her  repu- 
tation stood  firm.  A  translation 
of  the  *  Moral  Proverbs '  of  Christine 
was  one  of  the  earliest  productions  of 
Caxton's  press ;  and  he  published  also 
a  translation  of  her  'Livre  de  Faits 
d'Armes  et  de  Chevalerie,'  the  manual 
already  mentioned  of  military  tactics 
and  international  law.  Even  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth  this  manual 
continued  to  be  quoted,  although 
written  by  a  woman,  as  authoritative. 
In  this  reign  also,  in  1521,  was  printed 
and  published  'The  Boke  of  the  Cyte 
of  Ladies/  a  translation  of  Christine's 
'La  Cite  des  Dames.'  The  printer  was 
Henry  Pep  well,  and  he  set  forth  in 
his  prologue  that  the  book  came  into 
his  custody  from  the  hands  of  Bryan 
Anslay,  one  of  the  king's  yeomen 
of  the  cellar.  This  would  seem  to 
be  the  only  form  in  which  Christine's 
defence  of  her  sex  against  monastic 
scurrility  and  depreciation  ever  ap- 
peared in  print.  Strange  to  say  it 
was  never  printed  in  France,  although 
the  king's  library  contains  many 
manuscripts  of  it,  and  it  was  appar- 
ently one  of  the  most  popular  of  her 
works  for  several  generations. 

That  '  La  Cite"  des  Dames  '  has  been 
printed  only  once,  and  then  in  a 
translation,  and  is  now  entirely  for- 
gotten, is  a  sad  instance  of  the  dis- 
proportion between  fact  and  expecta- 
tion. The  authoress  intended  it  to  be, 
and  her  contemporaries  had  good 
reason  for  expecting  it  to  be,  a  per- 
petual city  of  refuge  for  ladies;  a 
storehouse  of  arguments  good  for  all 
time  against  men  who  should  say  that 
"  women  are  fit  for  nothing  but  to 
bear  children  and  spin."  It  is  a  sur- 
prisingly modern  book  in  spite  of  its 


antiquated  allegorical  dress,  and  its 
quaint  pre-Renaissance  notions  of 
history,  in  accordance  with  which 
Minerva,  Medea,  and  Sappho  figure, 
as  shining  examples  of  female  capacity 
and  virtue,  side  by  side  with  Christian 
martyrs  and  noble  ladies  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  Mediaeval  allegories  are  often 
condemned  as  tedious ;  but  they  are 
not  really  so  except  to  students  who 
are  anxious  to  get  at  the  pith  of  a 
treatise,  and  have  no  time  to  enjoy  the 
lively  play  of  fancy,  and  the  realistic 
settings  with  which  the  mediaeval 
artist  tried  to  beguile  readers  into 
the  perusal  of  solid  morality  and  in- 
struction. We  find  the  preliminary 
flourishes  and  collateral  graces  tedious 
when  we  are  eager  to  get  at  the  sub- 
stance, and  do  not  give  them  a  fair 
trial.  These  allegories  were  the  novels 
of  the  Middle  Ages ;  most  of  them 
novels  with  a  very  obvious  purpose, 
yet  often  brilliantly  written,  and  as 
full  of  action  and  lively  circumstance 
as  if  the  leading  characters  had  borne 
the  names  of  a  common  humanity  in- 
stead of  those  of  abstract  qualities. 
Riches  and  Magnificence,  Avarice  and 
Jollity,  even  Reason  and  Justice,  are 
often  in  the  pages  of  the  mediaeval 
allegorist  as  strongly  defined  and 
vitalised  personages  as  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  modern  novels.  Apart 
from  the  dramatic  skill  of  individual 
writers,  the  difference  between  the 
mediaeval  Abstraction  and  the  modern 
Person  is  mainly  a  difference  of  naming. 
Christine's  '  City  of  Ladies '  is  not  a 
conspicuously  brilliant  example  of  the 
allegory.  Its  allegorical  setting  is,  in 
fact,  slight  and  conventional,  and 
affords  hardly  any  artistic  protection 
to  the  mass  of  facts  arranged  in  sup- 
port of  her  argument.  Yet  the  book 
opens  with  a  brightness  and  animation 
that  must  surprise  those  who  expect 
to  find  dullness  or  inartistic  clumsiness 
in  pre-Renaissance  literature.  This  is 
how  the  opening  is  rendered  by  the 
English  translator,  modernised  only  in 
spelling  and  punctuation  : — 

"  One  day  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  little  cell, 
divers  books  of  divers  matters  about  me,  mine 


266 


A  Champion  of  her  Sex. 


intent  was  at  that  time  to  travail,  and  to 
gather  into  my  conceit  the  weighing  of  divers 
sentences  of  divers  authors  by  me  long  time 
before  studied.  I  dressed  my  visage  towards 
those  foresaid  books,  thinking  as  for  the  time 
to  leave  in  peace  subtle  things  and  to  disport 
me  for  to  look  upon  some  pleasant  book  of  the 
writing  of  some  poets,  and  as  1  was  in  this 
intent  I  searched  about  me  after  some  pretty 
book,  and  of  adventure  there  came  a  strange 
book  into  my  hands  that  was  taken  to  me  to 
keep.  I  opened  this  book  and  I  saw  by  the 
intitulation  that  it  called  him  Matheolus. 
Then  in  laughing  because  I  had  not  seen  him, 
and  often  times  I  had  heard  speak  of  him 
that  he  should  not  speak  well  of  the  reverence 
of  women,  I  thought  that  in  manner  of  solace 
I  would  visit  him.  And  yet  I  had  not  looked 
long  on  him  but  that  my  good  mother  that 
bare  me  called  me  to  the  refection  of  supper, 
whereof  the  hour  was  come.  Purposing  to 
see  him  in  the  morning,  I  left  him  at  that 
time,  and  in  the  morrow  following  I  set  me 
again  to  my  study  as  I  did  of  custom.  I 
forgot  not  to  put  my  will  in  effect  that  came 
to  me  the  night  before  to  visit  the  foresaid 
book  of  Matheolus." 

It  was  "  in  manner  of  solace  "  that 
Christine  proposed  to  visit  the  ribald 
Matheolus,  but  she  had  not  read  far 
when  she  concluded  that  the  matter 
was  "not  right  pleasant  to  people 
that  delighted  them  not  in  evil  say- 
ing," that  it  was  of  no  profit  to  any 
edifying  of  virtue,  and  that  both  in 
word  and  in  matter  the  book  was 
ungentlemanly.  This  curiosity  in  the 
scurrilous  humour  of  the  middle  ages 
has  been  reprinted  in  the  present 
century,  and  we  can  see  for  ourselves 
that  Christine's  taste  was  not  at  fault. 
She  soon  put  the  book  aside,  she  tells 
us,  and  gave  her  attention  to  higher  and 
more  profitable  matters.  Still,  worth- 
less as  the  book  was,  it  set  her  thinking 
why  it  was  that  so  many  clerks,  not 
merely  persons  like  Matheolus  of  no 
reputation,  but  philosophers,  poets,  and 
rhetoricians,  had  agreed  with  one 
accord  to  speak  evil  of  woman  as  a 
being  predisposed  to  all  vices.  She 
began  to  examine  herself  as  "  a  woman 
natural,"  then  all  her  acquaintances, 
princesses,  great  ladies,  and  middle-class 
gentlewomen.  She  could  not  see  that 
the  judgment  of  the  philosophers  was 
right.  Yet  she  argued  strongly  within 
herself  against  these  women,  saying 
that  it  would  be  too  much  that  so 


many  famous  men  and  solemn  clerks 
of  high  and  great  understanding  should 
be  mistaken.  Every  moral  work  con- 
tained some  chapters  or  clauses  blaming 
women.  Her  understanding  must  be 
at  fault.  She  recalled  all  the  hard 
things  that  she  had  heard  of  women, 
and  applied  them  to  herself.  "  Right 
great  foison  of  ditties  and  proverbs  of 
divers  authors"  came  before  her. 
She  remembered  in  herself  one  after 
another,  as  it  had  been  a  well  springing. 
Overwhelmed  by  the  weight  of  this 
authority,  Christine  could  only  con- 
clude that  "  God  had  made  a  foul 
thing  when  he  made  woman,"  and  she 
"  marvelled  that  so  worshipful  a 
workman  deigned  ever  to  make  so 
abominable  a  work."  Great  sorrow 
took  possession  of  her,  and  she  ad- 
dressed God  reproachfully,  asking  why 
she  had  not  been  born  in  the  mascu- 
line kind,  so  as  to  have  been  able  to 
serve  him  the  better.  Then  came  a 
vision  that  comforted  her. 

"  As  I  was  in  this  sorrowful  thought,  the 
head  downcast  as  a  shameful  person,  the  eyes 
full  of  tears,  holding  my  hand  under  my 
cheek,  leaning  on  the  pommell  of  my  chair, 
suddenly  I  saw  come  down  upon  my  lap  a 
streaming  of  light  as  it  were  of  flame.  And 
I  that  was  in  a  dark  place  in  which  the  sun 
might  not  shine  at  that  hour,  started  then  as 
though  I  had  been  waked  of  a  dream  ;  and 
dressing  the  head  to  behold  this  light  from 
whence  it  might  come,  I  saw  before  me  stand- 
ing three  ladies,  crowned,  of  right  sovereign 
reverence.  Of  the  which  the  shining  of  their 
clear  faces  gave  light  unto  me  and  to  all  the 
place.  There  as  I  was  marvelling,  neither 
man  nor  woman  with  me,  considering,  the  door 
close  upon  me  and  they  thither  come,  doubting 
lest  it  had  been  some  fantasy,  for  to  have 
tempted  me,  I  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in 
my  forehead  full  of  dread.  And  then  she 
which  was  the  first  of  the  three,  in  laughing 
began  thus  to  reason  with  me : — '  Dear 
daughter,  dread  ye  nought,  for  we  be  not 
come  hither  for  nothing  that  is  contrary  with 
thee,  nor  to  do  thee  to  be  encumbered,  but 
for  to  comfort  thee  as  those  that  have  pity 
of  thy  trouble,  and  to  put  thee  out  of  the 
ignorance  that  so  much  blindeth  thine  under- 
standing. Thou  puttest  from  thee  that  thou 
knowest  of  very  certain  science,  to  give  faith 
to  the  contrary,  to  that  which  thou  feelest 
not,  ne  seest  not,  ne  knowest  otherwise  than 
by  plurality  of  strange  opinions.  Thou 
resemblest  the  fool  of  the  which  was  made  a 
jape,  which  was  sleeping  in  the  mill  and  was 


A   Champion  of  her  Sex. 


267 


clothed  in  the  clothing  of  a  woman,  and  to 
make  resemblance  those  that  mocked  him 
witnessed  that  he  was  a  woman,  and  so  he 
believed  more  their  false  sayings  than  the 
certainty  of  his  being.  How  is  it,  fair 
daughter,  and  where  is  thy  wit  become  ? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  how  the  fine  gold  proveth 
him  in  the  furnace  that  he  changeth  not  his 
virtue,  but  it  is  more  pliant  to  be  wrought 
into  divers  fashions.  ...  It  seemeth  that 
thou  trowest  that  all  the  words  of  philosophers 
be  articles  of  the  faith  of  Jesu  Christ,  and 
that  they  may  not  err.  And  as  to  these 
poets  of  which  thou  speakest,  knowest  thou 
not  well  that  they  have  spoken  in  many  things 
in  manner  of  fables.  And  do  intend  so  much 
to  the  contrary  of  that  that  their  sayings 
showeth.  And  it  may  be  taken  after  the 
rule  of  grammar  the  which  is  named  Anti- 
phrasis,  the  which  intendeth  thus  as  thou 
knowest  well  as  one  should  say,  "Such  an 
one  is  a  shrew,"  that  is  to  say  that  he  is  good, 
and  so  by  the  contrary.  I  counsel  thee  that 
thou  do  thy  profit  of  their  sayings  and  thou 
understand  it  so  whatsoever  be  their  intent 
in  such  places  whereas  they  blame  women.'  " 

Christine's  three  visitors  proceed  to 
tell  her  that  they  have  come  to  consti- 
tute her  the  champion  of  her  sex,  and 
to  help  her  to  build  a  city  in  which 
women,  hitherto  scattered  and  defence- 
less, might  for  ever  find  refuge  against 
all  their  slanderers.  In  Pepwell's 
edition  of  the  '  City  of  Ladies  '  there  is 
a  woodcut  representing  the  scene,  a 
rough  reproduction  of  a  drawing  in 
the  manuscript,  Christine  seated  at 
her  desk,  and  the  three  visitors  in  a 
row  each  with  an  appropriate  symbol, 
Reason  with  a  mirror,  Righteousness 
with  a  rule,  Justice  with  a  measure. 
"We  shall  deliver  to  thee/'  these  per- 
sonages say,  "  matter  enough  stronger 
and  more  durable  than  any  marble, 
and  as  for  cement  there  shall  be  no 
better  than  thou  shalt  have.  So  shall 
thy  city  be  right  fair,  without  fear, 
and  of  perpetual  during  to  the  world." 
Reason  is  to  help  her  to  lay  the  foun- 
dations, Righteousness  to  build  the 
walls  and  the  cloisters,  and  Justice  the 
battlements  and  high  towers.  Against 
all  but  ladies  of  good  fame  and  women 
worthy  of  praisings,  the  gates  of  the 
city  are  to  be  strongly  shut.  "I 
prophecy  to  thee,"  says  Reason,  "  as 
very  sibyl,  that  this  city  shall  never 
be  brought  to  nought," 


Then  Christine  is  told  to  set  to  work 
at  once  and  dig  deep  in  the  earth  for 
a  foundation,  which,  being  interpreted, 
means  that  she  is  to  ask  questions  of 
Reason  and  record  the  answers.  To 
read  these  questions  and  answers 
brings  into  mind  the  saying  of  La 
Bruyere — Les  anciens  ont  tout  dit.  A 
specimen  or  two  will  show  at  least 
that  the  question  of  woman's  business 
and  other  capacities  was  very  fairly 
raised  in  the  fifteenth  century.  For 
example,  Christine  asks  why  women 
sit  not  in  the  seats  of  Pleading  and 
Justice.  The  answer  is  in  effect  that 
there  are  sufficient  men,  and  that  men 
are  stronger  of  body  to  enforce  the 
laws.  But  if  any  say  that  it  is  be- 
cause women  have  not  sufiicient  under- 
standing to  learn  the  laws,  the  contrary 
is  made  manifest  by  many  examples. 
A  long  array  is  quoted,  partly  mythi- 
cal, partly  historical,  of  empresses, 
queens,  duchesses,  and  countesses  cele- 
brated for  their  administrative  suc- 
cesses and  martial  exploits — Menalippe, 
Hypolyta,  Semiramis,  Tamaris,  Xeno- 
bia,  Fredegund,  Blanche,  the  mother  of 
St.  Louis,  and  many  more  recent 
widows  "who  maintained  right  in 
their  dominions  as  well  as  their  hus- 
bands had.  done." 

"  Of  women  of  worship  and  knight- 
hood," Reason  says,  "  I  might  tell  thee 
enough  ; "  and  the  knight liness  of 
woman  being  thus  established,  Christ- 
ine proceeds  to  ask  "if  ever  God  list 
to  make  a  woman,  so  noble  to  have 
any  understanding  of  the  highness  of 
science."  In  answer  to  this,  Reason 
is  most  explicit : — 

"I  say  to  thee  again,  and  doubt  never  the 
contrary,  that  if  it  were  the  custom  to  put  the 
little  maidens  to  the  school,  and  they  were 
made  to  learn  the  sciences  as  they  do  to  the 
men-children,  that  they  should  learn  as  per- 
fectly, and  they  should  be  as  well  entered  into 
the  subtleties  of  all  the  arts  and  sciences  as 
men  be.  And,  peradventure,  there  should  be 
more  of  them,  for  I  have  teached  heretofore 
that  by  how  much  women  have  the  body  more 
soft  than  the  men  have,  and  less  able  to  do  . 
divers  things,  by  so  much  they  have  the 
understanding  more  sharp  there  as  they 
apply  it." 

Reason  does  not  think  that  women 


268 


A   Champion  of  her  Sex. 


should  meddle  with  that  which  is 
committed  to  men  to  do,  but  doubts 
not  but  that  if  they  had  equal  ex- 
perience they  would  be  equally  full  of 
knowledge.  And  she  quotes  many 
examples  of  women  "  illumined  of 
great  sciences,"  from  Sappho  down  to 
Christine's  countrywoman  Novella 
d'Andrea,  daughter  of  a  Professor  of 
Civil  Law  at  Bologna,  who  lectured  to 
her  father's  students  with  a  curtain 
before  her,  that  her  beauty  might  not 
distract  the  attention  of  the  young 
men.  But  Christine,  resolved  to  meet 
boldly  the  worst  things  said  of  the 
female  intellect,  demands  next  "if 
there  was  ever  woman  that  found 
anything  of  herself  that  was  not 
known  before."  To  this  Reason 
promptly  answers  that  the  Roman 
letters  •  were  invented  by  Nicostrata, 
otherwise  called  Carmentis ;  that 
Minerva  invented  iron  and  steel 
armour,  Ceres  the  tilling  of  the  earth, 
Isis  gardening,  Arene  the  shearing  of 
sheep,  Pamphila  the  weaving  of  silk ; 
that  Thamar  was  a  mistress  of  the  art 
of  painting,  and  that  Sempronia  knew 
Greek  and  Latin  and  was  a  most  ac- 
complished musician.  After  enlarging 
on  the  wealth  that  has  come  to  the 
world  through  the  inventions  of  these 
noble  ladies,  Reason  has  a  fling  at  the 
"  evil-saying  clerks  " — "  they  should 
be  ashamed  and  cast  down  their  eyes, 
seeing  that  the  very  Latin  letters, 
upon  the  knowledge  of  which  they 
pride  themselves,  were  invented  by  a 
woman." 

Such  were  the  foundations  of 
Christine's  city  of  refuge  for  ladies. 
When  Reason  has  laid  the  foundations 
the  walls  are  raised  and  crowned  with 
most  prosperous  speed.  Her  sisters 
Righteousness  and  Justice  dispose 
easily  of  the  arguments  of  those  who 
deny  the  moral  qualities  and  the 
piety  of  women.  All  the  gibes  of 
monastic  cynicism  are  triumphantly 
refuted  by  examples.  The  work  runs 
to  considerable  length,  as  Christine 
has  gathered  into  it  all  the  materials 
she  used  in  her  numerous  battles  on. 
behalf  of  her  sex.  We  dare  say  it  will 


be  news  to  many  of  the  modern  advo- 
cates of  the  cause  that  it  found  so 
eager  and  thorough  a  champion  nearly 
five  hundred  years  ago.  Christine's 
city  is  a  large  and  rambling  range  of 
building,  with  many  quaint  towers  and 
turrets,  but  though  time  has  under- 
mined some  of  its  argumentative 
defences,  one  is  astonished  to  find  how 
much  of  it  is  still  suited  for  modern 
habitation. 

Another  of  Christine's  works  enjoyed 
a  still  greater  reputation  in  its  day. 
The  manual  of  military  tactics  and 
international  law  is  perhaps  the  most 
surprising  of  her  achievements.  It 
is  the  book  known  to  antiquaries 
in  Caxton's  translation  as  *  The  Boke 
of  Fayttes  of  Armes  and  Chyvalrye.' 
The  importance  and  authority  at- 
tached to  the  work  may  be  judged 
from  the  fact  that  it  was  at  the  de- 
sire of  Henry  the  Seventh  that  Caxton 
undertook  the  translation.  To  de- 
scribe it  as  a  manual  of  military  tac- 
tics and  international  law  is  strictly 
correct.  The  productions  of  Caxton's 
press  are  oftener  referred  to  than  read, 
and  the  common  impression  about  the 
Boke  of  Fayttes,  derived  from  a  fanci- 
ful construction  of  the  title,  is  that  it 
is  a  collection  of  stories  of  chivalrous 
exploits.  It  is  a  grave,  solid, 
systematic  treatise,  handling  many 
topics  of  the  highest  policy,  from  the 
manners  of  a  good  general  and  the 
minutiae  of  siege  operations  to  the 
wager  of  battle,  safe-conducts,  and 
letters  of  marque. 

For  a  woman  to  attempt  the  com- 
pilation of  a  soldier's  manual  was  such 
an  extraordinary  undertaking  that 
Christine  felt  bound  to  make  an  apo- 
logy before  she  went  beyond  her  pro- 
logue. She  appealed  again  for  her 
main  justification  to  Minerva,  the 
goddess  of  war,  "  the  inventor  of  iron 
and  of  all  manner  of  harness."  A 
woman  might  fairly  write  about  the 
laws  of  war  when  it  was  a  woman 
that  invented  its  chief  implements. 
But  Christine  did  not  profess  to  be 
original.  She  trusted  partly  to  recog- 
nised authorities  and  partly  to  the 


A  Champion  of  her  Sex. 


269 


kind  offices  of  knightly  friends.     In- 
deed, when  she  was  half  through  her 
work,  it  seems  to  have  occurred  to  her 
that     she   might   be   accused   of   pla- 
giarism, and  she  prepared  an  ingenious 
defence,  in  which  the  vexed  question 
how  far  an  author  may  help  himself 
from  the  works  of  others  is  solved  with 
great  plausibility.     One  evening  after 
she  had  completed  the   second  .  of  the 
four  parts  of  the  book  she  fell  asleep, 
and   a   venerable   figure   appeared  to 
her  in  her  dreams  which  she  recognised 
as   the   impersonation  of   her  master 
Study.      "  Dear    love,   Christine,"  he 
said  to  her,  "  I  am  hither  come  to  be 
thy  help    in  the    performing  of    this 
present  book.     It  is  good  that  thou 
take    and    gather    of     the    Tree    of 
Batailles  that  is  in  my  garden,  some 
fruits  of  which  thou  shalt  use."     This 
was   the   master's    figurative  way  of 
saying  that  Christine  was  now  to  have 
recourse,  for  that  part  of    her  work 
which  dealt  with  political    questions 
arising  out  of  war,  to  Honore  Bonnet's 
'Arbre  des  Batailles.'     Hitherto  she 
had  been  chiefly  indebted  to  Yegetius 
and  Frontin.     "  But,  my  master,"  she 
objected,  "  I  beg  you  to  say  whether 
any  rebuke  will    be  cast    at  me    for 
using  the  said  fruit."  "  By  no  means," 
Study  replied.     "It  is  a  common  use 
among  my  disciples  to  give  and  impart 
one  to  other  of  the  flowers  that  they 
take    diversely   out    of    my   gardens. 
And  all    those  that    help  themselves 
were  not  the  first  that  have  gathered 
them.    Did  not  Maister  Jean  de  Meun 
help  himself  in  his  Book  of  the  Rose  of 
the  sayings  of  Lorris,  and  semblably 
of  others  ?     It  is,  then,  no  rebuke,  but 
it  is  laud  and  praising,  when  well  and 
properly  they  be  applucked  and  set  by 
order.     And  there  lieth  the  maistrie 
thereof.    And  it  is  better  to  have  seen 
and  visited  many  books." 

To  the  statement  of  this  theory  of 
literary  communism  it  ought  to  be 
added  that  Christine  not  only  shows 
her  "  maistrie  "  in  "  applucking  " 
skilfully,  but  is  most  explicit  in 
the  acknowledgment  of  her  obliga- 
tions. The  knights  who  assisted  her 


in  her  elaborate  directions  for  siege 
operations — certain  knights  wise  in 
these  feats  of  arms — did  not  desire 
their  names  to  be  known,  but  every- 
body else  from  whom  she  borrows 
receives  due  credit. 

The  life  of  this  remarkable  woman 
has  attracted  very  little  notice  from 
English  writers.  Horace  Walpole 
touches  lightly  on  her  career  in  his 
Royal  and  Noble  Authors,  commenting 
with  polite  levity  on  the  attachment 
entertained  for  her  by  the  Earl  of 
Salisbury.  This  is  the  only  notable 
reference  to  her  in  English  literature, 
and  it  might  have  been  more  respect- 
ful. But  in  France  Christine  has 
naturally  received  more  attention. 
Her  biography  rests  upon  autobio- 
graphical passages  in  her  own  writings, 
most  of  which  are  accessible  only  in 
manuscripts  in  the  Bibliotheque  du  Hoi. 
The  antiquary  Boivin  the  younger  led 
the  way  in  exploring  these  at  the  be- 
ginning of  last  century.  His  paper  on 
Christine  and  her  father,  Thomas  de 
Pisan,  printed  in  the  Transactions  of 
the  Academic  des  Inscriptions  et  Belles 
Lettres,  restored  the  once  famous 
authoress  from  her  obscurity.  Un- 
fortunately, though  the  Abbe  Boivin 
produced  a  curious  scrap  of  biography, 
he  did  not  perform  his  task  with  suf- 
ficient care.  Doubtless  with  the  best 
of  intentions,  he  killed  Christine's 
husband  thirteen  years  before,  accord- 
ing to  Christine  herself,  his  death 
actually  took  place.  Nobody  has  dis- 
covered on  what  authority  Boivin  fixed 
the  date.  It  may  have  been  that  he 
considered  it  necessary  to  account  for 
Christine's  resort  to  authorship  as  a 
livelihood.  It  may  have  been  that  he 
considered  it  necessary  to  account  for 
the  warmth  of  the  language  used  by 
the  Earl  of  Salisbury  in  his  love  songs 
to  Christine.  At  any  rate  it  was  un- 
fortunate, for  it  gave  Horace  Walpole 
an  opportunity  for  sneering  both  at 
Christine  and  at  her  lover.  The  ami- 
able cynic  of  Strawberry  Hill  was 
under  the  impression  that  Christine 
was  a  widow  when  the  earl  addressed 
her,  and  expressed  some  little  con- 


270 


A  Champion  of  Tier  Sex. 


tempt  for  him  because  he  could  not 
persuade  the  mother  to  leave  Paris, 
and  consoled  himself  by  taking  her 
young  son  under  his  protection.  The 
truth  is  that  Christine's  husband, 
Etienne  du  Castel,  was  alive  at  the 
time.  This  fact  was  brought  to  light 
by  the  writers  of  the  notice  of  Chris- 
tine in  the  Petitot  collection  of  me- 
moirs. But  Boivin's  paper,  being  first 
in  the  field,  has  continued  to  be  the 
basis  of  notices  of  Christine  de  Pisan 
in  dictionaries  of  biography,  although 
an  excellent  monograph  has  since 
then  been  written  by  Mme.  Raimond 
Thomassy. 

It  is  indeed  a  very  interesting  life. 
By  birth  Christine  belongs  to  the  il- 
lustrious company  of  Italian  women 
who  adorned  the  early  years  of  the 
Renaissance.  She  was  a  native  of 
Italy,  and,  though  she  wrote  in  French, 
her  place  is  with  the  female  poets, 
jurists,  and  scholars  whose  learning 
and  talents  excited  the  admiration 
of  the  Italian  courts  and  universities 
in  the  middle  ages.  Her  father, 
Thomas  de  Pisan,  was  a  renowned 
astrologer.  To  the  modern  ear  this 
is  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  was  a 
disreputable  quack.  The  whirligig  of 
Time  and  the  researches  of  the  Psychi- 
cal Society  may  bring  round  its  re- 
venges to  astrology,  but  it  is  difficult 
nowadays  to  attach  even  the  idea  of 
respectability  to  this  occult  art.  It 
was  otherwise  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Fifth  of  France.  The  latter  half 
of  the  fourteenth  century  was  the 
palmy  period  of  astrology.  Its  posi- 
tion then  was  an  adumbration  of  the 
position  now  occupied  by  science.  All 
the  honours  now  paid  to  men  of  science 
were  then  absorbed  by  the  astrologers. 
The  catalogue  of  famous  astrologers 
drawn  up  by  Simon  de  Phares,  and 
the  recital  of  their  achievements  in 
predicting  great  events  and  detecting 
great  criminals,  commanded  as  much 
respect  as  would  now  be  given  to  a 
catalogue  of  European  men  of  science 
and  their  most  notable  discoveries. 
The  feats  of  Nicolas  de  Paganica  and 
Mark  de  Genes  in  foretelling  births 


and  deaths  in  royal  families  passed 
from  gossip  to  gossip,  and  from  writer 
to  writer,  like  the  fame  of  Helmholtz 
or  Pasteur.  For  a  time  all  the  affairs 
of  life,  public  and  private,  were  regu- 
lated by  the  advice  of  the  stars. 
Charles  the  Fifth,  who  had  an  especial 
respect  for  the  science,  kept  many  astro- 
logers on  handsome  pensions.  Such 
patron  as  he,  with  men  always  about 
him  to  make  the  requisite  calculations, 
would  not  have  undertaken  a  journey, 
or  made  a  present  of  a  jewel,  or  put 
on  a  new  robe,  would  not  even  have 
gone  outside  the  gates  of  his  palace, 
without  first  ascertaining  whether  the 
aspect  of  the  heavens  was  favourable. 
And  every  great  baron,  every  digni- 
tary of  the  Church  had  at  least  one 
astrologer  in  his  pay,  and  would  not 
have  dreamt  of  making  an  addition  to 
castle  or  chapel  until  this  authority 
had  selected  the  propitious  moment. 
Chaucer  may  or  may  not  have  meant 
to  be  ironical  when  he  said  of  his 
doctor — 

"  Well  coude  he  fortunen  the  ascendant 
Of  his  ymages  for  Ms  patient." 

But  fashionable  patients  undoubtedly 
expected  as  much  of  their  doctors  in 
Chaucer's  time.  Wars  were  under- 
taken and  battles  begun  only  with  the 
same  high  sanction. 

In  these  palmy  days  of  astrology, 
Thomas  de  Pisan,  according  to  his 
daughter,  was  at  the  very  top  of  his 
profession.  She  says  that  in  the 
opinion  of  experts  entitled  to  judge 
there  was  not  in  his  own  generation, 
and  there  had  not  been  for  a  hundred 
years  before,  a  man  of  such  profound 
knowledge  in  mathematical  science  and 
astrological  calculation.  She  mentions 
one  great  proof  of  his  skill  that  could 
not  easily  be  surpassed.  He  predicted 
the  hour  of  his  own  death,  and  he  died 
punctually  at  the  appointed  time.  Re^ 
spect  for  his  art  could  not  have  been 
carried  farther.  Christine  is  suspected 
of  having  been  guilty  of  a  little  ex- 
aggeration in  her  description  of  her 
father.  Other  contemporary  chro- 
niclers do  not  assign  him  the  same 


A   Champion  of  her  Sex. 


271 


prominent  place.     It  is  remarked  that 
she  speaks  in  terms  of  very  high  praise 
of  all  her  relations —  an  amiable  feature 
in  her  character.     Concerning  Thomas 
de  Pisan  she  even  goes   so  far  as  to 
say  that  the  great  prosperity  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  Fifth  was  chiefly 
due  to  his  counsels.     If  that  monarch 
undertook  affairs  of  moment  only  when 
his  favourite  astrologer  told  him  that 
the  conjunctions  were  propitious,  this 
is  at  least  an  evidence  of    the  good 
judgment  of  Thomas  de  Pisan.  Putting 
aside  the  question  whether  Christine 
was  misled  by  filial  affection,  her  ac- 
count of  her  father  is  to  the  following 
effect.     He  was  a  native  of  Bologna, 
where  he   had   considerable  property. 
He  married  the  daughter  of  a  Venetian 
doctor,  a  councillor    of  the    republic, 
and,  fixing  his  residence  in  Venice,  was 
himself   soon   promoted    to   the  same 
dignity.     In  a  few  years  his  reputa- 
tion as  an  astrologer  and  an  adept  versed 
in  all  the  sciences  spread  beyond  Italy. 
Having  occasion   to   visit   his  native 
city  of  Bologna,  he  there  received  at 
the    same    time   pressing    invitations 
from  the  King  of  Hungary  and  the 
King  of  France  to  pay  them  a  visit. 
i   He  decided  in  favour  of  the  King  of 
I  France,  being  influenced  to  this  deci- 
sion   partly    by    Charles    the    Fifth's 
great  repute  as  a  patron  of    science, 
and  partly  by  the  high  character  of 
the    university    of    Paris,    which    he 
wished  to  see.     He  did  not  propose  to 
i  stay  more  than  a  year  in  France,  and 
I  left  his  wife  and  children  behind  him 
j  in    Bologna,     but     Charles     was     so 
|  charmed  with    his    conversation  that 
!  he  resolved  to  attach  Thomas  de  Pisan 
!  permanently  to  his  court.     The  astro- 
i  loger  received,  besides    his  courteous 
entertainment,  the  substantial  temp- 
tation of  a  most  munificent  salary  \  so 
he  sent  for  his  family  and  settled  in 
France. 

Christine  was  five  years  old  when, 
in  1368,  she  was  presented  along  with 
her  mother  at  the  court  of  Charles. 
She  does  not  forget  to  say  that  they 
were  magnificently  apparalled  &  la 
Lombarde.  Although  a  somewhat 


ostentatious    man,    with    a    turn   for 
magnificence,    and     careless     of     the 
money  liberally  bestowed  upon  him  by 
the  king,  Thomas  de  Pisan  was  a  good 
father.     He    took    great    pains    with 
Christine's      education,     taught      her 
French  and  Latin  as  well  as  Italian, 
and  made  her  study  science  as  well  as 
belles  lettres.     She   acknowledges    also 
that  he  acted  wisely  in  the  choice  of  a 
husband    for    her.      She    had    many 
offers,     knights,     nobles,     and     rich 
officials    being     among     her    suitors. 
"  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  boast 
of  this,"  she  writes  in  recording  the 
circumstance,  "  for   the    authority   of 
the  honour  and   great   love  that  the 
King  showed  to  my  father   was   the 
cause,  not  any  worth  of  mine."     This 
was    Christine's    modesty,  for    in   ad- 
dition  to   her    brilliant    talents   and 
vivacity,  she   thanks    God    elsewhere 
that  she  had   a  person  free  from  de- 
formity and   pleasing   enough,  and  a 
complexion  that  was  not  in  the  least 
sickly.      The  extant   portraits  repre- 
sent  her   as  a   comely  woman,    with 
regular     features      and     a     tendency 
to  embonpoint.   Whatever  her  personal 
attractions,  she,  or  her  father  for  her, 
with    her    subsequent    approval,    de- 
clined all  the  "  chevaliers  "  and  riches 
clercs   in   favour   of    a   young   Picard 
gentleman,    a    man    of   good   family, 
greater  in  virtues  than  in  wealth,  by 
name   Etienne   du    Castel.      Through 
the  astrologer's  influence  he  was  ap- 
pointed one  of  the  financial  secretaries 
of    the    king.       Christine    was    only 
fifteen  years  old   at  the  time  of  her 
marriage. 

It  was  well  for  Christine  that  her 
father  had  taken  pains  with  her  educa- 
tion. Two  years  after  her  marriage, 
in  1380,  Charles  the  Fifth  died,  and 
with  him  departed  the  good  fortune  of 
the  family  of  Thomas  de  Pisan.  The 
astrologer,  with  his  turn  for  magni- 
ficence, had  always  lived  up  to  his 
income,  and  his  son-in-law  as  well  as 
himself  found  much  less  lucrative  em- 
ployment after  the  King's  death. 
Thomas  de  Pisan  soon  followed  his 
patron  to  the  grave.  Christine's 


272 


A  Champion  of  her  Sex. 


husband  was  disabled  by  ill  health,  and 
it  fell  upon  her  to  support  the  family. 
Her  mother  and  two  poor  relations, 
beside  three  children  of  her  own,  were 
dependent  on  her.  She  undertook 
the  duty  with  heroic  energy.  She  had 
acquired  a  reputation  as  a  writer  of 
ballades,  virelays,  and  other  poetry, 
but  she  resolved  to  qualify  herself  for 
what  seems  to  have  been  more  profit- 
able work,  and,  counting  all  that  she 
had  learned  in  her  youth  as  insufficient, 
she  set  herself,  as  she  tells  us,  anew 
to  the  a  b  c  of  learning.  "  I  betook 
myself  to  ancient  histories  from  the 
commencement  of  the  world,  the 
histories  of  the  Hebrews,  the  Assyri- 
ans, and  the  principal  empires,  pro- 
ceeding from  the  one  to  the  other, 
descending  to  the  Romans,  the  French, 
the  Britons,  and  other  subjects  of 
chronicle ;  then  to  the  problems  of 
the  sciences,  as  far  as  the  space  of 
time  that  I  studied  could  comprehend 
them ;  finally  to  the  books  of  the 
poets."  The  number  of  authors  that 
Christine  refers  to  furnishes  an  index 
to  the  extent  of  her  studies.  M. 
Petitot  has  compiled  a  list  of  them : — 
"  Among  Greek  authors  one  remarks 
the  names  of  Homer,  Sappho,  Plato, 
Aristotle,  Hippocrates,  Galen,  Chry- 
sostem,  &c.  She  mentions  even  several 
sayings  and  maxims  attributed  to 
Socrates,  to  Democritus,  to  Diogenes, 
to  Pythagoras,  and  several  other  phi- 
losophers. Among  the  Latins,  Yirgil, 
Horace,  Ovid,  Tibullus,  Catullus, 
Juvenal,  Lucan,  Cicero,  Valerius 
Maximus,  Suetonius,  Seneca,  Boethius, 
Apuleius,  Yegetius,  Pompeius  Trogus. 
The  works  of  St.  Augustine,  St. 
Jerome,  and  St.  Ambrose  were  familiar 
to  her.  Her  writings  prove  that  she 
had  not  only  read  these  various 
authors,  and  many  others  that  we 
cannot  add  to  the  list,  but  that  she 
had  made  a  profound  study  of  them, 
and  one  cannot  but  feel  a  certain 
astonishment  when  one  finds  in  a 
woman  of  the  fourteenth  century  an 
erudition  such  as  is  hardly  possessed 
by  the  most  laborious  men." 

That    Christine    had    read    in    the 


original  every  passage  from  every 
author  that  she  quotes  it  would  be  too 
much  to  believe.  There  were  compen- 
diums  in  those  days  by  the  aid  of 
which  it  was  possible  to  make  a  great 
display  of  learning  at  small  expense ; 
and  students  were  necessarily  very 
much  dependent  upon  these  compen- 
diums,  copies  of  the  originals  not  being 
accessible  to  everybody.  But  with 
every  allowance  for  this,  it  is  obvious 
that  Christine  was  a  great  reader,  and 
for  her  age  a  very  accomplished 
scholar.  There  is  an  air  of  scholarly 
substantiality,  an  amount  of  literary 
flesh  on  the  bones  of  her  works,  very 
rare  in  the  middle  ages.  All  the 
writers  that  were  known  in  France  in 
her  time  were  known  to  her.  Charles 
the  Fifth  had  a  collection  of  nine 
hundred  volumes  in  the  Library  Tower 
of  the  Louvre.  She  had  access  to 
this,  and  through  her  friend  Gerson, 
the  chancellor,  to  all  the  literary 
treasures  of  the  University  of  Paris. 
Christine  shows  not  only  great 
skill  in  the  handling  of  her  mate- 
rials, but  unmistakable  evidence 
of  businesslike  industry  in  the  accu- 
mulation of  them.  When  she  had 
bravely  made  up  her  mind  to  subsist 
by  her  pen,  Anthony  Trollope  himself 
did  not  go  to  work  with  steadier 
energy  and  purpose  than  Christine  de 
Pisan.  She  reminds  us  frequently  of 
Trollope  in  her  precise  enumerations  of 
the  quantity  of  work  accomplished  in  a 
given  time.  Her  first  six  years  of  author- 
ship, begun  after  the  above  elaborate 
preparation,  were  especially  prolific. 
"Between  the  year  1399,"  she  says, 
"  and  the  year  1405,  during  all  which 
time  I  never  ceased,  I  compiled  fifteen 
principal  works,  without  counting 
other  occasional  little  writings, 
amounting  altogether  to  about  seventy 
quires  of  large  size."  This  period  of 
vigorous  industry  was  distracted  by 
the  death  of  her  husband  in  1402,  by 
lawsuits  following  thereupon,  and  by 
the  death  of  her  most  munificent  patron, 
Philip  of  Burgundy,  in  1404  :  but  mis- 
fortunes only  stimulated  the  courage- 
ous woman  to  increased  exertions. 


A  Champion  of  Tier  Sex. 


273 


Christine  did  not  escape  calumny. 
The  warmth  of  her  amatory  verses, 
which  excited  the  suspicions  of  Horace 
Walpole,  exposed  her  also  to  disgrace- 
ful insinuations  from  her  contempor- 
aries. She  complained  bitterly  of 
these  slanders,  and  solemnly  protested 
her  innocence.  She  had  no  time  for 
intrigues.  She  did  not  speak  in  her 
own  person;  the  warmth  of  senti- 
ment in  her  lays  and  ballads  was 
purely  dramatic,  and  an  imaginative 
assumption.  "When  people  speak 
evil  of  me,"  she  says,  "  sometimes  I  am 
vexed,  and  sometimes  I  only  smile  and 
say  to  myself,  '  The  gods,  and  he  and 
I,  know  that  there  is  no  truth  in  it.'  " 
Apart  from  the  impassioned  tone  of 
her  love  songs,  which  was  simply  that 
of  the  period,  there  is  not  a  tittle 
of  evidence  against  the  lady's  re- 
putation. Her  detractors  found  sup- 
port for  their  slanders  in  the  brave 
show  that,  womanlike,  she  kept  up 
when  her  fortunes  were  at  their  lowest 
ebb.  Even  when  reduced  to  the  neces- 
sity of  borrowing  money,  she  never 
relaxed  in  her  determination  to  keep 
up  appearances,  and  carefully  con- 
cealed her  poverty  from  the  world. 
Her  repast  was  often  sober,  she  says,  as 
became  a  widow,  and  under  her  mantle 
of  grey  fur  and  her  gown  of  scarlet, 
not  often  renewed  but  well  preserved, 
she  was  often  sick  at  heart ;  and  she 
had  bad  nights  on  her  bed,  though  it  was 
handsome  and  stately ;  but  there  was 
nothing  in  her  face  or  her  habit  to 
show  the  world  the  burden  of  her 
troubles. 

A  hard  struggle  Christine  seems  to 
have  had.  The  income  of  authorship 
was  very  precarious  in  those  days.  A 
copyist  had  a  more  certain  livelihood. 
Once  an  author  had  parted  with  his 
manuscript,  copies  might  be  multiplied 
to  any  degree  without  his  consent. 
He  was  not  consulted,  and  he  was  not 
paid  ;  the  copyright  belonged  to  the 
owner  of  the  manuscript.  There  was 
no  great  demand  for  original  works. 
An  author's  only  chance  of  obtaining 
remuneration  for  his  labours  was  to 
present  his  work  to  a  powerful  patron 

No.  316— VOL.  LIII. 


with  a  nattering  dedication,  leaving  it 
to  the  patron  to  make  such  a  return 
as  his  generosity  dictated.  The  ful- 
someness  of  dedications,  highly  pep- 
pered to  please  a  patron  and  enlist 
vanity  on  the  side  of  generosity,  is 
often  denounced  by  modern  writers, 
who  are  perhaps  not  much  more  scru- 
pulous in  their  appeals  to  the  great 
modern  patron,  the  public.  The 
author  of  the  fifteenth  century  was 
probably  as  conscientiously  persuaded 
of  the  virtues  of  his  patron  as  the 
author  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  of 
the  virtues  of  his.  When  Christine 
de  Pisan  resolved  to  support  herself 
and  her  family  by  authorship,  she  had 
peculiar  difficulties  in  her  search  for  a 
patron.  The  patronage  of  literature 
was  indeed  already  established  as  a 
thing  becoming  the  high  station  of  a 
prince.  Charles  the  Fifth  had  done 
much  to  encourage  a  healthy  rivalry 
in  this  matter  among  the  princes  of 
Europe.  But  the  distracted  reign  of 
his  successor  was  a  bad  time  for  the 
literary  aspirant  in  France.  Why 
Christine  persisted  in  clinging  to  her 
adopted  country  at  such  a  time,  and 
steadily  refused  the  tempting  offers 
of  the  Duke  of  Milan  and  the 
King  of  England,  is  not  clear.  The 
secret  of  her  attachment  to  Paris 
must  remain  one  of  the  mysteries  of 
her  life.  It  may  simply  have  been 
that  all  her  friends  were  there ;  and 
that  as  a  sensible  womaa  she  doubted 
the  permanence  of  the  favour  of 
patrons  in  every  country,  even  if  she 
could  depend  upon  the  permanence  of 
their  power.  Anyhow,  she  remained 
in  France,  and  addressed  herself  to 
one  after  another  of  the  factious 
chiefs,  by  whose  struggles  for  pro- 
minence the  unhappy  kingdom  was 
torn. 

She  nattered  them  all  in  her  dedica- 
tions— the  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy,  the  Duke  of  Berry, 
Isabella  of  Bavaria,  the  queen — but 
she  did  not  attach  herself  to  any 
party,  and  she  maintained  a  lofty  tone 
both  in  morality  and  in  politics. 
There  was  nothing  base  in  her 


274 


A  Champion  of  her  Sex. 


flattery.  She  credited  the  objects  of 
it  with  virtues  that  they  did  not  pos- 
sess, but  the  virtues  were  such  as  they 
would  have  been  much  the  better  for 
possessing.  Praise  for  any  quality 
that  was  really  virtuous,  even  though 
the  recipient  of  the  praise  did  not 
deserve  it,  was  a  wholesome  influence 
in  a  generation  when  the  corruption 
of  the  chivalrous  ideal  had  reached 
its  worst,  when  courtly  magnificence 
of  living  was  disgraced  by  shameless 
orgies,  and  public  honours  were  sought 
by  the  vilest  intrigues  and  the  most 
treacherous  assassinations. 

One  of  Christine's  first  works  was 
a  collection  of  chivalrous  precepts 
thrown  into  the  form  of  a  letter  sent 
by  the  goddess  Othea  to  Hector  of 
Troy  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  Othea  is 
a  personification  of  Wisdom,  and  she 
tells  the  boy,  in  a  succession  of 
maxims  in  verse,  each  followed  by 
explanations  and  exemplifications  in 
prose,  after  the  manner  of  the  Cato 
Major,  what  he  must  do,  and  what  he 
must  avoid,  in  order  to  become  a  per- 
fect knight.  It  was  dedicated  to  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  whose  faction  was  in 
the  ascendant  at  the  close  of  the  four- 
teenth century.  The  Duchess  of  Or- 
leans, Valentine  Yisconti,  was  a  coun- 
trywoman of  Christine's,  and  this 
may  possibly  have  influenced  her  first 
choice  of  a  patron.  There  is,  unfor- 
tunately, no  reason  to  believe  that 
the  excellent  precepts  of  this  trea- 
tise had  any  effect  on  the  Duke  him- 
self. The  paramour  of  Isabella  was 
probably  too  far  gone  in  unknightli- 
ness  to  be  reclaimed  by  precepts.  But 
it  is  possible  to  believe  that  the  epistle 
of  Othea  was  not  without  an  influence 
on  the  character  of  one  of  the  brightest 
mirrors  of  chivalry,  Dunois,  the  bas- 
tard of  Orleans,  whom  Valentine  with 
rare  generosity  educated,  and  who  had 
already  before  her  death  given  proof 
of  his  truly  chivalrous  spirit.  Valen- 
tine's reputation  stands  out  fair  and 
spotless  from  the  dark  background  of 
that  profligate  and  intriguing  court. 
After  the  assassination  of  her  hus- 
band, and  her  fruitless  attempts  to 


have  justice  done  upon  his  murderer, 
she  lamented  that  she  must  look  for 
redress  in  the  future  to  Dunois  rather 
than  to  any  of  her  own  sons.  The 
exhortations  of  Christine  may  have 
found  a  suitable  soil  in  his  gallant 
spirit. 

But  Christine  was  indebted  also  to 
the  House  of  Burgundy,  from  which 
came  the  unfair  blow  that  laid  her 
first  patron  prostrate.  A  few  years 
after  she  began  authorship,  in  1403, 
she  sent  her  treatise  on  the  Muta- 
tion of  Fortune  as  a  new  year's  gift 
to  Philip  the  Hardy,  who  was  for  the 
time  at  the  head  of  affairs  in  Paris. 
Philip  sent  her  a  munificent  present 
in  return,  commissioned  her  to  write 
the  work  by  which  she  is  best  known, 
the  '  Life  of  Charles  the  Fifth,'  and 
placed  documents  at  her  disposal. 
He  died  three  months  afterwards,  be- 
fore Christine,  rapid  writer  as  she 
was,  had  finished  the  first  part  of 
her  work.  M.  Petitot  remarks  with 
justice  on  this  instance  of  Christine's 
extraordinary  facility  in  writing.  The 
book  was  ordered  in  the  month  of  Jan- 
uary. The  first  part  was  completed 
on  the  twenty-eighth  of  April.  It  is 
true  that  a  large  proportion  of  the 
work  consists  of  general  reflections 
and  historical  comparisons  for  which 
no  research  was  required,  and  that 
the  method  followed  allowed  the 
writer  to  put  down  her  facts  as  fast 
as  she  acquired  them.  Still,  even  this 
first  part  contains  many  details  about 
the  management  of  the  royal  house- 
hold, and  the  administration  of  justice 
and  finance  that  could  not  have  been 
obtained  without  vigorous  study  of 
documents.  The  whole  manuscript 
was  completed  on  the  first  of  Novem- 
ber, and  is  certainly  a  remarkable 
achievement  of  rapid  study  and  com- 
position. 

The  completed  work  was  pre- 
sented to  the  Due  de  Berry,  but 
John  of  Burgundy  also  patronised 
the  indefatigable  authoress,  and  the 
Register  of  the  Chamber  of  Accounts 
contains  several  entries  of  donations 
made  to  the  widow  of  Etienne  du 


A   Champion  of  her  Sex. 


275 


Castel  for  books  presented  to  him. 
Her  life  became  more  difficult  after 
1405,  when  the  struggle  between  Bur- 
gundy and  Orleans  waxed  hotter.  We 
find  her  in  the  October  of  that  year 
writing  till  pa^t  midnight  to  finish  a 
plourable  requeste  des  loyaulx  Francoys 
to  the  queen,  a  touching  appeal  to 
Isabella  of  Bavaria  to  remember  the 
danger  to  the  realm  incurred  by  these 
dissensions.  Again  and  again  in  the 
course  of  the  next  ten  years  she  ad- 
dressed similar  appeals  to  the  royal 
family  and  the  leaders  of  the  factions. 
She  was  the  mouthpiece  of  the  moder- 
ate party  in  the  state,  and  her  writ- 
ings give  a  vivid  idea  of  the  horror 
and  shame  with  which  they  looked  on 
helplessly  while  the  kingdom  was 
being  torn  in  pieces.  After  the  battle 
of  Agincourt,  which  verified  her 
gloomiest  anticipations,  Christine  dis- 


appeared into  a  convent,  and  nothing 
reached  the  public  from  her  pen  till 
she  was  able,  in  1429,  to  celebrate  the 
triumphs  of  Joan  of  Arc. 

The  life  of  this  first  champion  of 
her  sex,  so  denominated  by  herself,  and 
thoroughly  worthy  of  the  title,  would 
furnish  occasion  for  a  complete  picture 
of  the  position  of  women  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  various  mediaeval  concep- 
tions of  woman  as  she  is  and  woman 
as  she  ought  to  be  are  shown  in  Chris- 
tine's writings  in  full  argumentative 
conflict ;  and  practical  illustrations  of 
the  best  and  the  worst  are  to  be  found 
in  plenty  in  the  court  of  Charles  the 
Sixth.  Christine  herself  is  cast  after 
the  noblest  type  of  mediaeval  woman- 
hood, and  a  certain  stage  of  feudal 
society  is  mirrored  in  her  works  as  it 
is  nowhere  else. 

W.  MINTO. 


276 


FOOTPRINTS. 

SCENE,  a  sandy  beach  at  evening  :  a  little  boy  speaks,  "I  tread  in 
your  steps,  papa,  and  they  bring  me  to  you." 

A  GLORIOUS  coast,  where  mountains  meet  the  sea : 

(The  marriage  of  our  earth's  divinest  things, 

The  power  of  mountains  with  the  life-like  voice, 

The  grandeur,  and  the  pathos  of  the  sea  :) 

A  small  stone  town,  built  nowise  orderly, 

And  partly  perched  in  niches  natural 

Of  rifted  crags,  whence  every  day  at  dusk 

Each  household  light  gleams  like  a  lofty  star: 

A  level  waste  of  broad  wave-bordering  sand 

And  a  long  snowy  line  of  breaking  surf  : 

Above,  the  verdure  of  far-rolling  slopes, 

Where  skylarks  warble,  sheep-bells  tinkle  soft, 

And  heather  flames  a  purple  deep  as  dawn : 

And  higher  still,  the  giants  of  the  hills, 

That  raise  their  mighty  shoulders  through  the  clouds, 

And  sun  themselves  in  ecstasy  of  light : 

The  homes  these  are  of  the  wild  choral  winds, 

The  haunts  of  the  fair  ghosts  of  silvery  mists, 

The  birth-beds  rude  of  strong  and  stormy  streams 

That  down  the  piny  gorges  swoop  amain 

In  the  long  thunder  of  their  power  and  joy; 

Within  whose  granite  arms  sleep  glens  of  green, 

Lighted  by  one  bright  tarn  of  lonely  blue, — 

Places  of  peace  so  still  and  far  away, 

So  lifted  from  the  murmurs  of  the  world, 

So  kindred  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky, 

That  one  might  look  to  see  immortal  shapes 

Descending,  and  to  hear  the  harps  of  heaven. 

O'er  three  proud  kingly  peaks  that  northward  tower, 
And  through  their  sundering  gullies,  silent  poured 
Rich  floods  of  sunset,  and  ran  reddening  far 
Along  the  sandy  flats,  and.   Christwise,  changed 
Old  ocean's  ashen  waters  into  wine, 
As  once  we  wandered  towards  the  church  of  eld 
That  on  the  brink  of  the  bluff  headland  stood 
(God's  house  of  light  to  shine  o'er  life),  and  shook 
Its  bells  of  peace  above  the  rumbling  surge, 
And  spoke  unto  us  of  those  thoughts  and  ways 
That  higher  than  the  soaring  mountains  are, 
And   deeper  than  the  mystery  of  the  sea. 


Footprints.  277 

It  may   be  we  shall  roain  that  marge  no  more, 

Or  list  the  voice  of  that  far-booming  main, 

Or  watch  the  sunset  swathe  those  regal  hills 

With  vast  investiture  of  billowy  gold ; 

But  unforgetting  hearts  with  these  will  hoard 

(With  mountain  vision  and  the  wail  of  waves) 

Some  wistful  memories  that  soften  life, 

The  peace,  the  lifted  feeling,  the  grave  charm, 

The  tender  shadows  and  the  fading  day, 

The  little  pilgrim  on  the   sun-flushed  sands, 

The  love,  the  truth,  the  trust  in  those  young  eyes, 

The  tones  that  touched  like  tears,  the  words,   "  I  tread 

In  your  steps,  father,  and  they  lead  to  you." 


278 


SOME   RANDOM   REFLECTIONS. 


"  Every  writer  of  mark  leaves  behind  him 
shreds  and  remnants  of  stuff,  some  of  which 
are  characteristic  and  worthy  of  preservation, 
and  some  are  otherwise  ;  and  it  is,  in  my 
deliberate  opinion,  an  injustice  to  any  such 
writer  to  dilute  his  reputation  by  publishing 
every  scrap  of  writing  that  he  is  known  to 
have  produced,  merely  because  the  necessity 
of  making  a  choice  may  expose  the  editor  to 
the  risk  of  censure. " 

THIS  golden  sentence  stands  in  the 
introduction  to  the  last  published 
volume  of  that  edition  of  Charles 
Lamb's  works  which  has  in  happy 
time  been  placed  in  Mr.  Ainger's 
hands.1  It  will  not  be  a  popular 
sentence.  To  judge  from  the  opinions 
already  passed  upon  it,  and,  still  more, 
from  the  practical  expression  of  those 
opinions  which  our  printing-presses 
send  forth  in  battalions,  nothing  could 
well  be  conceived  more  adverse  to  the 
spirit  of  the  time.  Most  scrupulous 
now  are  we  to  gather  up  all  the  frag- 
ments that  remain ;  not  only  every 
scrap  of  writing  that  the  most  liberal 
conjecture  can  assign  to  a  name  is 
dragged  into  the  pillory  of  print,  but 
every  variation  of  that  scrap.  The 
art  to  blot  Pope  calls  the  last  and 
greatest  art  a  writer  can  learn;  yet 
it  is  an  art  one  is  tempted  sometimes 
to  wish  had  been  even  more  neglected 
by  our  writers  than  it  has  been,  for  we 
must  be  spared,  it  seems,  no  single  blot. 
Something,  no  doubt,  may  be  said 
for  this  broad  view  of  an  editor's 
functions ;  though  not  everything, 
perhaps,  is  said  quite  unselfishly.  In 
this  curious  age  some  editors  are  a 
little  too  apt  to  plume  themselves  on 

1  '  Mrs.  Leicester's  School,  and  other  writ- 
ings in  Prose  and  Verse,'  by  Charles  Lamb, 
with  introduction  and  notes  by  the  Rev. 
Alfred  Ainger.  London,  1885.  This  volume 
completes  the  edition  of  Lamb's  published 
works  ;  two  more  are  to  follow,  containing  a 
selection  of  his  delightful  letters,  including 
some  that  have  never  yet  been  printed. 


their  industry.  Industry  is  a  great 
virtue  ;  but  industry  without  percep- 
tion is  for  an  editor — may  one  not 
say,  for  every  man  *? — but  a  will  o'  the 
wisp.  "  Reading,"  wrote  Burke  once 
to  his  son,  "  and  much  reading  is 
good ;  but  the  power  of  diversifying 
the  matter  infinitely  in  your  own 
mind,  and  of  applying  it  to  every 
occasion  that  arises,  is  far  better." 
The  industry  which  plumes  itself 
on  unearthing  from  the  limbo  of  for- 
gotten things  every  unconsidered  or 
rejected  line  of  a  great  writer,  without 
any  care  for  its  quality,  its  rele- 
vancy, or  the  harm  it  may  do  his 
position  in  the  great  hierarchy  of 
letters, — such  industry  is  surely  but 
a  futile  thing,  or  worse  than  futile. 
It  is  an  even  worse  thing  than  that 
other  fashion  of  cumbering  the  text 
with  notes  on  every  possible  and  im- 
possible opportunity ;  a  fashion  so 
obviously  honoured  for  the  chance  it 
gives  of  glorifying  the  editor  rather 
than  the  author,  so  irresistibly  recall- 
ing Pope's  terrible  picture — 

"  The  bookful  blockhead,  ignorantly  read, 
"With  loads  of  learned  lumber  in  his  head, 
"With  his  own  tongue  still  edifies  his  ears, 
And  always  list'ning  to  himself  appears." 

A  foolish  young  gentleman,  with  the 
editorial  rash  very  strong  upon  him, 
declared  not  long  ago  his  opinion  that 
the  text  was  made  for  the  notes,  not 
the  notes  for  the  text.  Many  a  tri 
word  is  spoken  in  jest ;  this  is  pr( 
cisely  the  idea  one  does  get  from 
much  of  what  passes  for  editing  to-day. 
From  certain  lips  such  fashions 
win,  indeed,  applause  for  the  editor, 
but  what  do  they  win  for  the 
victim  of  these  unseasonable  and  un- 
reasoning vanities? 

The  contention  of  those  who  stand 
out  for  the  whole  letter  of  the  law  is 
twofold.  The  writer  thus  presented, 


Some  Random,  Reflections. 


279 


"with  all  his  imperfections  on  his 
head,"  is  no  victim,  they  say.  What 
is  best  not  only  still  stands  un- 
impaired by  what  is  of  less  worth, 
but  even  takes  fresh  interest 
from  it.  We  see  by  what  slow  and 
toilsome  steps  the  artist  climbed  to 
his  height ;  in  the  raw  untrimmed 
growth  of  the  early  years  we  see  the  bud 
destined  to  break  into  the  blossom  of 
the  prime.  And  when  the  artist  dies, 
the  power  and  privilege  of  judging 
passes;  it  passes  from  him  to  pos- 
terity. The  ages  are  his  heirs ;  it  is 
their  right  to  realise  all  the  treasure 
he  has  left  behind  him.  Mr.  Ainger 
quotes  from  one  of  Lamb's  earlier 
editors,  the  late  Mr.  J.  C.  Babson, 
of  the  United  States.  "  The  admirers 
of  Elia,"  said  Mr.  Babson,  "want  to 
possess  every  scrap  and  fragment 
of  his  inditing.  They  cannot  let 
oblivion  have  the  least  '  notelet '  or 
'  essaykin '  of  his."  And  a  writer  in 
one  of  our  daily  j  ournals1  has  been 
much  more  outspoken  in  the  same 
way.  In  a  review  of  Thackeray's 
late  -  published  contributions  to 
'Punch,'  he  takes  occasion  to  be  ex- 
ceedingly scornful  of  those  who  set 
their  faces  against  this  indiscrimi- 
nate style  of  editing.  "These  are 
they,"  he  says,  "who  storm  at  Mr. 
Froude  for  not  making  pipe-lights  of 
Carlyle's  '  Reminiscences '  and  his 
wife's  letters,  and  who  expurgate 
Charles  Lamb  in  accordance  with 
what  befits  his  dignity  and  reputa- 
tion." And  then  this  angry  man  goes 
on  to  paint  the  fury  with  which  such 
editors,  had  they  lived  in  the  days 
when  Hemminge  and  Condell  pub- 
lished their  famous  folio  of  Shake- 
speare's plays,  would  have  denounced 
that  collection  of  "  certain  ephemeral 
writings,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  their 
author,  were  certainly  not  worth  pre- 
servation." All  this  is,  of  course, 
entirely  beside  the  mark.  There  is 
really  no  analogy  between  the  publi- 
cation of  Shakespeare's  plays  after  his 
death,  or  the  license,  right  or  wrong, 

1  'The  Pall  Mall  Gazette,'  December  31, 

1885. 


Mr.  Froude  permitted  himself  in  deal- 
ing with  the  manuscripts  entrusted  to 
him  by  Carlyle,  and  the  omnivo- 
rous "  editing "  it  is  wished  to  give 
to  Lamb,  and  has  been  given  to 
Thackeray.  Mr.  Froude' s  case  stands, 
so  far  as  Carlyle  was  concerned,  quite 
outside  the  literary  aspect  of  the 
question.  If  his  friends  had  been 
content  to  treat  Shakespeare's  plays 
with  the  same  carelessness  that,  it  is 
commonly  assumed,  he  himself  treated 
them,  the  loss  would  have  been  so  vast 
that  it  is  impossible  to  parallel  it. 
The  world  would  suffer  no  loss  by  the 
removal  from  the  sum  of  Lamb's  or 
Thackeray's  work  that  which  an  intel- 
ligent editor  should  after  due  thought 
determine  to  reject  as  unworthy  of 
such  writers. 

But  when  the  reviewer  goes  on  to 
give  his  reasons  for  welcoming  the 
two  volumes  of  Thackeray's  miscel- 
laneous pieces,2  which  he  himself  had 
rejected,  then  we  get  on  more  debate- 
able  ground.  He  says : — 

"What  a  man  has  published  he  has  pub- 
lished, and  the  question  of  its  preservation  or 
annihilation  rests  not  with  himself,  but  with 
posterity.  If  posterity  has  sufficient  curiosity 
about  him  to  read  even  his  pot-boilers,  that  is 
simply  one  of  the  rewards  or  penalties  of 
greatness.  If  his  pot-boilers  are  unworthy  of 
him,  is  it  not  important,  and  even  essential 
for  the  true  understanding  of  his  character,  to 
know  that  he  wrote  unworthy  pot-boilers,  and 
to  estimate  the  extent  and  manner  of  their 
unworthiness  ?  '  But, '  it  may  be  said,  '  these 
writings  were  published  without  the  author's 
name,  A  man  is  surely  not  to  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  what  he  did  not  sign  ? '  This 
is  one  of  the  essentially  immoral  habits  of 
thought  begotten  by  our  anonymous  system  of 
journalism.  Anonymity  alters  the  intrinsic 
merit  of  a  writing  just  as  darkness  alters  the 
intrinsic  merit  of  an  act — it  may  often  make 
it  worse,  it  can  seldom  make  it  better — as  a 
rule  it  affects  it  not  a  jot.  There  may  be  a 
thousand  legitimate  reasons  of  habit  and  con- 
venience for  preserving  anonymity  ;  but  if  the 
thousand  and  first  be  that  the  writer  is  afraid 
or  ashamed  to  sign  his  work,  then  he  is  acting 
indefensibly  and  immorally  in  publishing  it  at 
all,  and  must  take  the  consequences  if  he  be 
found  out.  Every  allowance  is,  of  course,  to 
be  made  for  the  haste  with  which  journalistic 

2  '  Miscellaneous  Essays,  Sketches,  and  Re- 
views,' and  'Contributions  to  "Punch."' 
London,  1885. 


280 


Some  Random  Reflections. 


work  is  necessarily  done,  and  the  candid 
reader  of  this  volume  will  readily  make  such 
allowance  ;  but  if  there  be  anything  in  it 
distinctly  inconsistent  with  our  ideal  of 
Thackeray's  personal  and  literary  character, 
why,  then,  let  us  modify  our  ideal,  and  not 
cry  out  for  the  suppression  of  the  offending 
utterance." 

Let  us  pass  by  for  the  present  the 
question  of  anonymous  writing,  which 
has  really  nothing  to  do  with  the 
immediate  matter,  and  is  plainly 
introduced  for  some  other  and 
alien  purpose.  But  we  have  here 
a  distinct  expression  of  one  of  the 
arguments  commonly  used  for  the 
necessity  of  bringing  the  whole  volume 
of  a  great  writer's  work  into  the 
balance  of  judgment.  If  fate  has  at 
one  period  of  his  career  driven  him  to 
the  manufacture  of  those  aids  to 
existence  which  in  the  sprightly  lan- 
guage of  the  day  are  spoken  of  as 
"  pot-boilers,"  and  if  those  "  pot- 
boilers" are  unworthy  of  his  best 
work  (as  it  would  be  very  strange  if 
they  were  not),  nevertheless  it  is 
essential  to  a  true  understanding  of 
his  character  that  they  also,  even  as 
his  best  work,  should  be  judged. 

But  has  the  true  understanding  of 
a  man's  character  really  very  much  to 
do  with  his  fame  as  an  artist  1  True, 
M.  Scherer  says  it  has.  Without  a  right 
knowledge  of  a  man's  life,  his  circum- 
stances, his  moral  and  social,  no  less 
than  his  intellectual,  atmosphere,  we 
can  have,  he  says,  no  right  knowledge 
of  his  work.  "  De  ces  deux  choses, 
1'analyse  du  caractere  de  1'ecrivain  et 
1'etude  de  son  siecle,  sort  spontane- 
ment  Intelligence  de  son  oauvre  (out 
of  these  two  things,  the  analysis  of 
the  writer's  character  and  the  study 
of  his  age,  there  spontaneously  issues 
the  right  understanding  of  his  work)." 
M.  Scherer' s  name  stands  high  on  the 
slender  roll  of  living  critics,  and 
stands  justly  high.  But  these  words 
of  his  contain,  as  another  and  no  less 
famous  critic  has  said,  a  perilous 
doctrine  ;  useful,  perhaps,  to  a  certain 
quality  of  minds,  but  not  to  all ;  and 
even  in  the  mind  capable  of  receiving 
it  likely  to  stir  only  that  "  personal 


sensation"  which  is  M.  Scherer' s 
particular  offence  in  criticism.  All 
criticism,  perhaps,  tends  more  to  the 
personal  sensation  than  the  critics 
themselves  are  willing  to  suppose ; 
tends  to  it  more  especially  to-day, 
when  the  personal  is  in  so  high  favour. 
The  most  part  of  Mr.  Swinburne's 
criticism,  for  example,  is  surely 
very  much  of  a  personal  matter,  per- 
sonal, one  may  indeed  say,  in  expres- 
sion as  well  as  in  sensation.  So  much, 
too,  of  the  criticism  one  finds  flowing 
through  the  periodical  press,  how 
touched  with  personal  sensation  that 
clearly  is !  Shallow  prattling  unto 
shallow,  "  How  bright  and  fresh  and 
sparkling  you  are ;  and  I,  too ;  can 
you  not  return  the  compliment  1  " 
And  it  is  returned ; — 

"  Ode  or  epic,  song  or  sonnet, 

Mr.  Hayley,  you're  divine  ! 
Ma'am,  I'll  take  my  oath  upon  it, 
You  yourself  are  all  the  Nine  !  " 

The  desire  to  know  about  the  great 
men  who  have  contributed  to  the  sum 
of  human  happiness  and  wisdom, 
whose  work  has  become  part  of  the 
patrimony  of  mankind,  is  in  itself  a 
laudable  desire,  and  properly  gratified 
is  often  of  great  value.  Johnson, 
whose  remarks  on  the  dignity  and 
usefulness  of  biography  might  be 
disinterred  from  their  forgotten  grave 
in  the  pages  of  the  '  Rambler '  with  so 
much  profit  to  the  present  age,  whose 
ideas  on  the  subject  are  perhaps  a 
little  confused — Johnson  praises  the 
life  of  de  Thou  (or  Thuanus)  for  being 
written,  that  "  it  might  lay  open  to 
posterity  the  private  and  familiar 
character  of  that  man  whose  candour 
and  genius  will,  to  the  end  of  time,  be 
by  his  writings  preserved  in  admira- 
tion." To  know  the  private  and 
familiar  character  of  a  great  man 
will  always  interest,  when  it  is  worthy 
of  his  greatness,  and  always  should 
interest.  How  vain  and  untrue  would 
have  been  our  idea  of  the  man  had 
Mr.  Trevelyan  never  given  us  that 
delightful  picture  of  Macaulay,  as  his 
own  familiar  circle  knew  him  to  be ! 
What  would  not  the  world  have  lost 


Some  Random  Reflections. 


281 


had  Lockhart  never  told  the  story  of 
Sir  Walter's  magnificent  fight  with 
fortune !  Had  we  known  him  only 
praised,  courted,  and  triumphant,  with 
all  the  world  at  his  feet,  what  a  vision 
of  a  man  should  we  have  lost  !  Who 
would  not  give  all  the  reams  of  criti- 
cism that  ever  were  or  will  be  written 
on  his  works  for  this  one  anecdote  of 
him,  as  he  lay  in  those  last  days  in  the 
London  hotel,  painfully  wearing  to  his 
death  ?  "  Allan  Cunningham  mentions 
that,  walking  home  late  one  night,  he 
found  several  working-men  standing 
together  at  the  corner  of  Jerrnyn 
Street,  and  one  of  them  asked  him,  as 
if  there  were  but  one  death-bed  in 
London,  '  Do  you  know,  sir,  if  this  is 
the  street  where  he  is  lying  ? ' '  He 
stands  for  us  now  like  the  tall  cliff 
that  "  midway  leaves  the  storm  "  of 
mortal  things : — 

"  Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 

are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head." 

But  this  desire  to  know  the  private 
and  familiar  life  of  great  men,  whose 
genius  has  saved  them  from  the  com- 
mon lot,  is  one  thing  :  the  theory  that 
it  enables  us  to  rightly  judge  their 
genius  is  another  and  a  very  different 
thing.  It  may  help  us  in  some  way, 
and  in  some  cases,  to  account  for  it,  to 
explain  it.  But  this,  again,  is  surely 
a  very  different  thing  from  judging  it. 

In  one  of  those  delightful  chapters 
of  autobiography  which  are  as  the 
Indian  summer  of  his  literary  life  Mr. 
Ruskin  has  the  following  passage  : — l 

"The  series  of  the  Waverley  novels,  then 
drawing  towards  its  close,  was  still  the  chief 
source  of  delight  in  all  households  caring  for 
literature  ;  and  I  can  no  more  recollect  the 
time  when  I  did  not  know  them,  than  when  I 
did  not  know  the  Bible  ;  but  T  have  still 
a  vivid  remembrance  of  my  father's  intense 
expression  of  sorrow,  mixed  with  scorn,  as  he 
threw  down  '  Count  Robert  of  Paris,'  after 
reading  three  or  four  pages,  and  knew  that  the 
life  of  Scott  was  ended,  the  scorn  being  a  very 
complex  and  bitter  feeling  in  him — partly, 
indeed,  of  the  book  itself,  but  chiefly  of  the 
wretches  who  were  tormenting  and  selling  the 
wrecked  intellect — " 

""^'Praeterita,'  chapter  ii.,  "Herne-Hill  Al- 
tnond  Blossoms." 


Into  Mr.  Ruskin's  further  analysis 
of  the  paternal  scorn  we  prefer  not  to 
follow  him.  Imprudence  is,  we  think, 
a  sufficient  word  for  the  causes  which 
produced  '  Count  Robert  of  Paris ' ;  it 
is,  at  any  rate,  the  harshest  word  we 
ever  care  to  hear  applied  to  Sir 
Walter.  But  surely  no  one  here  will 
pretend  that  a  knowledge  of  the  un- 
fortunate events  which  made  '  Count 
Eobert  of  Paris '  and  *  The  Antiquary' 
growths  of  the  same  stock  was  neces- 
sary to  provide  a  judgment  of  the 
former.  Surely  that  knowledge,  in 
the  case  of  such  a  man  as  Sir  Walter, 
is  but  a  part  of  "the  knowledge 
which  increaseth  sorrow  "  :  a  know- 
ledge we  should  all  be  glad  to  put 
out  of  our  memories  of  him 

"Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd  to 
it." 

But,  even  if  it  is  allowed  that  a 
right  understanding  of  a  man's 
character  and  circumstances  is  neces- 
sary to  a  right  judgment  of  his  work, 
still,  it  seems  to  us,  we  are  very  far 
from  the  indispensableness  of  thrust- 
ing all  a  man's  work,  against  his  will, 
pell  mell  upon  the  public  eye,  his 
worst  work  equally  with  his  best. 
How  a  study  of  *  Miss  Tickletoby's 
Lectures  on  English  History '  is  essen- 
tial to  a  right  understanding  of 
Thackeray's  character  does,  indeed, 
surpass  our  comprehension,  as  com- 
pletely as  the  theory  that  a  right 
understanding  of  Thackeray's  charac- 
ter is  essential  to  a  right  judgment  of 
'  Esmond '  or  *  Yanity  Fair.' 

With  Thackeray  it  was  not  as  with 
Scott.  He,  too,  had  his  days  of  strug- 
gle, but  they  came,  happily  for  him,  in 
the  morning  of  his  life  ;  in  the  even- 
ing he  gave  us  not  '  Count  Robert  of 
Paris,'  but  '  Denis  Duval.'  The  work 
of  that  struggling  time  which  he  him- 
self elected  to  preserve  is  so  copious 
and  so  admirable,  that  it  should 
amply  suffice  for  the  adherents  of 
the  historic  method  of  criticism 
without  the  surplusage  he  threw 
away.  But,  says  our  large-hearted 
reviewer,  "there  is  nothing  whatever 


282 


Some  Random  Reflections. 


in  these  volumes  which  the  most  ardent 
lover  of  Thackeray  need  deplore,  while 
there  is  much  that  the  student  would 
be  extremely  sorry  to  lose."  Ah ! 
that  student !  What  crimes  are  com- 
mitted in  his  name !  He  is  coming 
near  to  be  as  great  a  nuisance  as 
Macaulay's  schoolboy,  or  the  "judi- 
cious," the  (j)p6vifji,o<s  of  Aristotle.  But 
it  is  the  business  of  the  student,  it  is 
part  of  his  high  prerogative,  to 
"toil  terribly."  He  knows  where 
to  lay  his  hand  on  all  the  journeyman 
work  of  the  great  artists :  he  can 
study  it,  judge  it,  and  draw  from  it  all 
the  profit  it  can  yield  for  him.  That 
profit  he  can  help  us  to  share  ;  but  he 
will  not,  if  he  is  anything  more  than  a 
student — he  will  not,  if  he  is  a  true 
student,  insist  on  parading  all  the 
means  and  appliances  of  his  know- 
ledge. We,  the  great  public,  who  are 
not  students,  who  are  so  rarely  judi- 
cious, we  but  lose  ourselves  in  these 
lumber-rooms  of  the  past.  The  dust 
of  ages  makes  all  things  look  alike 
to  us.  Confused  in  the  medley  of 
indifferent  and  bad  work,  such  small 
perception  of  the  good  as  we  may  have 
grows  dim.  It  is  but  to  a  very  rare 
order  of  mind  that  the  contemplation 
of  the  bad  heightens  the  value  and  the 
charm  of  the  good  ;  to  the  most  part 
of  mankind  it  is  imperatively  necessary 
that  they  should  see  only  the  good, 
even  though  they  recognise  it  not  when 
seen. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  these  volumes 
which  the  most  ardent  admirer  of 
Thackeray  need  deplore."  Deplore  is 
a  strong  word.  It  is  a  blessed  privi- 
lege to  be  able,  as  the  phrase  goes,  to 
swallow  a  man  whole  :  it  is  often  a 
convenient  thing  to  profess  to  do  so. 
It  is  not  in  our  purpose,  even  were  it 
in  our  power,  to  attempt  any  critical 
estimate  of  these  surplus  volumes.  But 
when  the  author  of  '  From  Cornhill 
to  Cairo/  decided  to  exclude  from  his 
bequest  to  us  the  papers  of  '  The  Fat 
Contributor ' ;  when  the  author  of  *  The 
Book  of  Snobs  '  decided  to  strike  out 
of  it  the  chapter  on  the  literary 
species  of  that  great  Genus  ;  when  the 


author  of  the  '  Lyra  Hibernica,'  and 
the  '  Ballads  of  Policeman  X  '  would 
not  include  among  the  children  of  his 
Muse  '  The  Flying  Duke,'  and  '  Mr. 
Smith  and  Mr.  Moses,'  it  certainly 
strikes  us  that  he  showed  a  discretion 
very  rarely  found  in  authors  passing 
judgment  on  their  own  work — though 
not  more,  perhaps,  than  one  would 
have  expected  from  such  an  artist  as 
Thackeray. 

Criticism  should  concern  itself,  we 
are  told,  with  the  best  that  has  been 
thought  and  said  in  the  world,  not 
with  all  that  has  been  thought  and 
said.  Is  there  not,  then,  some  reason 
in  those,  who  are  not,  indeed,  critics, 
but  who  yet,  after  their  lights,  do 
honestly  admire  good  things,  when 
they  plead  that  only  the  best  work 
of  a  great  artist  should  be  preserved 
for  posterity  to  judge  him  by  ?  But 
who  shall  decide  what  is  best  ?  Well, 
in  the  case  of  Lamb,  we  have  Mr. 
Ainger  deciding ;  and  for  our  part  we 
profess  ourselves  amply  satisfied  with 
his  decision.  Lamb,  perhaps,  would 
not  suffer  so  much  by  being  served  up 
whole  as  Thackeray,  so  we  venture  to 
think,  suffers.  With  Lamb  literature 
was  never  a  crutch.  He  had  time,  he 
had  choice ;  he  could  take  the  mood 
for  writing,  and — golden  boon!- — he 
could  wait  for  it.  Never  had  he 
need,  like  that  other,  to  know  what  it 
was 

"  to  pen  many  a  line  for  bread  ; 

To  joke,  with  sorrow  aching  in  his  head  ; 

And  make  our  laughter  when  his  own  heart 
bled." 

Poor  Elia  knew  what  sorrow  meant, 
better,  perhaps,  than  most  of  us,  and 
the  fulness  of  heart  out  of  which  he 
joked  was  not  always  the  fulness  of 
laughter.  But  he  had  never  need  to 
know  the  mortal  agony  of  writing  for 
bread. 

"  Day  after  day  the  labour's  to  be  done, 
And  sure  as  comes  the  postman  and  the  i 
The  indefatigable  ink  must  run." 

That  bitter  experience  was  never  his. 
Then  there  is  his  style  !     That  we 
derf  ul  style ;  the  only  instance, 
bably,  in  all  the  history  of  letters  of 


Some  Random  Reflections. 


283 


style  confessedly  artificial  taking  the 
true  natural  touch.  Thackeray  has  his 
style,  too  ;  a  glorious  style,  inimitable. 
And  in  '  Esmond '  his  nature  had  be- 
come subdued  to  what  it  worked  in  as 
completely  as  Lamb's  became.  But  in 
'  Esmond/  in  '  Barry  Lyndon,'  in 
'The  Virginians,'  the  style  is  still 
more  obviously  exotic  than  Lamb's, 
and  more  inevitably  so.  Anthony 
Trollope  thought  that  Thackeray, 
successful  as  he  had  been  in  those 
books  in  adopting  the  tone  he  wished 
to  assume,  never  quite  succeeded  in 
altogether  dropping  it  again.  Trollope, 
as  we  think,  was  right;  as,  indeed, 
in  that  ill-treated  little  book,1  he  so 
much  more  often  is  than  he  has 
been  given  credit  for.  But  whether 
Trollope  be  right  or  wrong,  at  any  rate 
Thackeray's  style  varied  more  than 
Lamb's.  Every  great  writer  has  his 
own  flavour — mannerism  one  need  not 
always  call  it.  Thackeray  had  his,  in- 
deed ;  yet  with  Lamb,  perhaps,  it  is  a 
yet  more  particular  quality  of  the  man 
than  with  Thackeray.  And  for  this 
sake,  and  for  the  smaller  body  of  his 
work,  and  for  the  freer  conditions  of  so 
much  of  it,  there  seems  to  us  more 
reason  in  the  cry  for  all  that  Lamb 
has  left.  We  cannot  sympathise  with 
the  cry,  but  we  can  understand  it. 

But  in  the  other  case  we  can 
neither  sympathise  nor  understand. 
The  body  of  work  Thackeray  had 
left  before  these  two  unlucky  vol- 
umes were  tacked  on  to  it,  the 
work  he  had  himself  chosen  as  his 
gift  to  posterity,  is  rich  and  various 
enough.  It  is  not  all  of  the  best,  of 
course ;  not  all  of  the  same  high 
quality  as  the  best;  but  very  little 
of  it,  perhaps  none  of  it,  there  is, 
which  does  not  bear  the  genuine  stamp 
of  the  man  ;  very  little  of  it,  if  any  of 
it,  in  which  one  cannot  find,  in  vary- 
ing clearness  of  course,  the  sign-manual 
of  the  author,  on  the  one  hand,  of 
f  Vanity  Fair  '  and  '  Esmond,'  on  the 
other,  of  'The  Book  of  Snobs'  and 
'Rebecca  and  Rowena.'  There  is 

1  English  Men  of  Letters,  'Thackeray,' 
by  Anthony  Trollope.  London,  1879. 


enough,  in  all  conscience,  to  supply 
a  judgment  on  the  writer  in  all  his 
varying  humours,  when  the  time  for  a 
definitive  judgment  has  come,  as  it 
has  hardly  yet  come.  Those  incom- 
parable treasures  of  wit  and  humour, 
that  righteous  scorn,  that  tender  pity, 
the  laughter  and  the  tears  he  has 
set  flowing  for  all  time — surely  there 
needed  nothing  further  to  let  our 
grandchildren  make  good  the  claim 
of  him  we  have  set  so  high  in  our 
Valhalla.  For  sterner  critics,  too,  his 
range  and  its  limitations,  all  the  faults 
they  must  find,  would  not  they  have 
been  clear  enough,  when  the  time  for 
the  clear  vision  came,  without  these 
experiments  of  his  unpractised  youth  ? 
"What  anecdotes,"  wrote  the  gentle 
Emerson,  "  do  we  wish  to  hear  of  any 
man  ?  Only  the  best."  We  have  got 
leagues  away  from  that  comfortable 
state  of  mind  now  :  perhaps  even  in  Em- 
erson's day  the  wish  was  father  to  the 
thought.  But,  if  it  be  a  sentiment  to 
desire  to  read  only  the  best  work  of  the 
best  writers,  to  have  the  choice  only 
of  reading  the  best,  it  is  at  least  a 
sentiment  we  think  no  one  need  be 
ashamed  to  own.  A  great  man,  what- 
ever be  his  mood  of  greatness,  be  he 
artist,  statesman,  priest,  or  warrior, 
is  the  general  heritage  of  the  land 
which  has  borne  him.  In  his  life  he 
must  go  his  own  way ;  but  when  he 
has  passed  out  of  life,  his  greatness 
then  is  the  land's  concern.  He  should 
be  guarded  jealously ;  not  idealised 
into  a  saint,  nor  glorified  into  a  demi- 
god ;  but  assuredly  not  dwarfed  or 
obscured  at  the  whim  of  every  puny 
modeller  who  would  make  man  in  his 
own  image.  Let  us  have  the  reality, 
if  we  can  get  it ;  but  let  us  be  sure  it 
is  the  reality,  and  not  the  mere  para- 
sitic growth  of  the  hour,  which  is  but 
too  quick  to  find  its  way  round  every 
noble  stem.  Let  the  warts  be  painted, 
by  all  means;  but  spare  us  every 
accidental  blotch  with  which  the  pass- 
ing humours  of  our  frailer  part  must 
sometimes  cloud  the  fairest  skin.  And 
with  the  great  writer,  he  who,  after  all, 
bequeaths  the  richest  heritage  to  the 


284 


Some  Bandom  Reflections. 


future,  who  makes  us  all  "heirs  of 
truth  and  pure  delight,"  with  him  this 
watchfulness  is  surely  most  needful. 
"  We  admire,"  to  borrow  again  from 
Emerson,  "we  admire  eminent  men 
not  for  themselves,  but  as  represen- 
tatives." The  great  writer,  when 

"  He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night," 

is  a  man  to  us  no  more  ;  he  is  the 
representative  of  the  truth,  the  wis- 
dom, the  wit,  of  the  intellectual 
greatness  of  his  people  and  his  time. 
It  is  our  business,  it  should  be  our 
pride,  to  keep  that  greatness  as  clear 
and  unsullied  as  possible;  not  to 
"  cumber  it  with  much  serving ; "  not  to 
obscure  it,  to  blur  its  fair  proportions 
with  all  the  errors  and  perversities  of 
its  inevitable  hours  of  weakness.  It 
is  the  best  work  of  these  men  which 
really  teaches  us. 

"  Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought." 

What  do  we  learn  from  their 
worst,  save  that  they  too  have  had 
moments  of  like  frailty  with  our- 
selves1? Perhaps  this  is  the  lesson 
some  of  us  are  so  pleased  to  learn, 
and  no  doubt  to  a  sort  of  minds  the 
frailties  of  great  men  are  very  com- 
forting :  but  to  insist  on  it  as  of  real 
artistic  value,  as  indispensable  to  a 
correct  judgment,  is  a  foolish  thing. 
However  virtuous,  however  single- 
minded  their  intentions,  it  is  but  a 
cruel  thing  these  Autolyci  do,  these 
snappers  up  of  unconsidered  trifles. 
In  a  new  edition,1  which  will  do 
much  to  redeem  the  too  many  edi- 
tions, old  and  new,  which  crowd  the 
booksellers'  counters  to-day,  we  are 
warned  of  that  "unfortunate  tender- 
ness for  the  bad  work  of  famous  men, 
which  makes  of  so  much  reading  time 
worse  than  wasted."  We  are  reminded 
of  that  golden  saying  of  Candide, 
"The  unwise  value  every  word  in  an 
author  of  repute." 

In  this  case  of  Thackeray  there  is, 

1  An  edition  of  the  works  of  Mr.  John 
Morley,  now  in  course  of  publication :  vol.  i. 
'Voltaire.' 


indeed,  some  reason  in  the  plea  made 
by  the  publishers  of  these  volumes. 
It  seems  that  these  are  the  last  days 
of  the  copyright  in  his  works,  and 
that,  had  they  not  bestirred  themselves 
while  it  yet  was  time,  there  was  a 
chance  of  the  prize  passing  to  other 
hands.  There  is  a  sort  of  ghouls  about 
which  support  an  unholy  existence  by 
industriously  mumbling  the  bones  of 
the  dead.  Some  such  a  breed  there 
probably  has  always  been ;  but  it 
appears  to  be  particularly  nourishing 
just  now  when  the  demand  for  this 
class  of  "  literature  "  is  so  brisk.  One 
can  understand  how  loath  men,  whose 
names  have  been  so  long  and  honour- 
ably associated  with  Thackeray's, 
would  naturally  be  to  let  even  the 
remnants  of  this  bounteous  harvest 
be  gathered  by  less  worthy  hands. 
But  there  is  this  also  to  be  said. 
With  such  sponsors  to  promise  and 
vow  for  them,  these  poor  things  are, 
as  it  were,  baptized  into  a  new 
life.  They  have  the  seal  of  authority 
set  upon  them,  a  sort  of  extrinsic  legi- 
timacy. Had  it  been  otherwise,  prob- 
ably not  even  Thackeray's  name  had 
saved  them  from  oblivion.  Nay,  the 
very  conjunction  might  have  availed 
to  find  it  for  them.  One  would  have 
liked  not  the  security.  The  poor  dis- 
carded bantlings  would  have  shared  the 
fate  of  their  sponsors — 

"  To    glide    down   Grub  Street,  fasting  and 

forgot  ; 

Laughed  into  Lethe  by  some    quaint  Ke- 
view — " 

though,  to  be  sure,  our  quaint  reviews 
have  rather  lost  the  trick  of  laughing. 
The  sermon  preached  by  the  '  Pall 
Mall '  reviewer  against  the  sentimen- 
talists can  be  divided  into  two  parts, 
one  dealing  with  literature,  the  other 
with  morals.  Morals  and  literature 
should  of  course  go  hand  in  hand ;  so 
at  least  we  are  often  warned ;  but 
somehow  they  have  a  most  distracting 
knack  of  keeping  apart.  When  assur- 
ing us  that  there  was  nothing  in  these 
volumes  the  admirer  of  Thackeray 
need  deplore,  the  reviewer  was  in 
the  world  of  literature ;  when  he 


Some  Random  Reflections. 


285 


touched  on  the  question  of  anonymous 
writing,  and  of  any  sense  of  fear  or 
shame  binding  a  writer  to  secrecy, 
then  he  moved  into  the  moral  world. 
Let  us  try  and  follow  him  there  for  a 
little  way.  The  question  does  not,  to 
be  sure,  primarily  affect  Thackeray, 
but  it  opens  a  door  to  one  or  two  larger 
issues  on  which  we  should  like  to  say 
a  word. 

"  There  may   be  a  thousand  legiti- 
mate reasons  of  habit  and  convenience 
for  preserving  anonymity ;  but  if  the 
thousand  and  first  be  that  the  writer 
is  afraid  or  ashamed  to  sign  his  work, 
then   he   is   acting    indefensibly    and 
immorally  in  publishing  it  at  all,  and 
must  take  the  consequences  if  he  be 
found  out."     This  is  a  reflection,  in- 
deed,  both  pious  and  to  the  purpose. 
But  its  purpose  will  obviously  depend 
much  on  the  sense  attributed  to  the 
ideas  of  fear  and  shame.     Every  one 
will  cordially  agree  that  a  man  who 
secretly  publishes  what  he  is  meanly 
afraid    or    ashamed  to  own,  deserves 
the  worst  that  may  befall  him.     But 
there  is  a  moral  sense  of  shame,  and 
an  immoral  one ;  a  noble  one,  and  an 
ignoble   one.      No   one   would    think 
worse   of   a   great    writer,   who    had 
gained  the  capacity  of  judging  himself, 
and  the  opportunity  of  doing  so,  look- 
ing back  with  a  certain  sense  of  shame 
on  work  he  felt  was  not  his  best,  was 
not  even  the  best  he  might  have  done 
at  the  time.      The  feeling  which   in- 
duces a  man  to  publish,  when  the  need 
for  it  has  passed,  all  the  hasty  and  im- 
mature work    of  his    early  years,  or 
even  of  the  journeyman  moments  of  his 
manhood,  seems  to  us  something  very 
different  from  honesty  or  candour.     It 
is  a  feeling  which  is  a  great  deal  too 
prevalent  to-day,  and  may  well  bear 
quite  another,  and  much  less  convenient, 
name. 

With  the  most  part  of  Thackeray's 
early  work  there  was  no  choice  of 
signing  his  name.  In  those  days 
neither  editors  nor  the  public  had  that 
unreasoning  craze  for  names  which 
apparently  possesses  them  to-day. 
"  Words,  words,  words,"  said  Hamlet, 


when  asked  what  he  was  reading ; 
"  names,  names,  names,"  he  might 
answer  to-day.  For  really  to-day,  at 
any  rate  with  our  periodical  literature, 
whether  it  is  to  be  called  journalism  or 
not,  there  seems  not  only  to  be  much 
virtue  in  a  name,  but  every  virtue.  By 
journalism  one  generally  understands 
the  current  literature  of  the  daily 
papers ;  and  the  idea  of  lifting  the  veil 
of  secrecy — already  thin  enough  in  all 
conscience — which  shrouds  the  workers 
in  this  busy  and  important  field,  is  to 
us,  we  frankly  own,  an  appalling  one. 
Such  a  custom,  would  not  only,  it  seems 
to  us,  cruelly  hamper  the  workmen's 
hands,  but  would  also  open  a  terribly 
wide  door  to  those  sweet  influences,  so 
dangerous  to  meet,  so  hard  to  resist, 
which  are  ever  on  the  watch  to  guide 
the  bolts  of  Jove.  Some  rude  men  of 
the  baser  sort  there  have  been  to  assert 
that  this  door  is  even  now  not  kept  so 
jealously  shut  as  it  should  be  j  but 
this  is,  of  course,  a  libel.  Paris,  how- 
ever, can  furnish  some  idea  of  the 
result  of  throwing  open  the  shrines  of 
journalism  to  the  profane  crowd. 
There  the  papers,  some  of  them  at 
least,  bristle  with  names ;  there  cer- 
tainly publicity  does  not  always  impose 
that  check  on  rash  and  inconvenient 
writing  which  its  votaries  claim  for 
its  prime  virtue :  while  there,  unless 
truth  in  her  passage  over  the  Channel 
suffers  a  sea-change  indeed,  those  sweet 
influences  we  spoke  of  are  most  undis- 
guisedly  rampant. 

This  question  of  anonymous  writing 
has  been  always  debated  and  will 
probably  be  never  settled.  So  much 
can  be  said  on  either  side.  No  doubt 
it  helps  to  blunt  the  sense  of  responsi- 
bility, perhaps  sometimes  to  destroy  it. 
It  allows  the  "  irresponsible  reviewer  " 
to  dismiss  the  labour  of  years  with  a 
laugh  or  a  sneer  ;  to  destroy  a  policy, 
sap  a  creed,  or  send  some  golden  poet 
howling  to  the  shades  below  with  a 
wave  of  "nature's  mightiest  weapon." 
No  doubt,  too,  it  enables  many  a  one 
to  give  a  shrewd  nip  on  the  sly  to  his 
friend,  and  an  encouraging  pat  on  the 
back  to  himself.  But  such  an  one, 


286 


Some  Random  Reflections. 


even  if  the  veil  of  secrecy  were  wholly 
rent,  would  probably  never  fail  in  the 
means  of  gratifying  these  pleasures. 
He  would  have  to  gratify  them  more 
warily,  but  he  would  not  altogether 
lose  them.  Undoubtedly,  too,  an 
enforced  anonymity  deprives  many  an 
aspiring  author  of  the  sweet  perfume 
of  the  public  breath ;  it  compels  the 
kindly  Chorus  sometimes  to  pass  by 
the  right  man,  or,  which  is  perhaps 
still  worse,  to  praise  the  wrong  one. 
But,  after  all,  these  losses  are  not 
national.  And,  if  the  truth  were 
always  known,  we  might  be  so  much 
less  impressed  than  we  are.  It  is  not 
pleasant  to  have  our  illusions  shattered. 
Who  can  have  read  without  a  shock 
that  the  village  maiden  who  wedded 
the  lord  of  Burleigh  bore  the  name  of 
Sarah  Hoggins?1  How  sadly  disen- 
chanted must  have  been  those  roman- 
tic souls  who  wept  over  'Passion 
Flowers,'  or  shuddered  at  *  The  Bas- 
tard of  Lara,'  when  at  last  they  beheld 
the  features  of  Miss  Bunion  or  Posei- 
don Hicks.  Besides,  for  these  repressed 
geniuses  there  is  also  balm.  Those 
inspired  little  paragraphs  which  meet 
one  at  every  turn  of  the  daily  papers, 
to  tell  how  some  masterpiece  of  which 
all  the  world  is  silent  is  in  good  truth 
the  work  of  Miss  Brown  or  Master 
Jones — are  they  not  more  efficacious 
than  a  wilderness  of  barren  names  ? 

But  there  is  another  and  more 
serious  side  to  the  question.  There  is 
the  critical  side.  It  were  perhaps  no 
bad  thing  if  all  criticism  of  current 
work  were  done  away  with;  it  is 
certain  literature  would  suffer  small 
loss  if  very  much  of  it  were  done  away 
with.  In  some  minds  there  may  indeed 
be  a  doubt  whether,  despite  the  high 
assurance  that  an  age  of  great  critical 
effort  is  an  indispensable  forerunner 
to  an  age  of  great  creative  activity, 
we  are  not  just  now  weighted  with  a 
little  too  much  criticism ;  whether  it 
might  not  be  a  good  thing  for  some  of 
us  to  begin  reading  what  these  great 

1  See  a  note  to  Mr.  Palgrave's  '  Selection 
from  the  Lyrical  Poems  of  Lord  Tennyson.' 
London,  1885. 


fathers  of  ours  wrote,  and  not  confine 
ourselves  solely  to  what  their  greater 
sons  think  about  them.  This,  may  be, 
is  a  delusion  ;  it  is  a  dream  at  any 
rate,  which,  in  the  present  state  of 
intellectual  affairs  is  little  likely  to 
come  true.  But  will  any  one  hon- 
estly say  that  a  perfectly  straight- 
forward, fearless,  impartial  criticism 
of  contemporary  work  is  compati- 
ble with  the  avowed  identity  of  the 
critic  ?  It  is  impossible  for  fellow- 
workers  in  any  field  to  keep  wholly 
aloof  from  each  other  •  it  is  not  per- 
haps well  that  they  should  do  so. 
No  one,  let  us  believe  would,  if  he 
could  avoid  it,  save  in  very  exceptional 
circumstances,  sit  in  judgment  on  the 
work  of  a  friend.  But,  how  hard  it  is 
to  avoid  it,  so  many  there  must  be  to 
tell  !  And  then,  how  bound  and 
limited  must  the  critic  be  if  he  is 
forced  to  take  the  judgment  seat 
before  all  the  world.  Even  if  he  can 
honestly  award  a  greater  measure  of 
praise  than  blame,  still  how  hampered 
he  must  be.  "Artists  are  envious, 
and  the  mob  profane."  Even  if  he  is 
praising,  must  he  not  be  for  ever 
haunted  by  the  fear  of  the  reasons 
the  profane  mob  will  go  about  to 
find  for  his  praise  —  and,  indeed,  not 
impossibly  for  his  blame?  As  the 
steadfast:  Ulysses  said  to  his  too 
flattering  friend  — 

Tu5ei5rj,  IJL^T   &p  ju.e  /j.a\'  ofoee  /I^TC  ri  refect* 
elSoffi  yap  TOI  ravra  juer'  'Apyeiots  a 


And  if  he  must  blame  !  "  But  it  wi 
even  thou,  my  companion,  my  guide, 
and  mine  own  familiar  friend."  It 
not  in  human  nature,  one  likes 
least  to  think,  that  he  shall  nol 
refrain  on  this  side  or  that.  Certainly 
it  is  not  in  human  nature,  however 
delicately  he  do  his  spiriting,  that  he 
shall  give  no  offence.  And  if  there  be 
no  such  sweet  bond  of  intercourse,  still 
the  limitations  will  exist,  though,  no 
doubt,  in  some  less  degree.  There 

3  "  Sou  of  Tydeus,  praise  me  not  overmuch, 
neither  blame  me  aught,  for  thou  speakest 
thus  among  the  Argives  that  themselves 
know  all." 


Some  Eandom  Reflections. 


287 


will  still  be  the  fear  of  misconstruc- 
tion, still  the  aversion  to  wielding  the 
ferule  in  full  light  of  day ;  even  Mr. 
Calcraft's  successors  one  imagines  to 
prefer  doing  their  necessary  but  un- 
pleasing  work  in  partial  privacy. 

But  here,  one  imagines  our  friend 
the  reviewer  saying,  Here  is  pre- 
eminently a  case  of  the  man  wishing 
to  do  in  secret  what  he  is  afraid 
to  do  openly.  It  is  not  so.  This 
is  no  question  of  fear.  The  right 
critic  has  no  wish  to  praise  or 
blame;  he  knows  well  that  a  critic's 
business  is  criticism.  It  is  not  his 
business,  to  borrow  a  phrase  of  Mr. 
Bagehot's,  to  be  thankful;  he  must 
estimate,  not  eulogize.  All  he  wishes 
is  to  speak  the  truth;  and  he  feels 
that,  so  long  as  human  nature  remains 
what  it  is,  and  always  has  been,  the 
inherent  difficulties  of  that  thankless 
task  are  multiplied  beyond  mortal 
bearing,  while  he  must  give  all  the 
world  assurance  like  Coriolanus, 
"  Alone,  I  did  it !  "  No  man  would 
willingly  confess  to  giving  offence; 
no  honest  critic  but  must  sometimes 
give  it. 

And  surely  a  little  more  candour, 
a  little  more  fearlessness,  were  no  bad 
thing  in  our  current  criticism.  Lenis, 
minimeque  pertinax,  gentle,  and  not 
too  violently  insisting,  is  an  excel- 
lent motto  for  a  moralist ;  but  for  a 
critic  there  are  times  when  it  may  be 
pushed  too  far.  Heaven  forbid  a 
return  to  the  days  of  those  Cocks  of 
the  North  who  to  the  lead  of  u  crusty 
Christopher "  crowed  so  defiantly  in 
old  Maga's  coop ;  or  of  "  bright 
broken  Maginn,"  whose  gladiatorial 
freaks l  have  been  lately  resuscitated 
with  little  profit  surely  to  the  poor 
ghost  or  to  any  one  else;  nor  even 
would  one  greatly  desire  that  out- 
spokenness which  even  so  delicate 
a  spirit  as  Hawthorne  permitted 
himself  in  calling  a  brother-author 
"the  very  pimple  of  the  age's 
humbug."  There  was  a  moment, 

'Miscellanies,  Prose  and  Verse,'  by  Wil- 
liam Maginn.     London,  1885. 


even  in  our  own  day,  when  "  toads," 
"pole-cats,"  "asps,"  and  other  such 
pretty  flowers  of  speech  blossomed 
very  freely  in  one  little  critical 
plot ;  that  moment  has  passed,  to 
return,  we  must  all  hope,  no  more, 
But  a  little  of  the  spirit  which  nerved 
the  young  Macaulay's  swashing  blow 
at  Robert  Montgomery  we  might 
sometimes,  perhaps,  suffer  with  com- 
placency. ts  I  should  think  it  a 
cruelty,"  wrote  Johnson,  when  plead- 
ing in  his  '  Rambler '  for  something  of 
the  same  spirit,  "  to  crush  an  insect 
who  had  provoked  me  only  by  buzzing 
in  my  ear;  and  would  not  willingly 
interrupt  the  dream  of  harmless  stu- 
pidity, or  destroy  the  jest  which  makes 
its  author  laugh."  So  much  no  one 
will  gainsay :  one  may  freely  own  it 
were  a  good  thing  that  the  necessity 
for  the  displays  of  this  spirit  should 
not  be.  But  offences  must  come; 
they  must  come,  and  they  must  be 
met.  *  Satans '  and  '  Messiahs '  are 
not  written  now;  but  the  ways  by 
which  the  author  of  those  works 
climbed  to  the  little  throne  from 
which  he  was  so  strongly  thrust 
down  are  certainly  not  unknown. 

It  will  be  easy,  of  course,  to  raise  a 
cry  of  brutality,  vindictiveness,  and 
so  forth,  and  to  name  the  name  of  Mr. 
Bludyer.  But  such  things  are  very 
far  from  our  contention.  For  such 
criticism  as  we  mean  temper  and 
justice  are  as  inevitable  as  fearlessness 
and  honesty :  and  for  the  vindictive- 
ness  —  alas !  that  is  precisely  the 
quality  one  regrets  to  detect  so  often 
in  our  current  criticism,  when  it  passes 
out  of  the  sphere  of  mere  personal 
eulogy  or  news.  The  criticism  which 
is  full  of  hinted  faults  and  hesitated 
dislikes,  which  shows  all  the  willingness 
to  wound  checked  only  by  the  fear  of 
striking,  betrays  the  two  worst  faults 
of  its  kind. 

Let  criticism  by  all  means  keep  clear 
of  such  offences:  though  they  do 
indeed  but  little  harm  to  what  they 
assail,  and  especially  that  sort  of  criti- 
cism which  is  clearly  inspired  by  the 


288 


Some  Random  Reflections. 


"  personal  sensation,"  even  should  it 
happen  to  blunder  into  truth.  But 
to  those  who,  in  answer  to  any 
such  plea  as  we  have  made,  would 
raise  the  cry  we  have  anticipated, 
employing  that  popular  style  of  argu- 
ment which  is  based  solely  on  mis- 
representation, and  needs  only  such 
skill  in  misconstruction  as  a  '  Dic- 
tionary of  Synonyms  and  Autonyms ' 
can  easily  supply,  our  friend  the 
'Rambler'  found  an  answer  long  ago: 


"  I  am  not  of  opinion  that  these  pro- 
fessed enemies  of  arrogance  and 
severity  have  much  more  benevolence 
or  modesty  than  the  rest  of  mankind ; 
or  that  they  feel  in  their  own  hearts 
any  other  intention  than  to  distin- 
guish themselves  by  their  softness  and 
delicacy.  Some  are  modest  because 
they  are  timorous,  and  some  are  lavish 
of  praise  because  they  hope  to  be  re- 
paid." 


289 


LONG    ODDS. 


THE  story  which  is  narrated  in  the 
following  pages  came  to  me  from  the 
lips  of  my  old  friend  Allan  Quater- 
main,  or  Hunter  Quatermain,  as  we 
used  to  call  him  in  South  Africa. 
He  told  it  to  me  one  evening  when 
I  was  stopping  with  him  at  the 
place  he  bought  in  Yorkshire.  Shortly 
after  that,  the  death  of  his  only 
son  so  unsettled  him,  that  he  im- 
mediately left  England,  accompanied 
by  two  companions,  who  were  old 
fellow-voyagers  of  his,  Sir  Henry 
Curtis  and  Captain  Good,  and  has  now 
utterly  vanished  into  the  dark  heart 
of  Africa.  He  is  persuaded  that  a 
white  people,  of  which  he  has  heard 
rumours  all  his  life,  exists  somewhere 
on  the  highlands  in  the  vast,  still  unex- 
plored interior,  and  his  great  ambition 
is  to  find  them  before  he  dies.  This  is 
the  wild  quest  upon  which  he  and  his 
companions  have  departed,  and  from 
which  I  shrewdly  suspect  they  never 
will  return.  One  letter  only  have  I 
received  from  the  old  gentleman,  dated 
from  a  mission-station  high  up  the 
Tana,  a  river  on  the  east  coast,  about 
three  hundred  miles  north  of  Zanzi- 
bar; in  it  he  says  they  have  gone 
through  many  hardships  and  adven- 
tures, but  are  alive  and  well,  and  have 
found  traces  which  go  far  towards 
making  him  hope  that  the  results  of 
their  wild  quest  may  be  a  "magni- 
ficent and  unexampled  discovery."  I 
greatly  fear,  however,  that  all  he  has 
discovered  is  death ;  for  this  letter 
came  a  long  while  ago,  and  nobody  has 
heard  a  single  word  of  the  party  since. 
They  have  totally  vanished. 

It  was  on  the  last  evening  of  my 
stay  at  his  house  that  he  told  the 
ensuing  story  to  me  and  Captain  Good, 
who  was  dining  with  him.  He  had 
eaten  his  dinner  and  drunk  two  or 
three  glasses  of  old  port,  just  to  help 

No.  316 — VOL.  LIII. 


Good  and  myself  to  the  end  of  the 
second  bottle.  It  was  an  unusual 
thing  for  him  to  do,  for  he  was  a  most 
abstemious  man,  having  conceived,  as 
he  used  to  say,  a  great  horror  of 
drink  from  observing  its  effects  upon 
the  class  of  men — hunters,  transport 
riders,  and  others — amongst  whom  he 
had  passed  so  many  years  of  his  life. 
Consequently  the  good  wine  took  more 
effect  on  him  than  it  would  have  done 
on  most  men,  sending  a  little  flush 
into  his  wrinkled  cheeks,  and  making 
him  talk  more  freely  than  usual. 

Dear  old  man !  I  can  see  him  now, 
as  he  went  limping  up  and  down  the 
vestibule,  with  his  grey  hair  sticking 
up  in  scrubbing-brush  fashion,  his 
shrivelled  yellow  face,  and  his  large 
dark  eyes,  that  were  as  keen  as  any 
hawk's,  and  yet  soft  as  a  buck's.  The 
whole  room  was  hung  with  trophies 
of  his  numerous  hunting  expeditions, 
and  he  had  some  story  about  every 
one  of  them,  if  only  you  could  get  him 
to  tell  them.  Generally  he  would  not, 
for  he  was  not  very  fond  of  narrating 
his  own  adventures,  but  to-night  the 
port  wine  made  him  more  communi- 
cative. 

"  Ah,  you  brute  1 "  he  said,  stopping 
beneath  an  unusually  large  skull  of  a 
lion,  which  was  fixed  just  over  the 
mantelpiece,  beneath  a  long  row  of 
guns,  its  jaws  distended  to  their  ut- 
most width.  "Ah,  you  brute!  you 
have  given  me  a  lot  of  trouble  for 
the  last  dozen  years,  and  will,  I  sup- 
pose, to  my  dying  day." 

"  Tell  us  the  yarn,  Quatermain," 
said  Good.  "  You  have  often  promised 
to  tell  me,  and  you  never  have." 

"  You  had  better  not  ask  me  to,"  he 
answered,  "  for  it  is  a  longish  one." 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  "  the  evening 
is  young,  and  there  is  some  more 
port." 

u 


290 


Long  Odds. 


Thus  adjured,  he  filled  his  pipe  from 
a  jar  of  coarse-cut  Boer  tobacco  that 
was  always  standing  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  still  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  began — 

"  It  was,  I  think,  in  the  March  of 
'69  that  I  was  up  in  Sikukuni's 
country.  It  was  just  after  old 
Sequati's  time,  and  Sikukuni  had  got 
into  power — I  forget  how.  Anyway,  I 
was  there.  I  had  heard  that  the  Bapedi 
people  had  got  down  an  enormous  quan- 
tity of  ivory  from  the  interior,  and  so 
I  started  with  a  waggon-load  of  goods, 
and  came  straight  away  from  Middel- 
burg  to  try  and  trade  some  of  it.  It 
was  a  risky  thing  to  go  into  the 
country  so  early,  on  account  of  the 
fever ;  but  I  knew  that  there  was  one 
or  two  others  after  that  lot  of  ivory, 
so  I  determined  to  have  a  try  for  it, 
and  take  my  chance  of  fever.  I  had 
got  so  tough  from  continual  knocking 
about  that  I  did  not  set  it  down  at 
much.  Well,  I  got  on  all  right  for 
a  while.  It  is  a  wonderfully  beautiful 
piece  of  bush  veldt,  with  great  ranges 
of  mountains  running  through  it,  and 
round  granite  koppies  starting  up  here 
and  there,  looking  out  like  sentinels 
over  the  rolling  waste  of  bush.  But 
it  is  very  hot — hot  as  a  stew-pan — and 
when  I  was  there  that  March,  which, 
of  course,  is  autumn  in  that  part  of 
Africa,  the  whole  place  reeked  of 
fever.  Every  morning,  as  I  trekked 
along  down  by  the  Oliphant  River,  I 
used  to  creep  out  of  the  waggon  at 
dawn  and  look  out.  But  there  was 
no  river  to  be  seen — only  a  long  line 
of  billows  of  what  looked  like  the 
finest  cotton  wool  tossed  up  lightly 
with  a  pitchfork.  It  was  the  fever 
mist.  Out  from  among  the  scrub  too 
came  little  spirals  of  vapour,  as  though 
there  were  hundreds  of  tiny  fires  alight 
in  it — reek  rising  from  thousands  of  tons 
of  rotting  vegetation.  It  was  a  beautiful 
place,  but  the  beauty  was  the  beauty 
of  death ;  and  all  those  lines  and  blots 
of  vapour  wrote  one  great  word  across 
the  surface  of  the  country,  and  that 
word  was  *  fever.' 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  year  of  illness 


that.  I  came,  I  remember,  to  one 
little  kraal  of  Knobnoses,  and  went 
up  to  it  to  see  if  I  could  get  some 
maas  (curdled  butter-milk)  and  a  few 
mealies.  As  I  got  near  I  was  struck 
with  the  silence  of  the  place.  No 
children  began  to  chatter,  and  no  dogs 
barked.  Nor  could  I  see  any  native 
sheep  or  cattle.  The  place,  though  it 
had  evidently  been  recently  inhabited, 
was  as  still  as  the  bush  round  it,  and 
some  guinea  fowl  got  up  out  of  the 
prickly  pear  bushes  right  at  the  kraal 
gate.  I  remember  that  I  hesitated  a 
little  before  going  in,  there  was  such 
an  air  of  desolation  about  the  spot. 
Nature  never  looks  desolate  when  man 
has  not  yet  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
breast ;  she  is  only  lonely.  But  when 
man  has  been,  and  has  passed  away, 
then  she  looks  desolate. 

"  Well,  I  passed  into  the  kraal,  and 
went  up  to  the  principal  hut.  In  front 
of  the  hut  was  something  with  an  old 
sheep-skin  kaross  (rug)  thrown  over  it. 
I  stooped  down  and  drew  off  the  rug, 
and  then  shrank  back  amazed,  for 
under  it  was  the  body  of  a  young 
woman  recently  dead.  For  a  moment 
I  thought  of  turning  back,  but  my 
curiosity  overcame  me ;  so  going  past 
the  woman,  I  went  down  on  my  hands 
and  knees  and  crept  into  the  hut.  It 
was  so  dark  that  I  could  not  see  any- 
thing, though  I  could  smell  a  great 
deal — so  I  lit  a  match.  It  was  a  'tand- 
stickor '  match,  and  burnt  slowly  and 
dimly,  and  as  the  light  gradually  in- 
creased I  made  out  what  I  thought 
was  a  lot  of  people,  men,  women,  and 
children,  fast  asleep.  Presently  it 
burnt  up  brightly,  and  I  saw  that 
they  too,  five  of  them  altogether,  were 
quite  dead.  One  was  a  baby.  I 
dropped  the  match  in  a  hurry,  and 
was  making  my  way  out  of  the  hut 
as  hard  as  I  could  go,  when  I  caught 
sight  of  two  bright  eyes  staring  out  of 
a  corner.  Thinking  it  was  a  wild  cat, 
or  some  such  animal,  I  redoubled  my 
haste,  when  suddenly  a  voice  near  the 
eyes  began  first  to  mutter,  and  then 
to  send  up  a  succession  of  awful  yells. 
Hastily  I  lit  another  match,  and 


Long  Odds. 


291 


perceived  that  the  eyes  belonged  to  an 
old  woman,  wrapped  up  in  a  greasy 
leather  garment.  Taking  her  by  the 
arm,  I  dragged  her  out,  for  she  could 
not,  or  would  not,  come  by  herself, 
and  the  stench  was  overpowering  me. 
Such  a  sight  as  she  was — a  bag  of 
bones,  covered  over  with  black  shrivel- 
led parchment.  The  only  white  thing 
about  her  was  her  wool,  and  she  seemed 
to  be  pretty  well  dead  except  for  her 
eyes  and  her  voice.  She  thought  that 
I  was  a  devil  come  to  take  her,  and 
that  is  why  she  yelled  so.  "Well,  I 
got  her  down  to  the  waggon,  and  gave 
her  a  '  tot '  of  Cape  smoke,  and  then, 
as  soon  as  it  was  ready,  poured  about 
a  pint  of  beef-tea  down  her  throat, 
made  from  the  flesh  of  a  blue  vilder- 
beeste  I  had  killed  the  day  before,  and 
after  that  she  brightened  up  wonder- 
fully. She  could  talk  Zulu — indeed, 
it  turned  out  that  she  had  run  away 
from  Zululand  in  T'Chaka's  time — 
and  she  told  me  that  all  the  people 
that  I  had  seen  had  died  of  fever. 
When  they  had  died,  the  other  inha- 
bitants of  the  kraal  had  taken  the 
cattle  and  gone  away,  leaving  the 
poor  old  woman,  who  was  helpless 
from  age  and  infirmity,  to  perish  of 
starvation  or  disease,  as  the  case 
might  be.  She  had  been  sitting  there 
for  three  days  among  the  bodies  when 
I  found  her.  I  took  her  on  to  the 
next  kraal,  and  gave  the  headman  a 
blanket  to  look  after  her,  promising 
him  another  if  I  found  her  well  when 
I  came  back.  I  remember  that  he 
was  much  astonished  at  my  parting 
with  two  blankets  for  the  sake  of  such 
a  worthless  old  creature.  '  Why  did 
I  not  leave  her  in  the  bush  1 '  he 
asked.  Those  people  carry  the  doc- 
trine of  the  survival  of  the  fittest  to 
its  extreme,  you  see. 

"  It  was  the  night  after  I  had  got 
rid  of  the  old  woman  that  I  made 
my  first  acquaintance  with  my  friend 
yonder,"  and  he  nodded  towards  the 
skull  that  seemed  to  be  grinning  down 
at  us  in  the  shadow  of  the  wide 
mantelshelf.  "  I  had  trekked  from 
dawn  till  eleven  o'clock — a  long  trek 


— but  I  wanted  to  get  on ;  and  then 
had  the  oxen  turned  out  to  graze, 
sending  the  voorlooper  to  look  after 
them,  meaning  to  inspan  again  about 
six  o'clock,  and  trek  with  the  moon 
till  ten.  Then  I  got  into  the  waggon 
and  had  a  good  sleep  till  half-past  two 
or  so  in  the  afternoon,  when  I  got  up 
and  cooked  some  meat,  and  had  my 
dinner,  washing  it  down  with  a  pan- 
nikin of  black  coffee  —  for  it  was 
difficult  to  get  preserved  milk  in 
those  days.  Just  as  I  had  finished, 
and  the  driver,  a  man  called  Tom, 
was  washing  up  the  things,  in  comes 
the  young  scoundrel  of  a  voorlooper 
driving  one  ox  before  him. 

"  *  Where  are  the  other  oxen  1 '  I 
asked. 

"'Koos!'  he  said,  'Koos!  (chief) 
the  other  oxen  have  gone  away.  I 
turned  my  back  for  a  minute,  and 
when  I  looked  round  again  they  were 
all  gone  except  Kaptein,  here,  who 
was  rubbing  his  back  against  a  tree.' 

" '  You  mean  that  you  have  been 
asleep,  and  let  them  stray,  you  villain. 
I  will  rub  your  back  against  a  stick,' 
I  answered,  feeling  very  angry,  for  it 
was  not  a  pleasant  prospect  to  be 
stuck  up  in  that  fever  trap  for  a  week 
or  so  while  we  were  hunting  for  the 
oxen.  «  Off  you  go,  and  you  too,  Tom, 
and  mind  you  don't  come  back  till  you 
have  found  them.  They  have  trekked 
back  along  the  Middelburg  Road,  and 
are  a  dozen  miles  off  by  now,  I'll  be 
bound.  Now,  no  words ;  go  both  of 
you.' 

"Tom,  the  driver,  swore  and  caught 
the  lad  a  hearty  kick,  which  he  richly 
deserved,  and  then,  having  tied  old 
Kaptein  up  to  the  disselboom  with  a 
reim,  they  got  their  assegais  and 
sticks  and  started.  I  would  have  gone 
too,  only  I  knew  that  somebody  must 
look  after  the  waggon,  and  I  did  not 
like  to  leave  either  of  the  boys  with  it 
at  night.  I  was  in  a  very  bad  temper, 
indeed,  although  I  was  pretty  well 
used  to  these  sort  of  occurrences,  and 
soothed  myself  by  taking  a  rifle  and 
going  to  kill  something.  For  a  couple 
of  hours  I. poked  about  without  seeing 

u  2 


292 


Long  Odds. 


anything  that  I  could  get  a  shot  at, 
but  at  last,  just  as  I  was  again  within 
seventy  yards  of  the  waggon,  I  put  up 
an  old  Impala  ram  from  behind  a 
mimosa  thorn.  He  ran  straight  for 
the  waggon,  and  it  was  not  till  he  was 
passing  within  a  few  feet  of  it  that  I 
could  get  a  decent  shot  at  him.  Then 
I  pulled,  and  caught  him  half-way 
down  the  spine ;  over  he  went,  dead 
as  a  door-nail,  and  a  pretty  shot 
it  was,  though  I  ought  not  to  say  it. 
This  little  incident  put  me  into  rather 
a  better  temper,  especially  as  the  buck 
had  rolled  over  right  against  the  after- 
part  of  the  waggon,  so  I  had  only  to 
gut  him,  fix  a  reim  round  his  legs 
and  haul  him  up.  By  the  time  I  had 
done  this,  the  sun  was  down,  and  the 
full  moon  was  up,  and  a  beautiful 
moon  it  was.  And  then  there  came 
down  that  wonderful  hush  that  some- 
times falls  over  the  African  bush 
in  the  early  hours  of  the  night. 
No  beast  was  moving,  and  no  bird 
called.  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred 
the  quiet  trees,  and  the  shadows  did 
not  even  quiver ;  they  only  grew.  It 
was  very  oppressive  and  very  lonely, 
for  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  cattle 
or  the  boys.  I  was  quite  thankful  for 
the  society  of  old  Kaptein,  who  was 
lying  down  contentedly  against  the 
disselboom,  chewing  the  cud  with  a 
good  conscience. 

"  Presently,  however,  Kaptein  be- 
gan to  get  restless.  First  he  snorted, 
then  he  got  up  and  snorted  again. 
I  could  not  make  it  out,  so  like  a  fool 
I  got  down  off  the  waggon-box  to 
have  a  look  round,  thinking  it  might 
be  the  lost  oxen  coming. 

"  Next  instant  I  regretted  it,  for  all 
of  a  sudden  I  heard  an  awful  roar  and 
saw  something  yellow  flash  past  me 
and  light  on  poor  Kaptein.  Then  came 
a  bellow  of  agony  from  the  ox,  and  a 
crunch  as  the  lion  put  his  teeth 
through  the  poor  brute's  neck,  and  I 
began  to  realise  what  had  happened. 
My  rifle  was  in  the  waggon,  and  my 
first  thought  was  to  get  hold  of  it,  and 
I  turned  and  made  a  bolt  for  it.  I 
got  my  foot  on  the  wheel  and  flung  my 


body  forward  on  to  the  waggon,  and 
there  I  stopped  as  if  I  were  frozen,  and 
no  wonder,  for  as  I  was  about  to  spring 
up  I  heard  the  lion  behind  me,  and 
next  second  I  felt  the  brute,  ay,  as 
plainly  as  I  can  feel  this  table.  I  felt 
him,  I  say,  sniffing  at  my  left  leg  that 
was  hanging  dowD. 

"  My  word !  I  did  feel  queer ;  I 
don't  think  that  I  ever  felt  so  queer 
before.  I  dared  not  move  for  the  life 
of  me,  and  the  odd  thing  was  that 
I  seemed  to  lose  power  over  my  leg, 
which  had  an  insane  sort  of  incli- 
nation to  kick  out  of  its  own  mere 
motion — just  as  hysterical  people  want 
to  laugh  when  they  ought  to  be  par- 
ticularly solemn.  Well,  the  lion 
sniffed  and  sniffed,  beginning  at  my 
ancle  and  slowly  nosing  away  up  to 
my  thigh.  I  thought  that  he  was 
going  to  get  hold  then,  but  he  did  not. 
He  only  growled  softly,  and  went  back 
to  the  ox.  Shifting  my  head  a  little 
I  got  a  full  view  of  him.  He  was  the 
biggest  lion  I  ever  saw,  and  I  have 
seen  a  great  many,  and  he  had  a  most 
tremendous  black  mane.  What  his 
teeth  were  like  you  can  see — look 
there,  pretty  big  ones  ain't  they? 
Altogether  he  was  a  magnificent 
animal,  and  as  I  lay  there  sprawling 
on  the  fore-tongue  of  the  waggon,  it 
occurred  to  me  that  he  would  look  un- 
commonly well  in  a  cage.  He  stood 
there  by  the  carcase  of  poor  Kaptein, 
and  deliberately  disembowelled  him 
as  neatly  as  a  butcher  could  have  done. 
All  this  while  I  dare  not  move,  for  he 
kept  lifting  his  head  and  keeping  an 
eye  on  me  as  he  licked  his  bloody 
chops.  When  he  had  cleaned  Kaptein 
out,  he  opened  his  mouth  and  roared, 
and  I  am  not  exaggerating  when  I 
say  that  the  sound  shook  the  waggon. 
Instantly  there  came  back  an  answer- 
ing roar. 

"  '  Heavens  !  '  I  thought,  <  there  is 
his  mate.' 

"  Hardly  was  the  thought  out  of  my 
head  when  I  caught  sight  in  the  moon- 
light of  the  lioness  bounding  along 
through  the  long  grass,  and  after  her 
a  couple  of  cubs  about  the  size  of 


Long  Odds. 


293 


mastiffs.  She  stopped  within  a  few 
feet  of  my  head,  and  stood,  and  waved 
her  tail,  and  fixed  me  with  her  glowing 
yellow  eyes  ;  but  just  as  I  thought  that 
it  was  all  over  she  turned,  and  began 
to  feed  on  Kaptein,  and  SD  did  the 
cubs.  There  were  the  four  of  them 
within  eight  feet  of  me,  growling  and 
quarrelling,  rending  and  tearing  and 
crunching  poor  Kaptein's  bones  \  and 
there  I  lay  shaking  with  terror,  and 
the  cold  perspiration  pouring  out  of 
me,  feeling  like  another  Daniel  come 
to  judgment  in  a  new  sense  of  the 
phrase.  Presently  the  cubs  had  eaten 
their  fill,  and  began  to  get  restless. 
One  went  round  to  the  back  of  the 
waggon,  and  pulled  at  the  Impala  buck 
that  hung  there,  and  the  other  came 
round  my  way  and  began  the  sniffing 
game  at  my  leg.  Indeed,  he  did  more 
than  that,  for,  my  trouser  being 
hitched  up  a  little,  he  began  to  lick 
the  bare  skin  with  his  rough  tongue. 
The  more  he  licked  the  more  he  liked 
it,  to  judge  from  his  increased  vigour 
and  the  loud  purring  noise  he  made. 
Then  I  knew  that  the  end  had  come, 
for  in  another  second  his  file-like 
tongue  would  have  rasped  through  the 
skin  of  my  leg — which  was  luckily 
pretty  tough — and  have  got  to  the 
blood,  and  then  there  would  be  no 
chance  for  me.  So  I  just  lay  there 
and  thought  of  my  sins,  and  prayed  to 
the  Almighty,  and  thought  that  after 
all  life  was  a  very  enjoyable  thing. 

"  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  heard  a 
crashing  of  bushes  and  the  shouting 
and  whistling  of  men,  and  there  were 
the  two  boys  coming  back  with  the 
cattle  which  they  had  found  trekking 
alcng  all  together.  The  lions  lifted 
their  heads  and  listened,  and  then 
without  a  sound  bounded  off — and  I 
fainted. 

"  The  lions  came  back  no  more  that 
night,  and  by  the  next  morning  my 
nerves  had  got  pretty  straight  again  ; 
but  I  was  full  of  wrath  when  I 
thought  of  all  that  I  had  gone  through 
at  the  hands,  or  rather  noses,  of  those 
four  lions,  and  of  the  fate  of  my  after- 
ox  Kaptein.  He  was  a  splendid  ox, 


and  I  was  very  fond  of  him.  So  wroth 
was  I  that  like  a  fool  I  determined  to 
go  for  the  whole  family  of  them.  It 
was  worthy  of  a  greenhorn  out  on  his 
first  hunting  trip;  but  I  did  it  never- 
theless. Accordingly  after  breakfast, 
having  rubbed  some  oil  upon  my  leg, 
which  was  very  sore  from  the  cub's 
tongue,  I  took  the  driver,  Tom,  who 
did  not  half  like  the  job,  and  having 
armed  myself  with  an  ordinary  double 
No.  12  smoothbore,  the  first  breech- 
loader I  ever  had,  I  started.  I  took 
the  smoothbore  because  it  shot  a  bullet 
very  well ;  and  my  experience  has  been 
that  a  round  ball  from  a  smoothbore 
is  quite  as  effective  against  a  lion  as 
an  express  bullet.  The  lion  is  soft 
and  not  a  difficult  animal  to  finish  if 
you  hit  him  anywhere  in  the  body.  A 
buck  takes  far  more  killing. 

"  Well,  I  started,  and  the  first 
thing  I  set  to  work  to  do  was  to 
try  to  make  out  whereabouts  the 
brutes  lay  up  for  the  day.  About 
three  hundred  yards  from  the  waggon 
was  the  crest  of  a  rise  covered  with 
single  mimosa  trees,  dotted  about  in  a 
park-like  fashion,  and  beyond  this  was 
a  stretch  of  open  plain  running  down 
to  a  dry  pan,  or  water-hole,  which 
covered  about  an  acre  of  ground,  and 
was  densely  clothed  with  reeds,  now 
in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  From  the 
further  edge  of  this  pan  the  ground 
sloped  up  again  to  a  great  cleft,  or 
nullah,  which  had  been  cut  out  by  the 
action  of  water,  and  was  pretty  thickly 
sprinkled  with  bush,  amongst  which 
grew  some  large  trees,  I  forget  of  what 
sort. 

"It  at  once  struck  me  that  the  dry 
pan  would  be  a  likely  place  to  find  my 
friends  in,  as  there  is  nothing  a  lion  is 
fonder  of  than  lying  up  in  reeds, 
through  which  he  can  see  things  with- 
out being  seen  himself.  Accordingly 
thither  I  went  and  prospected.  Before 
I  had  got  half-way  round  the  pan  I 
found  the  remains  of  a  blue  vilder- 
beeste  that  had  evidently  been  killed 
within  the  last  three  or  four  days  and 
partially  devoured  by  lions  ;  and  from 
other  indications  about  I  was  soon 


294 


Long  Odds. 


assured  that  if  the  family  were  not  in 
the  pan  that  day,  they  spent  a  good 
deal  of  their  spare  time  there.  But  if 
there,  the  question  was  how  to  get 
them  out ;  for  it  was  clearly  impos- 
sible to  think  of  going  in  after 
them  unless  one  was  quite  determined 
to  commit  suicide.  Now  there  was 
a  strong  wind  blowing  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  waggon,  across  the  reedy 
pan  towards  the  bush-clad  kloof 
or  donga,  and  this  first  gave  me  the 
idea  of  firing  the  reeds,  which,  as  I 
think  I  told  you,  were  pretty  dry. 
Accordingly  Tom  took  some  matches 
and  began  starting  little  fires  to  the 
left,  and  I  did  the  same  to  the  right. 
But  the  reeds  were  still  green  at  the 
bottom,  and  we  should  never  have  got 
them  well  alight  had  it  not  been  for 
the  wind,  which  got  stronger  and 
stronger  as  the  sun  got  higher,  and 
forced  the  fire  into  them.  At  last, 
after  half- an-hour's  trouble,  the  flames 
got  a  hold,  and  began  to  spread  out 
like  a  fan,  whereupon  I  got  round  to 
the  further  side  of  the  pan  to  wait  for 
the  lions,  standing  well  out  in  the 
open,  as  we  stood  at  the  copse  to-day 
where  you  shot  the  woodcock.  It  was 
a  rather  risky  thing  to  do,  but  I  used 
to  be  so  sure  of  my  shooting  in  those 
days  that  I  did  not  so  much  mind  the 
risk.  Scarcely  had  I  got  round  when 
I  heard  the  reeds  parting  before  the 
onward  rush  of  some  animal.  '  Now 
for  it,'  said  I.  On  it  came.  I  could 
see  that  it  was  yellow,  and  prepared 
for  action,  when  instead  of  a  lion  out 
bounded  a  beautiful  reit  bok  which 
had  been  lying  in  the  shelter  of  the 
pan.  It  must,  by  the  way,  have  been 
a  reit  bok  of  a  peculiarly  confiding 
nature  to  lay  itself  down  with  the  lion 
like  the  lamb  of  prophesy,  but  I  sup- 
pose that  the  reeds  were  thick,  and 
that  it  kept  a  long  way  off. 

"  Well,  I  let  the  reit  bok  go,  and  it 
went  like  the  wind,  and  kept  my  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  reeds.  The  fire  was 
burning  like  a  furnace  now  ;  the  flames 
crackling  and  roaring  as  they  bit  into 
the  reeds,  sending  spouts  of  fire  twenty 
feet  and  more  into  the  air,  and  making 


the  hot  air  dance  above  it  in  a  way 
that  was  perfectly  dazzling.  But  the 
reeds  were  still  half  green,  and  created 
an  enormous  quantity  of  smoke,  which 
came  rolling  towards  me  like  a  cur- 
tain, lying  very  low  on  account  of  the 
wind.  Presently,  above  the  crackling 
of  the  fire,  I  heard  a  startled  roar, 
then  another  and  another.  So  the 
lions  were  at  home. 

"I  was  beginning  to  get  excited 
now,  for,  as  you  fellows  know,  there  is 
nothing  in  experience  to  warm  up 
your  nerves  like  a  lion  at  close  quar- 
ters, unless  it  is  a  wounded  buffalo ; 
and  I  got  still  more  so  when  I  made 
out  through  the  smoke  that  the  lions 
were  all  moving  about  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  reeds.  Occasionally  they 
would  pop  their  heads  out  like  rabbits 
from  a  burrow,  and  then,  catching 
sight  of  me  standing  about  fifty  yards 
out,  draw  them  back  again.  I  knew 
that  it  must  be  getting  pretty  warm 
behind  them,  and  that  they  could  not 
keep  the  game  up  for  long  ;  and  I  was 
not  mistaken,  for  suddenly  all  four  of 
them  broke  cover  together,  the  old 
black-maned  lion  leading  by  a  few 
yards.  I  never  saw  a  more  splendid 
sight  in  all  my  hunting  experience 
than  those  four  lions  bounding  across 
the  veldt,  overshadowed  by  the  dense 
pall  of  smoke  and  backed  by  the  fiery 
furnace  of  the  burning  reeds. 

"  I  reckoned  that  they  would  pass, 
on  their  road  to  the  bushy  kloof, 
within  about  five  and  twenty  yards  of 
me,  so,  taking  a  long  breath,  I  got  my 
gun  well  on  to  the  lion's  shoulder — 
the  black-maned  one — so  as  to  allow 
for  an  inch  or  two  of  motion,  and 
catch  him  through  the  heart.  I  was 
on,  dead  on,  and  my  finger  was  just 
beginning  to  tighten  on  the  trigger, 
when  suddenly  I  went  blind — a  bit 
of  reed-ash  had  drifted  into  my  right 
eye.  I  danced  and  rubbed,  and  got 
it  more  or  less  clear  just  in  time  to 
see  the  tail  of  the  last  lion  vanishing 
round  the  bushes  up  the  kloof. 

"  If  ever  a  man  was  mad  I  was  that 
man.  It  was  too  bad  ;  and  such  a  shot 
in  the  open,  too !  However,  I  was 


Long  Odds. 


295 


not  going  to  be  beaten,  so  I  just  turned 
and  marched  for  the  kloof.  Tom,  the 
driver,  begged  and  implored  me  not  to 
go,  but  though  as  a  general  rule  I 
never  pretend  to  be  very  brave  (which 
I  am  not),  I  was  determined  that  I 
would  either  kill  those  lions  or  they 
should  kill  me.  So  I  told  Tom  that 
he  need  not  come  unless  he  liked,  but 
I  was  going;  and  being  a  plucky 
fellow,  a  Swazi  by  birth,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  muttered  that  I  was 
mad  or  bewitched,  and  followed  dog- 
gedly in  my  tracks. 

"  We  soon  got  to  the  kloof,  which 
was  about  three  hundred  yards  in 
length  and  but  sparsely  wooded,  and 
then  the  real  fun  began.  There  might 
be  a  lion  behind  every  bush — there 
certainly  were  four  lions  somewhere ; 
the  delicate  question  was,  where.  I 
peeped  and  poked  and  looked  in 
every  possible  direction,  with  my 
heart  in  my  mouth,  and  was  at  last 
rewarded  by  catching  a  glimpse  of 
something  yellow  moving  behind  a  bush. 
At  the  same  moment,  from  {another  bush 
opposite  me  out  burst  one  of  the  cubs 
and  galloped  back  towards  the  burnt- 
out  pan.  I  whipped  round  and  let 
drive  a  snap  shot  that  tipped  him 
head  over  heels,  breaking  his  back 
within  two  inches  of  the  root  of  the 
tail,  and  there  he  lay  helpless  but 
glaring.  Tom  afterwards  killed  him 
with  his  assegai.  I  opened  the  breech 
of  the  gun  and  hurriedly  pulled  out 
the  old  case,  which,  to  judge  from 
what  ensued,  must  I  suppose  have 
burst  and  left  a  portion  of  its  fabric 
sticking  to  the  barrel.  At  any  rate, 
when  I  tried  to  get  in  the  new  case  it 
would  only  enter  half  way ;  and — 
would  you  believe  it  ? — this  was  the 
moment  that  the  lioness,  attracted  no 
doubt  by  the  outcry  of  her  cub,  chose 
to  put  in  an  appearance.  There  she 
stood,  twenty  paces  or  so  from  me, 
lashing  her  tail  and  looking  just  as 
wicked  as  it  is  possible  to  conceive. 
Slowly  I  stepped  backwards,  trying 
to  push  in  the  new  case,  and  as  I  did 
so  she  moved  on  in  little  runs,  drop- 
ping down  after  each  run.  The 


danger  was  imminent,  and  the  case 
would  not  go  in.  At  the  moment  I 
oddly  enough  thought  of  the  cartridge 
maker,  whose  name  I  will  not  men- 
tion, and  earnestly  hoped  that  if  the 
lion  got  me  some  condign  punishment 
would  overtake  him.  It  would  not 
go  in,  so  I  tried  to  pull  it  out.  It 
would  not  come  out  either,  and  my 
gun  was  useless  if  I  could  not  shut  it 
to  use  the  other  barrel.  I  might  as 
well  have  had  no  gun.  Meanwhile  I 
was  walking  backward,  keeping  my 
eye  on  the  lioness,  who  was  creeping 
forward  on  her  belly  without  a  sound, 
but  lashing  her  tail  and  keeping  her 
eye  on  me  ;  and  in  it  I  saw  that  she 
was  coming  in  a  few  seconds  more.  I 
dashed  my  wrist  and  the  palm  of  my 
hand  against  the  brass  rim  of  the  cart- 
ridge till  the  blood  poured  from  them 
— look  there  are  the  scars  of  it  to  this 
day ! " 

Here  Quatermain  held  up  his  right 
hand  to  the  light  and  showed  us  seven 
or  eight  white  cicatrices  just  where  the 
wrist  is  set  into  the  hand. 

"But  it  was  not  of  the  slightest 
use,"  he  went  on;  "the  cartridge 
would  not  move.  I  only  hope  that  no 
other  man  will  ever  be  put  in  such  an 
awful  position.  The  lioness  gathered 
herself  together,  and  I  gave  myself  up 
for  .lost,  when  suddenly  Tom  j  shouted 
out  from  somewhere  in  my  rear — 

" '  You  are  walking  on  to  the 
wounded  cub  ;  turn  to  the  right.' 

"  I  had  the  sense,  dazed  as  I  was, 
to  take  the  hint,  and  slewing  round 
at  right-angles,  but  still  keeping  my 
eyes  on  the  lioness,  I  continued  my 
backward  walk. 

"To  my  intense  relief,  with  a  low 
growl  she  straightened  herself,  turned, 
and  bounded  off  further  up  the  kloof. 

"  '  Come  on,  Inkoos,'  said  Tom, 
1  let's  get  back  to  the  waggon.' 

"  « All  right,  Tom,'  I  answered.  '  I 
will  when  I  have  killed  those  three 
other  lions,'  for  by  this  time  I  was 
bent  on  shooting  them  as  I  never  re- 
member being  bent  on  anything  before 
or  since.  '  You  can  go  if  you  like,  or 
you  can  get  up  a  tree.' 


296 


Long  Odds. 


"  He  considered  the  position  a  little, 
and  then  he  very  wisely  got  up  a  tree. 
I  wish  that  I  had  done  the  same. 

"  Meanwhile  I  had  got  out  my  knife, 
which  had  an  extractor  in  it,  and  suc- 
ceeded after  some  difficulty  in  hauling 
out  the  case  which  had  so  nearly  been 
the  cause  of  my  death,  and  removing 
the  obstruction  in  the  barrel.  It  was 
very  little  thicker  than  a  postage- 
stamp;  certainly  not  thicker  than  a 
piece  of  writing-paper.  This  done 
I  loaded  the  gun,  bound  my  handker- 
chief round  my  wrist  and  hand  to 
staunch  the  flowing  of  the  blood,  and 
started  on  again. 

"  I  had  noticed  that  the  lioness  went 
into  a  thick  green  bush,  or  rather 
cluster  of  bushes,  growing  near  the 
water,  for  there  was  a  little  stream 
running  down  the  kloof,  about  fifty 
yards  higher  up,  and  for  this  I  made. 
When  I  got  there,  however,  I  could 
see  nothing,  so  I  took  up  a  big  stone 
and  threw  it  into  the  bushes.  I  believe 
that  it  hit  the  other  cub,  for  out  it 
came  with  a  rush,  giving  me  a  broad- 
side shot  of  which  I  promptly  availed 
myself,  knocking  it  over  dead.  Out, 
too,  came  the  lioness  like  a  flash  of 
light,  but  quick  as  she  went  I  managed 
to  put  the  other  bullet  into  her  ribs, 
so  that  she  rolled  right  over  three  times 
like  a  shot  rabbit.  I  instantly  got 
two  more  cartridges  into  the  gun,  and 
as  I  did  so  the  lioness  got  up  again 
and  came  crawling  towards  me  on 
her  fore-paws,  roaring  and  groan- 
ing, and  with  such  an  expression  of 
diabolical  fury  on  her  countenance  as 
I  have  not  often  seen.  I  shot  her 
again  through  the  chest,  and  she  fell 
over  on  to  her  side  quite  dead. 

"That  was  the  first  and  last  time 
that  I  ever  killed  a  brace  of  lions 
right  and  left,  and,  what  is  more,  I 
never  heard  of  anybody  else  doing  it. 
Naturally  I  was  considerably  pleased 
with  myself,  and  having  again  loaded 
up,  went  on  to  look  for  the  black- 
maned  beauty  who  had  killed  Kaptein. 
Slowly  and  with  the  greatest  care  I 
proceeded  up  the  kloof,  searching 
every  bush  and  tuft  of  grass  as  I 


went.  It  was  wonderfully  exciting 
work,  for  I  never  was  sure  from  one 
moment  to  another  but  that  he  would 
be  on  me.  1  took  comfort,  however, 
from  the  reflection  that  a  lion  rarely 
attacks  a  man — rarely,  I  say  j  some- 
times he  does,  as  you  will  see — unless 
he  is  cornered  or  wounded.  I  must 
have  been  nearly  an  hour  hunting 
after  the  lion.  Once  I  thought  I  saw 
something  move  in  a  clump  of  tam- 
bouki  grass,  but  I  could  not  be  sure, 
and  when  I  trod  out  the  grass  I  could 
not  find  him. 

"  At  last  I  got  up  to  the  head  of  the 
kloof,  which  made  a  cul-de-sac.  It 
was  formed  of  a  wall  of  rock  about 
fifty  feet  high.  Down  this  rock 
trickled  a  little  waterfall,  and  in 
front  of  it,  some  seventy  feet  from 
its  face,  was  a  great  piled-up  mass  of 
boulders,  in  the  crevices  and  on  the 
top  of  which  grew  ferns  and  grass  and 
stunted  bushes.  This  mass  was  about 
twenty-five  feet  high.  The  sides  of 
the  kloof  here  were  also  very  steep. 
Well,  I  got  up  to  the  top  of  the 
nullah  and  looked  all  round.  No 
signs  of  the  lion.  Evidently  I  had 
either  overlooked  him  further  down, 
or  he  had  escaped  right  away.  It  was 
very  vexatious  ;  but  still  three  lions 
were  not  a  bad  bag  for  one  gun  before 
dinner,  and  I  was  fain  to  be  content. 
Accordingly  I  departed  back  again, 
making  my  way  round  the  isolated 
pillar  of  boulders,  and  beginning  to 
feel  that  I  was  pretty  well  done  up 
with  excitement  and  fatigue,  and 
should  be  more  so  before  I  had 
skinned  those  three  lions.  When  I 
had  got,  as  nearly  as  I  could  judge, 
about  eighteen  yards  past  the  pillar 
or  mass  of  boulders,  I  turned  to  have 
another  look  round.  I  have  a  pretty 
sharp  eye,  but  I  could  see  nothing 
at  all. 

"  Then,  on  a  sudden,  I  saw  something 
sufficiently  alarming.  On  the  top  of 
the  mass  of  boulders,  opposite  to  me, 
standing  out  clear  against  the  rock 
beyond,  was  the  huge  black-maned  lion. 
He  had  been  crouching  there,  and  now 
arose  as  though  by  magic.  There  he 


Long  Odds. 


297 


stood  lashing  his  tail,  just  like  a 
statue  of  the  animal  on  the  gateway 
of  Northumberland  House  that  I  have 
seen  a  picture  of.  But  he  did  not 
stand  long.  Before  I  could  fire — be- 
fore I  could  do  more  than  get  the  gun 
to  my  shoulder — he  sprang  straight 
up  and  out  from  the  rock,  and  driven 
by  the  impetus  of  that  one  mighty 
bound  came  hurtling  through  the  air 
towards  me. 

"  Heavens !  how  grand  he  looked, 
and  how  awful !  High  into  the  air 
he  flew,  describing  a  great  arch.  Just 
as  he  touched  the  highest  point  of  his 
spring  I  fired.  I  did  not  dare  to 
wait,  for  I  saw  that  he  would  clear  the 
whole  space  and  land  right  upon  me. 
Without  a  sight,  almost  without  aim, 
I  fired,  as  one  would  fire  a  snap  shot 
at  a  snipe.  The  bullet  told,  for  I  dis- 
tinctly heard  its  thud  above  the  rush- 
ing sound  caused  by  the  passage  of 
the  lion  through  the  air.  Next 
second  I  was  swept  to  the  ground 
(luckily  I  fell  into  a  low  creeper-clad 
bush,  which  broke  the  shock),  and  the 
lion  was  on  the  top  of  me,  and  the 
next  those  great  white  teeth  of  his  had 
met  in  my  thigh — I  heard  them  grate 
against  the  bone.  I  yelled  out  in 
agony,  for  I  did  not  feel  in  the  least 
benumbed  and  happy,  like  Dr.  Living- 
stone— who,  by  the  way,  I  knew  very 
well — and  gave  myself  up  for  dead. 
But  suddenly,  as  I  did  so,  the  lion's 
grip  on  my  thigh  loosened,  and  he 
stood  over  me,  swaying  to  and  fro,  his 
huge  mouth,  from  which  the  blood  was 
gushing,  wide  opened.  Then  he  roared, 
and  the  sound  shook  the  rocks. 


"  To  and  fro  he  swung,  and  suddenly 
the  great  head  dropped  on  me,  knock- 
ing all  the  breath  from  my  body,  and 
he  was  dead.  My  bullet  had  entered 
in  the  centre  of  his  chest  and  passed 
out  on  the  right  side  of  the  spine 
about  half  way  down  the  back. 

"  The  pain  of  my  wound  kept  me 
from  fainting,  and  as  soon  as  I  got 
my  breath  I  managed  to  drag  myself 
from  under  him.  Thank  heavens,  his 
great  teeth  had  not  crushed  my  thigh- 
bone ;  but  I  was  losing  a  great  deal  of 
blood,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
timely  arrival  of  Tom,  with  whose  aid 
I  got  the  handkerchief  off  my  wrist 
and  tied  it  round  my  leg,  twisting  it 
tight  with  a  stick,  I  think  I  should 
have  bled  to  death. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  just  reward  for  my 
folly  in  trying  to  tackle  a  family  of 
lions  single-handed.  The  odds  were 
too  long.  I  have  been  lame  ever 
since  and  shall  be  to  my  dying 
day ;  in  the  month  of  March  the 
wound  always  troubles  me  a  great 
deal,  and  every  three  years  it  breaks 
out  raw.  I  need  scarcely  add  that 
I  never  traded  the  lot  of  ivory  at 
Sikukuni's.  Another  man  got  it — 
a  German — and  made  five  hundred 
pounds  out  of  it  after  paying  ex- 
penses. I  spent  the  next  month  on 
the  broad  of  my  back,  and  was  a 
cripple  for  six  months  after  that. 
And  now  I've  told  you  the  yarn,  so 
I  will  have  a  drop  of  Hollands  and  go 
to  bed." 

H.  BJDER  HAGGAKD. 


298 


MOSES   MENDELSSOHN. 


"  I  WISH,  it  is  true,  to  shame  the 
opprobrious  sentiments  commonly  en- 
tertained of  a  Jew,  but  it  is  by  charac- 
ter and  not  by  controversy  that  I 
would  do  it."  x  So  wrote  the  subject 
of  this  memoir  more  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  and  the  sentence  may  well 
stand  for  the  motto  of  his  life ;  for 
much  as  Moses  Mendelssohn  achieved 
by  his  ability,  much  more  did  he  by 
his  conduct,  and  great  as  he  was  as  a 
philosopher,  far  greater  was  he  as  a 
man.  Starting  with  every  possible 
disadvantage — prejudice,  poverty  and 
deformity — he  yet  reached  the  goal  of 
"  honour,  fame,  and  troops  of  friends  " 
by  simple  force  of  character ;  and  thus 
remains  for  all  time  an  illustration 
of  the  happy  optimistic  theory  that, 
even  in  this  world,  success,  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word,  does  come  to  those, 
who,  also  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word,  deserve  it. 

The  state  of  the  Jews  in  Germany 
at  the  time  of  Mendelssohn's  birth  was 
deplorable.  No  longer  actively  hunted, 
they  had  arrived,  at  the  early  part  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  at  the  com- 
paratively desirable  position  of  being 
passively  shunned  or  contemptuously 
ignored,  and,  under  these  new  condi- 
tions, they  were  narrowing  fast  to  the 
narrow  limits  set  them.  The  love  of 
religion  and  of  race  was  as  strong  as 
ever,  but  the  love  had  grown  sullen, 
and  of  the  jealous,  exclusive  sort  to 
which  curse  and  anathema  are  akin. 
What  then  loomed  largest  on  their 
narrow  horizon  was  fear,  and  under 
that  paralyzing  influence  progress  or 
prominence  of  any  kind  became  a  dis- 
tinct evil,  to  be  repressed  at  almost 
any  personal  sacrifice.  Safety  for  them- 
selves and  tolerance  for  their  faith, 
lay,  if  anywhere,  in  the  neglect  of 
1  In  the  correspondence  with  Lavater. 


the  outside  world.  And  so  the  poor 
pariahs  huddled  in  their  close  quarters, 
carrying  on  mean  trades,  or  hawking 
petty  wares,  and  speaking,  with  bated 
breath,  a  dialect  of  their  own,  half 
Jewish,  half  German,  and  as  wholly 
degenerate  from  the  old  grand  Hebrew 
as  were  they  themselves  from  those  to 
whom  it  had  been  a  living  tongue. 
Intellectual  occupation  was  found  in 
the  study  of  the  ^Law ;  interest  and 
entertainment  in  the  endless  discussion 
of  its  more  intricate  passages;  and 
excitement  in  the  not  infrequent  ex- 
communication of  the  weaker  or  bolder 
brethren  who  ventured  to  differ  from 
the  orthodox  expounders.  The  prac- 
tical culture  of  the  Christian  they 
hated,  with  a  hate  born  half  of  fear 
for  its  possible  effects,  half  of  repul- 
sion at  its  palpable  evidences.  The 
tree  of  knowledge  seemed  to  them 
indeed,  in  pathetic  perversion  of  the 
early  legend,  a  veritable  tree  of  evil 
which  should  lose  a  second  Eden  to 
the  wilful  eaters  thereof.  Their  Eden 
was  degenerate,  too ;  but  the  "  voice 
heard  in  the  evening  "  still  sounded  in 
their  dulled  and  passionate  ears,  and, 
vibrating  in  the  ghetto  instead  of  the 
grove,  it  seemed  to  bid  them  shun  the 
forbidden  fruit  of  Gentile  growth. 

In  September,  1729,  under  a  very 
humble  roof,  in  a  very  poor  little 
street  in  Dessau,  was  born  the  weakly 
boy  who  was  destined  to  work  such 
wonderful  changes  in  that  weary  state 
of  things.  Not  much  tit  to  hold  the 
magician's  wand  seemed  those  frail 
baby  hands,  and  less  and  less  likely 
altogether  for  the  part,  as  the  poor 
little  body  grew  stunted  and  deformed 
through  the  stress  of  over  much  study 
and  of  something  less  than  enough  of 
wholesome  diet.  There  was  no  lack 
of  affection  in  the  mean  little  Jewish 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


299 


home,  but  the  parents  could  only  give 
their  children  of  what  they  had,  and 
of  these  scant  possessions,  mother-love 
and  Talmudical  lore  were  the  staple. 
And  so  we  read  of  the  small  five-year- 
old  Moses  being  wrapped  up  by  his 
mother  in  a  large  old  shabby  cloak, 
on  early,  bleak,  winter  mornings,  and 
then  so  carried  by  the  father  to  the 
neighbouring  "  Talmud  Torah  "  school, 
where  he  was  nourished  with  dry 
Hebrew  roots  by  way  of  breakfast. 
Often,  indeed,  was  the  child  fed  on  an 
even  less  satisfying  diet,  for  long 
passages  from  Scripture,  long  lists 
of  precepts,  to  be  learnt  by  heart, 
on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  was  the 
approved  method  of  instruction  in 
these  seminaries.  An  extensive,  if 
somewhat  parrot- like,  acquaintance  at 
an  astonishingly  early  age  with  the  Law 
and  the  Prophets,  and  the  commenta- 
tors on  both,  was  the  ordinary  result 
of  this  form  of  education;  and,  natural- 
ly co-existent  with  it  was  an  equally 
astonishing  and  extensive  ignorance  of 
all  more  useful  subjects.  Contentedly 
enough,  the  learned,  illiterate  peddling 
and  hawking  fathers  left  their  little 
lads  to  this  puzzling,  sharpening, 
deadening  sort  of  schooling.  Frau 
Mendel  and  her  husband  may  pos- 
sibly have  thought  out  the  matter 
a  little  more  fully,  for  she  seems  to 
have  been  a  wise  and  prudent,  as 
well  as  a  loving  mother,  and  the 
father  was  quick  to  discern  un- 
usual talent  in  the  sickly  little  son 
whom  he  carried  so  carefully  to  the 
daily  lesson.  He  was  himself  a 
teacher,  in  a  humble  sort  of  way, 
and  eked  out  his  small  fees  by  tran- 
scribing on  parchment  from  the  Pen- 
tateuch. Thus,  the  tone  of  the  little 
household,  if  not  refined,  was  at  least 
not  altogether  sordid ;  and  when, 
presently,  the  little  Moses  was  pro- 
moted from  the  ordinary  school  to 
the  higher  class  taught  by  the  great 
scholar,  Rabbi  Frankel,  the  question 
even  presented  itself  whether  it  might 
not  be  well,  in  this  especial  case,  to 
abandon  the  patent,  practical  advan- 
tages pertaining  to  the  favoured  pur- 


suit of  peddling,  and  to  let  the  boy 
give  himself  up  to  his  beloved  books, 
and,  following  in  his  master's  foot- 
steps, become  perhaps,  in  his  turn,  a 
poorly  paid,  much  reverenced  Rabbi. 

It  was  a  serious  matter  to  decide. 
There  was  much  to  be  said  in  favour 
of  the  higher  path;  but  the  market 
for  Rabbis,  as  for  hawkers,  was  some- 
what over-stocked,  and  the  returns 
in  the  one  instance  were  far  quicker 
and  surer,  and  needed  no  long  un- 
earning  apprenticeship.  The  balance, 
on  the  whole,  seemed  scarcely  to  in- 
cline to  the  more  dignified  profes- 
sion ;  but  the  boy  was  so  terribly  in 
earnest  in  his  desire  to  learn,  so  de- 
sperately averse  from  the  only  other 
career,  that  his  wishes  turned  the 
scale;  and  it  did  not  take  very  long 
to  convince  the  poor  patient  father 
that  he  must  toil  a  little  longer 
and  a  little  later,  in  order  that  his 
son  might  be  free  from  the  hated 
necessity  of  hawking,  and  at  liberty 
to  pursue  his  unremunerative  studies. 
Moses,  from  the  very  first,  made  the 
most  of  his  opportunities ;  and  at  home 
and  at  school  high  hopes  began  soon 
to  be  formed  of  the  diligent,  sweet-tem- 
pered, frail  little  lad.  Frailer  than 
ever  he  seemed  to  grow,  and  the  body 
appeared  literally  to  dwindle  as  the 
mind  expanded.  Long  years  after, 
when  the  burden  of  increasing  de- 
formity had  come,  by  dint  of  use 
and  wont  and  cheerful  courage,  to  be 
to  him  a  burden  lightly  borne,  he 
would  set  strangers  at  their  ease  by 
alluding  to  it  himself,  and  by  playfully 
declaring  his  lump  to  be  a  legacy  from 
Maimonides.  "  Maimonides  spoilt  my 
figure,"  he  would  say,  "and  ruined 
my  digestion ,  but  still,"  he  would  add 
more  seriously,  "  I  dote  on  him,  for 
though  those  long  vigils  with  him 
weakened  my  body,  they,  at  the  same 
time,  strengthened  my  soul :  they 
stunted  my  stature,  but  they  de- 
veloped my  mind."  Early  at  morning 
and  late  at  night  would  the  boy  be 
found  bending  in  happy  abstraction 
over  his  shabby  treasure,  charmed  in- 
to unconsciousness  of  aches  or  hunger. 


300 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


The  book  which  had  been  lent  to  him 
was  '  Maimonides'  Guide  to  the  Per- 
plexed ' ;  and  this  work,  which  grown 
men  find  sufficiently  deep  study,  was  pa- 
tiently puzzled  out,  and  enthusiastically 
read  and  re-read  by  the  persevering 
little  student  who  was  barely  in  his 
teens.  ^It  opened  up  whole  vistas  of  new 
glories,  which  his  long  steady  climb 
up  Talmudic  stairs  had  prepared  him 
to  appreciate.  Here  and  there,  in 
the  course  of  those  long,  tedious  dis- 
sertations in  the  class-room,  the  boy 
had  caught  glimpses  of  something 
underlying,  something  beyond  the 
quibbles  of  the  schools ;  but  this,  his 
first  insight  into  the  large  and  liberal 
mind  of  Maimonides,  was  a  revelation 
to  him  of  the  powers  and  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  Judaism.  It  revealed  to 
him  too,  perchance,  some  latent  possi- 
bilities in  himself,  and  suggested  other 
problems  of  life  which  asked  solution. 
The  pale  cheeks  glowed  as  he  read, 
and  vague  dreams  kindled  into  con- 
scious aims :  he  too  would  live  to 
become  a  Guide  to  the  Perplexed 
among  his  people ! 

Poor  little  lad !  his  brave  resolves 
were  soon  to  be  put  to  a  severe 
test.  In  the  early  part  of  1742 
Rabbi  Frankel  accepted  the  Chief 
Rabbinate  of  Berlin,  and  thus  a  sum- 
mary stop  was  put  to  his  pupil's 
further  study.  There  is  a  pathetic 
story  told  of  Moses  Mendelssohn 
standing,  with  streaming  eyes,  on 
a  little  hillock  on  the  road  by 
which  his  beloved  master  passed  out 
of  Dessau,  and  of  the  kind-hearted 
Frankel  catching  up  the  forlorn  little 
figure,  and  soothing  it  with  hopes  of  a 
"  some  day,"  when  fortune  should  be 
kind,  and  he  should  follow  "nach 
Berlin."  The  "some  day"  looked 
sadly  problematical ;  that  hard  ques- 
tion of  bread  and  butter  came  to  the 
fore  whenever  it  was  discussed.  How 
was  the  boy  to  live  in  Berlin  ?  Even 
if  the  mind  should  be  nourished  for 
naught,  who  was  to  feed  the  body  1 
The  hard-working  father  and  mother 
had  found  it  no  easy  task  hitherto  to 
provide  for  that  extra  mouth ;  and  now 


with  Frankel  gone,  the  occasion  for 
their  long  self-denial  seemed  to  them 
to  cease.  In  the  sad  straits  of  the 
family,  the  business  of  a  hawker  began 
again  to  show  in  an  attractive  light 
to  the  poor  parents ;  and  the  peddler's 
pack  was  once  more  suggested  with 
many  a  prudent,  loving,  half-hearted 
argument  on  its  behalf.  But  the 
boy  was  now  clear  as  to  his  vocation ; 
and  after  a  brief  while  of  entreaty, 
the  tearful  permission  was  gained,  the 
parting  blessing  given,  and  with  a  very 
slender  wallet  slung  on  his  crooked 
shoulders,  Moses  Mendelssohn  set  out 
for  Berlin. 

It  was  a  long  tramp  of  over  thirty 
miles,  and,  towards  the  close  of  the 
fifth  day,  it  was  a  very  footsore  tired 
little  lad  who  presented  himself  for 
admission  at  the  Jews'  gate  of  the 
city.  Rabbi  Frankel  was  touched, 
and  puzzled  too,  when  this  penniless 
little  student,  whom  he  had  inspired 
with  such  difficult  devotion,  at  last 
stood  before  him ;  but  he  quickly  made 
up  his  mind  that,  so  far  as  in  him  lay, 
the  uphill  path  should  be  made  smooth 
to  those  determined  little  feet.  The 
pressing  question  of  bed  and  board 
was  solved;  Frankel  gave  him  his 
Sabbath  and  festival  dinners ;  and 
another  kind-hearted  Jew,  Bamberger 
by  name,  who  heard  the  boy's  story, 
supplied  two  everyday  meals,  and 
let  him  sleep  in  an  attic  in  his  house. 
For  the  remaining  four  days  ?  Well, 
he  managed;  a  groschen  or  two  was 
often  earned  by  little  jobs  of  copying, 
and  a  loaf  so  purchased,  by  dint  of 
economy  and  imagination,  was  made 
into  quite  a  series  of  satisfying  meals. 
Poverty  was  fortunately  no  new  ex- 
perience for  him ;  still,  poverty  con- 
fronted alone,  in  a  great  city,  must 
have  seemed  something  grimmer  to 
the  home-bred  lad  than  that  mother- 
interpreted  poverty  which  he  had 
hitherto  known.  But  he  met  it  full- 
face,  bravely,  uncomplainingly,  and, 
best  of  all,  with  unfailing  good 
humour.  And  the  little  alleviations 
which  friends  made  in  his  hard  lot 
were  all  received  in  a  spirit  of  the 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


301 


sincerest,  charmingest  gratitude.  He 
never  took  a  kindness  as  "  his  due  ; " 
never  thought,  like  so  many  embryo 
geniuses,that  his  talents  gave  him  right 
of  toll  on  his  richer  brethren.  "  Be- 
cause I  would  drink  at  the  well,"  he 
would  say  in  his  picturesque  fashion, 
"  am  I  to  expect  every  one  to  haste  and 
fill  my  cup  from  their  pitchers  1  No,  ] 
must  draw  the  water  for  myself,  or  I 
must  go  thirsty.  I  have  no  claim 
save  my  desire  to  learn,  and  what  is 
that  to  others?"  Thus  he  preserved 
his  self-respect  and  his  independence. 
He  worked  hard,  and,  first  of  all,  he 
wisely  sought  to  free  himself  from  all 
voluntary  disabilities;  there  were 
enough  and  to  spare  of  legally-im- 
posed ones  to  keep  him  mindful  of 
his  Judaism.  He  felt  strong  enough 
in  faith  to  need  no  artificial  shackles. 
He  would  be  Jew,  and  yet  German — 
patriot,  but  no  pariah.  He  would 
eschew  vague  dreams  of  universalism, 
false  ideals  of  tribalism.  If  Palestine 
had  not  been,  he,  its  product,  could  not 
be  ;  but  Palestine  and  its  glories  were 
of  the  past  and  of  the  future ;  the 
present  only  was  his,  and  he  must 
shape  his  life  according  to  its  condi- 
tions, which  placed  him,  in  the  eight- 
eenth century,  born  of  Jewish  parents, 
in  a  German  city.  He  was  German  by 
birth,  Jew  by  descent  and  by  convic- 
tion ;  he  would  fulfil  all  the  obligations 
which  country,  race,  and  religion  im- 
pose. But  a  German  Jew,  who  did 
not  speak  the  language  of  his  country  ? 
That,  surely,  was  an  anomaly  and  must 
be  set  right.  So  he  set  himself  to 
learn  German,  and  to  make  it  his 
native  language.  Such  secular  study 
was  by  no  means  an  altogether  safe 
proceeding;  ignorance,  as  we  have 
seen,  was  "protected"  in  those  days 
by  Jewish  ecclesiastical  authority ; 
"  free  trade  "  in  literature  was  sternly 
prohibited,  and  a  German  grammar,  or 
a  Latin  or  a  Greek  one,  had,  in  sober 
truth,  to  run  a  very  strict  blockade. 
One  Jewish  lad,  it  is  recorded  on  very 
tolerable  authority,  was  actually  in  the 
year  1746  expelled  the  city  of  Berlin 
for  no  other  offence  than  that  of  being 


caught  in  the  act  of  studying — one 
chronicle,  indeed,  says,  carrying — some 
such  proscribed  volume.  Moses,  how- 
ever, was  more  fortunate;  he  saved 
money  enough  to  buy  his  books,  or  made 
friends  enough  to  borrow  them  ;  and, 
we  may  conclude,  found  nooks  in  which 
to  hide  them,  and  hours  in  which  to 
read  them.  He  set  himself,  too,  to 
gain  some  knowledge  of  the  classics, 
and  here  he  found  a  willing  teacher  in 
one  Kish,  a  medical  student  from 
Prague.  Later  on  another  helper  was 
gained  in  a  certain  Israel  Moses,  a 
Polish  Jew  schoolmaster,  afterwards 
known  as  Israel  Samosc.  This  man 
was  a  fine  mathematician,  and  a  first- 
rate  Hebrew  scholar ;  but  as  his  attain- 
ments did  not  include  the  German 
language,  he  made  Euclid  known  to 
Moses  through  the  medium  of  a  He- 
brew translation.  Moses,  in  return, 
imparted  to  Samosc  his  newly-acquired 
German,  and  learnt  it,  of  course,  more 
thoroughly  through  teaching  it.  He 
must  have  possessed  the  art  of  making 
friends  who  were  able  to  take  on  them- 
selves the  office  of  teachers ;  for  pre- 
sently we  find  him,  in  odd  half  hours, 
studying  French  and  English  under  a 
Dr.  Aaron  Emrich.1  He  very  early 
began  to  make  translations  of  parts  of 
the  Scripture  into  German,  and  these 
attempts  indicate  that,  from  the  first, 
his  overpowering  desire  for  self-culture 
sprang  from  no  selfishness.  He  wanted 
to  open  up  the  closed  roads  to  place 
and  honour,  but  not  to  tread  them 
alone,  not  to  leave  his  burdened  breth- 
ren on  the  bye-paths,  whilst  he  sped 
on  rejoicing.  He  knew  truly  that  "  the 
light  was  sweet,"  and  that  "a  pleasant 
thing  it  is  to  behold  the  sun !  "  But 
he  remembered  too  the  other  part  of 
the  charge,  "  the  days  of  darkness, 
which  were  many."  He  remembered 
them  always,  needfully,  pitifully,  pa- 
tiently ;  and  to  the  weary  eyes  which 
would  not  look  up  or  could  not,  he 
ever  strove  to  adjust  the  beautiful 
blessed  light  which  he  knew,  and  they, 
poor  souls,  doubted,  was  good ;  he 

1  Better   known  to  scholars  as  Dr.   Aaron 
Solomon  Gompertz. 


302 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


never  thrust  it,  unshaded,  into  their 
gloom ;  he  never  carried  it  'off  to  illu- 
mine his  own  path. 

Thus,  the  translations  at  which  he 
worked  were  no  transcripts  from 
learned  treatises  which  might  have 
found  a  ready  market  among  the 
scholars  of  the  day  ;  but  unpaid  and 
unpaying  work  from  the  liturgy  and 
the  Scriptures,  done  with  the  object 
that  his  people  might  by  degrees  share 
his  knowledge  of  the  vernacular,  and 
become  gradually  and  unconsciously 
familiar  with  the  language  of  their 
country  through  the  only  medium  in 
which  there  was  any  likelihood  of 
their  studying  it.  "With  that  one  set 
purpose  always  before  him,  of  drawing 
his  people  with  him  into  the  light,  he 
formed  the  idea  of  issuing  a  serial  in 
Hebrew,  which,  under  the  title  of  *  The 
Moral  Preacher,'  should  introduce  short 
essays  and  transcripts  on  other  than 
strictly  Judaic  or  religious  subjects. 
One  Bock  was  his  coadjutor  in  this 
project,  and  two  numbers  of  the  little 
work  were  published.  The  contents 
do  not  seem  to  have  been  very  alarm- 
ing. To  our  modern  notions  of  periodi- 
cal literature,  even  of  the  '  Eock  '  and 
'  Record '  type,  they  would  probably  be 
a  trifle  dull ;  but  their  mild  philosophy 
and  yet  milder  science  proved  more 
than  enough  to  arouse  the  orthodox 
fears  of  the  poor  souls,  who,  "bound  in 
affliction  and  iron,"  distrusted  even  the 
gentle  hand  which  was  so  eager  to 
loose  the  fetters.  There  was  a  mur- 
mur of  doubt,  of  muttered  dislike 
of  "  chukkoth  hagoyim "  (customs  of 
strangers) ;  perhaps  here  and  there  a 
threat  concerning  the  pains  and  penal- 
ties which  attached  to  the  introduction 
of  such.  At  any  rate,  but  two  num- 
bers of  the  reforming  periodical  ap- 
peared ;  and  Moses,  not  angry  at  his 
failure,  not  more  than  momentarily 
discouraged  by  it,  accepted  the  posi- 
tion and  wasted  no  time  nor  temper 
in  cavilling  at  it.  He  had  learnt 
to  labour;  he  could  learn  to  wait. 
And  thus,  in  hard  yet  happy  work 
passed  away  the  seven  years,  from 
fourteen  till  twenty-one,  which  are 


the  seedtime  of  a  man's  life.  In  1750 
when  Moses  was  nearly  of  age,  he  came 
into  possession  of  what  really  proved 
an  inheritance.  A  Mr.  Bernhardt,  a 
rich  silk  manufacturer,  and  a  prominent 
member  of  the  Berlin  synagogue,  made 
a  proposal  to  the  learned  young  man, 
whose  perseverance  had  given  reputa- 
tion to  his  scholarship,  to  become 
resident  tutor  to  his  children.  The 
offer  was  gladly  accepted,  and  it  may 
be  considered  Mendelssohn's  first  step 
on  the  road  to  success.  The  first  step 
to  fame  had  been  taken  when  the  boy 
had  set  out  on  his  long  tramp  to 
Berlin. 

This  Mr.  Bernhardt  was  a  kind 
and  cultured  man,  and  in  his  house 
Mendelssohn  found  both  congenial  oc- 
cupation and  welcome  leisure.  He 
was  teacher  by  day,  student  by  night, 
and  author  at  odd  half-hours.  He 
turned  to  his  books  with  the  greatest 
ardour ;  and  we  read  of  him  studying 
Locke  and  Plato  in  the  original,  for  by 
this  time  English  and  Greek  were  both 
added  to  his  store  of  languages.  His 
pupils,  meanwhile,  were  never  neg- 
lected, nor  in  the  pursuit  of  great 
ends  were  trifles  ignored.  In  more 
than  one  biography  special  emphasis 
is  laid  on  his  beautifully  neat  hand- 
writing, which,  we  are  told,  much 
excited  his  employer's  admiration. 
This  humble,  but  very  useful,  talent 
may  possibly  have  been  inherited,  with 
some  other  small-sounding  virtues,  from 
the  poor  father  in  Dessau,  to  whom 
many  a  nice  present  was  now  frequent- 
ly sent.  At  the  end  of  three  or  four 
years  of  tutorship,  Bernhardt's  appre- 
ciation of  the  young  man  took  a  very 
practical  expression.  He  offered  Moses 
Mendelssohn  the  position  of  book-keeper 
in  his  factory,  with  some  especial 
responsibilities  and  emoluments  at- 
tached to  the  office.  It  was  a  splendid 
opening,  although  Moses  Mendelssohn, 
the  philosopher,  eagerly  and  gratefully 
accepting  such  a  post  somehow  jars  on 
one's  susceptibilities,  and  seems  almost 
an  instance  of  the  round  man  pushed 
into  the  square  hole.  It  was,  how- 
ever, an  assured  position ;  it  gave 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


303 


him  leisure,  it  gave  him  indepen- 
dence, and  in  due  time  wealth,  for  as 
the  years  went  on  he  grew  to  be 
manager,  and  finally  partner  in  the 
house.  His  tastes  had  already  drawn 
him  into  the  outer  literary  circle 
of  Berlin,  which  at  this  time  had  its 
head-quarters  in  a  sort  of  club,  which 
met  to  play  chess  and  to  discuss  poli- 
tics and  philosophy,  and  which  num- 
bered Dr.  Gompertz,  the  promising 
young  scholar  Abbt,  and  Nicolai,  the 
bookseller,1  among  its  members.  With 
these  and  other  kindred  spirits,  Men- 
delssohn soon  found  pleasant  welcome ; 
his  talents  and  geniality  quickly  over- 
coming any  social  prejudices,  which, 
indeed,  seldom  flourish  in  the  republic 
of  letters.  And,  early  disadvantages 
notwithstanding,  we  may  conclude 
without  much  positive  evidence  on 
the  subject,  that  Mendelssohn  pos- 
sessed that  valuable  indefinable  gift, 
which' culture,  wealth,  and  birth  united 
occasionally  fail  to  bestow — the  gift 
of  good  manners.  He  was  free  alike 
from  conceit  and  dogmatism,  the  Scylla 
and  Charybdis  to  most  young  men  of 
exceptional  talent.  He  had  the  loyal 
nature  and  the  noble  mind,  which  we 
are  told  on  high  authority  is  the 
necessary  root  of  the  rare  flower ;  and 
he  had  the  sympathetic,  unselfish  feel- 
ing which  we  are  wont  to  summarise 
shortly  as  a  good  heart,  and  which  is 
the  first  essential  to  good  manners. 
When  Lessing  came  to  Berlin,  about 
1745,  his  play  of  'Die  Juden'  was 
already  published,  and  his  reputation 
sufficiently  established  to  make  him  an 
honoured  guest  at  these  little  literary 
gatherings.  Something  of  affinity  in 
the  wide,  unconventional,  independent 
natures  of  the  two  men ;  something,  it 
may  be,  of  likeness  in  unlikeness  in 
their  early  struggles  with  fate,  speedily 
attracted  Lessing  and  Mendelssohn  to 
each  other.  The  casual  acquaintance 
soon  ripened  into  an  intimate  and 
life-long  friendship,  which  gave  to 
Mendelssohn,  the  Jew,  wider  know- 
ledge and  illimitable  hopes  of  the 
outer,  inhospitable  world — which  gave 
1  Later  the  noted  publisher  of  that  name. 


to  Lessing,  the  Christian,  new  belief 
in  long-denied  virtues;  and  which, 
best  of  all,  gave  to  humanity  those 
"  divine  lessons  of  Nathan  der  Weise," 
as  Goethe  calls  them — for  which  char- 
acter Mendelssohn  sat,  all  uncon- 
sciously, as  model,  and  scarcely 
idealised  model,  to  his  friend.  It  was, 
most  certainly,  a  rarely  happy  friend- 
ship for  both,  and  for  the  world. 
Lessing  was  the  godfather  of  Mendels- 
sohn's first  book.  The  subject  was 
suggested  in  the  course  of  conversation 
between  them,  and  a  few  days  after 
Mendelssohn  brought  his  manuscript  to 
Lessing.  He  saw  no  more  of  it  till  his 
friend  handed  him  the  proofs  and  a 
small  sum  for  the  copyright ;  and  it  was 
in  this  way  that  the  '  Philosophische 
Gesprache '  were  published  anony- 
mously in  1754.  Later,  the  friends 
brought  out  together  a  little  book,  en- 
titled '  Pope  as  a  Metaphysician,'  and 
this  was  followed  up  with  some  philo- 
sophical essays  (*  Briefe  iiber  die  Empfin- 
dungen')  which  quickly  ran  through 
three  editions,  and  Mendelssohn  became 
known  as  an  author.  A  year  or  two 
later,  he  gained  the  prize  which  the 
Royal  Academy  of  Berlin  offered  for 
the  best  essay  on  the  problem  "  Are 
metaphysics  susceptible  of  mathema- 
tical demonstration1?"  and  for  which 
prize  Kant  was  one  of  the  competitors. 
Lessing's  migration  to  Leipzig,  and  his 
temporary  absences  from  the  capital  in 
the  capacity  of  tutor,  made  breaks  but 
no  diminution  in  the  friendship  with 
Mendelssohn ;  and  the  '  Literatur- 
Briefe,'  a  serial  cast  in  the  form  of 
correspondence  on  art,  science,  and 
literature,  and  to  which  Mcolai,  Abbt, 
and  other  writers  were  occasional 
contributors,  continued  its  successful 
publication  till  the  year  1765.  A 
review  of  one  of  the  literary  efforts 
of  Frederick  the  Second  in  this 
journal  gave  rise  to  a  characteristic 
ebullition  of  what  an  old  writer 
quaintly  calls, "  the  German  endemical 
distemper  of  Judaeophobia."  In  this 
essay  Mendelssohn  had  presumed  to 
question  some  of  the  conclusions  of  the 
royal  author;  and  although  the  con- 


304 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


tents  of  the  '  Literatur-Briefe '  were 
generally  unsigned,  the  anonymity  was 
in  most  cases  but  a  superficial  dis- 
guise ;  the  paper  drew  down  upon 
Mendelssohn  the  denunciation  of  a 
too  loyal  subject  of  Frederick's,  and 
he  was  summoned  to  Sans  Souci  to 
answer  for  it.  Frederick  appears  to 
have  been  more  sensible  than  his 
thin-skinned  defender,  and  the  inter- 
view passed  off  amicably  enough. 
Indeed,  a  short  while  after,  we  hear 
of  a  petition  being  prepared  to  secure 
to  Mendelssohn  certain  rights  and 
privileges  of  dwelling  unmolested  in 
whichever  quarter  he  might  choose 
of  the  city — a  right  which  at  that  time 
was  granted  to  but  few  Jews,  and 
at  a  goodly  expenditure  of  both  capital 
and  interest.  Mendelssohn,  loyal  to 
his  brethren,  long  and  stoutly  refused 
to  have  any  concession  granted  on  the 
score  of  his  talents  which  he  might  not 
claim  on  the  score  of  his  manhood  in 
common  with  the  meanest  and  most 
ignorant  of  his  co-religionists.  And 
there  is  some  little  doubt  whether  the 
partial  exemptions  which  Mendelssohn 
subsequently  obtained,  were  due  to  the 
petition,  which  suffered  some  delay  and 
vicissitudes  in  the  course  of  presenta- 
tion, or  to  the  subtle  and  silent  force 
of  public  opinion. 

Meanwhile  Mendelssohn  married, 
and  the  story  of  his  wooing,  as  first 
told  by  Berthold  Auerbach,  makes  a 
pretty  variation  on  the  old  theme. 
It  was,  in  this  case,  no  short  idyll 
of  "  she  was  beautiful  and  he  fell  in 
love."  To  begin  with,  it  was  all 
prosaic  enough.  A  certain  Abraham 
Gugenheim,  a  trader  at  Hamburg, 
caused  it  to  be  hinted  to  Mendelssohn 
that  he  had  a  virtuous  and  blue- 
eyed  but  portionless  daughter,  named 
Fromet,  who  had  heard  of  the  phi- 
losopher's fame,  and  had  read  por- 
tions of  his  books  ;  and  who,  mutual 
friends  considered,  would  make  him 
a  careful  and  loving  helpmate.  So 
Mendelssohn,  who  was  now  thirty-two 
years  old,  and  desirous  to  "settle," 
went  to  the  merchant's  house  and 
saw  the  prim  German  maiden,  and 


talked   with   her;    and    was   pleased 
enough    with    her    talk,    or   perhaps 
with  the  silent  eloquence  of  the  blue 
eyes,  to  go  next  day  to  the  father  and 
to    say    he    thought    Fromet    would 
suit  him  for  a  wife.     But  to  his  sur- 
prise Gugenheim  hesitated,  and   stiff- 
ness  and    embarrassment  seemed    to 
have  taken  the  place  of  the  yesterday's 
cordial  greeting  •  still,  it  was  no  ob- 
jection on    his   part,    he  managed  at 
last  to  stammer  out.     For  a  minute 
Mendelssohn   was  hopelessly  puzzled, 
bub  only  for  a  minute ;  then  it  flashed 
upon  him,  "  It  is  she  who  objects  1 " 
he  exclaimed,   "then  it  must  be  my 
hump  ! "  and  the  poor  father  of  course 
could  only  uncomfortably  respond  with 
apologetic  platitudes  about  the  unac- 
countability  of  girls'  fancies.     The  hu- 
mour as  well  as  the  pathos  of  the  situa- 
tion touched  Mendelssohn,  for  he  had 
no  vanity  to  be  piqued,  and  he  instantly 
resolved  to  do  his  best  to   win  this 
Senta-like  maiden,  who,  less  fortunate 
than  the  Dutch  heroine,  had  had  her 
pretty  dreams  of  a  hero  dispelled,  in- 
stead    of      accentuated     by      actual 
vision.     Might  he  see  her  once  again, 
he    asked,    To   say   farewell  ?      "  Cer- 
tainly," answered  the  father,  glad  that 
his  awkward  mission  was  ending  so 
amicably.       So      Mendelssohn     went 
again,    and   found   Fromet   with   the 
blue  eyes  bent  steadily  over  her  work ; 
perhaps  to  hide  a  tear  as  much  as  to 
prevent  a  glance,  for  Fromet,  as  the 
sequel    shows,    was   a  tender-hearted 
maiden,  and  although  she  did  not  like 
to  look  at  her  deformed  suitor,  she  did 
not  want  to  wound  him.     Then  Men- 
delssohn   began    to     talk,    beautiful 
glowing  talk,  and  the  spell  which  his 
writings  had  exercised  began  again  to 
work  on  the  girl.     From  philosophy  to 
love  in  its  impersonal  form  is  an  easy 
transition.     She  grew  interested  and 
self -forgetful.      "And  do   you   think 
that  marriages  are  made  in  Heaven?  " 
she  eagerly  questioned,  as  some  early 
quaint    superstition  on   this  most  at- 
tractive of  themes  was  vividly  touched 
upon    by   her  visitor.     "Surely,"    he 
replied,  "and  some  old  beliefs  on  this 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


305 


head  assert  that  all  such  contracts  are 
settled  in  childhood.  Strange  to  say, 
a  special  legend  attaches  itself  to  my 
fortune  in  this  matter ;  and  as  our  talk 
has  led  to  this  subject  perhaps  I  may 
venture  to  tell  it  to  you.  The  twin  spirit 
which  fate  allotted  to  me,  I  am  told, 
was  fair,  blue-eyed,  and  richly  en- 
dowed with  all  spiritual  charms,  but 
alas  !  ill-luck  had  added  to  her  physical 
gifts  a  hump.  A  chorus  of  lamenta- 
tion arose  from  the  angels  who  min- 
ister in  these  matters.  The  '  pity 
of  it '  was  so  evident.  The  burden  of 
such  a  deformity  might  well  outweigh 
all  the  other  gifts  of  her  beautiful 
youth,  might  render  her  morose,  self- 
conscious,  unhappy.  If  the  load  now 
had  been  but  laid  on  a  man !  And  the 
angels  pondered,  wondering,  waiting 
to  see  if  any  would  volunteer  to  take 
the  maiden's  burden  from  her.  And 
I  sprang  up,  and  prayed  that  it  might 
be  laid  upon  my  shoulders.  And  it 
was  settled  so."  There  was  a  minute's 
pause,  and  then,  so  the  story  goes,  the 
work  was  passionately  thrown  down, 
and  the  tender  blue  eyes  were  stream- 
ing, and  the  rest  we  may  imagine. 
The  simple,  loving  heart  was  won,  and 
Fromet  became  his  wife. 

They  had  a  modest  little  house  with 
a  pretty  garden  on  the  outskirts  of 
Berlin,  where  a  good  deal  of  hospi- 
tality went  on  in  a  quiet,  friendly  way. 
The  ornaments  of  their  dwelling  were, 
perhaps,  a  little  disproportionate  in 
size  and  quantity  to  the  rest  of  the  sur- 
roundings; but. this  was  no  matter  of 
choice  on  the  part  of  the  newly  married 
couple,  since  one  of  the  minor  vexa- 
tions imposed  on  Jews  at  this  date  was 
the  obligation  laid  on  every  bride- 
groom to  treat  himself  to  a  large 
quantity  of  china  for  the  good  of  the 
manufactory.  The  tastes  or  the  wants 
of  the  purchaser  were  not  consulted ; 
and  in  this  especial  instance  twenty 
life-sized  china  apes  were  allotted  to 
fche  bridegroom.  We  may  imagine 
poor  Mendelssohn  and  his  wife  eyeing 
these  apes  often,  somewhat  as  Cin- 
derella looked  at  her  pumpkin  when 
longing  for  the  fairy's  transforming 

No.  316 — VOL.  LIIT. 


wand.  Possibilities  of  those  big  ba- 
boons' changed  into  big  books  may 
have  tantalised  Mendelssohn;  whilst 
Fromet' s  more  prosaic  mind  may 
have  confined  itself  to  china  and  yet 
have  found  an  unlimited  range  for 
wishing.  However,  the  unchanged 
and  unchanging  apes  notwithstand- 
ing, Mendelssohn  and  his  wife  en- 
joyed nearly  five  years  of  quiet  and 
contented  happiness.  Then,  "  before 
her  time,  she  died,"  leaving  him  two 
sons  and  two  daughters,1  to  whom  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  he  fulfilled  the 
duties  of  double  parenthood. 

It  was  a  difficult  duty,  and  a  terribly 
divided  one,  for  a  cultivated  man  who 
desired  to  bring  up  his  children  a  cen- 
tury ago  in  Germany  as  good  Jews 
and  good  citizens.  Many  a  time,  it 
stands  on  record,  when  this  patient, 
self-respecting,  unoffending  scholar 
took  his  children  for  a  walk,  coarse 
epithets  and  insulting  cries  followed 
them  through  the  streets.  No  resent- 
ment was  politic,  no  redress  was  pos- 
sible. "Father,  is  it  wicked  to  be  a 
Jew  ? "  his  children  would  ask,  as  time 
after  time  the  crowd  hooted  at  them. 
"  Father,  is  it  good  to  be  a  Jew  ? " 
they  grew  to  ask  later  on,  when  in 
more  serious  walks  of  life  they  found 
all  gates  but  the  Jews'  gate  closed 
against  them.  Mendelssohn  must 
have  found  such  questions  increas- 
ingly difficult  to  answer  or  to  parry. 
Their  very  talents  which  enlarged  the 
boundaries  must  have  made  his  clever 
children  rebel  against  the  limitations 
which  were  so  cruelly  imposed.  His 
eldest  son  Joseph  early  developed  a 
strong  scientific  bias  ;  how  could  this 
be  utilized  ?  The  only  profession  which 
he,  as  a  Jew,  might  enter,  was  that  of 
medicine,  and  for  that  he  had  a  decided 
distaste  :  perforce  he  was  set  to  com- 
mercial pursuits,  and  his  especial 
talent  had  to  run  to  waste,  or,  at 
best,  to  dilettanteism.  When  this 
Joseph  had  sons  of  his  own,  can  we 
wonder  very  much  that  he  cut  the 
knot  and  saved  his  children  from  a 
like  experience,  by  bringing  them  up 
1  Joseph,  Abraham,  Dorothea,  and  Henrietta. 


306 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


B,S  Christians  ?  Mendelssohn  himself, 
all  his  life  through,  was  unswervingly 
loyal  to  his  faith.  He  took  every  dis- 
ability accruing  from  it,  as  he  took  his 
own  especial  one,  as  being,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  inevitable,  and  thus  to 
be  borne  as  patiently  as  might  be.  To 
him,  most  certainly,  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  slip  from  under  a  burden 
which  had  been  laid  upon  him  to  bear. 
Perhaps  if  the  tender  mother  had 
lived  to  show  her  children  the  home 
side  of  Jewish  life,  its  suggestive  cere- 
monialism, its  domestic  compensations 
— possibly  her  sons,  almost  certainly 
her  daughters,  would  have  learnt  the 
like  brave,  sweet  patience.  But  this 
takes  us  to  the  region  of  "might 
have  been,"  Fromet,  we  know,  died, 
and,  the  mother  anchor  lost,  the 
children  drifted  from  their  moorings. 

The  leisure  of  those  few  years  of 
married  life  and  of  the  succeeding 
twenty  of  his  long  widowhood  was 
fully  occupied  by  Mendelssohn  in  lite- 
rary pursuits.  The  whole  of  the  Pen- 
tateuch was,  by  degrees,  translated 
into  pure  German,  and  simultaneous 
editions  were  published  in  German 
and  in  Hebrew  characters.  This  great 
gift  to  his  people  was  followed  by  a 
metrical  translation  of  the  Psalms ; 
a  work  which  took  him  ten  years, 
during  which  time  he  always  carried 
about  with  him  a  Hebrew  Psalter, 
interleaved  with  blank  pages.  In 
1783  he  published  his  'Jerusalem,'1 
a  sort  of  Church  and  State  survey  of 
the  Jewish  religion.  The  first  and 
larger  part  of  it  dwells  on  the  dis- 
tinction between  Judaism  as  a  state 
religion  and  Judaism  as  the  "  inherit- 
ance "  of  a  dispersed  nationality.  He 
essays  to  prove  the  essential  differ- 
ences between  civil  and  religious  go- 
vernment, and  to  demonstrate  that 
penal  enactments,  which  in  the  one 
case  were  just  and  defensible,  were, 
in  the  changed  circumstances  of  the 
other,  harmful,  and,  in  point  of  fact, 
unjudicial.  The  work  was,  in  effect, 
a  masterly  effort  on  Mendelssohn's 

1  '  Jerusalem,  oder  uber  religiose  Macht  und 
Judenthum.' 


part  to  exorcise  the  "  cursing  spirit " 
which,  engendered  partly  by  long-suf- 
fered persecution,  and  partly  by  long 
association  with  the  strict  discipline 
of  the  Catholic  Church,  had  taken  a 
firm  grip  on  Jewish  ecclesiastical 
authority,  and  was  constantly  express- 
ing itself  in  bitter  anathema  and  morose 
excommunication.  The  second  part  of 
the  book  is  mainly  concerned  with  a 
vindication  of  the  Jewish  character 
and  a  plea  for  toleration.  Scholarly 
and  temperate  as  is  the  tone  of  the 
work  throughout,  it  yet  evoked  a  good 
deal  of  rough  criticism  from  the  so- 
called  orthodox  in  both  religious 
camps — from  the  well-meaning  pur- 
blind persons  of  the  sort  who,  Les- 
sing  declares,  see  only  one  road,  and 
strenuously  deny  the  possible  exist- 
ence of  any  other. 

In  1777,  Frederic  the  Second  desired 
to  judge  for  himself  whether  Jewish 
ecclesiastical  authority  clashed  at  any 
point  with  the  state  or  municipal  law 
of  the  land.  A  digest  of  the  Jewish 
Code  on  the  general  questions,  and  • 
more  especially  on  the  subject  of  pro- 
perty and  inheritance,  was  decreed  to 
be  prepared  in  German,  and  to  Men- 
delssohn was  entrusted  the  task.  He 
had  the  assistance  of  the  Chief  Rabbi 
of  Berlin,  and  the  result  of  these 
labours  was  published  in  1778,  under 
the  title  of  *  Ritual  Laws  of  the  Jews.' 
Another  Jewish  philosophical  work 
(published  in  1785)  was  'Morning 
Hours.'  2  This  was  a  volume  of  essays 
on  the  evidences  of  the  existence  of  the 
Deity  and  of  conclusions  concerning 
His  attributes  deduced  from  the  con- 
templation of  His  works.  Originally 
these  essays  had  been  given  in  the 
form  of  familiar  lectures  on  natural 
philosophy  by  Mendelssohn  to  his 
children  and  to  one  or  two  of  their 
friends  (including  the  two  Humboldts) 
in  his  own  house,  every  morning.  In 
the  same  category  of  more  distinctively 
Jewish  books  we  may  place  a  trans- 
lation of  Manasseh  Ben  Israel's  famous 
'Vindiciae  Judseo.rum,'  which  he  pub- 

2  *  Morgenstunden,  oder  Vorlesungen  iiber 
das  Daseyn  Gottes.' 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


307 


lished,  with  a  very  eloquent  preface, 
so  early  as  1781,  just  at  the  time 
when  Dohm's  generous  work  on 
the  condition  of  the  Jews  as  citizens 
of  the  state  had  made  its  auspicious 
appearance.  Although  this  is  one  of 
Mendelssohn's  minor  efforts,  the  preface 
contains  many  a  beautiful  passage.  His 
gratitude  to  Dohm  is  so  deep  and  yet 
so  dignified ;  his  defence  of  his  people 
is  so  wide,  and  his  belief  in  humanity 
so  sincere ;  and  the  whole  is  withal  so 
short,  that  it  makes  most  pleasant 
reading.  One  small  quotation  may 
perhaps  be  permitted,  as  pertinent  to 
some  recent  discussions  on  Jewish 
subjects.  "  It  is,"  says  he,  "  objected 
by  some  that  the  Jews  are  both  too 
indolent  for  agriculture  and  too  proud 
for  mechanical  trades ;  that  if  the  re- 
strictions were  removed  they  would 
uniformly  select  the  arts  and  sciences, 
as  less  laborious  and  more  profitable, 
and  soon  engross  all  lightvgenteel,  and 
learned  professions.  But  those  who 
thus  argue  conclude  from  the  present 
state  of  things  how  they  will  be  in 
the  future,  which  is  not  a  fair  mode 
of  reasoning.  What  should  induce  a 
Jew  to  waste  his  time  in  learning  to 
manage  the  plough,  the  trowel,  the 
plane,  &c.,  while  he  knows  he  can 
make  no  practical  use  of  them  ?  But 
put  them  in  his  hand  and  suffer  him 
to  follow  the  bent  of  his  inclinations  as 
freely  as  other  subjects  of  the  state, 
and  the  result  will  not  long  be  doubt- 
ful. Men  of  genius  and  talent  will, 
of  course,  embrace  the  learned  profes- 
sions; those  of  inferior  capacity  will 
turn  their  minds  to  mechanical  pur- 
suits; the  rustic  will  cultivate  the 
land  ;  each  will  contribute,  according 
to  his  station  in  life,  his  quota  to  the 
aggregate  of  productive  labour." 

As  he  says  in  some  other  place  of 
himself,  nature  never  intended  him, 
either  physically  or  morally,  for  a 
wrestler ;  and  this  little  essay,  where 
there  is  no  strain  of  argument  or  scope 
for  deep  erudition,  is  yet  no  unworthy 
specimen  of  the  great  philosopher's 
powers.  Poetic  attempts  too,  and 
mostly  on  religious  subjects,  occasion- 


ally varied  his  counting-house  duties 
and  his  more  serious  labours ;  but 
although  he  truly  possessed,  if  ever 
man  did,  what  Landor  calls  "  the 
poetic  heart,"  yet  it  is  in  his  prose, 
rather  than  in  his  poetry,  that  we 
mostly  see  its  evidences.  The  book 
which  is  justly  claimed  as  his  greatest, 
and  which  first  gave  him  his  title  to 
be  considered  a  wide  and  deep-think- 
ing philosopher,  is  his  '  Phsedon.' 1  The 
idea  of  such  a  work  had  long  been 
germinating  in  him,  and  the  death  of 
his  wife,  and  the  closely  following 
loss  of  his  dear  friend  Abbt,  with 
whom  he  had  had  many  a  fruitful  dis- 
cussion on  the  subject,  turned  his 
thoughts  more  fixedly  on  the  hopes 
which  make  sorrows  bearable,  and  the 
work  was  published  in  the  year  fol- 
lowing Fromet's  death. 

The  first  part  is  a  very  pure  and 
classical    German    rendering    of    the 
original  Greek  form  of  Plato,  and  the 
remainder  an  eloquent  summary  of  all 
that  religion,  reason,  and  experience 
urge  in  support  of  a  belief  in  immor- 
tality.    It  is  cast  in  the  form  of  con- 
versation between    Socrates   and   his 
friends — a  choice  in  composition  which 
caused    a    Jewish    critic    (M.    David 
Friedlander)  to  liken  Moses  Mendels- 
sohn  to  Moses   the   lawgiver.     "For 
Moses  spake,  and  Socrates  was  to  him 
as   a  mouth"   (Ex.  iv.   15).     In   less 
than  two  years  '  Phsedon '  ran  through 
three   German    editions,    and   it   was 
speedily     translated     into     English, 
French,  Dutch,  Italian,  Danish,  and 
Hebrew.      Then,  at  one   stride,  came 
fame ;  and  great  scholars,  great  poten- 
tates, even  the  heads  of  his  own  com- 
munity, sought  his  society.     But  fame 
was  ever  of  incomparably  less  value 
to   Mendelssohn  than  friendship,  and 
any  sort  of  notoriety  he  honestly  hated. 
Thus,  when  his  celebrity  brought  upon 
him  a  public  discussion,  the  publicity 
which  ensued,  notwithstanding  that  the 
personal  honour  in  which  he  was  held 
was  thereby  enhanced,  so  thoroughly 
upset  his  nerves  that  the  result  was  a 

1  'Phsedon,  oder  iiber  die  Unsterblichkeil 
der  Seele.' 

x  2 


308 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


severe  and  protracted  illness.  Lavater, 
the  French  pastor,  in  1769,  had  trans- 
lated Bonnet's  'Evidences  of  Chris- 
tianity '  into  German  ;  he  published  it 
with  the  following  dedication  to  Moses 
Mendelssohn  :  — 

"  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  think  I  cannot  give  you  a 
stronger  proof  of  my  admiration  of  your  ex- 
cellent writings,  and  of  your  still  more  excel- 
lent character,  that  of  an  Israelite  in  whom 
there  is  no  guile  ;  nor  offer  you  a  better  re- 
quital for  the  great  gratification  which  I, 
some  years  ago,  enjoyed  in  your  interesting 
society,  than  by  dedicating  to  you  the  ablest 
philosophical  enquiry  into  the  evidences  of 
Christianity  that  I  am  acquainted  with. 

"  I  am  fully  conscious  of  your  profound 
judgment,  steadfast  love  of  truth,  literary  in- 
dependence, enthusiasm  for  philosophy  in 
general,  and  esteem  for  Bonnet's  works  in 
particular.  The  amiable  discretion  with 
which,  notwithstanding  your  contrariety  to 
the  Christian  religion,  you  delivered  your 
opinion  on  it,  is  still  fresh  in  my  memory. 
And  so  indelible  and  important  is  the  impres- 
sion, which  your  truly  philosophical  respect 
for  the  moral  character  of  its  Founder  made 
on  me,  in  one  of  the  happiest  moments  of  my 
existence,  that  I  venture  to  beseech  you  —  nay, 
before  the  God  of  Truth,  your  and  my  Creator 
and  Father,  I  beseech  and  conjure  you  —  to  read 
this  work,  I  will  not  say  with  philosophical 
impartiality,  which  I  am  confident  will  be  the 
case,  but  for  the  purpose  of  publicly  refuting 
it,  in  case  you  should  find  the  main  arguments, 
in  support  of  the  facts  of  Christianity,  unten- 
able ;  or,  should  you  find  them  conclusive, 
with  the  determination  of  doing  what  policy, 
love  of  truth,  and  probity  demand  —  what 
Socrates  would  doubtless  have  done,  had  he 
read  the  work,  and  found  it  unanswerable. 

"May  God  still  cause  much  truth  and 
virtue  to  be  disseminated  by  your  means,  and 
make  you  experience  the  happiness  my  whole 
heart  wishes  you. 

"  JOHANN  CASPAR  LAVATER. 


"ZURICH,  ^ih  of  August,  1769." 

It  was  a  most  unpleasant  position 
for  Mendelssohn.  Plain  speaking  was 
not  so  much  the  fashion  then  as  now, 
and  defence  might  more  easily  be  read 
as  defiance.  At  that  time  the  position 
of  the  Jews  in  the  European  States 
was  most  precarious,  and  outspoken 
utterances  might  not  only  alienate  the 
timid  followers  whom  Mendelssohn 
hoped  to  enlighten,  but,  probably, 
offend  the  powerful  outsiders  whom  he 
was  beginning  to  influence.  No  man 
has  any  possible  right  to  demand  of 


another  a  public  confession  of  faith ; 
the  conversation  to  which  Lavater 
alluded  as  some  justification  for  his 
request  had  been  a  private  one,  and 
the  reference  to  it,  moreover,  was  not 
altogether  accurate.  And  Mendelssohn 
hated  controversy,  and  held  a  very 
earnest  conviction  that  no  good  cause, 
certainly  no  religious  one,  fs  ever 
much  forwarded  by  it.  Should  he  be 
silent,  refuse  to  reply,  and  let  judg- 
ment go  by  default  f  Comfort  and 
expediency  both  pleaded  in  favour  of 
this  course,  but  truth  was  mightier 
and  prevailed.  Like  unto  the  three 
who  would  not  be  "  careful  "  of  their 
answer  even  under  the  ordeal  of  fire, 
he  too  would  testify  plainly  and  with- 
out undue  thought  of  consequences. 
He  could  not  serve  God  with  special 
reservations  as  to  Bimmon.  Definitely 
he  answered  his  too  zealous  questioner 
in  a  document  which  is  so  entirely  full 
of  dignity  and  of  reason  that  it  is 
difficult  to  make  quotations  from  it.1 
"  Certain  inquiries,"  he  writes,  "  we 
finish  once  for  all  in  our  lives."  .  .  . 
"  And  I  herewith  declare  in  the 
presence  of  the  God  of  truth,  your 
and  i  my  creator,  by  whom  you  have 
conjured  me  in  your  dedication,  that  I 
will  adhere  to  my  principles  so  long  as 
my  entire  soul  does  not  assume  another 
nature."  And  then,  emphasizing  the 
position  that  it  is  by  character  and 
not  by  controversy  that  he  would  have 
Jews  shame  their  traducers,  he  goes 
fully  and  boldly  into  the  whole  ques- 
tion. He  shows  with  a  delicate  touch 
of  humour  that  Judaism,  in  being  no 
proselytizing  faith,  has  a  claim  to  be 
let  alone.  "  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to 
count  amongst  my  friends  many  a 
worthy  man  who  is  not  of  my  faith. 
Never  yet  has  my  heart  whispered, 
Alas !  for  this  good  man's  soul.  He 
who  believes  that  no  salvation  is  to 
be  found  out  of  the  pale  of  his  own 
church,  must  often  feel  such  sighs 
arise  in  his  bosom."  "  Suppose  there 
were  among  my  contemporaries  a 

1  The  whole  correspondence  can  be  read  in 
*  Memoirs  of  Moses  Mendelssohn,'  by  M. 
Samuels,  published  in  1827. 


Moses  Mendelssohn. 


309 


Confucius  or  a  Solon,  I  could  con 
sistently  with  my  religious  principles 
love  and  admire  the  great  man,  but  I 
should  never  hit  on  the  idea  of  con- 
verting a  Confucius  or  a  Solon. 
"What  should  I  convert  him  for  ?  As 
he  does  not  belong  to  the  congregation 
of  Jacob,  my  religious  laws  were  not 
made  for  him,  and  on  doctrines  we 
should  soon  come  to  an  understanding. 
Do  I  think  there  is  a  chance  of  his 
being  saved  ?  I  certainly  believe  that 
he  who  leads  mankind  on  to  virtue  in 
this  world  cannot  be  damned  in  the 
next."  "  We  believe  .  .  .  that  those 
who  regulate  their  lives  according  to 
the  religion  of  nature  and  of  reason 
are  called  virtuous  men  of  other 
nations,  and  are,  equally  with  our 
patriarchs,  the  children  of  eternal 
salvation."  "  Whoever  is  not  born 
conformable  to  our  laws  has  no 
occasion  to  live  according  to  them. 
We  alone  consider  ourselves  bound 
to  acknowledge  their  authority,  and 
this  can  give  no  offence  to  our  neigh- 
bours." He  refuses  to  criticize  Bonnet's 
work  in  detail  on  the  ground  that  in 
his  opinion  "  Jews  should  be  scrupu- 
lous in  abstaining  from  reflections  on 
the  predominant  religion ; "  but  never- 
theless, whilst  repeating  his  "  so 
earnest  wish  to  have  no  more  to  do 
with  religious  controversy,"  the 
honesty  of  the  man  asserts  itself  in 
boldly  adding,  "  I  give  you  at  the 
same  time  to  understand  that  I  could, 
very  easily,  bring  forward  something 
in  refutation  of  M.  Bonnet's  work." 

Mendelssohn's  reply  brought  speedily, 
as  it  could  scarcely  fail  to  do,  an  ample 
and  sincere  apology  from  Lavater,  a 
"retracting"  of  the  challenge,  an 
earnest  entreaty  to  forgive  what  had 
been  "  importunate  and  improper " 
in  the  dedicator,  and  an  expression  of 
"  sincerest  respect  "  and  "  tenderest 
affection  "  for  his  correspondent. 
Mendelssohn's  was  a  nature  to  have 
more  sympathy  with  the  errors  inci- 
dental to  too  much  than  to  too  little 
zeal,  and  the  apology  was  accepted  as 
generously  as  it  was  offered.  And 
here  ended,  so  far  as  the  principals 


were  concerned,  this  somewhat  unique 
specimen  of  a  literary  squabble.  A 
crowd  of  lesser  writers,  unfortunately, 
hastened  to  make  capital  out  of  it ;  and 
a  bewildering  mist  of  nondescript  and 
pedantic  compositions  soon  darkened 
the  literary  firmament,  obscuring  and 
vulgarizing  the  whole  subject.  They 
took  "  sides  "  and  gave  "  views  "  of 
the  controversy;  but  Mendelssohn  an- 
swered none  and  read  as  few  as 
possible  of  the  publications.  Still 
the  strain  and  worry  told  on  his 
sensitive  and  peace-loving  nature,  and 
he  did  not  readily  recover  his  old 
elasticity  of  temperament. 

In  1778  Lessing's  wife  died,  and  his 
friend's  trouble  touched  deep  chords 
both  of  sympathy  and  of  memory  in 
Mendelssohn.  Yet  more  cruelly  were 
they  jarred  when,  two  years  later, 
Lessing  himself  followed,  and  an  un- 
interrupted friendship  of  over  thirty 
years  was  thus  dissolved.  Lessing  and 
Mendelssohn  had  been  to  each  other 
the  sober  realization  of  the  beautiful 
ideal  embodied  in  the  drama  of  *  Na- 
than der  Weise.'  "  What  to  you  makes 
me  seem  Christian  makes  of  you  the 
Jew  to  me,"  each  could  most  truly  say 
to  the  other.  They  helped  the  world  to 
see  it  too,  and  to  recognize  the  divine 
truth  that  "  to  be  to  the  best  thou 
knowest  ever  true  is  all  the  creed." 
Lessing's  death  was  a  terrible  blow  to 
Mendelssohn.  "After  wrinkles  come," 
says  Mr.  Lowell,  in  likening  ancient 
friendships  to  slow-growing  trees,  "few 
plant,  but  water  dead  ones  with  vain 
tears."  In  this  case,  the  actual  pain 
of  loss  was  greatly  aggravated  by 
some  publications  which  appeared 
shortly  after  Lessing's  death,  impugn- 
ing his  sincerity  and  religious  feeling. 
Germany,  as  Goethe  once  bitterly 
remarked,  needs  time  to  be  thankful. 
In  the  first  year  or  two  following 
his  death  it  was  too  early  to  expect 
gratitude  from  his  country  for  the 
lustre  his  talents  had  shed  on  it. 
Some  of  the  pamphlets  would  make  it 
seem  that  it  was  too  early  even  for 
decency.  Mendelssohn  vigorously  took 
up  the  cudgels  for  his  dead  friend ;  too 


310 


Moses  Mendelssohn 


vigorously  perhaps,  since  Kant  re- 
marked that  "it  is  Mendelssohn's 
fault,  if  Jacobi  (the  most  notorious  of 
the  assailants)  should  now  consider 
himself  a  philosopher."  To  Mendels- 
sohn's warm-hearted  generous  nature  it 
would,  however,  have  been  impossible  to 
remain  silent  when  one  whom  he  knew 
to  be  tolerant,  earnest,  and  sincere  in 
the  fullest  sense  of  those  words  of 
highest  praise,  was  accused  of  "  covert 
Spinozism ;"  a  charge  which  again  was 
broadly  rendered,  by  these  wretched 
ignorant  interpreters  of  a  language 
they  failed  to  understand,  as  atheism 
and  hypocrisy.  This  was  his  last 


literary  work.  It  shows  no  sign  of 
decaying  powers ;  it  is  full  of  pathos, 
of  wit,  of  clear  close  reasoning,  and 
of  brilliant  satire ;  yet  nevertheless 
it  was  his  monument  as  well  as  his 
friend's.  He  took  the  manuscript 
to  his  publisher  in  the  last  day  of 
the  year  1785  ;  and  in  the  first  week 
of  the  New  Year  1786,  still  only  fifty- 
six  years  old,  he  quietly  and  pain- 
lessly died.  That  last  work  seems 
to  make  a  beautiful  and  fitting  end 
to .  his  life  ;  a  life  which  truly  adds  a 
worthy  stanza  to  what  Herder  calls 
"  the  greatest  poem  of  all  time — the 
history  of  the  Jews." 


311 


THE  AROLLIAD;1 

AN     EPIC     OF     THE     ALPS. 
AUGUST  20,  1885. 

IN  the  guest-house  at  Aro'lla  sat  Caleb  and  Outis,2  and  with  them, 
Browned  by  Italian  suns,  and  longing  for  home  and  for  England, 
Cedric  the  blond,  and  Mentor  the  whilom  Fellow  of  All  Souls : 
Came  they  from  regions  diverse,  but  in  Harrow  their  hearts  were  united. 

Outspake  Cedric  the  tall,  broad-shouldered,  strong  as  a  giant, 
Gentle  I  ween  were  his  words,  but  his  heart  was  as  stout  as  his  limbs  were. 

"  Many  the  cities  and  men  we  have  seen,  many  wearisome  journeys 
Made  with  unparalleled  speed,  and  homeward  our  footsteps  are  tending ; 
Yet  would  I,  ere  the  close,  some  deed  of  prowess  accomplish 
Here  on  the  Alpine  heights.     Not  for  me  is  the  Matterhorn's  summit, 
No,  nor  the  dire  Dent  Blanche.     'Tis  not  in  my  feats  I  would  glory, 
But  that  I  fain  would  see  what  others  have  seen  and  delight  in. 
Who  will  go  over  with  me  by  the  snows  and  the  ice  into  Zermatt  ?  " 

Gently  then  stroking  his  nose,  with  a  smile  that  was  bland  and  superior, 
Mentor  thus  made  reply  :  " I  grow  old,  I've  a  wife,  I  have  children; 
Think  of  the  baby  at  home,  and  of  Millicent,  Edith,  and  Annie, 
Think  of  my  nock  untended,  and  tempt  me  no  longer  to  danger. 
Slippery  ice  I  detest,  sharp  rocks,  and  the  rending  of  garments. 
Hold  me  excused,  an  you  love  me.     The  way  too  is  short  for  my  liking : 
Give  me  the  long  railway  journey,  the  heat  and  the  dust  of  the  highway." 

Next  spake  Caleb,  the  wily,  with  smells  scientific  acquainted : 
Grimly  he  turned  up  his  nose,  and  his  smile  was  serenely  sardonic : 
"  No  Alp  climber  am  I ;  '  Alp  viewer '  you  rather  may  call  me. 
Precious  to  me  are  my  bones,  and  whole  I  prefer  them ;  but  you  may 
Go  to  the  crows  if  you  wish  it,  or  Jericho ;  my  mountaineering 
'  Harris '  3  does  for  me  at  present ;  and  yet  in  the  far  distant  future 
I  too  may  turn  mountaineer, — when  I  steer  a  balloon  o'er  the  Andes. 
Meanwhile  precious  to  me  the  resources  of  civilization, 
Telegraph  posts  are  a  feast  to  my  eyes,  and  the  safe  locomotive." 
Such  were  the  words  of  the  wily,  the  framer  of  gibes  scientific. 

Gently  the  rest  all  smiled,  and  remarked,  "  It  is  Caleb  ! "  but  Outis 
Turned  him  to  Cedric  the  tall,  and  said  "  I  will  go  with  thee  to  Zermatt. 
True  I  am  no  mountaineer,  but  the  air  of  the  ice-fields  is  cooler, 
Cooler  by  far  than  Yisp  and  the  fly-haunted  chambers  of  Sion.4 

1  Critics  of  a  future  age  will  beware  of  confounding  the  '  Arolliad'  with  the  'Rolliad,' 
the  political  poem  of  a  century  ago. 

2  Outis,  or  No-man :  the  name  under  which  Ulysses  disguised  himself  in  the  cave  of   the 
Cyclops. 

3  Readers  of  the  '  Tramp  Abroad '  will  recognize  in  '  Harris '  the  '  fidus  Achates '  of  Mark 
Twain,  who  preferred  doing  his  mountains  by  proxy  in  the  person  of  Harris  to  climbing  them 
himself. 

4  Visitors  to  the  Rhone  valley  need  not  be  told  that  the  populations  of  Visp  and  Sion,  and 
of  other  towns  in  that  valley  during  the  summer  months,  consist  mainly  of  flies. 


312  The  Arolliad. 

Let  us  call  Joseph  the  Hun,1  and  his  worship  *  the  Judge ' ; 2  they  may  haply 
Find  us  a  true,  stout  man,  who  shall  guide  us  aright  into  Zermatt; 
Let  him  be  strong  and  stout,  lest  a  trip  of  the  earth-shaking  Saxon 
TJs,  ourselves  and  our  guide,  engulf  in  abysmal  crevasses." 
Such  was  the  council  of  war,  and  such  the  words  of  the  speakers. 

But  when  the  evening  fell  o'er  the  dark-feathered  pines  of  Arolla, 
Early  to  bed  they  hied  them,  for  early  the  start  on  the  morrow. 
Half -past  two  by  the  clock  was  the  hour  they  had  fixed  for  departure, 
Trusting  the  promise  of  Joseph,  the  flat-visaged  Hun,  and  the  porter. 
False  was  the  promise  of  Joseph,  and  heavy  the  eyes  of  the  porter, 
False,  boot-polishing  knave.     But  ere  half-past  three  they  had  started 
Into  the  darkness  of  night,  and  blindly  they  groped  in  the  darkness. 
"With  them,  in  front,  as  they  went,  with  his  brother  went  Martin  Metrailler, 
Summoned  from  green  Evolena,  professional  climber  of  mountains. 
Handsome  was  Martin  and  tall,  narrow-faced,  wide-chested,  and  lissom, 
Ready  to  help  when  the  need  was,  a  courteous  man  and  a  sure  one : 
Brown  were  his  chin  and  moustache,  and  tawny  his  skin,  as  a  Kaffir's. 

Forth  they  went  into  the  night  from  the  pine-clad  slopes  of  Arolla, 
Threading  their  way  over  boulder  and  stream,  and  around  and  above  them 
Infinite  shimmer  of  starlight  and  infinite  roar  of  the  torrents. 
Forty  long  minutes  were  sped,  and  the  glacier's  back  they  were  mounting, 
Mid  the  grey  glimmer  of  ice  and  of  snow,  in  ghostly  procession. 
Brightly  the  Bear  of  the  North  and  the  spangled  belt  of  Orion 
Shone  with  a  distant  light,  and  the  myriad  hosts  of  the  star-world, 
Strange,  inscrutable,  cold  ;  nor  of  aught  that  was  kindly  they  whispered, 
Gleamed  they  never  so  brightly.     But  one  fair  star  in  the  gloaming 
Peeping  all  shyly  upon  them,  athwart  the  shoulder  of  Collon, — 
One  particular  star  in  the  midst  of  an  alien  concourse, — 
Beamed  with  a  friendly  regard  :  so,  flashing  a  glance  sympathetic, 
Heart  speaks  voiceless  to  heart  in  assemblies  of  men  and  of  women. 

Soon   the   moraine   they  had   struck,   and   o'er  rocks    big   as   houses  they 

clambered, 

Then  up  the  rough  hill-side,  and  their  breath  came  in  gasps  :  and  below  them 
Down  on  the  glacier's  face,  to  the  foot  of  the  Collon  ascending, 
Travellers  three  they  descry  :  stout  men  though  they  were  and  good  climbers, 
Painfully  crawling  flies,  by  the  distance  enchanted,  they  deemed  them. 
Here  the  last  vestige  is  lost  of  the  pine-crowned  vale  of  Arolla ;  • 
Boulder  again  and  snow  and  the  face  of  the  Col  is  before  them 
Far  up  a  steep  slope  of  ice,  with  crevasses  abysmal  indented. 
Slowly  above  in  the  heaven  the  ineffectual  starlight 

Paled  ;  and  the  flush  of  the  dawn  had  illumined  the  peaks,  as  their  feet  stood 
Now  on  the  glacier's  edge,  in  the  mountain  valley  of  Bertol. 

Then  spake  Martin  the  prudent,  whose  home  is  in  green  Evolena  : 
"  Come,  let  us  rope  us  together,  with  good  English  rope,  that  our  strength  may 
Be  as  the  strength  of  four,  and  that  each  one  may  help  his  companions." 
So  spake  Martin  the  sage,  on  the  glacier's  edge  :  and  they  roped  them. 
Martin,  with  ice-axe  in  hand  and  the  rope  round  his  waist,  was  the  foremost, 
Then  followed  Outis,  and  Cedric,  and  Joseph  the  brother  of  Martin. 

And  as  a  ship  on  the  sea  in  a  head-wind  labours,  and  hardly, 
Tacking  now  right  and  now  left,  with  many  a  devious  winding, 

1  There  is  a  tradition  that  a  colony  of  Huns  settled  in  the  Arolla  valley,  and  the  names 
places  in  it  are  said  to  indicate  this.     Certainly  the  physiognomy  of  some  of  its  best-known 
inhabitants  gives  support  to  such  a  belief. 

2  '  Mine  host '  of  Arolla  is  also  guide  and  J.P.  of  the  district. 


The  Arolliad.  313 

Wins  her  way  o'er  the  watery  waste  :  so  then  did  Metrailler, 

Keen-eyed,  now  to  the  right  and  now  to  the  left,  the  crevasses 

Warily  ever  avoid ;  thus  obliquely  they  mounted  and  slowly. 

Now  and  again  with  his  axe  he  hewed  for  them  steps,  and  the  ice  rang 

Clear  to  the  tingling  heights ;  and  at  last  with  laborious  effort 

Up  a  sheer  wall,  of  rock  and  of  ice,  he  clambers,  and  firmly 

Planting  himself  in  his  steps,  hales  after  him  Outis  and  Cedric, 

Cedric  the  tall,  wide-chested,  whose  limbs  were  as  stout  as  his  heart  was. 

Oh !  but  the  icy  North  Wind  struck  home  through  the  joints  of  their  harness, 

While  they  were  climbing.     A  step  :  and  the  Sun  and  the  South  were  before 

them, 

Warmth,  Hyperborean  splendour,  and  blinding  glare  of  the  snowfields. 
Full  to  the  front  rose  the  Matterhorn's  peak,  unapproachable,  peerless. 
Here  for  a  while  they  rested  and  drank  the  red  wine  of  Arolla, 
Feasting  their  eyes  and  their  hearts  with  the  view :  nor  long  did  they  linger, 
When  they  had  taken  away  the  desire  of  eating  and  drinking. 
Onward  they  fared  to  the  South,  black-spectacled,  marching  in  order ; 
Crisp  was  the  snow,  and  in  ripples  it  lay,  white  crested,  in  furrows 
Plowed  with  the  plow  of  the  wind,  while  sparkling  crystals  of  ice  flash'd 
Bright  in  the  bright  sunshine,  but  of  life  no  vestige  apparent 
Showed  on  the  wintry  face  of  those  wilds,  no  roaring  of  torrents 
Varied  that  stillness  unearthly,  no  cry  or  of  eagle  or  chamois. 
Endless  the  levels  of  snow,  and  the  cloudless  expanse  of  the  heavens 
Rivalled  the  gentian's  blue,  and  the  wine-dark  depths  of  the  Ocean. 

Slowly  they  gain  Tete  Blanche :  not  steep  was  the  climb,  but  incessant. 
Many  and  short  were  their  steps,  and  weary  they  grew  in  their  upward 
Course,  till  at  last  they  reached  the  crown  of  the  white-headed  mountain. 
Italy  lay  at  their  feet,  but  the  clouds  stood  white  in  her  hollows, 
Envious  guards  of  her  beauty.     Nor  long  did  the  travellers  linger 
There  on  the  wind-swept  top,  but  away  to  Col  d' Kerens  glissading, 
Sliding  and  slipping  and  bounding,  in  order  disorderly  hurried ; 
Easy  I  ween  the  descent,  like  the  fabled  descent  to  Avernus. 
But  when  they  came  to  the  Col,  perpendicular  rocks  and  an  ice- wall 
Led  to  the  glacier's  brink,  and  again  the  strong  arm  of  Metrailler 
Hewed  for  them  steps  in  the  ice,  and  safely  in  turn  they  descended. 
Thence  down  the  glacier's  face,  where  they  daintily  probed  the  crevasses, 
Passing  the  hut  of  the  Stock je,  and  hard  by  the  Matterhorn's  shoulder, 
Down  the  moraine  of  the  Zmutt,  under  many  an  aery  cornice, 
Many  a  pendulous  arch  of  the  wind-swept  snows  of  the  mountain, 
Into  the  green  alp-meadows,  embowered  in  odorous  pine  trees, 
Mid  the  soft  jangling  of  bells  and  the  rills'  multitudinous  echoes, 
Down  to  the  valley  they  came,  to  the  long  sought  valley  of  Zermatt. 


314 


MATTERS  IN  BURMAH. 


MR.  GLADSTONE,  the  most  powerful 
minister  of  modern  times,  after  sur- 
viving charges  of  having  brought 
England  within  measurable  distance  of 
war  with  France,  Russia,  and  the 
Boers;  of  causing  Austria,  Turkey, 
and  Egypt  to  be  hostile,  and  Ireland 
more  impracticable  than  ever  ;  of  de- 
liberately betraying  Gordon  to  death ; 
and  of  being  too  late  in  all  his  nego- 
tiations and  expeditions  ;  fell  on  an 
insignificant  issue — the  Beer  question. 
So  his  Great  Glorious  and  most  Excel- 
lent Majesty,  Lord  of  the  Celestial 
Elephant  and  of  many  White  Ele- 
phants, &c.,  &c.,  author  of  the  atrocious 
massacres  which  appalled  Christendom 
a  few  years  ago;  whose  subsequent 
barbarous  eccentricities  are  notorious  ; 
whose  "  reign  has  been  marked 
throughout  by  a  violation  of  treaties ; 
by  acts  of  aggression  on  the  British 
frontier ;  by  outrages  on  British  sub- 
jects, and  injustice  to  British  trade  ;  " 
fell  on  an  equally  contemptible  issue 
— the  "  Shoe  Question  "  I 

Matter-of-fact  people  may  assert 
that  the  perverse  impracticability  of 
King  Theebaw  brought  on  the  war. 
They  may  also  urge  that  the  admirable 
proclamation  issued  by  General  Pren- 
dergast  furnishes  an  unanswerable  and 
exhaustive  indictment  against  his 
majesty.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  may  be  answered  that  the  many 
grievous  sins  preferred  against  the 
Great  Chief  of  Righteousness  have 
been  practically  condoned ;  and  that 
no  novel  features  present  them- 
selves to  explain  the  necessity  of 
waging  war  with  him,  when  we  com- 
plaisantly  accepted  the  situation  at  a 
time  the  relations  between  the  two 


countries  were  apparently  much  more 
strained. 

The  manifesto  somewhat  vaguely 
indicates  an  important  factor  which 
hastened  the  crisis,  but  is  absolutely 
silent  on  the  crucial  point  of  our 
difference  with  his  Majesty  of  the 
Golden  Foot,  which  did  undoubtedly 
bring  the  situation  to  a  climax.  The 
"  external  policy  systematically  op- 
posed to  British  interests,"  to  which  it 
takes  exception,  refers  of  course  to 
French  intrigues  which  have  long 
exercised  us,  and  whose  significance 
has  been  accentuated  by  the  part 
recently  played  by  the  French  repre- 
sentative at  Mandalay.  Deep-laid 
schemes  of  Franco-Burman  diplomacy, 
challenging  our  right  of  interference, 
and  calculated  to  undermine  our  legi- 
timate power  of  controlling  political 
affairs  connected  with  Upper  Burmah, 
made  intervention  absolutely  impera- 
tive. And  so,  by  the  exquisite  irony  of 
Fate,  it  came  to  pass  that  the  arch- 
apostle  of  non-intervention,  after  his 
great  forbearance  had  been  taxed  to 
the  utmost,  was  at  last  constrained  to 
issue  an  ultimatum,  which,  though 
studiously  moderate  in  tone  and  non- 
aggressive  to  ordinary  readers,  is 
identical  with  a  declaration  of  war  to 
those  who  can  read  between  the  lines. 

This  ultimatum  may  thus  be  sum- 
marised : — 

(1)  That  an  envoy  from  the  Yice- 
roy  and    Governor-General    shall  be 
suitably    received  at  Mandalay,  and 
that  the  present  dispute  between  your 
Government  and  the  Bombay-Burmah 
Trading  Corporation  shall  be  settled 
with  his  concurrence. 

(2)  That  all     action    against    the 


Matters  in  Burmah. 


315 


Bombay-Burmah  Trading  Corporation 
shall  be  suspended  till  the  envoy 
arrives. 

(3)  That  for  the  future  a  diplo- 
matic agent  from  the  Viceroy  shall 
reside  at  Mandalay,  who  shall  receive 
becoming  treatment  at  the  hands  of 
your  Government,  and  shall  be  sup- 
plied by  the  British  Government  with 
a  British  guard  of  honour  and  a 
steamer. 

To  this  the  Burmese  answered  in 
effect,  (1)  That  representatives  of  the 
British  Government  shall,  as  hitherto, 
be  treated  with  becoming  honour  and 
respect ;  and  (2)  that  the  Trading  Com- 
pany has  its  remedy  by  an  appeal  to 
the  Hlotdaw,  or  High  Court,  praying 
it  to  reconsider  its  decree. 

If  King  Theebaw  were  accustomed 
to  govern  and  to  treat  European 
envoys  in  European  fashion,  this  reply 
would  be  unanswerable ;  for  it  may  be 
assumed  that  the  bare  insinuation  that 
an  envoy  may  not  be  properly  received 
is  as  much  outside  the  pale  of  civilised 
diplomacy  as  the  suggestion  of  super- 
seding the  decree  of  a  foreign  Court  of 
Appeal  by  requiring  the  matter  at 
issue  to  be  heard  over  again,  and 
decided  by  one's  own  judge.  Even 
taking  for  granted  General  Prender- 
gast's  assumption  that  the  Burmese 
rejoinder  was  evasive,  and  that  a 
hostile  proclamation  was  fulminated 
by  Theebaw  as  a  counterblast  to  our 
warlike  preparations,  the  same  things 
have  happened  often  enough  before, 
without  impressing  on  the  English 
Government  the  necessity  or  expedi- 
ency of  carrying  fire  and  sword  into 
Tipper  Burmah.  But  Theebaw,  un- 
fortunately for  himself,  did  not  so 
govern,  nor  was  he  in  the  least 
inclined  to  treat  European  envoys  as 
they  are  wont  to  be  treated  at  civilised 
courts. 

Representatives  of  the  most  power- 
ful sovereigns  in  the  world  were  not 
vouchsafed  an  audience  with  the  Lord 
of  the  Rising  Sun  unless  they  removed 
their  boots,  or,  in  diplomatic  language, 
submitted  to  the  "  humiliating  cir- 


cumstances "  referred  to  in  the  text  of 
the  ultimatum. 

The  Burmese,  if  pressed  home, 
would  probably  declare  that  they  have 
not  the  slightest  notion  what  our 
Government  meant  by  the  term  to 
which  they  took  exception.  They 
might  urge  with  a  semblance  of  truth 
that  our  envoys  have  hitherto  ex- 
pressed themselves  satisfied  with  the 
treatment  accorded  them  by  the  Bur- 
mese court,  and  that  no  objection  has 
been  ever  yet  made  thereto  by  the 
English  Government. 

Stern,  uncompromising,  and  precise 
as  the  ultimatum  undoubtedly  was  in 
other  respects,  it  did  not  define  what 
was  meant  by  the  phrase,  "  humilia- 
ting circumstances,"  but  took  for 
granted  that  the  Burmese  would 
understand  it.  This  assumption  was 
correct.  They  knew  perfectly  well 
that  the  allusion  could  only  apply  to 
what  is  known  as  the  "  Shoe  Question," 
whose  favourable  settlement,  from  a 
European  standpoint,  has  frequently 
been  pressed  on  their  notice  by  both 
English  officials  and  others;  though 
our  own  Government  has  never  before 
properly  asserted  itself  in  the  matter. 

Finding,  however,  they  had  lost  the 
substance,  they  clung  to  this  shadow 
of  assumed  superiority  with  insane 
infatuation.  So  much  so,  that,  though 
many  thought  that  King  Mengdoon 
might  have  been  induced  to  yield  this 
point  on  the  occasion  of  the  despatch 
of  our  Queen's  reply  to  his  Majesty's 
letter,  if  its  reception  in  European 
fashion  had  been  made  inevitable, 
others  were  fully  convinced  at  the 
time  that  this  absurd  pretension  had 
become  such  an  integral  part  of  the 
constitution,  that  the  king's  conces- 
sion would  have  been  tantamount  to 
his  own  instant  abdication.  And 
Theebaw's  defiant  attitude  certainly 
favours  this  idea,  if  it  does  not 
actually  confirm  it. 

A  matter  of  settling  accounts  with 
a  trading  company  could  have  been 
easily  adjusted  without  compromising 
his  majesty's  dignity.  But,  unfortu- 


316 


Matters  in  Burmah. 


nately  for  Theebaw,  our  Government 
cut  the  Gordian  knot,  by  insisting  in 
effect,  though  not  actually  in  words, 
that  its  representative  should  be  re- 
ceived by  the  king,  as  is  customary  at 
civilised  courts,  not  crouching  on  the 
floor  as  a  suppliant,  divested  of  his 
sword  and  boots.  To  modify  an  ancient 
and  ridiculous  custom,  held  to  be  de- 
grading by  all  Europeans,  was  more 
than  the  King  of  Zampoodeepa,  with 
all  his  boasted  power,  could  concede 
with  impunity ;  and  so,  probably  very 
much  against  his  own  will,  Theebaw 
was  obliged  to  fight. 

If  Burmese  historians  may  be  be- 
lieved, the  custom  of  removing  the 
boots  before  appearing  in  the  Royal 
presence  dates  from  the  very  earliest 
times.  They  significantly  refer  to  a 
precedent  which  occurred  A.D.  1281, 
when  ten  Chinese  envoys  are  said  to 
have  been  beheaded  because  they  in- 
sisted on  wearing  their  boots  when 
granted  a  royal  audience.  But  Bur- 
mese courtiers  are  discreetly  silent  on 
the  terrible  retribution  which  followed. 
The  Emperor  of  China  despatched  a 
vast  army,  which  took  possession  of 
Pugan,  in  those  days  the  capital  of 
Burmah,  routed  the  Burmese  troops, 
and  pursued  them  to  a  place  which 
to  this  day  is  called  Tarophmaw,  or 
Chinese  Point.  The  conduct  of  some 
of  our  envoys,  and  of  the  Government 
which  despatched  them,  does  not,  it 
must  be  owned,  compare  favourably 
with  the  firmness  displayed  by  the 
redoubtable  and  independent  Chinese 
and  their  resolute  emperor.  Indeed, 
the  record  of  the  slights,  indignities, 
and  impositions  our  representatives 
have  been  made  to  suffer  at  the  hands 
of  the  Burmese,  and  the  scant  support 
and  protection  vouchsafed  them  by 
their  own  Government,  is  anything  but 
pleasant  reading  for  an  Englishman. 

Of  these,  perhaps,  the  "  Shoe  Ques- 
tion "  was  the  most  intolerable.  The 
physical  discomfort  of  having  to  mount 
the  filthy  palace  steps,  and  traverse 
dusty  and  roughly-boarded  corridors 
unshod,  was  bad  enough ;  but  the 


unpleasant  necessity  was  undoubtedly 
aggravated  by  the  knowledge  that  our 
outwardly  polite  conductors  inwardly 
chuckled  at  the  mortification  of  the 
Kulas,  or  Western  foreigners. 

Unsophisticated  Burmans,  prone  to 
grovel  before  even  a  palm-leaf  in- 
scribed with  a  royal  order,  and  to 
make  humble  obeisance  not  only  to 
the  king,  but  also  to  the  spire  that 
marks  the  centre  of  the  palace  of  the 
City  of  Gems,  of  Burmah,  of  Zampoo- 
deepa, and,  therefore,  of  the  world, 
cannot  in  the  least  realise  why  we 
should  cavil  •  at  the  simple  act  of  re- 
moving our  boots,  which  the  highest 
in  the  land  accept  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  even  deem  a  privilege. 
But  others,  who  have  travelled  in 
civilised  countries,  and  are  well 
acquainted  with  European  customs, 
though  distinguished  for  their  courtesy 
in  ordinary  intercourse  with  Euro- 
peans, seem  to  take  a  fiendish  delight 
in  carrying  out  this  absurd  etiquette 
of  the  most  arrogant  court  in  the 
world,  whose  code  is  to  humble  all 
who  resort  thereto,  by  way  of  im- 
pressing on  them  a  due  sense  of  the 
exalted  dignity,  glory,  honour,  and 
power  of  the  sovereign. 

Burmese  ideas  regarding  history 
and  cosmography  are,  it  need  hardly 
be  said,  very  different  from  ours. 
Nevertheless,  the  people  have  a 
general,  if  superficial,  knowledge  of 
these  subjects,  based  on  traditional 
records  learned  from  earliest  infancy, 
by  means  of  their  dramatical  perform- 
ances, which  have  for  them  a  wonder- 
ful fascination,  and  also  considerable 
influence  in  forming  and  developing  the 
national  character.  Maha  Thumada, 
and  other  immortal  heroes  whose  ex- 
ploits are  glorified  in  their  dramas, 
have  a  lasting  hold  on  their  imagina- 
tion. With  us  the  names  of  Odin  and 
Thor,  Trigga  and  Iduna,  are  names 
only,  though  their  deeds  of  potency 
remain  to  cast  a  spell  on  all  the 
nurseries  of  northern  Europe.  All  the 
witch  and  dragon  lore  which  Odin  and 
the  Asur  brought  from  the  East,  exist 


Matters  in  Biirmcik. 


317 


under  new  names  in  the  nursery  lore 
of  our  infancy  \  in  '  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer/  'Cinderella/  'Blue  Beard/ 
'The  Giant  who  smelt  the  blood  of 
an  Englishman/  '  Puss  in  Boots/  &c. 
We  matter-of-fact  Westerns,  it  is  true, 
discard  these  tales  when  we  leave  the 
nursery;  but  to  the  more  romantic 
Easterns  they  show  themselves  ever 
in  a  renewed  and  immortal  bloom. 

This  idiosyncrasy,  weakness,  or 
whatever  it  may  be  termed,  which, 
like  our  remote  ancestors,  the  Burmese 
possess,  cannot  be  disposed  of  casually 
as  a  trivial  psychological  truism  ;  but 
must  be  accepted  as  an  important 
factor  in  enabling  us  to  decide  the 
weighty  problem  of  governing  an 
independent,  impulsive,  high-spirited 
and  naturally  proud  people,  the  guid- 
ance of  whose  destinies,  for  good  or 
evil,  we  have  now  assumed. 

The  Burmese  are  fully  convinced 
that  their  name  not  only  estab- 
lishes indisputably  their  claim  to  be 
the  most  ancient  and  the  most 
noble  people  in  the  world,  but  is 
also  positive  proof  of  their  celestial 
origin.  The  'Maha  Yaza  Wen/  or 
great  chronicle  of  kings,  based  on 
Hindu  records,  more  or  less  obscured 
by  their  own  interpolations,  declares 
them  to  be  descended  from  the  Byamas, 
who  once  occupied  the  blessed  regions 
of  the  Rupa,  and  were  tempted  to 
leave  their  celestial  abodes  for  our 
world  soon  after  its  destruction  and 
re-creation. 

A  generally  accepted  law  in  their 
cosmogony,  is  that  a  revolution  in 
nature,  termed  Lawka,  meaning 
destruction  and  reproduction,  causes 
one  world  to  succeed  another.  The 
remote  and  moral  causes  of  the  world's 
destruction  are  said  to  be  lust,  anger, 
and  ignorance,  from  which  spring 
three  other  immediate  and  physical 
causes,  fire,  water,  and  wind.  When 
the  world  was  last  created,  a  substance 
of  delicious  taste  and  perfume,  like 
the  food  of  the  Nats  or  demigods,  and 
in  appearance  like  the  soft  skin  which 
forms  on  boiled  milk,  came  first  on  the 


surface  of  the  water,  and  then  gave  a 
pungent  aroma  to  the  earth.  Its 
savour  ascended  to  the  heavenly 
abodes  of  the  Byamas,  who,  not 
satisfied  with  heavenly  manna  and 
the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  flying 
about  in  heavens  lit  by  the  effulgence 
of  their  own  bodies,  came  down  to 
earth  to  taste  the  creamlike  substance 
that  had  formed  thereon.  The  result 
was  disastrous  ;  for  by  eating  ib  their 
bodies  became  heavy,  dull  and  opaque, 
and  their  hearts  full  of  envy,  hatred, 
malice  and  all  uncharitableness.  Then, 
in  punishment  for  their  misdeeds,  this 
upper  crust  disappeared  and  was  gra- 
dually replaced  by  coarser  foods,  the 
acquisition  of  which  caused  "  theft, 
lying,  railing  and  punishment  to 
become  rife."  The  Byamas,  finding 
affairs  had  come  to  this  pass,  took 
counsel  together  and  agreed  to  select  a 
ruler,  who  should  be  a  judge  over  all 
matters,  with  power  to  reward  the 
good  and  to  punish  the  wicked.  They 
accordingly  chose  a  man,  who,  like 
Saul,  excelled  all  other  men  in  stature 
and  symmetry,  an  embryo  Budh,  of 
great  wisdom,  piety  and  force  of 
character,  agreeing  to  submit  to  his 
rule  and  allot  him  one  tenth  of  their 
produce.  His  name  was  Maha  Thamada, 
and  from  him,  if  we  are  to  believe  the 
'  Maha  Yaza  Wen/  Theebaw  can  claim 
descent  in  regular  sequence. 

Even  in  an  age  distinguished  for 
the  encouragement  given  to  the  study 
of  geography,  the  fellows  of  all  the 
geographical  societies  in  Europe  would 
probably  be  sadly  at  a  loss  if  asked  to 
indicate  on  any  of  their  maps  the  king- 
doms of  Thoonaparanta  and  Tumpa- 
deepa ;  much  more  so  if  called  on  to 
furnish  a  local  habitation  and  a  name 
for  even  one  of  the  great  umbrella- 
bearing  chiefs  of  eastern  countries 
referred  to  in  the  King  of  Burmah's 
numerous  titles. 

An  elucidation  of  the  mystery  is, 
however,  to  be  found  in  Burmese 
cosmography,  which  appears  to  be 
fundamentally  that  of  the  Hindoos  ; 
but  the  imaginations  of  its  teachers 


318 


Matters  in  Burmah. 


have  developed  the  immensities  of  the 
latter  with  variations. 

In  the  centre  of  our  present  mun- 
dane system  is,  they  say,  the  Mount 
Myenmo  of  fabulous  height,  surrounded 
by  seven  concentric  ranges.  Round 
these  the  sun,  moon  and  stars  revolve. 
At  the  four  cardinal  points  of  Mount 
Myenmo  are  four  great  islands,  each 
having  five  hundred  dependent  islets. 
One  of  these  is  Zampoodeepa  (erro- 
neously written  Tumpadeepa),  so  called 
from  a  gigantic  and  sacred  Eugenia  tree 
thereon,  which  is  twelve  hundred  miles 
in  length,  one  hundred  and  eighty-six 
miles  in  circumference,  with  five  prin- 
cipal branches,  each  six  hundred  miles 
long.  This  Zampoodeepa,  or  great 
southern  island,  is  held  to  have  been 
under  the  beneficent  sway  of  his  Great, 
Glorious  and  most  Excellent  Majesty, 
their  most  Gracious  Sovereign  recently 
deposed.  Burmese  authorities  differ 
as  to  the  exact  position  of  Thuna- 
paranta,  while  there  is  a  general  con- 
census of  opinion  among  Western  geo- 
graphers that  it  is  identical  with  the 
Auria  Regie  of  Ptolemy,  or  Indo- 
China.  "We  must  content  ourselves, 
therefore,  with  knowing  that  Thuna- 
paranta  must,  at  any  rate,  be  situated 
in  that  part  of  the  world  called 
Zampoodeepa  and  its  surrounding  five 
hundred  islets.  To  this  knowledge 
Burmese  cosmography  helps  us  by  for- 
bidding all  communication  between 
the  four  great  islands,  owing  to  the 
tempestuous  seas  of  Thamodra,  or  the 
great  mid-ocean,  whose  waves  are 
often  mountains  high,  wherein  fearful 
whirlpools  are  apt  to  engulph  adven- 
turous mariners ;  not  to  speak  of  the 
Leviathans,  leagues  in  length,  that 
sport  therein.  But  the  English  and 
other  Europeans,  who  are  said  to 
inhabit  some  of  the  small  islands,  are 
able  to  visit  Burmah,  China  and  India, 
owing  to  the  comparative  tranquillity 
of  the  seas  which  encompass  these 
dependencies  of  Zampoodeepa. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  other  three 
islands  live,  it  is  said,  from  five  hun- 
dred to  one  thousand  years  without 


care  of  any  kind,  and  die  tranquilly  at 
the  end  of  their  allotted  time  to  be 
born  again  in  the  same  island.  They 
neither  ascend  into  the  superior 
heavens,  nor  descend  into  hell,  and 
have  neither  aspirations  nor  fears. 
Burmese  divines,  however,  teach  that 
their  lot  ought  not  to  be  envied  by 
the  people  of  Zampoodeepa,  who,  by 
the  merit  of  pious  deeds  can  not  only 
win  for  themselves  exalted  seats  in 
the  realms  of  the  Nats  or  demi-gods, 
but  can  attain  to  the  perfect  state  of 
Neikban  or  Nirvana. 

Having  absolutely  nothing  in  the 
way  of  literature,  excepting  their  plays 
and  the  fabulous  history  already  men- 
tioned, which  only  deigns  to  take 
notice  of  events  flattering  to  their 
pride,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  Bur- 
mese have  an  exceedingly  good  opinion 
of  themselves.  With  unparalleled  self- 
complaisance,  they  are  superbly  happy 
in  the  firm  conviction  that  they  are 
wiser,  braver,  handsomer,  and  better 
than  any  other  people  in  the  world. 
Hence,  unlike  many  Asiatics,  they  are 
not  a  fawning  race.  Naturally  idle,  and, 
as  a  rule,  having  neither  perseverance 
nor  fixity  of  purpose,  discipline  or 
any  regular  employment  is  most  irk- 
some to  them.  As  soldiers  they  are 
therefore  altogether  impracticable, 
and  almost  equally  so  as  domestic 
servants. 

These  defects  of  character  are  also 
prejudicial  to  their  success  in  mecha- 
nical arts.  A  Burman  will  often  try 
his  hand  at  various  methods  of  obtain- 
ing a  livelihood,  and  not  infrequently 
in  the  wane  of  life  will  settle  himself 
down  as  a  doctor,  a  profession  that 
combines  dignity  with  profit,  and 
requires,  in  Burmah,  no  previous 
training.  He  may  accordingly  be 
styled  "  Jack  of  all  trades  and  master 
of  none,"  except  in  the  cases  of  those 
past-masters  of  arts,  such  as  carving 
and  jewellers'  work,  which  require  a 
long  apprenticeship  and  steady  ap- 
plication. 

Though  the  material  prosperity  of 
British  subjects  has  much  increased, 


Matters  in  Burmah. 


319 


contact  with  civilisation  has  had  a 
demoralising  effect  on  many  of 
the  rising  generation.  Temperate, 
abstemious  and  hardy  as  the  rural 
population  is,  indulgence  in  the  use  of 
opium  and  spirits,  fostered  by  the  per- 
nicious traffic  carried  on  under  the 
aegis  of  British  authority,  has  been 
attended  in  the  towns  with  disastrous 
results,  both  moral  and  physical. 
Reverence  for  age  and  respect  for 
parents,  which  used  to  be  such  a 
charming  trait  in  the  character  of 
Burmese  youth,  is  now,  say  the  elders, 
conspicuous  by  its  absence ;  while  dis- 
sipation and  unbridled  license,  alas ! 
tell  their  sad  tales  on  hitherto  iron 
constitutions. 

Inveterate  gamblers,  the  Burmese 
are  ready  to  stake  everything  they 
possess  on  chance,  and  under  the 
native  regime  even  their  wives,  chil- 
dren and  their  own  liberty  were  thus 
hazarded.  Hence  the  lottery  mania, 
due,  it  is  said,  to  Italian  teaching, 
which  more  or  less  ruined  the 
country. 

In  spite  of  these  defects  and  short- 
comings the  Burmese  possess  many 
admirable  qualities,  which  enlist  the 
sympathy  and  interest  of  all  who  are 
brought  into  contact  with  them.  En- 
tirely free  from  all  prejudices  of  caste, 
they  make  no  difference  between  the 
despised  pariah  from  the  coast  of 
Coromandel  and  the  twice -born  Brah- 
min of  Benares.  All  men  with  them 
are  equal,  excepting  the  king,  his  minis- 
ters, and  the  priests.  Fraternising 
readily  with  Europeans,  "Jack  Bur- 
man "  is  a  prime  favourite  with 
"Tommy  Atkins"  and  Englishmen 
of  all  classes.  Strictly  tolerant  in 
matters  of  religion,  Christians,  Jews, 
Mohammedans,  Hindoos,  are  allowed 
to  practise  the  rites  of  their  several 
religions  without  let  or  hindrance. 
With  surprising  candour  their 
teachers  allow  that  Christianity  is 
almost  as  good  as  Buddhism,  but 
opine  that  the  former  suits  Europeans 
and  Americans,  and  the  latter  the 
people  of  Indo-China ;  therefore,  while, 


on  the  one  hand,  they  do  not  care  to 
attempt  the  conversion  of  Christians, 
on  the  other,  they  cannot  understand 
why  Christian  missionaries  should  not 
also  let  them  alone. 

No  calamity  is  so  overwhelming  as 
to  cause  the  Burman  to  despond. 
Buoyant  and  elastic,  he  soon  recovers 
from  personal  or  domestic  disaster. 
His  cattle  may  die  of  murrain,  his 
crops  may  be  destroyed,  his  house  and 
all  his  belongings  may  be  burned, 
without  putting  him  out  very  much. 
Like  Mark  Tapley,  he  is  "  jolly  "  under 
all  circumstances.  Few  Burmans  care 
to  amass  much  wealth,  and  when  one 
does  so  he  spends  most  of  it  in  build- 
ing pagodas,  monasteries,  caravan- 
saries, or  other  works  for  the  public 
benefit,  so  as  to  acquire  thereby  reli- 
gious merit  for  himself  and  his  future 
transmigrations.  But  though  riches 
have  no  charm  for  them,  they  are. 
and  especially  the  women,  great  dab- 
blers in  small  mercantile  ventures. 
They  are  also  distinguished  for  their 
great  public  spirit,  often  shown  at 
much  personal  sacrifice.  Were  it  not 
for  this  admirable  trait  in  their  cha- 
racter, the  general  community  would 
be  put  to  intolerable  inconvenience. 
For  the  Burmese  government  never 
provided  in  any  way  for  public  works, 
leaving  it  to  the  people  to  construct 
roads,  bridges,  wells,  ponds,  caravan- 
saries, and  the  like,  for  the  public 
utility.  Vanity,  or  ambition,  or  charity, 
or  perhaps  all  three  combined,  inspire 
the  people,  as  they  inspire  many 
public-spirited  people  with  ourselves, 
when  they  desire  to  be  public  bene- 
factors. But  whatever  their  motives 
the  public  certainly  profit  by  the 
results,  and  expresses  its  sense  of 
benefits  received  by  conferring  on  the 
donors  honorary  titles  much  esteemed 
by  the  recipients. 

The  Burman  has  an  amazing  apti- 
tude for  adapting  himself  to  circum- 
stances ;  so  much  so,  that  it  is  hardly 
too  much  to  say  that  if  the  humblest 
coolie  were  suddenly  •' made  a  grandee, 
he  would  comport  himself  in  his  new 


320 


Matters  in  Burmali. 


sphere  as  if  to  the  manner  born.  He 
is  generally  free  from  care.  A  boun- 
tiful soil  supplies  all  his  modest  wants 
with  little  labour.  Ambition  has  no 
charms  for  him,  and  so  he  jogs  through 
life,  merrily,  lazily,  and  aimlessly.  If 
the  Burman  has  not  actually  found 
the  philosopher's  stone,  he  has,  per- 
haps, more  nearly  succeeded  in  achiev- 
ing that  feat  than  any  other  member 
of  the  human  race. 

The  teachings  of  an  advanced  civi- 
lisation must  necessarily  dissipate  the 
fond  imaginings  inspired  by  the  drama 
and  the  '  Maha  Yaza  Wen. '  The  matter- 
of-fact  prose  of  everyday  life  must 


usurp  the  place  of  the  romantic  idylls 
of  the  past.  "Whether  the  result  be 
the  increased  happiness  and  real  wel- 
fare of  the  people  depends  much  on 
whether,  alive  to  our  vast  responsi- 
bilities, we  are  willing  to  learn  a 
lesson  from  the  past,  and  prove  that 
the  benefit  of  living  under  a  settled 
government  may  not  be  too  dearly 
purchased  if  it  tends,  directly  or  in- 
directly, to  the  social,  moral,  and 
physical  ruin  of  a  nation  which 
deserves  our  liveliest  interest  and 
sympathy. 

A.  E.  McMAHON, 

Major-  General. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


MARCH,  1886. 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON.1 


THE  children  of  William  Lloyd  Garrison 
have  undertaken  to  tell  the  story  of  his 
life.  Two  volumes  carrying  the  story 
down  to  1840  have  appeared.  To  the 
children  of  the  hero  the  work  is  one 
of  piety  and  love.  To  those  who  per- 
sonally took  part  with  him  in  the 
great  struggle  all  the  details  will  be 
full  of  interest.  The  historian  will 
also  be  grateful  for  a  complete  collec- 
tion of  material.  But  for  the  ordi- 
nary reader  the  narrative,  completed 
on  the  scale  of  these  opening  volumes, 
will  be  very  long;  and  as  long  bio- 
graphies have  very  few  readers,  there 
is  reason  to  fear  that  Garrison's  fame 
may  be  buried  under  that  which  is 
intended  to  preserve  it.  An  abridg- 
ment, disencumbered  of  documents, 
will  perhaps  hereafter  be  found  expe- 
dient. 

The  old  colonial  slavery,  sanctioned 
and  perpetuated  by  the  Revolution,  was 
an  awkward  comment  on  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  and  an  ugly  blot 
on  a  model  Republic ;  though  patriotic 
optimism  might  maintain  that  the 
contrast  of  slavery  with  freedom  was 
favourable  to  republican  character. 
But  it  was  a  relic  of  the  past ;  it  was 
comparatively  on  a  small  scale  and  of 
a  mild  type  ;  it  was  half  ashamed  of 
itself  ;  it  was  unaggressive ;  leading 
statesmen  of  the  South  freely  de- 
nounced it  and  treated  it  as  a  tem- 
porary evil  doomed  to  certain  extinc- 

1  'William   Lloyd    Garrison,    1805—1879. 
The  Story  of  his  Life  told  by  his  Children.' 
Vols.  i.  ii.     New  York  :  '  The  Century  '  Co. 
No.  317 — VOL.  LIII. 


tion.  It  would,  in  all  probability, 
either  have  died  out  or  dwindled  into 
something  which,  so  far  as  the  negro 
was  concerned,  might  with  reason 
have  been  said  to  be  better  than 
Dahomey.  But  the  case  was  entirely 
changed  by  the  cotton-gin  and  the 
purchase  of  Louisiana.  Then  the 
signs  of  old  age  and  of  decrepitude 
vanished,  and  in  portentous  youth 
uprose  the  Slave  Power  defiant  of 
earth  and  heaven.  Slavery  became  a 
vast  commercial  interest,  supporting  a 
social  caste.  Not  only  did  it  put  off 
all  shame,  but  by  the  eloquent  lips  of 
Calhoun  it  proclaimed  itself  the  best 
and  most  beneficent  birth  of  time.  Its 
sinister  statesmanship,  vested  in  an 
oligarchy  of  wealth  and  leisure,  as  en- 
tirely masters  of  their  white  depend- 
ants as  they  were  of  their  slaves,  and 
acting  steadily  for  the  security  and 
aggrandisement  of  one  paramount 
interest,  politically  subjugated  the 
North,  where  it  found  allies  both  in 
the  selfishness  of  the  wealthy  and  in 
the  venal  mob  of  the  cities.  Goaded 
alike  by  the  hunger  of  land  which  the 
exhaustion  of  the  soil  by  its  unskilled 
husbandry  engendered  and  the  desire 
of  widening  its  political  basis,  it  di- 
rected the  foreign  policy  of  the  repub- 
lic to  Southern  aggrandisement ;  nor 
were  its  aims  in  that  direction 
bounded  by  the  acquisition  of  Texes. 
The  North,  the  sharer  of  its  gains,  its 
factor  and  its  mortgagee,  was  bound 
to  it  by  the  complicity  of  lucre, 
Northern  traders  were  not  even  in- 


322 


William  Lloyd  G-arrison. 


sensible  to  the  social  influence  of  the 
planter  aristocracy;  while  the  politicians 
cringed  to  a  power  so  strong  in  itself 
and  wielded  with  such  unity  and 
vigour.  The  Churches,  especially  such 
as  drew  their  support  chiefly  from  the 
wealthy  class  or  had  strong  Southern 
connections,  accommodated  themselves 
to  social  sentiment,  winked  at  slave- 
owning  among  their  members,  ex- 
cluded abolitionism  from  their  pulpits, 
discouraged  it  among  their  ministers, 
and  piously  acquiesced  in  the  curse  of 
Ham.  The  Press  was  equally  en- 
thralled. "  From  the  President  to  the 
bootblack  every  one  was  for  slavery." 
In  no  country  does  the  force  of  public 
opinion,  or  what  is  taken  for  public 
opinion,  press  more  heavily  on  the 
individual  mind  than  in  the  United 
States. 

In  the  course  of  history,  there  occa- 
sionally appear  powers  of  evil  which, 
however  peacefully  you  may  be  inclined, 
force  you  to  accept  wager  of  battle.  Mo- 
hammedan conquest  was  one  of  these  ; 
the  Slave  Power  was  another.  Seward's 
phrase.  "  Irrepressible  conflict,"  is 
familiar  ;  less  familiar  are  the  words 
which  formed  part  of  the  same  sen- 
tence,—  "  It  means  that  the  United 
States  must  and  will,  sooner  or  later, 
become  entirely  a  slave-holding  nation 
or  entirely  a  free  labour  nation."  The 
battle  was  for  the  moral  life  and  civi- 
lisation of  the  new  world. 

In  political  opposition  to  the  Slave 
Power  there  was  little  hope.  Slavery 
was  impregnably  entrenched  in  the 
Constitution ;  by  no  efforts  of  verbal 
interpretation  could  it  be  displaced  ; 
and  the  Constitution  was  the  Bible  of 
the  American  people.  All  that  poli- 
tical opposition  could  do  was  to  limit 
the  extension  of  slavery  northward. 
To  abolish  it  in  the  district  of  Columbia 
was  constitutionally  possible,  morally 
impossible,  and  practically  useless. 
Moreover  the  politicians,  as  soon  as 
they  came  within  sight  of  the  presi- 
dency, felt  the  attraction  of  the  South- 
ern vote.  The  apostasy  of  Webster, 
finely  moralised  by  Theodore  Parker, 
was  the  most  signal  and  the  saddest 


of  all  tributes  to  the  slave-owners' 
ascendency.  Clay,  though  a  Ken- 
tuckian  and  slave-owner,  was  in  prin- 
ciple opposed  to  slavery,  but  party  and 
ambition  were  too  strong  for  him ;  and 
his  constancy  failed  when  he  was  called 
upon  resolutely  to  resist  the  extension 
of  slavery  at  the  price  of  an  iniquitous 
war.  Of  all  the  public  men  of  real 
mark  who  appeared  upon  the  scene 
before  the  closing  act  of  the  drama, 
the  heartiest  enemy  to  slavery  was 
Lincoln ;  yet  Lincoln  never  avowed 
himself  an  Abolitionist.  On  becoming 
President  he  recognised  the  protection 
of  slavery  as  his  constitutional  duty,  and 
of  his  readiness  to  perform  that  duty, 
even  in  the  most  revolting  aspect,  he 
gave  a  proof  by  showing  himself  wil- 
ling to  administer  strictly  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law.  Above  all  there  was  the 
Union,  the  idol  of  the  national  heart, 
the  source  of  material  advantages 
without  number  and  the  pledge  of 
national  greatness.  Disunion  was 
not  only  the  loss  of  the  mouth  of 
the  Mississippi,  but  the  wreck  of  the 
Republican  future.  The  crack  of  that 
lash  in  the  hand  of  the  South  was 
always  enough  to  bring  the  North  upon 
its  knees.  Upon  their  knees,  as  soon 
as  the  Union  was  seriously  menaced  by 
Secession,  the  politicians  fell.  By  a 
vote  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-three 
to  sixty-five  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives passed  a  resolution  in  favour  of 
a  constitutional  amendment  providing 
that  for  the  future  no  amendment 
should  be  made  in  the  Constitution 
which  would  authorise  or  give  to  Con- 
gress the  power  to  abolish  or  interfere, 
within  any  State,  with  the  domestic 
institutions  thereof,  including  that  of 
persons  held  to  labour  or  service  by 
the  laws  of  the  said  State.  This,  as 
Mr.  Blaine  in  his  '  Twenty  Years  of 
Congress  '  says,  would  have  entrenched 
slavery  securely  in  the  organic  law  of 
the  land  and  elevated  the  privilege  of 
the  slave-owner  beyond  that  of  the 
owner  of  any  other  species  of  property. 
Still  more  signal  was  the  surrender 
proposed  in  the  series  of  resolutions 
called  the  Crittenden  Compromise.  In 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


323 


this  a  pledge  was  offered  not  only  for 
the  inviolability  of  slavery  but  for  the 
inviolability  of  the  internal  slave-trade, 
together  with  humiliating  securities 
for  the  effectiveness  of  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law.  The  Crittenden  Compro- 
mise was  lost  in  the  Senate  by  only 
two  votes,  and  would  have  been  carried 
had  not  six  Southern  Irreconcilables 
refused  to  vote  at  all.  These  are  facts 
to  be  charitably  borne  in  mind  when 
the  people  of  other  countries  are  ar- 
raigned for  not  having  seen  from  the 
first  that  the  struggle  was  against 
slavery.  They  do  not  excuse  sym- 
pathy with  slavery  when  the  practical 
character  of  the  struggle  had  become 
clear ;  but  they  do  excuse  misapprehen- 
sion and  hesitation  on  the  part  of 
foreigners  and  distant  spectators 
during  the  early  stages  of  the  contest. 

If  in  a  political  movement  there 
was  little  hope,  still  less  was  there  in 
an  economical  movement.  The  in- 
creased yield  of  cotton  since  emancipa- 
tion has  vindicated  the  superiority  of 
free  labour  even  in  the  case  of  the 
negro,  provided  that  when  the  lash  is 
removed  he  has  the  necessary  incen- 
tives of  other  kinds  to  work.  But 
very  keen  must  have  been  the  eye 
which,  before  emancipation,  could 
have  foreseen  this  result.  To  the 
mass  of  the  American  people,  at  all 
events,  it  must  have  appeared  that 
abolition  would  entail  a  national 
sacrifice  greater  perhaps  than  has  ever 
been  deliberately  made  by  any  nation. 
The  price  of  the  slaves  to  be  paid  by 
way  of  compensation  to  their  owners 
would  have  been  a  trifle  compared 
with  the  loss  which  there  was  reason 
to  apprehend  from  the  withdrawal 
of  their  labour  in  the  cultivation  of 
cotton. 

In  a  moral  agitation  lay  the  only 
chance  of  redemption.  Some  one  was 
needed  to  awaken,  before  it  was  too 
late,  the  slumbering  conscience  of  the 
nation.  Conscience  once  aroused 
would  act  on  the  political  parties,  the 
Churches  and  the  Press.  John  Quincy 
A^ams,  who  long  maintained  with 
stubborn  but  ineffectual  valour  the 


anti-slavery  cause  on  the  political 
field,  saw  that  there  was  hope  else- 
where. "  There  is  a  great  mass,"  he 
writes,  "  of  cool  judgment  and  of  plain 
sense  on  the  side  of  justice  and  human- 
ity ;  but  the  ardent  speech  and 
passion  are  on  the  side  of  oppression. 
Oh !  if  but  one  man  would  arise  with  a 
genius  capable  of  comprehending,  a 
heart  capable  of  supporting,  and  an 
utterance  capable  of  communicating 
those  eternal  truths  which  belong  to 
the  question,  to  lay  bare  in  all  its 
nakedness  that  outrage  upon  the 
goodness  of  God — human  slavery,  now 
is  the  time  and  this  is  the  occasion 
upon  which  such  a  man  would  perform 
the  duties  of  an  angel  upon  earth." 
The  celestial  deliverer  whom  Adams 
pictured  to  himself  never  appeared  ; 
but  a  man  able  to  fill  the  part  about 
as  well  as  any  mortal  could  fill  it  and 
give  practical  effect  to  the  prayer, 
appeared  in  the  person  of  William 
Lloyd  Garrison.  Garrison  was  not 
intellectually  a  man  of  genius  ;  no 
mark  of  genius  appears  on  anything 
that  he  wrote ;  he  was  not  even  a 
man  of  very  great  mental  power.  But 
he  was  that  which  above  all  things 
was  wanted  :  he  was  a  pure  moral 
force.  From  selfish  ambition  or  sel- 
fishness of  any  kind,  and  from  the 
egotism  which  besets  almost  all  leader- 
ship, he  was  singularly  free.  In 
thirty-five  years  nothing  diverted  his 
thoughts  for  a  moment  from  the  inter- 
est of  his  cause.  As  a  leader,  though 
he  had  no  dazzling  gifts,  he  had  the 
wisdom  which  proceeds  from  single- 
ness of  heart.  His  worthy  associate 
of  forty  years,  Mr.  Oliver  Johnson, 
could  say  of  him,  "  There  is  about  him 
no  taint  of  selfseeking  or  assumption 
of  the  honours  of  leadership.  In  all 
my  intercourse  with  him,  extending 
over  a  period  of  more  than  forty  years, 
I  never  heard  him  utter  a  word  im- 
plying a  consciousness  that  he  was  a 
leader  in  the  cause  or  that  he  had 
done  or  achieved  anything  worthy  of 
praise.  He  was  unfeignedly  modest, 
without  a  touch  of  affected  humility. 
He  had  the  highest  appreciation  of 

Y  2 


324 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


the  services  of  others,  and  loved  to  do 
them  honour,  whether  they  worked  by 
his  methods  or  not.  He  never  mis- 
took a  molehill  for  a  mountain, 
never  fought  a  battle  except 
upon  a  vital  issue.  If  he  wrote  a 
document  for  which  others  as  w^ell  as 
himself  were  to  be  responsible,  he 
would  allow  them  to  criticise  and  even 
to  pick  it  all  to  pieces,  if  they  chose, 
content  if  no  principle  were  dis- 
honoured. He  thought  little  of  him- 
self, everything  of  the  cause." 
Assuredly  in  all  the  letters  and  docu- 
ments given  in  these  volumes  the 
traces  of  anything  like  self-love  are 
remarkably  few.  The  cause  is  always 
paramount.  Agitators,  if  they  have 
any  personal  ambition  in  them,  in- 
variably contract  a  passion  for  agita- 
tion, and  plunge  into  other  movements 
when  the  object  of  their  first  move- 
ment has  been  attained.  Once  an 
agitator  always  an  agitator,  has  been 
the  general  rule.  Wendell  Phillips, 
when  slavery  had  fallen,  remained  a 
preacher  of  universal  revolution,  and 
too  often  reminded  us  by  his  trucu- 
lence  of  the  philanthropy  of  the  Jaco- 
bins. Garrison,  when  slavery  had 
fallen,  at  once  closed  his  public  career 
and  went  full  of  thankfulness  to  his 
home.  Sumner  was  no  doubt  a  sin- 
cere and  devoted  servant  of  the  cause ; 
but  in  him  egotism  displayed  itself  in 
a  pitiable  manner.  It  led  him  into 
extravagances  which  were  not  only 
ridiculous  but  criminal.  He  made  a 
speech  on  the  Alabama  question 
which  might  have  plunged  two  nations 
into  war,  really  because  the  settlement 
of  the  question  was  in  other  hands 
than  his  own.  An  equal  to  Garrison 
in  disinterestedness  and  self-devotion 
it  will  be  very  hard  to  find ;  and  here- 
in, as  well  as  in  the  vast  importance 
of  his  movement,  the  interest  of  his 
history  lies. 

Garrison  was  the  son  of  a  New 
Brunswick  sea-captain,  who  had  mi- 
grated to  Newbury-Port  in  Massachu- 
setts. His  home  seems  to  have  been 
gool ;  his  boyhood  seems  to  have  been 
healthy  ;  he  was  a  leader  of  boys  and 


forward  in  sports  ;  he  loved  music  and 
had  a  vein  of  poetry,  which  he  some- 
times indulged  in  after  years.  He 
was  put  to  shoe-making  and  afterwards 
to  cabinet-making,  but  took  to  neither. 
To  printing  he  did  take,  fortunately 
for  the  cause,  inasmuch  as  he  was  thus 
enabled  to  print  as  well  as  write  his 
own  journal.  As  a  journalist  without 
capital  he  would  have  had  to  write 
for  hire,  and  must  have  been  tram- 
melled by  the  influences  which  domi- 
nated the  Press.  He  soon  began  to 
write  as  well  as  to  print,  and  with 
American  precocity  made  some  experi- 
ments in  editorship  on  a  small  scale. 
He  commenced  a  literary  crusade 
against  intemperance,  and  another 
against  war.  But  his  attention  was 
speedily  engaged  and  permanently 
fixed  by  a  more  practical  and  mo- 
mentous object.  H,e  was  twenty-three 
when,  with  a  settled  purpose,  he  took 
up  his  sling  and  his  stone  and  went 
forth  to  do  battle  with  the  Slave 
Power. 

He  had  a  precursor,  never  to  be 
forgotten,  in  Lundy,  a  philanthropic 
Quaker,  who  was  publishing  a  monthly 
organ  of  anti-slavery  sentiment  under 
the  title — not  very  well  suited  for  a 
news-boy's  cry — of  '  The  Genius  of 
Universal  Emancipation.'  In  his  youth 
Lundy  had  lived,  as  apprentice  to  a 
saddler,  at  Wheeling  in  Virginia,  a 
thoroughfare  of  the  internal  slave- 
trade,  where  he  saw  what  made  him 
a  crusader.  His  journal  had  been 
started  without  a  dollar  of  capital, 
and  its  editor  used  to  walk  twenty 
miles  to  get  it  printed,  and  walk  home 
with  the  edition  on  his  back.  He  was 
also  active  and  successful  in  the  for- 
mation of  anti-slavery  societies.  His 
character  and  work  were  admirable  ; 
but  he  seems  to  have  lacked  the  fire 
and  the  motive  force  which  would 
have  qualified  him  to  be  the  soul  of 
a  national  movement.  His  journal 
was  at  this  time  established  at  Balti- 
more, in  full  view  of  the  enemy  and 
his  practices.  Lundy,  in  beating  up 
for  support,  Jvisited  Boston.  He  was 
coldly  received  by  the  Boston  world, 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


325 


and  notably  by  the  clerical  part  of  it ; 
but  he  kindled  a  fire  in  the  soul  of 
Garrison,  and  baptised  him  in  the 
anti-slavery  faith.  About  the  first 
fruit  of  the  neophyte's  zeal  was  a 
Fourth  of  July  oration  of  unwonted 
and,  as  some  of  the  hearers  must  have 
thought,  of  impious  tenor,  treating 
the  acts  of  tyranny  with  which  the 
mother  country  was  charged  by  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  as  "  a 
pitiable  detail  of  grievances "  com- 
pared with  the  wrongs  inflicted  by 
the  immaculate  Republic  on  the  slaves  ; 
and  recommending  that,  instead  of 
cannon  firing  and  waving  of  flags,  the 
day  should  be  celebrated  with  prayer 
and  fasting.  The  oration  is  strong  in 
purpose  and,  for  a  youthful  enthusiast, 
temperate  in  style.  It  ends  with  a 
warning  of  the  danger  of  servile  war. 
The  fear  of  servile  war  was  natural, 
and  was  ever  present  to  the  mind  of 
the  South.  Yet  the  negroes  for  the 
most  part  remained  passive  during  the 
civil  war ;  unarmed  and  sluggish  in 
character  as  they  were,  it  is  not  likely 
that  as  a  body  they  would  ever  have 
struck  for  freedom.  The  insurrection 
in  St.  Domingo  was  a  mulatto  rising, 
and  was  kindled  by  the  French 
He  volution. 

Garrison  now  (1829)  joined  Lundy 
at  Baltimore,  and  the  two,  as  part- 
ners, brought  out  a  new  series  of  the 
'Genius,'  with  the  motto  from  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  :  "  We 
hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident — 
that  all  men  are  created  equal,  and 
endowed  by  the  Creator  with  certain 
inalienable  rights ;  that  among  these 
are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit 
of  happiness."  Penned  by  a  slave- 
owner, signed  by  slave-owners,  and 
heading  an  indictment  for  tyranny 
against  a  government  which  had  on  the 
whole  a  genuine  respect  for  liberty, 
not  only  at  home  but  in  the  colonies, 
these  words  did  undoubtedly  furnish 
food  for  meditation  to  candid  minds. 
In  the  first  month  of  their  friendship 
Lundy  and  Garrison  received  a  visit 
from  a  slave  on  whose  back  they 
counted  twenty-seven  terrible  gashes 


made  with  the  cowhide.  The  man 
(who  had  been  emancipated  by  his 
master's  will  and  was  to  be  free  in  a 
few  days)  had  failed  to  load  a  waggon 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  overseer. 
Expostulation  was  answered  by  the 
heirs  of  the  estate  with  abuse.  A  few 
days  later  Garrison  heard  cries  of 
anguish  from  a  house  in  the  street 
where  the  '  Genius '  office  was,  and  he 
notes  that  this  was  nothing  uncom- 
mon. Slave  auctions  were  frequently 
taking  place. 

The  twenty  years  compromise  with 
the  foreign  slave  trade,  made  by  Revo- 
lutionists who  accused  George  the 
Third  of  forcing  the  trade  upon  them, 
had  expired.  But,  besides  smuggling, 
the  internal  trade  went  on  at  the  rate 
of  fifty  thousand  slaves  a  year.  It 
seems  in  fact  to  have  been  the  pros- 
pect of  gain  from  the  internal  trade 
that  had  led  some  of  the  Southern 
states  to  consent  readily  to  the  sup- 
pression of  the  foreign  trade.  Balti- 
more was  a  port  of  the  internal  trade  ; 
and  one  day  there  sailed  under  Gar- 
rison's eyes  the  ship  '  Francis,'  owned 
in  his  native  Newbury-Port,  with  a 
New  England  captain,  and  a  cargo 
of  seventy-five  slaves  chained  in  a 
narrow  place  between  decks.  The 
vessel  had  been  intended  to  take  one 
hundred  and  fifty.  Garrison  branded 
the  captain  and  owner  in  his  journal ; 
was  sued  for  libel ;  was  of  course  found 
guilty  by  the  Baltimore  jury ;  and, 
being  unable  to  pay  the  fine  of  a  hun* 
dred  dollars,  spent  seven  weeks  in  the 
Baltimore  gaol.  The  sum  necessary 
for  his  release  was  at  last  sent  by 
Arthur  Tappan,  a  philanthropic  mer- 
chant of  New  York.  He  bore  his 
imprisonment  cheerfully,  contrasting 
his  lot  with  the  far  worse  lot  of  the 
slave.  In  the  gaol  he  had  a  dialogue 
with  a  Southern  slave-owner,  who  had 
come  to  reclaim  a  fugitive  slave.  The 
master,  of  course,  pleaded  the  curse  of 
Ham.  "  Pray,  sir,"  retorted  Garrison, 
"is  it  a  careful  desire  to  fulfil  the 
Scriptures,  or  to  make  money,  that 
induces  you  to  hold  your  fellow-men  in 
bondage  ? " 


326 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


Garrison  and  Lundy  now  parted. 
Lundy  went  to  Washington,  as  the 
political  capital;  Garrison  to  Boston, 
the  capital  of  national  character, 
though  its  conscience  was  at  that  time 
in  a  state  of  coma.  At  Boston  he, 
with  a  new  partner  whom  he  had 
taken  to  him,  Isaac  Knapp,  set  up 
the  'Liberator,'  one  of  the  humblest 
and  most  memorable  of  journals.  No 
one  can  fail  to  admire  the  steadfast 
resolution,  and  the  freedom  at  the 
same  time  from  excitement,  violence, 
and  martyr's  airs,  with  which  this 
obscure  youth  of  twenty-four,  friend- 
less and  penniless,  settled  down  to  his 
life-long  battle  with  the  overwhelming 
forces  of  interest  and  opinion  by  which 
slavery  was  sustained.  He  had  lifted 
himself,  as  was  necessary,  entirely 
above  political  superstition,  and  learned 
to  deem  the  venerated  Constitution  and 
the  adored  Union,  in  so  far  as  they 
sustained  slavery,  a  "  league  with 
death  and  a  covenant  with  Hell."  He 
had  emancipated  himself  from  the 
influence  of  the  Churches,  though  he 
was  a  Baptist  by  profession,  and  to 
the  last,  however  liberal  or  even 
latitudinarian  he  might  become,  re- 
mained a  thorough  Christian  in  senti- 
ment, and  continued  to  draw  his 
inspiration  largely  from  the  Bible. 
He  soared  even  above  American 
Anglophobia,  and  could  treat  with 
scorn  the  article  of  national  faith  that 
the  responsibility  for  slavery,  as  for 
everything  else  that  was  not  perfect 
in  the  Republic,  rested  on  England, 
while  the  profit  went  to  the  Americans. 
He  was  not  alone  in  this  detachment 
from  the  combination  of  Revolutionary 
politics  with  lingering  Puritanism, 
which  up  to  that  time  had  been  the 
national  creed  and  the  mould  of  the 
national  character.  The  lectures  of 
Emerson,  the  theology  of  Theodore 
Parker,  the  Utopia  of  Brook  Farm, 
the  experiments  in  Socialism,  were 
phenomena  of  the  same  kind.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  a  transformation 
which  is  now  nearly  complete. 

Lundy,  mild  in  all  things,  was-  in 
favour  of  gradual  emancipation.    Gar- 


rison almost  from  the  outset  rejected 
both  gradual  emancipation  and  com- 
pensation as  sinful  compromises  with 
Evil.  He  was  wrong  in  both  cases  ; 
and  in  both  his  judgment  was  based 
on  a  principle  which  a  philosophic 
study  of  history  would  have  shown  to 
be  false.  Slavery  could  not  be  brought 
under  the  category  of  robbery  or  any- 
thing else  that  was  simply  a  crime. 
In  the  past  ages  it  had  been  a  rela- 
tive good.  It  was  now  a  gross 
anachronism  and  a  monstrous  evil. 
To  abolish  it  was  necessary  ;  but  the 
mode  and  conditions  of  abolition  were 
questions  which  it  was  for  practical 
wisdom  to  decide.  The  Gospel,  which 
was  still  Garrison's  code  of  morality, 
treated  slavery  as  lawful,  though  it 
sapped  the  institution  at  its  base. 
Compensation  might  not  be  due  to  the 
slave-owner  from  Heaven  ;  but  it  was 
certainly  due  to  him  from  the  State 
which  had  recognised  his  property,  had 
encouraged  him  to  invest  in  it,  and 
was  bound  to  protect  it  like  property 
of  any  other  kind.  To  tell  the  slave- 
owners that  they  were  to  be  dealt 
with  as  robbers  was  to  drive  them  to 
desperation.  Garrison's  errors,  how- 
ever, were  practically  harmless.  The 
door  of  egress  which  he  barred  on  one 
side  had  already  been  walled  up  on 
the  other.  Politically  and  socially,  as 
well  as  commercially,  slavery  was  the 
soul  of  the  South,  which  would  no 
more  have  consented  to  gradual  than 
to  immediate  emancipation,  nor  have 
sold  its  cherished  institution  for  any 
price.  Those  who  sadly  compare  the 
probable  cost  of  compensation  with 
the  actual  cost  of  civil  war,  may, 
therefore,  lay  their  regrets  aside. 

The  colonisation  plan,  which  sought 
a  peaceful  solution  in  the  separation 
of  the  races,  was  another  object  of 
Garrison's  abhorrence.  He  hated  it 
as  a  follower  of  St.  Peter  would  have 
hated  the  doctrine  of  Simon  Magus. 
His  theory  was  that  the  negro  was  a 
black  American  citizen  forcibly  de- 
prived of  his  rights,  but  perfectly 
capable  of  exercising  them,  and  of 
raising  himself  to  the  level  of  his 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


327 


fellow-citizens,  if  only  he  were  set  free, 
and  had  the  means  of  education  given 
him.  To  ship  off  the  freedmen  to 
Liberia  was  practically  to  deny  this, 
and  at  the  same  time  both  to  recognise 
the  lawfulness  of  slavery,  and  prac- 
tically to  assist  the  slave-owner  by 
ridding  him  of  the  freedmen,  who  to 
him  were  a  dangerous  class.  Coloni- 
sation, therefore,  was  the  height  of 
treason.  Here  again  Garrison  was 
wrong,  and  here  again  his  error  was 
practically  harmless.  Colonisation  was 
an  attempt  to  bale  a  ship  with  a 
spoon. 

Still,  we  cannot  help  wondering 
what  Garrison's  own  solution  of  the 
problem  was.  The  idea  of  social  in- 
surrection he  abhorred.  He  abhorred 
the  use  of  force  in  any  way.  He  talks 
in  his  manifestoes  of  the  influence  of 
love  and  repentance,  but  elsewhere  he 
speaks  of  the  slave-owner  as  a  monster 
incapable  of  either.  At  one  time  he 
seems  to  think  that  England  can  put 
an  end  to  slave  labour  by  refusing  to 
buy  slave-grown  cotton,  and  appeals 
to  her  to  take  that  course.  But  a 
little  experience  would  have  convinced 
him  of  the  vanity  of  hoping  that  com- 
merce will,  on  grounds  of  morality, 
"boycott"  the  producer  of  the  best 
goods.  Garrison's  task,  however,  was 
to  awaken  the  national  conscience. 
His  policy  was  comparatively  of  little 
consequence.  The  solution  prepared 
by  destiny,  and  which  alone  was 
possible,  was  one  which  neither  he  nor 
anybody  else  could  have  foreseen. 

The  '  Liberator  '  had  at  starting  for 
capital  the  loan  of  some  old  type.  The 
office  was  under  the  eaves,  and  on  the 
floor  of  the  office  was  the  editors'  bed. 
The  two  partners  did  all  the  printing, 
as  well  as  all  the  writing,  editing,  and 
correspondence.  They  lived  on  bread 
and  milk  with  a  little  fruit  and  cake, 
and  were  willing  if  necessary  to  live 
on  bread  and  water.  Financially  the 
journal  for  several  years  after  its  ap- 
pearance was  hovering  between  life 
and  death.  But  as  an  organ  it  soon 
began  to  make  its  mark,  if  friends 
and  subscribers  did  not  come  in  very 


fast,  the  fire  of  the  enemy  was  drawn 
and  in  a  few  years  Garrison's  name 
became  an  object  of  hatred  to  the 
friends  of  slavery  at  the  North,  and  an 
object  not  only  of  hatred  but  of  fear 
to  the  slave-owners  of  the  South.  One 
Southern  Legislature  passed  a  resolu- 
tion against  him  which  amounted 
almost  to  setting  a  price  upon  his 
head.  The  closing  of  the  mails  to 
anti-slavery  literature  was  another 
tribute  to  his  growing  power.  He  was 
accused,  not  only  by  enemies  but  by 
cautious  friends,  of  extreme  violence  of 
language.  We  do  not  profess  to  have 
looked  over  the  files  of  the  '  Liberator/ 
but  the  specimens  of  Garrison's  writing 
before  us,  including  printed  letters  in 
which  he  was  sure  to  speak  without 
restraint,  do  not  seem  to  us  to  betray 
more  violence  than  was  inseparable 
from  an  appeal  to  the  national  con- 
science against  iniquity.  "  In  seizing 
the  trumpet  of  God,"  he  had  "  intended 
to  blow  a  strong  blast  such  as  might 
arouse  a  nation  slumbering  in  the  lap 
of  moral  death."  The  auction  block, 
the  separation  of  families,  the  sys- 
tematic brutalisation  of  the  negroes, 
the  abuse  of  negro  women,  the  horrible 
scourgings,  the  burnings  alive,  the 
bloodhounds,  the  reign  of  terror,  the 
internal  slave  trade,  were  patent  facts 
to  the  plain  mention  of  which  Junius 
could  have  hardly  added  a  sting.  So 
was  the  barbarism  of  Southern  society, 
which  underlay  the  surface  of  refine- 
ment presented  by  the  mansions  of  a 
few  rich  planters,  and  of  which  the 
picture  has  been  preserved  for  us  in 
the  invaluable  work  of  Mr.  Olmsted. 

It  is  right,  however,  to  say  that 
among  the  slave  -  owners  in  the 
Southern  States,  as  in  the  West 
Indies,  there  were  some  who,  having 
inherited  the  institution,  and  perhaps 
believing  in  its  necessity,  if  not  in  its 
beneficence,  tried  to  do  their  duty  by 
their  slaves.  So  far  as  these  men 
were  concerned,  sweeping  denuncia- 
tions were  unjust  and  impolitic  at  the 
same  time. 

In  1833  Garrison  went  to  England 
to  counteract  the  operations  of  the 


328 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


Colonisation  Society  and  to  fraternise 
with  the  British  Abolitionists.  He 
breakfasted  with  Buxton,  who  had 
invited  a  large  party  to  meet  him. 
When  he  entered,  Buxton,  instead  of 
rushing  up  to  him  and  grasping  his 
hand,  looked  at  him  for  some  time 
doubtfully,  and  at  last  asked  "  whether 
he  had  the  pleasure  of  addressing  Mr. 
Garrison,  of  Boston,  in  the  United 
States  ?  "  His  guest  told  him  that  he 
had.  "  Why,  my  dear  sir,"  exclaimed 
Buxton  with  uplifted  hands,  ';  I 
thought  you  were  a  black  man ! " 
Garrison  professes  to  regard  the  mis- 
take as  a  compliment,  implying  that 
he  had  fought  for  the  oppressed  race 
as  zealously  as  though  he  had  been 
one  of  them.  He  also  saw  Wilber- 
force,  whose  pigmy  form  he  contrasts 
as  an  abode  of  genius  with  the 
majestic  bulk  of  Webster,  his  ideal  of 
intellectual  greatness.  He  got  a  speech 
out  of  O'Connell.  Great  praise  is  due 
to  O'Connell  for  having  steadfastly 
condemned  and  denounced  slavery 
while  all  the  Irish  in  America  were 
supporting  it,  and  exhibiting  them- 
selves as  the  most  cruel  and  insolent 
enemies  of  the  unhappy  negro.  But 
the  speech,  though  Garrison  calls  it 
magnificent,  was  a  roaring  torrent  of 
ferocious  vituperation  and  extravagant 
bombast  which  could  do  Garrison  and 
his  cause  nothing  but  harm.  The 
American  slave-owners  were  described 
as  "  the  basest  of  the  base,  the  most 
execrable  of  the  execrable."  The 
orator  proclaimed  that  he  "  tore  down 
the  image  of  Liberty  from  the  re- 
creant land  of  America,  and  condemned 
her  as  the  vilest  of  hypocrites,  the 
greatest  of  liars."  "  His  voice,"  he 
said,  "  deafening  the  sound  of  the 
westerly  wave  and  riding  against  the 
blast  as  thunder  goes,  should  reach 
America,  and  tell  the  black  man  the 
time  of  his  emancipation  was  come, 
and  the  oppressor  that  the  period  of 
injustice  was  terminated." 

This  language,  duly  reported  in  the 
United  States,  was  not  a  happy  intro- 
duction for  Mr.  George  Thompson,  the 
anti-slavery  orator,  who,  at  Garrison's 


instance,  now  visited  the  United 
States  on  a  propagandist  mission.  It 
must  be  owned  that  this  calling  in  of 
foreign  aid  in  a  domestic  agitation  was 
doubtful  policy.  The  question,  it  is 
true,  was  one  that  concerned  humanity 
at  large ;  but  the  struggle  was  na- 
tional; national  interest  and  honour 
were  especially  touched ;  wisdom  and 
right  policy  alike  required  that  national 
self-respect  should  not  be  hurt.  The 
reformer,  whether  religious  or  social, 
must  fulfil  all  righteousness ;  and 
righteousness,  while  nationality  ex- 
ists, will  include  the  obligations  of  a 
patriot.  Garrison,  however,  if  he 
erred,  paid  the  penalty  ;  for  Thomp- 
son's visit,  following  O'Connell's 
vituperation,  roused  public  feeling  to 
such  a  pitch  that  there  soon  ensued 
a  dangerous  explosion.  Garrison  had 
been  twitted  with  want  of  courage  in 
not  going  to  the  South  and  preaching 
his  abolitionism  there.  He  perti- 
nently answered  that  Americans  who 
declaimed  about  the  wrongs  of  Poland 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  put 
themselves  into  the  clutches  of  the 
Czar.  He  might  have  added  that 
courage  enough  was  shown  in  beard- 
ing the  exasperated  liegemen  of  cotton 
at  Boston.  A  mob,  described  as 
wealthy  and  respectable,  now  broke 
into  a  meeting  of  the  Female  Anti- 
Slavery  Society  at  wrhich  Garrison  was 
present,  dragged  him  out,  tore  off  his 
clothes,  hauled  him  through  the  streets 
with  a-  rope  round  him,  and  would 
have  done  some  further  violence,  per- 
haps even  have  lynched  him,  if  he  had 
not  been  rescued  by  the  mayor,  Lyman, 
who,  on  some  nominal  charge,  con- 
signed him  for  the  night  to  the  safe 
keeping  of  the  gaol.  Lyman  was  a 
Pro-Slavery  man,  and  he  is  bitterly 
arraigned  by  the  Garrisonians  for  not 
having  more  valiantly  vindicated  the 
law.  But  it  seems  to  us  that  he  did, 
in  the  circumstances,  about  as  much 
as  he  could.  The  birthplace  of 
American  liberty,  however,  had  a 
narrow  escape  of  drinking  the  blood 
of  a  martyr  to  freedom  of  opinion. 
His  object  certainly  was  to  save 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


329 


Garrison's  life.  The  Boston  riot  was 
one  of  many  outbreaks  of  violence 
which  took  place  in  different  parts  of 
the  Union  as  the  movement  advanced 
and  the  atmosphere  became  more 
charged  with  wrath.  In  one  of  these, 
Lovejoy,  an  anti-slavery  journalist, 
was  killed  by  the  settlers  from  the 
South,  who  form  part  of  the  popula- 
tion of  Illinois.  It  was  the  first  blood 
of  the  civil  war. 

Before  his  visit  to  England,  Gar- 
rison had  founded  the  New  England 
Anti-Slavery  Society.  This  widened 
into  the  American  Anti-Slavery  So- 
ciety with  its  many  affiliations.  For 
the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society 
Garrison  composed  a  Declaration  of 
Sentiment,  like  the  Declaration  of 
Independence.  It  was  received  with 
rapture,  and  is  eminently  well  penned, 
though  highly  assailable  on  the  grounds 
which  it  assigns  for  rejecting  gradual 
abolition  and  compensation.  With  the 
growth  of  the  Abolitionist  Church 
came,  in  the  course  of  nature,  heresies 
and  schisms.  The  friends  of  the  clergy 
wanted  to  depose  Garrison,  whom  they 
regarded  as  heterodox,  which  he  cer- 
tainly was  to  the  extent  of  great 
independence  and  disregard  of  clerical 
influence,  though  his  principles  and 
language  to  the  end  remained  entirely 
Christian.  There  was  also  a  struggle 
upon  the  question  whether  Abolition- 
ists should  become  a  third  political 
party,  with  an  organisation  and  can- 
didates of  its  own.  Against  this, 
Garrison  wisely  protested  ;  urging  that 
the  moral  and  religions  character  of 
the  movement  would  be  impaired,  that 
it  would  be  fatally  confined  within  the 
limits  traced  by  a  Constitution  which 
sanctioned  slavery,  and  that  it  would 
be  contaminated  and  degraded  by  the 
political  self-seekers  and  adventurers 
who  would  enter  it  with  mercenary 
designs.  This  last  objection  is  being 
signally  confirmed  and  illustrated  by 
the  condition  of  the  Prohibitionist 
movement  at  the  present  day.  One 
painful  part  of  these  controversies  was 
an  altercation  in  print  between  Gar- 
rison and  his  old  friend  Lundy.  In 


the  struggle  for  the  command  of  the 
ship  the  helmsman  could  not  help 
showing  any  human  tendency  to  self- 
assertion  which  there  might  be  in  his 
nature.  But  he  kept  control  of  the 
helm,  and  on  the  whole  steered  well. 
He,  however,  had  better  not  have  let 
the  '  Liberator '  become  the  organ  of 
peculiar  views  about  the  Sabbath, 
which  repelled  the  clergy,  or  about 
Woman's  Rights.  Still  less  did  he 
show  his  wisdom  in  allowing  the 
Anti-Slavery  journal  to  preach  the 
"  Perfectionist "  doctrines  of  Mr. 
Noyes.  That  personage,  who  after- 
wards became  the  prophet  ruler  of 
the  Oneida  community,  with  its  human 
stirpiculture,had  arrived,  before  Prince 
Krapotkine,  at  the  conclusion  that  all 
earthly  governments  were  founded  in 
wrong.  Christ,  he  held,  was  the  only 
rightful  ruler ;  and  in  his  opinion  the 
hope  of  the  millennium  began  where 
Dr.  Beecher's  expired,  "in  the  over- 
throw of  the  American  nation."  That 
Garrison  should  have  fallen  under 
this  man's  influence  shows  that  he 
was  one  of  the  weak  things  of  the 
world  chosen  to  confound  the  strong. 
It  is  wonderful  that  his  lapse  did  not 
drive  more  adherents  from  his  side. 
He  also  showed  some  narrowness  of 
mind  in  his  bearing  towards  eminent 
men  like  Channing,  who  were  one 
with  him  in  heart,  though  they  did 
not  go  his  length  or  take  exactly  his 
line.  But  had  he  been  other  than  he 
was,  even  in  his  defects,  he  probably 
never  would  have  done  the  work  which 
was  specially  given  him  to  do. 

Here  the  present  biography  leaves 
us ;  but  the  rest  of  the  story  is  written 
on  the  broadest,  most  momentous,  and 
bloodiest  page  of  history.  The  moral 
movement,  with  Garrison  still  in  its 
front,  gathered  strength  and  spread 
till,  having  won  the  Press,  the  Pulpit, 
and  a  great  political  party,  it  virtually 
elected  Lincoln,  Now  came  the  crisis 
and  the  solution — the  only  solution 
which,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  was  pos- 
sible, terrible  and  costly  as  it  was. 
Alarmed  and  exasperated  by  the  loss 
of  its  political  ascendency,  the  South 


330 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


executed  the  threat  which  it  had  often 
repeated,  and  broke  the  Union.  Still 
it  seems  more  than  doubtful  whether 
the  North  would  have  consented  to 
coercion  if  the  South  had  simply  stood 
on  its  defence.  Happily,  as  it  proved 
in  the  end,  for  the  American  continent 
and  for  humanity,  a  merely  defensive 
attitude  was  not  congenial  to  the 
Southern  temper,  trained  as  it  had 
been  by  the  exercise  of  a  despotic 
power  over  slaves.  The  attack  upon 
Fort  Sumter  put  all  the  legal  and 
constitutional  feeling,  as  well  as  the 
patriotism,  of  the  North  upon  the  side 
of  coercion,  and  decided  the  doom  of 
slavery.  If  during  the  civil  war  you 
asked  Northern  people  for  what  they 
were  fighting,  the  answer  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  was,  not  that  they  were  fight- 
ing to  abolish  slavery,  but  that  they 
were  fighting  to  uphold  the  law.  Had 
the  heart  of  the  North  not  been  thus 
stirred,  and  its  legal  instincts  satisfied, 
it  seems  likely  that  the  South  would 
have  been  allowed  to  depart  in  peace. 
But  the  departure  in  all  probability 
would  not  have  been  final.  The  South 
would  have  had  in  its  hands  that 
indispensable  outlet  of  American  com- 
merce, the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi. 
It  would  have  retained  its  commercial 
connections  and  its  political  partisans 
at  the  North.  The  eventual  result 
would  most  likely  have  been  the  re- 
storation of  the  Union  on  terms 
virtually  dictated  by  the  South,  with 
increased  guarantees  for  slavery  and 
with  an  enhancement  of  Southern 
power  arising  from  the  moral  and 
political  submission  of  the  North, 
which  would  have  been  a  security 
more  effectual  than  any  legal  guaran- 
tee. It  is  in  short  hardly  possible  to 
imagine  how  the  destruction  of  slavery 
could  have  been  brought  about  in  any 
other  way  than  that  which  the  course 
of  events  actually  took ;  though  till  the 
first  shot  was  fired  against  Fort  Sumter 
no  mortal  eye  could  have  accurately 
foreseen  what  destiny  had  in  store.  But 
the  bombardment  of  Sumter  was  no 
accident ;  it  was  the  outcome  of  South- 
ern temper  engendered  by  slavery  and 


goaded  to  frenzy  by  the  moral  move- 
ment in  the  North. 

On  the  morrow  of  Emancipation  it 
was  the  wish  of  Wendell  Phillips  and 
other  Irnplacables  that  the  Anti-Slavery 
Association  should  still  be  kept  on  foot 
and  continue  to  have  an  organ  of  its 
own.  Garrison's  sounder  instincts  told 
him  that  the  battle  having  been  won 
the  time  had  come  for  sheathing  the 
sword.  The  Anti-Slavery  Association 
accordingly  was  dissolved.  The  'Libe- 
rator,' having  been  allowed  to  complete 
its  thirty-fifth  year,  was  withdrawn. 
In  its  last  number  but  one  appeared 
the  ratification  of  the  Constitutional 
Amendment  for  ever  forbidding  slavery 
in  the  United  States  ;  in  the  last  a 
prose  hymn  of  triumph  strongly  reli- 
gious in  tone.  Its  editor  could  say 
that  having  brought  it  out  without 
subscribers,  and  spent  his  life  in  work- 
ing for  it,  he  withdrew  it  without  having 
made  a  farthing.  Gratitude,  however, 
made  provision  for  his  old  age;  and 
other  tributes,  in  his  own  country  and 
England,  did  not  fail.  The  fourteen 
years  which  remained  to  him  were 
spent  in  domestic  happiness,  and  in 
quietly  contributing  with  his  pen  to 
the  promotion  of  objects  which  he  had 
still  at  heart.  Not  a  pulse  of  restless 
ambition,  or  of  craving  for  the  resump- 
tion of  leadership,  ever  disturbed  his 
breast. 

Miss  Martineau,  who  looked  at  no- 
thing with  an  idolatrous  eye,  and  who 
has  criticised  Garrison's  .controversial 
style  very  sharply,  says  that  his  aspect 
at  once  put  prejudice  to  flight ;  that 
his  countenance  glowed  with,  and  was 
wholly  expressive  of,  purity,  anima- 
tion, gentleness ;  that  he  had  a  good 
deal  of  the  Quaker  in  him,  and  that 
his  speech  was  deliberate  like  a 
Quaker's,  but  gentle  as  a  woman's; 
that  his  conversation  was  of  the  prac- 
tical cast,  and  sagacity  was  its  most 
striking  attribute  ;  that  his  whole  de- 
portment breathed  the  evidence  of  a 
heart  at  ease,  and  this  it  was  that 
attached  his  friends  to  him  with  an 
almost  idolatrous  affection.  She  adds 
that  he  never  spoke  of  himself  or  his 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 


331 


persecutions  unless  compelled  ;  and 
that  his  child  at  home  would  never 
learn  what  a  distinguished  father  he 
had. 

Slavery,  thanks  in  no  small  measure 
to  this  man's  efforts,  is  dead  and  buried 
a  century  deep.  The  Southern  people 
would  not  now  call  it  to  life  again  if 
they  could.  But  out  of  its  grave  has 
arisen  the  question  of  the  races. 
Garrison  while  he  proclaimed,  and  no 
doubt  with  full  conviction,  the  natural 
equality  of  Black  and  White,  was  care- 
ful, when  he  was  about  to  be  married, 
to  assure  a  tattling  and  calumnious 
world  that  his  affianced  bride  was  not 
a  black  woman.  Why  should  he  not 
have  married  a  black  woman  ?  Had 
he  dived  into  his  heart  on  that  occa- 
sion, he  would,  perhaps,  have  been  led 
into  a  train  of  thought  which  would 
have  disturbed  his  complacency,  and 
opened  to  him  a  vista  of  difficulties 
beyond  the  goal  which  he  was  striving 
so  hard  to  attain.  There  can  be  no 
real  equality,  social  or  political,  with- 
out intermarriage;  and  without  real 
equality  there  can  be  no  Republic. 
This  the  Roman  Plebeians  saw  when 
they  insisted  that  to  the  liberties 
which  they  had  won  there  should  be 
added  as  an  indispensable  coping-stone 
the  liberty  of  intermarriage  with 
patricians.  But  of  intermarriage  be- 
tween the  white  and  black  races  at 
the  South  there  is  no  hope  ;  it  is  barred 
not  only  by  social  tradition,  which, 
strong  as  it  is,  time  would  obliterate 
in  this  case,  as  it  has  in  others,  but  by 
physical  antipathy.  The  line  has  been 
drawn  more  sharply  and  indelibly 
than  ever  since  the  negro  woman  has 
ceased  to  be  at  the  command  of  white 
overseers  and  drivers.  Fusion,  which 
in  other  cases  has  been  the  sequel  of 
emancipation,  and  has  blended  the 
enfranchised  slaves  or  serfs  into  a 
community  with  their  former  masters, 
is  in  this  case  out  of  the  question. 
For  the  present  the  negro,  innured  to 
subjection,  and  with  the  brand  of 
slavery  fresh  upon  him,  submits  alike 


to  social  pariahship  and  political  sup- 
pression. His  franchise  remains  almost 
a  nullity.  But  this  can  hardly  last 
for  ever.  When  it  comes  to  an  end, 
what  will  follow  ?  There  is  no  longer 
any  prospect  of  the  solution  of  the 
problem  by  the  extinction  or  decrease 
of  the  black  race  ;  the  mortality  among 
the  negroes  when  they  were  first 
turned  out  to  shift  for  themselves  was 
naturally  large ;  but  they  now,  it 
appears,  multiply  faster  than  the 
whites.  Their  physical  constitution  is 
very  strong,  and  better  adapted  than 
that  of  the  whites  to  the  climate,  at 
least  in  the  Gulf  States.  Nor  are  they 
likely  to  be  carried  off  by  emigration, 
though  at  one  time  there  was  a 
spasmodic  exodus  of  terror ;  on  the 
contrary  they  seem  to  cling  to  their 
homes,  and  to  emigrate  less  than  the 
whites.  This  problem  of  the  races 
and  the  dangers  attending  it  are  most 
vividty  presented  in  the  intensely 
interesting  volumes  of  Mr.  Tourgee, 
*  The  Fool's  Errand/  '  Bricks  without 
Straw,'  and  '  An  Appeal  to  Caesar ; ' 
though  the  statement  of  the  case  in 
the  last,  it  appears,  is  somewhat  vitiated 
by  the  defective  character  of  the 
statistics  on  which  the  writer  has 
relied.  Mr.  Tourgee's  specific  is  edu- 
cation, to  be  provided  for  the  negroes 
on  a  large  scale  by  the  nation,  with 
safeguards,  which  unhappily  would 
not  be  needless,  against  malversation 
of  the  fund.  Education  is  a  very 
good  thing ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  see 
how  it  could  remove  the  barrier  raised 
by  nature  against  the  fusion  of  the 
races,  or  how,  without  fusion,  they 
can  ever  form  one  community.  If  the 
negro  has  faculties  capable  of  being 
developed  he  will,  when  educated, 
become  impatient  of  subordination ; 
but  this  will  scarcely  secure  peace 
and  union  between  the  races.  The 
situation  is  one  without  a  precedent 
in  history,  and  forms  one  of  the 
darkest  problems  of  the  future. 

GOLDWIN  SMITH. 


332 


THE   PROVINCE   AND   STUDY   OF   POETRY.1 


THE  Chair  which  I  have  the  honour  of 
filling  presents  difficulties,  so  many 
and  so  great,  that  the  first  words  of 
any  one  who  has  been  chosen  to  the 
post  must,  almost  inevitably,  be  words 
of  a  somewhat  earnest  entreaty  for 
the  goodwill,  the  kind  excuses,  the 
patience,  of  his  hearers.  So  far  as  I 
know,  this  is  the  only  professorship  in 
any  civilized  country — in  any  Euro- 
pean country  at  least,  which  has  for 
its  exclusive  subject  nothing  less  than 
the  whole  field  of  Poetry,  from  old 
Homer  in  the  isle  of  Chios,  to  our  own 
venerable  Epic  Poet  in  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
Within  this  period,  how  many  thousand 
poets,  nay,  hundreds  of  thousands, 
have  lived  and  worked  and  passed 
away,  unknown  or  known,  but  each 
adding  his  voice  to  "the  still  sad  music 
of  humanity," — that  great  song  which 
is  always  going  up — now  harsh  and 
thin,  perhaps,  now  sweet  and  resonant, 
— from  this  prosaic  and  material 
world !  The  conditions  of  human 
life  may,  as  we  often  hear  it  said  of 
our  own  age,  and  as  it  has  been  said, 
I  imagine,  of  every  age  in  turn,  be 
unpropitious  to  Poetry  ;  but  the  Poets 
are  still  adding,  eagerly  and  daily,  to 
their  vast  Treasury-hive,  like  the  bees 
in  Virgil : 

—Genus  immortale  manet,  muitosque  per 

annos 

stat    Fortuna    domus,    et  avi   numerantur 
avorum.2 

When  the  brief  occupant  of  this  Chair 
looks  at  the  vast  array  and  family  of 

1  An  Introductory  Lecture,  by  Francis  T. 
Palgrave,  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oxford. 

2  "The  race  maintains  its  immortality,  and 
through  the  length  of  years  the  happy  destiny 
of  the  family  stands  firm,  and  can  count  up 
the  ancestors  of  ancestors." 


his  Ancestors,  how  should  not  a  certain 
terror  seize  him — how  should  he  ven- 
ture to  judge  and  value  them  ; — how 
even  number  them  ? 

We  all  vaguely  know  how  vast  this 
field  of  Poetry  is  ;  how  long  it  has  been 
cultivated  ;  how  varied  and  magnificent 
the  harvests, — if  I  may  thus  carry  on 
the  metaphor, — which  it  has  borne  for 
the  pleasure  and  advantage  of  man- 
kind. But  it  is  probable  that  to  no 
man,  even  if  he  devoted  to  the  subject 
the  labours  of  a  life,  could  it  now  be 
possible  to  explore,  much  less  to  be 
familiar  with  and  know  it,  in  its  com- 
pleteness. Some  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago,  indeed,  a  short  critical 
review  of  the  poetry  of  the  then 
civilized  European  races  was  attempted 
by  the  Latin  writer  Quintilian.  He 
had  before  him  only  the  literatures  of 
Greece  and  the  first  and  best  portion 
of  that  of  Rome.  Yet  even  of  these 
he  has  attempted  no  more  than  a 
sketch.  And  this  sketch,  though  of 
the  highest  value  from  the  writer's 
own  acuteness  of  judgment  and  from 
the  traditional  criticisms  of  previous 
days  which  he  has  obviously  followed 
and  preserved  for  us,  yet  covers  little 
more  than  the  chief  poets.  To  do 
more  was  not,  indeed,  Quintilian's 
object ;  had  he  tried  to  make  his  view 
complete,  his  one  chapter,  even  in  that 
terse  ancient  style  which,  unhappily, 
the  modern  world  cannot  endure, 
would  have  swelled  to  volumes.  Since 
his  time,  besides  the  latter  portion  of 
the  Roman  Poetry  which  barbarian 
ravage  has  left  us,  has  been  added  all 
the  poetry  of  the  Romance  languages, 
all  that  of  the  Teutonic  races,  all  that 
of  the  Celtic.  Basque  and  Finlander, 
Arabia  and  China,— I  know  nob  whether 
we  should  not  add,  Assyria  and  Egypt, 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


333 


nay,  Oceana  in  all  her  vastness, — like 
the  Queen  who  came  before  the  throne 
of  Solomon, — offer  their  gifts.  And, 
as  if  this  vast  world  of  verse  were 
insufficient,  we  in  Oxford  may  lawfully 
pride  ourselves  on  the  possession  of 
two  men,  each  of  true  world-wide  emi- 
nence,— (a  phrase  how  often  abused  !) 
— who  call  us  to  view,  as  an  essential 
and  inevitable  portion  of  the  History 
of  Poetry,  the  hymns  and  epics  of 
that  great  Indian  civilization,  which,  if 
I  understand  them  rightly,  hand  down 
to  us,  if  not  the  actual  words,  yet  at 
least  the  modes  of  thought  by  which, 
in  the  remotest  ages,  "the  supreme 
Caucasian  mind  "  was  characterized. 

Even  in  this  brief  and  imperfect 
outline,  how  vast,  how  magnificent  a 
subject  opens  before  us  ! — Poets  best 
do  justice  to  Poetry;  and  those  of  my 
hearers  who  have  the  good  fortune  to 
be  familiar  with  the  '  Paradise  Re- 
gained,' may  recall  some  splendid 
passages  in  the  third  and  fourth 
books,  where  Milton  presents  a  picture 
closely  analogous,  in  breadth  and 
variety,  to  the  sketch  which  I  have 
just  given.  I  refer  of  course  to  that 
panorama  of  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world  and  their  glory  which  the 
Tempter  sets  before  the  eyes  of  Our 
Saviour  from  the  "specular  mount," 
as  the  poet  terms  it,  of  Temptation. 
There  he  takes  us  in  vision  from  Asia 

As  far  as  Indus  east,  Euphrates  west, 

with  its  early  capitals,  Nineveh, 
Babylon,  Persepolis,  Ecbatana,  Seleu- 
cia,  and  a  long  roll  of  other  memorable 
names,  to  the 

Great  and  glorious  Rome,  queen  of  the  earth  ;— 

with  all  the  nations  of  the  world 
bringing  her,  as  tribute,  all  the  fruits 
of  civilization,  from  India  to  Britain, 
from  Ceylon  to  Germany  ;  thence  car- 
rying us,  lastly,  with  the  finest 
poetical  instinct,  from  these  mythic 
or  material  images  of  splendour,  to 
behold — 

Where  on  the  ^Egsean  shore  a  city  stands, 
Built  nobly,  pure  the  air,  and  light  the  soil, 
Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece —  ; 


while  there  he  enumerates  first,  as 
though  Poetry  were  the  finest  flower 
and  fruit  of  the  Hellenic  intellect, 
those  Masters  of  song,  from  whose 
charm  eighteen  hundred  years  and 
more  have  taken  nothing  of  its  first 
force  and  freshness. 

Hardly  less  varied,  and  greatly  more 
extended,  than  Milton's  visionary  land- 
scape, is  the  field  of  Poetry  before  us. 
This  is  the  subject  matter  with  which 
it  is  my  arduous  but  honourable  duty 
to  attempt  to  deal.  In  attempting 
this,  in  the  poet's  words,  "we  must 
learn  to  live  in  reconcilement  with 
our  stinted  powers."  In  any  but  the 
most  fractional  degree  it  is  obviously 
impossible  that  I  can  fulfil  my  office. 
It  is  even  more  impossible  that  I  can 
do  it  with  comfort  to  myself  and 
with  advantage  to  you,  unless  I  am 
favoured  with  the  patience,  the  good- 
will, the  sympathy  of  my  hearers. 

The  Statute  establishing  this  Chair 
lays  down  no  special  rules  for  the 
Prselector's  guidance.  Only  a  phrase 
occurs  which  was  quoted  by  Lowth  in 
his  able  and  scholarly  lectures,  near 
a  century  and  a  half  ago  (1741-1751); 
— That  the  study  of  Poetry  was  of 
value  in  the  University,  as  tending  to 
the  improvement  of  the  chief  sciences 
there  pursued,  sacred  and  secular.  But 
I  read  in  this,  not  so  much  a  sugges- 
tion for  the  matter  of  the  lectures,  as 
a  recognition  of  Poetry  as  a  high  and 
holy  Art,  as  a  motive  power  over 
men, — in  opposition  to  the  sentiment 
which  regards  it  as  the  creation  and 
the  recreation  of  an  idle  day, — as  a 
mere  source  of  transient  or  sensuous 
pleasure.  From  that  loftier  aspect 
Poetry,  it  seems  to  me,  should  be  re- 
garded and  approached  ;  and  not  least 
in  Oxford ;  here,  at  the  meeting-point 
between  the  spirit  of  Youth  and 
the  spirit  of  Study.  Perhaps  you 
smile  at  this.  And  these  powerful 
spirits,  doubtless,  are  not  always  upon 
friendly  terms  ; — there  are  rumours, 
indeed,  of  an  ancient  feud  between 
them  ;  res  olim  dissociabiles,  as 
Tacitus  said  once  of  Order  and 


334 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


Liberty.1  Yet  when,  by  happy  for- 
tune, Study  and  Youth  do  meet  in 
amity,  great  is  the  gain  to  both ; 
youth  strengthens  itself  with  power 
through  study  \  study  is  inspired  with 
freedom  by  youth.  In  words  which 
at  the  present  time  may  speak  with  a 
peculiar  force  to  the  memories  of  many 
among  us,  Imperiwm  and  Libertas  are 
united. 

Had  my  own  younger  days,  in  truth, 
been  more  faithful  to  this  doctrine,  I 
might  have  felt  more  confidence  in 
regard  to  the  task  towards  which  I 
am  now  addressing  myself.  Even 
however  from  those  days  onward  it 
has  always  seemed  to  me, — as  it  must 
have  seemed  to  others, — that  English 
literature  calls  loudly  for  full  and  free 
recognition  as  one  of  the  studies  of  an 
English  University.  If  ever  so  recog- 
nized, I  claim  for  Literature, — Art 
though  it  be, — the  whole  rights  and 
methods  of  scientific  pursuit.  And 
for  those  who  thus  may  pursue  it,  I 
claim  also,  in  the  highest  measure,  all 
that  Science,  in  the  latest  and  widest 
sense  of  the  word,  offers  in  the  way  of 
intellectual  advance,  of  moral  invigor- 
ation  and  pleasure,  as  the  reward  of 
her  votaries.  In  this  direction,  at  any 
rate,  my  wish,  within  my  limited 
sphere,  is  to  work ;  encouraged  by 
recent  signs  which  seem  to  indicate 
that  the  current  of  University  thought 
is  now,  in  some  degree,  running  pro- 
pitiously. To  offer  details  on  the 
scheme  for  this  systematic  study, 
(should  it  ever  become  such,)  as  an 
integral  portion  of  the  Humanity 
School,  would  be  out  of  place  and  pre- 
sumptuous. But  I  hope  I  may  be 
allowed  briefly  to  express  a  very 
strong  conviction  upon  two  points, 
which  impressed  me  greatly  when,  in 
former  years,  it  was  my  work  to  teach 
this  subject  under  the  direction  of  my 
fellow-collegian,  equally  eminent  and 
admirable,  the  present  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don. First ;  the  thorough  study  of 
English  literature,  as  such — literature, 
I  mean,  as  an  Art ;  indeed,  the  finest 
1  'Agricola':  c.  iii. 


of  the  Fine  Arts, — is  hopeless,  unless 
based  on  equally  thorough  study  of 
the  literatures  of  Greece  and  Home. 
But  secondly  ;  when  so  based,  adequate 
study  will  not  be  found  exacting, 
either  of  time  or  of  labour.  To  know 
Shakespeare  and  Milton  is  the  pleasant 
and  crowning  consummation  of  know- 
ing Homer  and  JEschylus,  Catullus 
and  Virgil.  And  upon  no  other  terms 
can  we  obtain  it. 

Poetry,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  as 
by  general  consent  it  is  the  finest 
flower  of  literature,  would  enter  largely 
into  such  systematic,  positive,  scientific 
study.  Whether  any  idea  of  this 
nature  was  before  the  mind  of  the 
liberal  founder  of  the  Professorship, 
I  am  ignorant.  But  1708, — the  date 
of  the  first  Lectures,  —  is  the  time 
when  Dryden  and  Locke,  the  fathers 
respectively  of  analytical  criticism  and 
analytic  psychologv  in  England,  were 
just  dead  ;  when  Pope  was  beginning 
that  brilliant  career  which  a  distin- 
guished member  of  New  College  is 
doing  so  much  to  elucidate ;  when 
men  like  Swift,  Addison,  Arbuthnot, 
Bolingbroke,  with  other  lights  of  a  lite- 
rature essentially  modern  in  its  cha- 
racter, were  in  the  ascendant.  It  is 
hence  possible  that  some  anticipatory 
impulse  may  have  then  existed  towards 
such  a  study  of  poetry  as  I  have  just 
described.  But,  whether  this  were  so 
or  not,  a  scheme  of  this  broad  charac- 
ter is  manifestly  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  Professorship,  even  if  English  lite- 
rature were  already  admitted  to  a 
humble  entrance  within  that  Palace 
of  Art,  the  sacred  precinct  of  the 
Schools.  It  is  more  probable  that 
simply  to  aid  in  the  creation  of  Good 
Taste,  or  Gusto  as  it  might  then  have 
been  called,  was  the  dominant  purpose  of 
the  University ;  such  models  of  criti- 
cism as  were  given  in  Pope's  celebrated 
Essay  (written  in  1709),  and  by  the 
writers  whom  Pope  enumerates,  being 
in  the  Founder's  mind.  And  to  do 
what  I  can  in  this  direction  will  be 
my  object  as  your  Professor. 

At  this  point,  I  ask  leave  to  offer 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


335 


a  little  personal  explanation,  request- 
ing your  pardon  for  an  egotism  which 
I  shall  do  my  best  afterwards  to  avoid. 
My  wish  was,  at  first,  when  beginning 
my  work,  to  dispense  with  general 
statements  as  to  Poetry,  the  theory 
of  it  as  a  Fine  Art,  the  nature  of  its 
influence  upon  the  world,  the  laws  of 
criticism  and  good  taste,  and  the  like. 
These  somewhat  abstract  considera- 
tions it  is  difficult  to  make  clear,  more 
difficult  to  make  accurate, — most  diffi- 
cult of  all,  maybe,  to  make  interesting. 
Yet  on  the  whole  it  seems  most  useful 
in  itself,  and  most  respectful  to  you, 
my  hearers, — some  of  whom,  at  least, 
I  could  with  more  fitness  and  advan- 
tage learn  from  than  lecture, — if,  as 
the  saying  is,  I  should  "  begin  from 
the  beginning,"  in  the  old-fashioned 
\vay.  And  there  may  be  the  more 
reason  for  this  course,  because  I  do 
not  find  that  it  has  been  definitely 
attempted  by  any  holder  of  the  Chair 
during  the  last  half-century  ;  not,  in- 
deed, since  it  was  adorned  by  the  ex- 
quisite taste  and  lofty  feeling  of  Keble. 
Following  him  then,  hand  passibus 
aequis,  I  shall  try  to  set  forth  at 
once  a  few  broad  general  principles 
upon  the  subject  as  a  whole,  with  the 
hope  hereafter  to  illustrate  and  vivify 
them  by  lectures  of  a  more  detailed 
character.  Every  one  has  seen  the 
plain  outline  maps  which  are  found  in 
Guides  and  Handbooks,  and  serve  to 
show  the  traveller  his  way  through 
those  elaborate  and  confusing  charts, 
by  whose  aid  he  does  not  so  much 
learn  his  road,  as  the  crowd  of  won- 
ders he  is  to  find  while  pursuing  it. 
In  offering  such  an  outline,  a  lecturer 
runs  the  risks,  alas  !  like  Dogberry,  of 
bestowing  all  his  tediousness  upon 
your  worships.  But  to  the  best  of 
my  power  I  shall  avoid  technical  and 
abstract  terms.  Nor  shall  I  trouble 
you  now  with  any  essay  at  a  defini- 
tion-in-form  of  Poetry.  Many  men 
of  genius, — some  of  my  predecessors 
included, — have  made  the  attempt. 
But  they  have  rather  given  us  beauti- 
ful phrases  describing  certain  aspects 


of  Poetry,  than  a  complete  definition. 
This  Proteus  is  a  spirit  too  many- 
sided  and  vast,  too  simple  and  too 
subtle  at  once,  to  be  thus  caught  and 
bound  and  exhibited.  Such  a  defini- 
tion may,  indeed,  rise  in  our  souls 
when  we  are  saturated  with  the  best 
poetry, — at  home  with  the  Master-sing- 
ers. But  I  think  that  we  shall  then  be 
somewhat  shy  of  trying  to  put  it  into 
words.  In  the  beautiful  phrase  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  upon  his  own  Art, 
it  will  be  an  Idea  which  "  subsists 
only  in  the  mind.  The  sight  never 
beheld  it,  nor  has  the  hand  expressed 
it ;  it  is  an  idea  residing  in  the  breast 
of  the  artist,  which  he  is  always 
labouring  to  impart,  and  which  he 
dies  at  last  without  imparting."  l 

Taking  my  ,duty  then  to  be,  to  aid, 
so  far  as  I  may,  towards  Good  Taste 
in  Poetry,  these  two  words,  it  should 
be  noticed,  cover  a  very  wide  field  of 
study.  For  Good  Taste,  when  we  look 
closely,  means  in  truth  nothing  less 
than  that  familiarity  which  enables  us 
to  win  from  Poetry  the  greatest 
amount  of  pleasure  :  —  the  deepest 
draught  of  that  relief,  comfort,  ex- 
hilaration, enlargement,  elevation  of 
mind  which  she  has,  in  all  ages,  freely 
given  to  all  who  truly  love  her. 

Good  Taste  in  Poetry  exists  on  the 
same  ground  as  in  the  other  Fine  Arts. 
Three  diverse  elements,  it  would  seem, 
combine  always  to  form  it.  We  must 
have  (1)  Natural  bias  and  sympathy 
with  the  art  in  question  ;  (2)  Familiar- 
ity with  its  masterpieces,  Acquaintance 
with  works  of  lesser  degree  ;  (3) 
Knowledge  of  the  conditions  of  the 
art  as  Art,  of  its  own  historical  course, 
and  of  the  parallel  history  of  the 
country  which  produces  it. 

Some  natural  bias,  first,  towards  the 
subject,  some  inborn  and  incommuni- 
cable sympathy  must  be  presumed ; 
some  portion,  in  short,  of  the  gift 
which  the  Artist  himself  has  in  larger 
degree.  For  it  is  only  a  question  of 
degree  which  separates  him  from  those 
to  whom  his  Art  gives  pleasure  ;  there 
1  Discourse  ix.  ;  Oct.  17,  1780. 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


is  something  in  us  all  of  Homer,  some- 
thing of  Shakespeare,  when  their 
works  speak  to  us  as  soul  with  soul ; 
when  we  triumph  with  Achilles  in  the 
trenches,  or  grieve  with  Lear  over 
Cordelia.  It  is  through  this  one  touch 
of  sympathy  that  the  vitality, — what, 
by  a  phrase  of  somewhat  pathetic 
irony,  we  call  the  immortality — of  the 
masterpieces  of  art,  those  of  Poetry  in 
particular,  is  maintained.  To  judge 
any  art  truly,  we  also,  in  our  measure, 
must  be  born  artists.  This  natural 
basis  must  be  set  as  the  primary  re- 
quisite for  good  judgment ;  as  Plato 
once  said  of  Virtue,  this  cannot  be 
taught.  Yet  the  difficulty  thus  seem- 
ingly presented  to  us  at  the  outset  is 
not  really  formidable.  For  in  some 
natural  bias  towards  the  Beautiful  in 
her  many  forms,  most  men,  I  fully 
believe,  have  their  inborn  share; 
Wordsworth's  famous  phrase, 

— many  are  the  Poets, 
may  thus,  perhaps,  be  best  interpreted. 

That  this  favourable  predisposition 
exists  in  you,  I  shall  therefore  assume, 
through  the  fact  of  your  presence  to- 
day ;  if  anywhere,  this  instinct  should 
be  found  in  its  freshness  here ;  it  is 
one  of  the  best  treasures  of  the  spirit 
of  Youth. 

But,  like  all  God's  gifts  to  His 
creatures,  our  native  sense  of  the 
Beautiful  in  Art  is  at  once  a  help 
towards  life,  and  a  responsibility. 
Without  this  innate  sympathy,  judg- 
ment is  a  barren  thing  ;  but  sympathy 
itself  is  all  but  barren,  unless  it  be 
strenuously  cultivated  into  judgment. 
This  is  but  a  commonplace  ;  yet  much 
current  criticism,  if  it  deserve  the 
name,  supported  by  natural  indolence, 
practically  sets  aside  the  doctrine  that 
we  must  work  towards  a  faithful  judg- 
ment of  Art  hardly  less  than  the 
Artist;  that  Art's  final  result  and 
overplus  of  pleasure  is,  itself,  the  fruit 
and  the  reward  of  pleasant  labour. 

From  that  of  which  we  are  heirs,  I 
pass  to  that  which  we  can  acquire  ; 
from  the  natural  groundwork  of  Taste, 
to  what  we  must  ourselves  add ; 


Familiarity  with  masterpieces,  Ac- 
quaintance with  lesser  work.  Even 
limited  thus,  it  is  only  a  province  or 
two  in  the  United  Kingdom  of  Poetry 
which  the  most  energetic  can  hope  in 
some  degree  to  conquer.  But  it  is  one 
of  the  privileges  of  this  art,  that  each 
great  province,  in  essential  features,  is 
typical  of  the  rest.  Poetry  is  the 
mirror  of  mankind ;  of  man's  grand 
elementary  passions  and  thoughts 
above  all.  He,  then,  who  masters  one 
natural  group  will  have,  thus  far, 
laid  sufficient  foundation  for  right 
judgment. 

Thirdly  ;  to  gain  true  Taste  in  Art, 
— which,  let  me  again  remind  you, 
means  simply  the  greatest  power  of 
enjoying  and  profiting, — we  require 
knowledge  of  the  formal  rules  of  each 
art,  of  its  own  historical  career,  and 
relation  to  its  own  age.  Every  art, 
as  words  familiar  in  Oxford  tell  us, 
aims  at  some  good  end  ;  this  in  Poetry, 
may  be  provisionally,  at  least,  defined 
as  pure,  high,  and  lasting  pleasure. 
As  the  medium  through  which  the 
painter  works  is  colour,  that  of  the 
poet  is  language.  Words  are  his 
colours  ;  the  dictionary  is  his  palette  ; 
but  he  has  upon  it  a  thousand-fold 
more  tints  than  the  painter.  Under 
what  special  conditions  and  rules  must 
he  use  words  for  the  creation  of  his 
poem  1  These  are  the  technical  laws  of 
his  art ;  to  this  belong  questions  of 
metre,  rhyme,  diction,  style,  species  of 
poetry,  as  Epic  or  Lyric  ;  choice  and 
treatment  of  subject,  and  the  like  ; — in 
short,  all  the  points  in  which  Poetry 
differs  from  the  other  Fine  Arts. 

These  are  the  conditions  under  which 
the  Poet  must  work ;  here  are  the 
tools  of  his  trade,  the  word-material 
over  which  he  is  to  show  his  plastic 
power.  Why,  then,  it  may  be  asked, 
should  these  be  studied  by  us, —  spec- 
tators only  of  his  picture,  readers  of 
his  poem  ?  Why  not  "  take  the  goods 
the  Gods  provide  us,"  ask  no  more,  and 
enjoy  1 l — Simply  because  we  should  thus 

1  This  question  arose  of  old  with  regard  to 
Music.     Tt  5e?  uavedvetv .  .  .  .,  d\\'  ov\  frepwv 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


337 


inevitably  and  uniformly  fail  to  obtain 
the  fullest  and  most  lasting  enjoy- 
ment. We  cannot  do  justice  to  the 
poet's  work  unless  we  know  the  strict 
limits  and  laws  under  which  he  pro- 
duces it.  These  technical  conditions 
were  with  him  at  every  moment  as  he 
penned  each  line.  These  conditions 
also  we,  in  some  measure,  must  know, 
if  we  are  truly  to  sympathize  with 
poet  and  poem. 

The  aspect  of  Poetry  which  I  have 
just  touched  on  is  the  most  peculiar  to 
it,  the  most  intimate.  Farthest  from 
it  lies  the  historical  career  and  de- 
velopment of  poetry,  and  its  relation, 
in  each  country,  to  that  country's  own 
contemporary  life.  Perhaps  upon  the 
necessity  of  studying  these  two  closely- 
united  subjects  I  need  not  now  en- 
large. It  seems  clear  at  once  that,  if 
isolated,  no  work  of  art  can  either  be 
intelligently  judged  or  duly  enjoyed  ; 
to  gain  that  vantage-ground  we  must 
know  what  led  up  to  it,  what  followed. 
Nor  is  knowledge  of  the  surrounding 
history,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
phrase,  less  essential.  Poetry  reflects 
life  \  it  runs  as  a  river  through  its 
own  age,  and  all  the  currents  of 
thought  and  of  action  fall  into  it.  We 
must  know  what  it  imitates,  if  we  are 
to  judge  and  to  enjoy  the  truth  of  the 
imitation. 


In  this  somewhat  lengthy  preface 
my  effort  has  been  to  lay  down  and 
define  distinctly  an  outline  of  the  dif- 
ferent elements  which  Poetry  presents 
for  study.  We  must  have,  Sympathy, 
Familiarity,  Knowledge  of  the  Art  and 
of  its  history.  Or,  looked  at  in  another 


ditovovTas  6pOS>s  re  xaiptiv  Kal  SvvacrOai  Kpivciv; 
"Ho-Trep  of  AaKwi/es'  e'/cetVot  70?  ov  p.avQavovres 
'6/j.(as  fivvavTcu  Kpiveiv  opQus,  as  <pa<ri,  TO.  XPI0"^ 
Kal  TO.  ^  xf"?(JT&  T&V  /u.e\o>*/  :  "  Why  need  we 
study,  and  not  rather  learning  of  others  gain 
power  rightly  to  enjoy  and  judge  ?  So  do  the 
Lacedsemonians  ;  for  they  without  study  yet 
can  judge  rightly,  as  they  say,  what  is  good 
and  not  good  in  melody."  (Arist.  'Polit.,' 
viii.,  5.)  —  But  no  one,  I  will  venture  to  say, 
who  has  learned  no  more,  even,  than  one  in- 
strument, will  agree  with  the  Spartan  critics. 
No.  317.—  VOL.  LIII. 


way,  these  two  latter  main  roads 
towards  Good  Taste  might  be  spoken 
of  as  Poetry  viewed  in  its  results,  and 
Poetry  viewed  in  its  processes  ; — the 
poem  given  to  the  world,  and  the  poet  as 
an  artist  in  his  studio.  I  divide  them  for 
convenience  of  treatment  \  but  it  will  be 
seen  that  they  form  only  different  faces 
of  the  same  thing.  By  study  of  the 
specific  rules  of  Poetry  as  a  Fine  Art, 
and  of  its  historical  course,  we  put 
ourselves  in  the  proper  light  to  exa- 
mine and  appreciate  the  Master- 
singers.  By  familiarity  with  Master- 
works,  we  find  the  technical  rules  of 
their  art  best  exemplified  and  put 
vividly  before  us,  and  can  also  catch 
some  glimpse  at  the  working  of  the 
poet's  special  powers,  —  Invention, 
Fancy,  Imagination;  powers  which 
we  are  constantly  tempted  to  define, 
but  which  (it  seems  to  me),  like  the 
essential  spirit  of  Poetry  itself,  almost 
always  elude  definition. 

These  two  main  elements  of  study, 
which  I  hope  constantly  to  have  before 
me.  it  will  be  best,  I  think,  to  eluci- 
date in  a  little  detail.  Poetry  as  an 
Art  it  is  my  wish  to  consider  in  the 
next  lecture,  comparing  it  with  the 
other  Fine  Arts.  It  seems  to  suit  a 
first  discourse  better,  to  dwell  upon 
Poetry  in  its  main  effects  on  the  mind, 
on  Poetry  as  a  motive  force  in  the 
world,  as  an  expression  of  our  best 
and  most  intimate  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings ;  Poetry,  in  short,  as  an  integral 
part  of  the  general  history  of  man- 
kind. 

What,  then,  has  been  the  main 
power  of  Poetry  over  mankind,  and 
whence  is  that  power  derived  ?  There 
have  been  spaces,  more  or  less  blank, 
when  her  descant  has  been  hardly  au- 
dible above  the  din  of  war,  or  stifled 
in  the  heavy  air  of  vulgar  and  material 
civilization.  But  Poetry,  whenever 
existing  as  a  living  force,  to  put  it  in 
a  word,  has  simply  been  the  voice 
through  which  the  passions  and  imagi- 
nations of  the  race,  as  well  as  of 
the  individual,  have  uttered  them- 
selves. And  Poetry,  at  the  same 

z 


338 


The  Province  and  Stiidy  of  Poetry. 


time,  has  only  given  back  what  she 
has  herself   received.      As   the   river 
shapes  the  valley,  and  the  valley  gives 
the  river  its  bias,  so  the  poet  is   at 
once  moulded  by  the  general  current 
of  thought  and   feeling  prevalent   in 
each  age, — and  then  himself  aids  in 
moulding  them.     Poetry  stands  as  a 
mediator   between    man's    heart  and 
mind,    and   the   world   in    which    he 
moves  and  exists.     In  the  systematic 
lectures    given    here   by   Keble,    the 
author  of  the  '  Christian  Year,'  true 
to  his  own  modest  depth  and  delicacy 
of  nature,  treated  his  Art  mainly  in 
its  effect  upon  individual  men.     The 
Poet's  impulse  he  describes  as  a  desire 
to  give  relief  to  an   over-full   heart; 
whilst  the  reader,  in  his  turn,   finds 
this   relief    from    the    poem.      It    is 
Poetry  as  a  vis  Medicatrix,  in  which 
Keble  is   most  interested.       What   I 
desire  now  to  dwell  upon,  is  another 
aspect    of    the  same   power ; — poetry 
as  a  vis  Imperatrix  ;  Poets  as  they  have 
given  aid  and  guidance  to   the   men 
about   them,    enabling  them  to    live 
again  in  the  Past,  or  to  anticipate  the 
future ;   Poets,  in  a  word,  as  leaders 
of  thought,  through   the  channels  of 
emotion,  and  beauty,  and  pleasure. 

In  some  words  which  many  here 
will  remember,1  Mr.  Arnold,  with  his 
usual  happy  eloquence,  has  dwelt  upon 
what  he  names  the  "  interpretative 
power "  of  Poetry.  This  interpreta- 
tion is  given  in  several  ways.  It  may 
be,  as  he  says  in  the  passage  alluded 
to,  by  those  magical  touches  of  pure 
imagination  which  awaken  in  us  a 
new  and  intimate  sense  of  "  the  real 
nature  of  things ; "  it  may  be  by 
making  us  feel  the  inner  beauty  of 
what  we  have  hitherto  regarded  as  the 
barren  commonplaces  of  life, — a  func- 
tion, amongst  others,  admirably  ful- 
filled by  Wordsworth.  But  nowhere, 
I  think,  does  Poetry  act  as  Interpreter 
more  grandly,  than  when  she  snines 
forth  as  the  practical  guiding  power 
over  a  whole  nation,  leading  them  to 

1  '  Essays    in    Criticism ' ;    Article     upon 
Maurice  de  Guerin. 


higher,  holier,  and  nobler  things.    The 
reproach  has  been  often  cast  upon  the 
Fine  Arts,  and  justified  often  by  the 
tone  of  those  who  love  them  unwisely, 
— that  they  serve  only  for  the  adorn- 
ment and  the  amusement  of  life ;  that, 
because  they  are  imperatively  bound 
to  move  us  through  Pleasure,  Pleasure 
is  their  final  cause  of  existence.  Above 
that   reproach    Poetry  is    lifted  most 
when    performing   this  imperial  func- 
tion.    Perhaps  I  may  here    seem  to 
magnify,  if  not  my  office,  at  any  rate 
the   Art   which  that  office  professes. 
Doubtless    the   history   and    develop- 
ment of  nations   have    been   greatly 
moulded  by  events  over  which  Poetry 
has,  unhappily,  exercised  no  influence. 
We  may  not  say  with  Shelley,  in  his 
fine  frenzy,  "  Poets  are  the  unacknow- 
ledged legislators  of  the  world."     Yet 
it  is  surely  probable  that  if   Greece 
could   be    imagined    without   Homer, 
Rome  without  Virgil,   Italy  without 
Dante,  England  without  Shakespeare, 
not  only  would  each  nation  have  lost 
one  of  its  highest  sources  of  personal, 
and  as  it  were,  private,  wealth,  and  we 
with  it,  but  the  absolute  current  of  its 
history   could    not  have  followed   its 
actual   course ;    nay,    that   it    would 
have  missed,  in  each  case,  something 
of  its  best  and  most  fertile  direction. 

By  this  I  do  not  mean  that  a  direct 
political  influence  over  national  history 
can  be  often  traced  to  poetry.  Indeed, 
we  generally  and  not  untruly  think 
of  it  as  standing  in  a  kind  of  opposi- 
tion to  the  prose  of  material  advance, 
to  the  strife  of  party  tongues,  to  the 
din  of  warfare.  But  beneath  these 
and  all  other  analogous  forms  of 
activity  lies  the  broad  basis  of  our 
common  human  nature  ;  and  no  one,  I 
think,  even  of  those  who  would  draw  the 
line  most  trenchantly  between  the  real 
and  the  ideal,  between  facts  and  visions, 
between  Adam  Smith,  let  us  say,  and 
Keats, — can  deny  that  the  sentiments 
of  that  common  human  nature  are 
powerfully  worked  upon  by  Poetry, 
when  given  to  us  by  the  greater 
Masters  and  Makers.  Nor  would  even 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


3  9 


a  direct  practical  aim  be  alien  from  the 
genius  of  this  Fine  Art.  The  greatest 
of  poets,  on  the  contrary,  so  far  as  evi- 
dence enables  us  to  judge,  have  been 
precisely  those  who  were  most  com- 
pletely and  emphatically  men  of  their 
day :  "  children,"  as  the  highest- 
hearted  among  German  Master-singers 
has  said,  "  of  their  age,"  though  with 
the  mission  to  "  strengthen  and  purify 
it." 

In  what  mode  has  the  national  in- 
fluence which  I  here  am  ascribing  to 
Poetry  been  felt  ?  It  has  been  felt  in 
what  I  would  call  the  interpretation 
of  each  country  to  itself ;  in  making 
the  nations  alive,  in  the  first  instance, 
to  their  own  unity ;  afterwards,  to 
their  place  in  the  whole  comity  of 
mankind.  I  may  call  it  briefly,  the 
Poiver  of  Poetry  in  the  world.  Let 
me  give  one  or  two  examples, 

So  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

in  a  rather  too  abstract  discussion. 

Yirgil  I  will  take  first,  for  two 
reasons.  He  has  been  familiarized  to 
us,  in  all  the  fullness  of  his  many- 
sided  and  exquisite  genius,  more  than 
to  the  students  of  fifty  years  since  ; 
partly  by  two  admirable  editions  which 
England  owes,  one  to  a  great  Cambridge 
scholar,  the  other  to  our  own  lost  and 
lamented  Conington ;  partly  by  that 
treatise  on  his  age,  life,  and  works, 
equally  learned  and  sympathetic, — two 
things  not  often  united, — by  which 
my  old  College  friend,  William  Sellar, 
has  done  honour  both  to  Edinburgh 
and  to  Oxford.  My  other  reason  is 
that  Yirgil,  by  the  character  of  his 
genius,  gentle,  gracious,  supreme  in 
Art,  rather  than  energetic  or  creatively 
original,  would  not  seem  at  first  sight 
one  of  those  poets  who,  in  Lord  Tenny- 
son's phrase,  are  destined  to  "  shake  the 
world," — or,  rather,  to  give  it  strength 
and  calmness  after  it  has  been  shaken 
by  civil  war  and  revolution.  Yet  this 
great  and  beneficent  work  was  really 
accomplished  by  the  author  of  the 
'  Georgics '  and  the  '^Eneid.'  That  poem, 
it  has  been  eloquently  said  by  Hallam, 


"reflects  the  glory  of  Rome  as  from  a 
mirror." l     "It    remains,"    says    the 
historian  of  the    early  Empire,   "  the 
most  complete  picture  of  the  national 
mind  at  its  highest  elevation,  the  most 
precious   document     of    national    his- 
tory, if  the  history  of  an  age  is  re- 
vealed in  its  ideas,  no  less  than  in  its 
events    and    incidents."       But   much 
more,  with  high  probability,  may  be 
claimed   for  the  '  JEneid.'     Miserably 
imperfect  as  is  our  evidence  for   the 
inner  life  whether  of  the  Romans  or 
of  the  provincials  whom  they  ruled  and 
assimilated,  enough  remains  to  prove 
the  depth  and  width  of  the  impression 
which  Yirgil's  work  stamped  upon  the 
Empire,  and  thus  upon  all  then  exist- 
ing Western    civilization.       I   do  not 
here  allude  to  the  effect,  not  always 
fortunate,   which    Yirgil's    style  exer- 
cised over  the  later  Latin  Epics.     But 
everywhere  in  Latin  literature  we  find 
proof  how    deeply  this  poem  touched 
thinking  men.     Nor  was  this  influence 
confined  to  literature.     We  know  that 
the  *  ^Eneid '  was  a  text-book  in  the 
popular  schools ;  we  see  Yirgil's  verse 
yet  scrawled  on  the  roofless  walls  of 
Pompeii,  and  within  the   gloom  of  the 
Catacombs. 

Those  faults  of  idea  and  sentiment, 
the  unsatisfying  element  which  modern 
comparative  criticism  finds  in  the 
'  ^Eneid,'  happily  or  unhappily  for  the 
reader,  were  then  unfelt ;  what  the 
ruling  race  seems,  from  the  very  date 
of  its  publication,  to  have  recognized, 
was,  that  here  was  enshrined  the 
representative  idea  of  the  City  and  the 
Empire  ;  the  poem  in  which  Roman 
power  and  civilization  were  personified. 
The  mirror  reflecting  the  glory  of 
Rome,  past  and  present,  was  to  the 
Romans  also  the  glass  in  which  they 
beheld  her  future  and  immortal 
glory  :— 

Imperium  sine  fine  dedi.3 

1  '  Introduction    to     the     Literature     of 
Europe  '  ;   ii.  v. 

2  Merivale's  '  History  of  the  Romans  under 
the  Empire  '  ;  ch.  xii. 

3  "  I  have  .granted  them   Empire  without 
end." 

Z   2 


340 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


^n  its  "  long-resounding  march  "  the 
'  ^Eneid '  appealed  to  them  through  all 
the  great  sentiments  and  thoughts 
which  had  enabled  Rome  to  conquer 
and  to  rule  the  world — to  the  mystical 
"  Fortuna  Urbis "  ;  to  their  love  for 
their  own  beautiful  land ;  to  the  tradi- 
tions of  their  origin  and  history;  to 
their  proud  confidence  in  themselves  ; 
their  strange  but  deeply-rooted  sense 
of  religion ;  to  their  love  of  law  and 
fixed  government ; — above  all,  and  in 
Virgil's  time  including  all,  the  '^neid' 
appealed  to  "  the  imperial  idea  of 
Rome  in  its  secular,  religious,  and  per- 
sonal significance.  This  idea,"  Pro- 
fessor Sellar  adds,  Yirgil  "has  ennobled 
with  the  associations  of  a  divine  origin 
and  of  a  divine  sanction  :  of  a  remote 
antiquity  and  an  unbroken  continuity 
of  great  deeds  and  great  men ;  of  the 
pomp  and  pride  of  war,  and  the 
majesty  of  government :  and  he  has 
softened  and  humanized  the  impression 
thus  produced  by  the  thought  of  peace, 
law,  and  order  given  to  the  world.  .  .  . 
We  are  reminded  only  of  the  power, 
glory,  majesty,  and  civilising  influence 
with  which  the  idea  of  Rome  is  encom- 
passed." l  I>  ked  at  thus,  the  '  .ZEneid ' 
lifts  itself  above  all  Latin  poetry,  as 
the  great  Temple  of  Jupiter  once 
raised  its  golden  roof  over  all  the 
temples  and  palaces  of  the  City.  It 
is  the  Capitol  of  Roman  literature. 
When  we  add  that  this  "  glorified 
representation"  of  the  State  was  borne 
in  to  men's  hearts  and  memories  by  a 
poetical  style  so  supreme  and  ex- 
quisite in  charm  that  after  nineteen 
centuries  it  retains  all  its  unique 
fascination, — need  we  hesitate  to  be- 
lieve that  Virgil  the  Magician  was  an 
imperial  power  in  the  Roman  world  ? 
That  his  genius,  penetrating  the  soul, 
was  a  bond  of  national  unity  to  the 
Romans  throughout  the  wide  regions  of 
the  Empire  1  That  it  taught  them  a 
lofty  aim  and  ideal  of  public  life  during 
the  years  of  Imperial  prosperity  ?  That 

1  '  Virgil '  ;  by  W.  Y.  Sellar,  Professor  of 
Humanity  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh : 
1883. 


when  the  evil  days  of  decay  and  in- 
vasion began,  it  nerved  many  a  heart 
to  endure,  and  many  an  arm  to  strike  ? 
Oxford  has  scholars  and  historians 
to  whose  judgment  I  bow  with  due 
respect.  If  they  should  remind  me 
how  scanty,  as  I  noticed  before,  is  the 
positive  evidence  for  the  political  im- 
pulse which  I  here  assign  to  Virgil, 
and  to  Poetry  through  him,  my  reply 
would  be,  It  is  so.  But  I  rest  this 
argument  upon  deeper  grounds  than 
material  proof;  upon  the  certainty 
that  what  has  widely  and  deeply  and 
long  moved  the  minds  and  hearts  of 
men,  must  have  strongly  influenced 
their  lives  and  actions  ; — I  rely  upon 
the  common  laws  of  human  nature. 

You  will  remember  that  I  am  now 
speaking  of  Poetry  in  her  loftiest 
function;  of  Poets  as  a  vital  energy 
in  the  course  of  the  world.  Is  it  not 
a  singular  fate  which,  in  this  character, 
unites  in  the  closest  bonds  Virgilius 
Maro  with  Dante  Alighieri  I — the  Poet 
whose  work  was  to  impress  the  unity 
and  meaning  of  the  actual  Roman 
Empire  upon  the  minds  of  men, — and 
the  Poet,  who  by  his  advocacy  of  an 
ideal  Roman  Empire,  was  to  impress 
first  upon  Italy  that  impulse  towards 
national  unity  which  has  accomplished 
itself  in  our  own  days  1  For  these  two 
great  men  we  may  claim  a  living  and 
moving  force,  a  spiritual  power  and 
presence,  through  near  two  thousand 
years ;  while  it  is  to  the  earlier  that 
the  later  looks  up  for  guidance,  not 
only  in  poetry,  but  in  thought.  Both 
were  men  of  singular  natural  sensitive- 
ness, delicacy  of  feeling,  tenderness  of 
nature ;  yet  both,  drawn  by  the  sui 
instinct  of  the  Poet,  discerned  tl 
national  necessity  of  their  day,  ai 
left  home-life  and  love-songs,  to  become 
the  ins  fired  political  leaders  of  Italy. 
It  is  Virgil  whom  Dante  takes  for  his 
master ;  in  his  immense  task,  that 
seeing  first  and  telling  afterwards  tl 
long  Pilgrimage  through  Hell  by  Pui 
gatory  to  Heaven,  "  Virgil  bids  hii 
lay  aside  the  last  vestige  of  fear. 
Virgil  is  to  crown  him  king  and  pries 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


341 


over  himself,  for  a  higher  venture  than 
heathen  poetry  had  dared ; " *  Yirgil  to 
him  is  "  that  lord  of  the  loftiest  song, 
who  soars  above  the  rest  like  the 
eagle."2 

Tu  duca,  tu  signer,  e  tu  maestro.3 

But  Dante's  spirit  is  bolder  than 
Virgil's,  more  confident,  with  more 
wisdom  in  regard  to  this  world,  more 
insight  for  the  next ;  political  impulse 
with  him,  is,  also,  only  a  portion  of 
his  task.  Dante's  style,  again,  though 
far  below  Virgil's  in  continuous  grace 
and  unfailing  dignity,  deserves  the 
epithet  supreme  in  another  way.  Even 
Shakespeare's  is  not  so  direct,  so 
flexible,  so  incisively  penetrating  as 
Dante's.  No  words  cut  deeper  than 
his.  Nor  was  less  power  in  his  Art 
essential  for  the  delivery  of  his  message 
to  his  countrymen. 

I  have  tried  to  sketch  the  power  of 
the  '  ^Eneid  '  over  men.  In  what  con- 
sisted the  similar  power  of  the  '  Divina 
Commedia '  ?  In  defining  this,  I  shall 
avail  myself  of  the  Essay  by  Dean 
Church, — the  finest,  the  most  complete 
single  piece  of  criticism  which  our 
day,  though  not  wanting  critics  of 
high  quality,  has  produced.  Italian 
life  in  Dante's  time  was  a  history,  not 
of  a  country,  but  of  cities  ;  of  their 
rivalries  and  their  wars.  Nay,  it  was 
a  history  of  civil  war  within  each  city ; 
castle  against  castle,  family  against 
family.  Yet,  beneath  this  wretched 
scene  of  jarring  disintegration,  remind- 
ing us  often  of  what  Milton  termed 
the  battles  of  kites  and  crows  in  old 
England, — beneath  all  this  lay  a  deep 
memory  of  the  historic  Roman  empire 
with  its  iron  unity,  a  vague  sense  that 
Italy  should  rightly  form  one  country 
at  peace  within  herself.  Some  sought 
this  union  through  the  spiritual  head- 
ship of  the  Papacy ;  some,  through 
the  German  Emperors.  Dante  be- 

1  Dean  Church  ;  '  Essay  on  Dante ' :  1854. 

2  Quel  signer  dell'  altissimo  canto, 
Che  sovra  gli  altri,  com'  aquila,  vola. 

('Inferno':   C.  iv.  95,  96.)— Line   80  shows 
that  Virgil,  not  Homer,  is  here  intended. 
8  "Thou  art  my  leader,  lord,  and  master." 


longs  strictly  to  neither  side;  he  is 
Guelf  and  Ghibeline  at  once ;  his 
party,  as  he  says,  was  one  made  by 
himself.4  The  Imperial  power  which 
he  desired  and  advocated  was  an  ideal 
empire,  alien  far  from  the  material 
supremacy  of  Hohenstaufen  and  Haps- 
burg.  ''Dante's  political  views,"  says 
Dean  Church,  "were  a  dream  :  .  .  .  a 
dream,  in  divided  Italy,  of  a  real  and 
national  government,  based  on  justice 
and  law.  It  was  the  dream  of  a  real 
State."  If  the  dream  were  blended  with 
impossibilities,  yet,  "in  this  case,  as 
in  many  others,  he  had  already  caught 
the  spirit  and  ideas  of  a  far  distant 
future."  We  see  Dante,  like  Virgil, 
conscious  of  greater  issues  than  he 
could  grasp, 
Tendentemque  manus  ripse  ulterioris  amore.5 

And  his  words,  as  we  know,  have 
run  through  Italy  from  his  day  till 
ours ,  at  times  as  a  hidden  fire,  at 
times  as  a  beacon  and  a  warning  to 
his  countrymen.  We  cannot  strictly 
prove  the  influence  of  Virgil  on  the 
fortunes  of  the  Empire.  But  no  one 
can  question  the  power  which  Dante 
has  exercised  towards  that  unification 
which  is  now  working  itself  out, — to 
the  satisfaction  of  most  Italians,  and 
(it  is  to  be  hoped),  on  the  whole,  to  the 
gain  of  all. 

By  what  poetical  energies, — to  re- 
vert to  our  immediate  subject, — has 
the  '  Commedia  '  exercised  this  power 
over  Italy, — this  power,  it  may  be 
truly  said,  over  Europe  ?  Dante's 
appeal  to  his  countrymen  is  through 
all  the  interests  of  their  life.  In  his 
poem  we  find  their  history  as  heirs  of 
Rome,  united  always  with  that  of  his 
own  age.  Virgil's  Rhipeus,  Cato, 
Trajan,  in  his  liberal  view,  have  their 

4  A  te  fia  hello 

Averti  fatta  parte  per  te  stesso. 
"To  thee  it  shall  be  honourable  to  have 
made  thee  a  party  for  thyself  "  :  '  Paradiso '  ; 
C.  xvii.  69. — I  quote  from  Mr.  A.  J.  Butler's 
edition  (1885) :  one  of  the  most  useful  and 
scholarly  pieces  of  work  lately  executed  in 
England. 

6  "And  stretching  forth  his  hands  for  lovo> 
of  the  further  shore." 


342 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


place  among  the  saints  of  Paradise; 
we  see  all  the  leading  Italians,  his 
contemporaries,  the  true  heroes  and 
the  false,  the  scenery  and  cities  of 
his  "  fair  country,"  the  fresh  rising 
art,  Cimabue  and  Giotto.  And  above 
and  beyond  the  framework  and  per- 
sonages of  his  drama  the  poet's  magic 
mirror  repeats,  interprets,  and  inten- 
sifies all  the  politics  of  his  age,  all 
its  morality,  all  its  theology.  Nor 
are  the  contents  of  the  poem  more 
rich  and  impressive  than  its  art.  Wild 
and  wandering  as  the  scenes  of  his 
pilgrimage  may  be,  one  strong  purpose 
traverses  and  animates  the  whole.  As 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  so  in  the 
nineteenth,  Dante  breathes  conviction 
into  the  heart  by  the  sheer  force  of 
Poetry ;  by  the  austere  yet  subduing 
loveliness  of  his  style ;  by  the  words 
which,  in  his  own  beautiful  phrase, 
"  carry  their  beauty  with  them."  l 

Thus  far  we  have  thought  of  Poetry 
in  her  loftiest  function,  as  a  motive 
force  in  the  world's  progress.  This 
aspect  of  the  Muse  has  been  much  put 
aside,  especially  in  modern  days,  in 
favour  of  her  more  markedly  narra- 
tive, personal,  or  subjective  creations  ; 
or  of  criticism  upon  Poetry  as  an  art. 
I  have  hence  attempted  to  illustrate 
my  proposition  by  the  examples  of 
Virgil  and  of  Dante.  But  those 
whose  assent  I  may  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  gain  will  recognize 
that  the  same  high  place  has  been 
filled  by  others ;  that  every  race  and 
country,  in  its  turn,  has,  it  is  proba- 
ble, found  interpreters  of  itself  to 
itself  among  its  poets.  Many  such, 
doubtless,  are  now  dimly  known  or 
forgotten,  hidden  away  in  the  birth- 
night  of  the  race, — as  the  early  age 
of  a  rising  nation  is  that  in  which  this 
national  power  of  song  has  most  often 
been  felt.  What  the  tale  of  Arthur 
was  in  ancient  Wales,  what  the  origi- 
nal Gadhelic  hero-legends,  of  which  a 
phantom  likeness  is  left  to  us  under 
the  name  of  Ossian,  what  their  in- 

1  '  Convito '  ;  I :  c.   8  ;— a  quotation  which 
I  owe  to  Dean  Church. 


fluence  over  the  sensitive  Celtic 
nature  may  have  been,  we  shall  never 
know.  But  we  can  yet  trace  the 
modifying  and  impelling  action  of 
David  and  Isaiah  over  the  Hebrew 
mind,  of  Homer  over  the  Hellenic. 
In  the  same  class,  though  not  of 
equal  moment,  we  may,  I  think,  rank 
the  great  romances — those  of  Charle- 
magne, of  Arthur,  of  Perceval,  during 
the  middle  age  of  Europe.  Their 
influence  runs  parallel  with,  but 
counter  to,  the  influence  of  the  early 
Renaissance.  Nor,  in  later  days, 
have  these  great  forces  ceased  operat- 
ing. Goethe,  Schiller,  Shakespeare, 
Scott,  Burns, — not  to  enter  the  de- 
bateable  ground  of  our  own  century ; 
do  we  not  feel  that  these  names 
represent 

Full- welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 

of  movement,  of  life  ?  Do  we  not  feel 
that  these  countrymen  of  ours,  with 
others  whom  we  may  silently  add,  have 
distinctly  co-operated,  more  or  less,  in 
proportion  to  their  poetic  gift,  in  fram- 
ing what  one  of  them  calls,  "  our  island- 
story  ; "  that  they  have  largely 
made  the  minds  of  Englishmen,  not 
only  during  their  own  age,  but  in  ours 
also? 

If,  however,  this  national  motive 
power  of  Poetry  be  her  highest  func- 
tion, it  is  also  her  rarest.  Two  greatly 
more  popular  provinces  remain,  which 
I  hope  to  outline  in  fewer  words. 
By  far  the  largest  number  of  poets 
have  devoted  themselves, — and  per- 
haps from  the  earliest  times, — on  the 
one  hand,  to  represent  the  world 
about  them  in  the  widest  sense  of 
that  wide  phrase,  Man  above  all; — 
on  the  other  hand,  to  putting  their 
own  personal  thoughts  and  feelings 
into  the  music  of  verse.  This  is  the 
range  claimed  for  his  Art  by  Words- 
worth in  that  memorable  Essay  which 
on  some  points,  indeed,  is  justly  open 
to  the  criticisms  it  has  received,  in 
Wordsworth's  own  time  from  Cole- 
ridge, more  recently  from  my  own 
courteous  and  accomplished  friendly 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


343 


antagonist,  Mr.  Courthope.  But  one 
eloquent  passage,  describing  the 
sphere  of  Poetry,  may,  I  think,  be 
advantageously  quoted. 

"Aristotle  has  said  that  Poetry  is  the  most 
philosophic  of  all  writing ;  it  is  so  ;  its  object 
is  truth,  .  .  .  not  standing  upon  external 
testimony,  but  carried  alive  into  the  heart  by 
passion  ;  Truth  which  is  its  own  testimony. 
.  .  .  Poetry  is  the  image  of  man  and  nature.  .  .  . 
The  Poet  writes  under  one  restriction  only, 
namely,  the  necessity  of  giving  immediate 
pleasure  to  a  human  Being.  .  ,  .  Poetry  is 
the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge. 
.  Emphatically  may  it  be  said  of  the  Poet, 
as  Shakespeare  hath  said  of  man,  that  Tie  'looks 
before  and  after  ...  he  binds  together  by 
passion  and  knowledge  the  vast  empire  of 
human  society.  .  .  .  Poetry  is  the  first  and 
last  of  all  knowledge — it  is  as  immortal  as 
the  heart  of  man." 

These  are  not  rhetorical  phrases; 
they  express  the  reasoned  convictions 
of  one  whose  deep  insight  into  the 
common  heart  of  man  and  the  soul 
of  nature  needs  no  praise  of  mine. 
Poetry,  speaking  of  it  in  its  higher 
forms,  is  the  most  vivid  expression  of 
the  most  vivid  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  man.  And,  as  by  the  gift  that  was 
in  them  the  Poets  have  spontaneously 
and  inevitably  known  and  felt  more 
keenly,  more  warmly,  I  may  say  it 
with  truth,  more  truly,  than  their 
fellows;  so  the  pictures  which  they 
have  left  us,  in  exact  proportion  to 
their  proper  power  in  their  Art,  are 
more  lively,  more  informed  with  soul, 
nearer  the  heart  than  any  others. 
Poets,  when  they  have  rightly  used 
their  gifts,  when  they  have  written 
with  their  eye  on  their  object,  as 
Wordsworth  said,  not  on  themselves, — 
uniting  disinterestedness  with  convic- 
tion,— Poets  are  the  true  Representa- 
tive Men  of  their  century ;  in  Milton's 
majestic  phrase,  treating 

Of  fate  and  chance  and  change  in  human  life, 
High  actions  and  high  passions  best  describing. 

We  are  considering  now,  let  me 
once  more  for  clearness'  sake  remind 
you,  Poetry  in  its  results,  rather  than 
its  processes ;  the  finished  work  of 
Art,  more  than  the  laws  which  govern 


the  Artist.  When  Poetry  as  an  Art 
is  before  us,  will  be  the  time  to  try  to 
seize  the  limitations  which  oppose  a 
direct  treatment  of  History,  Morals, 
Religion,  or  Science,  in  verse.  But  if 
these  conditions  place  History  or 
Morals  in  didactic  form, — like  the 
direct  imitation  of  Nature  in  painting, 
— beyond  the  limits  of  Poetry,  she 
gives  us  in  compensation  something 
more  vital,  more  penetrative.  Keep- 
ing in  view  still  poems  of  impersonal, 
objective  character: — beside  their 
wider,  national,  functions,  where  is 
the  temper  of  each  race,  the  common 
life  of  city  and  country,  painted  more 
fully  and  brilliantly  than  in  Homer 
or  Dante  ?  And  with  these  great 
names  we  may  join  that  long  series 
of  traditionary  ballads  which  every 
nation  owns,  and  which  are  to  the 
Epic  what  the  star-dust  of  the  sky  is 
to  the  great  stars  themselves.  Even 
the  most  picturesque  or  brilliant  of 
historians  does  not  paint  so  tersely  and 
truly,  with  such  living  tints,  as  we 
find  in  the  historical  pictures  of  the 
poets.  At  the  best,  historians  only 
speak  what  the  others  sing.  So  again 
with  novelists.  If  their  narration  has 
far  more  wealth  in  detail  and  fulness 
than  the  poet  can  compass,  they  can- 
not compete  with  him  in  vivid  flashes 
of  description  or  character,  in  the 
strokes  which  need  no  repetition.  In 
this  peculiar  class  of  poetry,  modern 
literature,  our  own,  I  think,  in  par- 
ticular, has  been  fertile.  I  know  what 
our  debt  is  to  the  great  romance- 
writers  of  the  century.  Yet  in  '  Auld 
Robin  Gray,'  in  the  '  Death  of  Sir  John 
Moore,'  in  Wordsworth's  'Brothers,' 
in  Lord  Tennyson's  '  Rizpah,'  — 
to  name  a  few  only  for  example's 
sake, — will  you  not  agree  that  we 
have  tales  in  their  essence,  novels  in 
three  pages  instead  of  three  volumes, 
which  even  a  Thackeray  could  not 
equal,  or  a  Scott  surpass? 

If,  again,  we  take  a  lower  or  nar- 
rower level  of  life  as  the  poet's 
standing-ground,  the  manners  and 
morals,  frailties  and  fashions  of  the 


344 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


day,  the  tone  of  society,  the  current 
criticism  on  literature  or  art, — nowhere 
are  these  preserved  for  our  pleasure 
with  such  brilliant  clearness,  such 
accurate  lightness  of  touch,  as  by 
Aristophanes,  Horace,  Chaucer,  or 
Pope.  Drama  stands  in  a  peculiar 
region,  midway  between  prose  and 
verse.  But  when  it  is  either  poetry 
pure,  as  at  Athens,  or  mixed,  as  in 
the  England  of  Elizabeth  and  James, 
whilst  the  Dramatist  is  faithful  to 
the  higher  traditions  of  his  art,  it  yet 
fulfils  its  old  Aristotelian  office  of 
purifying  the  passions,  whilst  it  brings 
the  past  or  present  before  us  in  an 
enchanted  world  of  its  own,  and  adds 
a  charm  to  Poetry  herself.  Each 
century  as  it  passes  writes  itself  in 
light  upon  the  mirror  of  the  poet's 
mind,  and  is  fixed  for  ever  by  the 
secret  of  his  art  in  words  livelier  than 
the  painter's  tints,  more  durable  than 
the  marble  of  the  sculptor. 

What  Epic  poetry  does  for  man- 
kind, what  we  receive  from  Narrative, 
from  Satire,  from  the  Drama,  I  have 
now  briefly  sketched.  All  are,  of 
course,  given  to  us  through  the  soul 
of  the  poet ;  rays  of  light  refracted 
as  it  were  and  variously  tinted  by 
passage  through  his  thoughts  and 
feelings.  But  all  these  classes  are 
alike,  broadly  speaking,  in  being  re- 
presentations of  what  is  in  itself 
external  to  the  Poet :  they  are  all, 
to  use  one  of  the  few  abstract  meta- 
physical terms  which  it  is  difficult 
to  avoid,  forms  of  objective  Poetry. 
This  species,  for  the  last  hundred 
years  or  so,  has  been  less  fertile,  and, 
perhaps,  less  popular,  than  during  the 
former  centuries  of  civilization.  To 
take  another  phrase,  we  might  call  it 
synthetical  Poetry ;  whilst  what  we 
are  apt  to  prefer  is  largely  of  the 
analytical  kind  ;  personal,  subjective, 
— in  a  restricted  sense  of  the  word, 
Lyrical.  Time  does  not  allow  me 
here  to  enter  into  this  point  with 
any  attempt  at  completeness.  All  I 
will  venture  now  to  say  is,  that  the  first 
or  objective  order  of  poems  seems  to 


me  the  most  healthy  in  its  nature, 
the  least  distorted  by  caprice  or  fantas- 
ticality, above  all,  the  more  free  from 
Egotism  ; — that  suicidal,  hidden  can- 
ker-worm of  Art  and  of  life.  It  has 
certainly  exercised  the  widest,  the 
most  massive,  influence  on  the  world  ; 
the  creative,  as  contrasted  with  the 
penetrative,  Imagination  has  in  this 
field  displayed  its  energies  most  widely. 
In  support  of  this  criticism,  which  I 
submit  with  diffidence,  I  may  quote 
a  striking  passage  from  Goethe.  It 
occurs  among  those  conversations,1 
fortunately  recorded  by  Eckermann, 
in  which  the  mitis  sapientia  of  the 
poet's  old  age  often  shines  out  with  a 
peculiarly  simple  and  attractive  light. 
"The  poet  deserves  not  the  name 
while  he  only  speaks  out  his  few 
subjective  feelings  \  but  as  soon  as 
he  can  appropriate  to  himself  and 
express  the  world,  he  is  a  poet.  Then 
he  is  inexhaustible,  and  can  be  always 
new ;  while  a  subjective  nature  has 
soon  talked  out  his  little  internal 
material,  and  is  at  last  ruined  by 
mannerism.  People  always  talk  of 
the  study  of  the  ancients ;  but  what 
does  that  mean,  except  that  it  says, 
turn  your  attention  to  the  real  world, 
and  try  to  express  it,  for  that  is  what 
the  ancients  did  when  they  were 
alive."  "  Goethe  "  (Eckermann  con- 
tinues) "  arose  and  walked  to  and  fro, 
while  I  remained  seated  at  the  table, 
as  he  likes  to  see  me.  He  stood  a 
moment  at  the  stove,  and  then,  like 
one  who  has  reflected,  came  to  me, 
and  with  his  finger  on  his  lips,  said, 
1 1  will  now  tell  you  something 
which  you  will  often  find  confirmed  in 
your  experience.  All  eras  in  a  state 
of  decline  and  dissolution  are  subjec- 
tive ;  on  the  other  hand,  all  progres- 
sive eras  have  an  objective  tendency. 

1  January  29,  1826.  I  quote  from  Mr. 
J.  Oxenford's  excellent  translation  ;  1850. — 
In  this  book,  Eckermann's  naif  honesty  has 
not  concealed  Goethe's  weak  points  as  a  critic  ; 
yet  I  doubt  if  any  of  the  poet's  writings,  (the 
letters  to  Schiller  included,)  give  so  favourable, 
so  human,  a  view  of  his  nature. 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


345 


Our  present  time  is  retrograde,  for  it 
is  subjective ;  we  see  this  not  merely 
in  poetry,  but  also  in  painting,  and 
much  besides.  Every  healthy  effort, 
on  the  contrary,  is  directed  from  the 
inward  to  the  outward  world,  as  you 
will  see  in  all  great  eras,  which  have 
been  really  in  a  state  of  progression, 
and  all  of  an  objective  nature.' " 

Goethe's  criticism  here  is  the  more 
interesting  and  weighty  because,  as 
he  seems  to  have  correctly  felt,  his 
judgment  was  in  contradiction  to  his 
own  practice  as  a  poet.  And  those 
who  do  not  accept  his  view  may  point 
with  triumph  to  some  amongst  his 
own  many  personal  subjective  lyrics. 
In  the  Lyrical  region  indeed,  wherein 
I  include  the  '  Faust,'  and  in  this 
alone,  so  far  as  my  knowledge  ex- 
tends,— may  I  confess  it  ? — does  the 
writer  of  first-rate  genius  strictly 
appear  recognizable.  With  Goethe's 
name,  I  may,  therefore,  fitly  preface 
the  brief  remarks  with  which  I  pro- 
pose to-day  to  tax  your  patience  upon 
the  last  great  province  of  Poetry 
remaining  for  notice. 

As  a  practical  descriptive  definition, 
we  might  characterize  the  Lyric  as 
eminently  the  voice  of  passion  and  of 
impulse,  uttering  in  verse,  generally 
fervent  and  rapid,  some  single  thought, 
feeling,  or  situation.  The  poet's  art 
will  hence  be  especially  shown  by  the 
choice  of  a  metrical  structure  appro- 
priate to  the  subject,  and  of  a  subject 
marked  by  unity  in  its  motive.  Or, 
rather,  to  speak  more  truly,  motive 
and  metre  and  prevailing  colour  will 
have  presented  themselves  together  to 
his  mind  as  it  were  in  a  predestined 
unity.  Within  these  general  limits, 
the  lyric  falls  under  the  two  main 
heads  of  Objective  and  Subjective, 
Impersonal  and  Personal,  upon  which 
Goethe  comments.  Of  these  the  first 
is,  doubtless,  highest  or  largest  in  pur- 
pose ;  it  is  to  this  that  we  naturally 
give  the  great  name  of  Ode,  under 
which  the  most  splendid  and  world- 
moving  lyrics  by  common  consent 
would  be  grouped.  But  here,  also, 


perhaps,  are  found  the  most  ambitious 
failures  of  the  lyric.  A  vast  fervour 
of  intensity,  a  rare  command  of  his 
art,  are  demanded  of  the  poet;  the 
furnace  must  be  seven  times  heated, 
which  is  to  fuse  and  poetize  this  "  large 
utterance"  into  unity.  Hence  that 
noble  form  of  song  often  runs  in  the 
calmer  current  of  narrative  lyric,  as 
the  '  St.  Agnes '  of  Keats,  or  the 
'Ruth'  of  Wordsworth;  or,  as  in 
Gray's  exquisite  lines,  glides  down 
into  the  Elegiac. 

The  personal  or  subjective  lyric,  I 
need  hardly  remark,  is  by  far  the  most 
frequent  form ;  it  is  also  that  which 
perhaps  yields  the  most  immediate 
pleasure  and  relief  to  the  mind  ;  it  is 
especially  the  treasure-house  for  the 
Memory.  Within  this  kind  also  our 
two  main  divisions  reappear.  The 
Lyric,  whilst  expressing  individual 
feeling,  may  also  represent  universal 
feeling.  The  Poet's  personality  may 
be  felt  to  be  that  of  human  kind.  The 
objective  quality  may  be  latent  in  the 
subjective.  I  venture  to  ask  your 
attention  to  this  point;  the  distinc- 
tion is  one  which  cuts  very  deep,  and 
the  value  of  lyrical  poetry  as  a  living 
power  is  greatly  affected  by  it.  I  will 
name  a  few  examples  ;  taking  first  the 
more  absolutely  and  purely  personal 
style, — the  strictly  subjective  lyric. 

The  poem  which  expresses  a  single 
mind,  which  does  not  appeal  to  the 
common  human  heart,  will  often  spring 
from  an  exceptional  or  fantastic  tem- 
perament. Such  are  many  of  those 
fanciful  lyrics  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury which  we  owe  to  writers  such  as 
Donne,  Crashaw,  or  Lovelace :  nor  is 
the  race  extinct  in  our  own  time.  Such 
poems  are  seldom  read,  but  never  read 
without  interest.  Rarely,  however,  do 
they  touch  our  feelings;  for  the  in- 
genious is  a  foe  to  the  pathetic.  It  is 
otherwise  with  those  poems  in  which 
some  morbid  element,  some  too  sensi- 
tive note,  penetrates  the  strain  with 
sadness.  During  this  century,  Italy 
has  seen  two  singers  of  this  character, 
strangely  contrasted  with  the  natural 


346 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


gaiety  of  the  land :  her  own  son 
Leopardi,  and  our  exile  Shelley.  Upon 
the  beauty  of  Shelley's  lyrics,  this  is 
not  the  time  to  dwell ;  my  point  here 
is,  that  their  remoteness  from  ordinary 
feeling,  their  severance  from  humanity, 
set  as  they  are  to  that  weird  melody 
of  their  own  by  the  poet's  mastery 
over  his  art,  is  no  small  cause  of  the 
fascination  which  they  hold  over  us  : 

Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence, 
Nor  whither  going. 

Were  Shelley's  lyrics  not  thus  excep- 
tionally personal,  thus  aloof  from 
experience, — a  music  of  despair,  such 
as  Lucretius  might  have  heard  in  fancy 
as  he  looked  up  at  the  "  aether  studded 
with  shining  stars," — I  think  we  could 
hardly  enjoy  them.  In  Mr.  Arnold's 
beautiful  phrase,  he  seems  to 

Wave  us  away,  and  keep  his  solitude, 

at  .the  moment  when  the  witchery  of 
his  Eolian  music  most  attracts  us. 

Shelley,  however,  is  every  way  alone 
in  his  magic.  Wordsworth  in  his 
solitary  '  Highland  Reaper  '  expresses 
the  quality  which  we  look  for  most, 
and  find  most  frequently,  in  first-rate 
lyrics; — the  voice  of  humanity,  the 
cry  of  the  heart ; — our  own  experience 
given  back  to  us  in  song ;  the  com- 
monplace of  life  transmuted  into 
novelty  and  beauty; 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again. 

Shakespeare  has  been  our  first  grand- 
master in  this  style ;  some  half  dozen 
songs  of  his,  in  Sappho's  phrase, 
"  sweeter  than  the  harp,  more  golden 
than  gold,"  unite  universality  of  feel- 
ing with  lovely  uniqueness  of  style 
beyond  anything  in  the  language : 
Milton's  too  rare  lyrics,  many  by 
Wordsworth,  songs  such  as  the  '  Break, 
break,'  or  l  Ask  me  no  more,'  of  our 
great  living  Lyrist,  often  coming  near 
Shakespeare's  in  quality.  But  the 
field  of  the  lyric  is  a  world  of  beauty 
in  itself,  too  large  and  too  varied  in 
its  flowers  that  I  should  attempt  to 
sketch  it.  One  only  specimen,  how- 


ever, I  will  venture  to  give,  as  an 
example  of  the  personal  lyric  in  its 
simplest  form  of  perfection.  It  is 
some  unknown  lover's  song  of  absence. 

"When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 

I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie, 
And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie, 

How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ! 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 

As  ye  were  wae  and  weary  ! 
It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by 

When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

These  "  slender  accents  of  sweet 
verse," — this  little  Romance  of  a  life 
in  eight  lines,  as  I  have  elsewhere 
called  it,  has  to  me  that  beauty  which 
almost  calls  forth  tears ;  and  it  is  no 
wonder  that  Burns  himself,  despite 
two  attempts,  has  failed  to  better  it. 

This  lecture  began  with  a  historical 
outline  of  the  realm  of  Poetry  in  its 
length  and  breadth.  I  have  then  tried, 
in  similar  outline,  to  set  forth  Poetry 
in  its  main  results  as  a  motive  power 
in  the  world  at  large,  and  over  the 
hearts  of  men ;  a  power  expressing 
itself  by  those  varied  methods  of 
appeal,  which  bear  the  name  of  styles 
or  classes.  For  the  next  occasion  when 
I  have  the  privilege  of  addressing  you, 
remains,  I  hope,  Poetry  as  an  art, — 
the  conditions  under  which  she  has  to 
exercise  this  power  ;  and,  as  my  moral 
from  the  whole,  the  claim  of  Poetry  to 
be  treated  as  a  subject  for  study  not 
less  scholarly  and  scientific  than  the 
other  great  studies  of  Oxford. 

This  is  an  ambitious  attempt ;  it 
asks  your  kind  forbearance ;  for  a 
judgment  tempered  with  mercy.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  any  attempt  to  show 
what  Poetry  really  is,  is  impossible. 
Let  me  quote  a  few  beautiful  lines 
applicable  to  this  point,  by  that  dear 
and  high-hearted  friend  whose  prema- 
ture death  has  opened,  sadly,  my  way 
to  a  Chair  which,  I  may  indeed  occupy, 
but  t  cannot  fill  as  Shairp  filled  it. 
Some  here  may  remember  the  lines; 
though  but  scant  justice,  I  think,  was 
done  during  his  lifetime  to  his  own 
gift  in  poetry, — marked  as  it  is  every- 


The  Province  and  Study  of  Poetry. 


347 


where  by  the  tenderness,  the  gallantry, 
the  patriotism,  the  lofty  aspiration 
and  deep,  fervent  Faith  which  were 
the  notes  of  Shairp's  character.  After 
all  our  attempts  (he  is  saying)  to 
interpret  the  soul  of  those  we  love,  an 
element  remains,  and  this  the  central, 
the  most  important,  which  is  beyond 
our  finding  out : 

We  gaze   on   their  loved    faces,    hear    their 

speech, 
The  heart's  most  earnest  utterance, — yet  we 

feel 
Something    beyond,   nor    they    nor  we    can 

reach, 
Something  they  never  can  on  earth  reveal. 


This  is  the  secret  of  the  poet ;  this  is 
that  which,  as  one  of  them  said,  we 
cannot  show,  but  feel  only.  For  me, 
at  least,  whilst  I  hold  this  Chair,  it 
will  be  enough  if  I  can  give  some  true 
insight  into  the  character  and  course 
of  Poetry,  some  aid  towards  under- 
standing and  judging ;  if  by  choice 
of  specimens  I  can  assist  towards  full 
initiation  into  the  beauty  of  the  great 
master-works  ;  above  all,  and  without 
which  all  is  of  no  avail,  if  I  can 
lead  some  to  true  study  of  the  Poets, 
with  love,  with  reverence,  and  with 
enthusiasm. 


A  HOLIDAY. 


Is  the  age  sordid,  impotent,  and  cold  ? 
None  the  less  sweetly  shrill  the  thrushes  call  ; 
None  the  less  swiftly  snowy  blossoms  fall 
On  slim  young  grasses  and  buds  manifold 
Where  kingcups  raise  their  chalices  of  gold 
As  tender  breezes  drift  the  hawthorn's  pall ; 
None  the  less  milky  sway  the  chestnuts  tall  ; 
Or  royally  are  large  white  clouds  enrolled, 
Where  up  the  azure  mighty  branches  climb. 
On  eyes  that  see  and  hearts  that  contemplate 
No  shadow  falls  of  days  degenerate, — 
They  reckon  but  by  seasons'  change  the  time  ; 
Here  the  vain  babblings  of  unlovely  hours 
Cringe  into  silence  before  holier  powers. 


348 


SEBASTIAN  VAN  3TOKCK. 


IT  was  a  winter-scene,  by  Adrian  van 
de  Velde,  or  by  Isaac  van  Ostade.  All 
the  delicate  poetry,  together  with  all 
the  delicate  comfort,  of  the  frosty 
season  was  in  the  leafless  branches 
turned  to  silver,  the  furred  dresses  of 
the  skaters,  the  warmth  of  the  red- 
brick house-fronts  under  the  gauze  of 
white  fog,  the  gleams  of  pale  sunlight 
on  the  cuirasses  of  the  mounted  sol- 
diers as  they  receded  into  the  distance. 
Sebastian  van  Storck,  confessedly  the 
most  graceful  performer  in  all  that 
skating  multitude,  moving  in  endless 
maze  over  the  vast  surface  of  the 
frozen  water-meadow,  liked  best  this 
season  of  the  year  for  its  expression 
of  a  perfect  impassivity,  or  at  least 
of  a  perfect  repose.  The  earth  was, 
or  seemed  to  be,  at  rest,  with  a  breath- 
lessness  of  slumber  which  suited  the 
young  man's  peculiar  temper.  The 
heavy  summer,  as  it  dried  up  the 
meadows  now  lying  dead  below  the 
ice,  set  free  a  crowded  and  competing 
world  of  life,  which,  while  it  gleamed 
very  pleasantly  russet  and  yellow  for 
the  painter  Albert  Cuyp,  seemed  well- 
nigh  to  suffocate  Sebastian  van  Storck. 
Yet  with  all  his  appreciation  of  the 
national  winter,  Sebastian  was  not  al- 
together a  Hollander.  His  mother,  of 
Spanish  descent  and  Catholic,  had 
given  a  richness  of  tone  and  form  to 
the  healthy  freshness  of  the  Dutch 
physiognomy,  apt  to  preserve  its 
youthfulness  of  aspect  far  beyond  the 
period  of  life  usual  with  other  peoples. 
This  mixed  expression  charmed  the 
eye  of  Isaac  van  Ostade,  who  had 
painted  his  portrait  from  a  sketch 
taken  at  one  of  those  skating  parties, 
with  his  plume  of  squirrel's  tail  and 
fur  muff,  in  all  the  modest  pleasant- 
ness of  boyhood.  When  he  returned 
home  lately  from  his  studies  at  a  place 
far  inland,  at  the  proposal  of  his  tutor, 


to  recover,  as  the  tutor  suggested,  a 
certain  loss  of  robustness,  something 
more  than  that  cheerful  indifference 
of  early  youth  had  passed  away.  The 
learned  man,  who  held,  as  was  alleged, 
the  tenets  of  a  surprising  new  philo- 
sophy, reluctant  to  disturb  too  early 
the  fine  intelligence  of  the  pupil  en- 
trusted to  him,  had  found  it,  perhaps, 
a  matter  of  honesty  to  send  back  to 
his  parents  one  likely  enough  to  catch 
from  others  any  sort  of  theoretic 
light ;  for  the  letter  he  wrote  dwelt 
much  on  the  lad's  intellectual  fear- 
lessness. "  At  present,"  he  had  writ- 
ten, "  he  is  influenced  more  by  curiosity 
than  by  a  care  for  truth,  according  to 
the  character  of  youth.  Certainly,  he 
is  strikingly  different  from  his  equals 
in  age,  in  his  passion  for  a  vigorous 
intellectual  gymnastic,  such  as  their 
supineness  of  mind  causes  to  be  dis- 
tasteful to  most  young  men,  but  in 
which  he  shows  a  fearlessness  that  at 
times  makes  me  fancy  that  his  ulti- 
mate destination  may  be  the  military 
life ;  for  indeed  the  rigidly  logical 
character  of  his  mind  always  leads  him 
out  upon  the  practical.  Don't  mis- 
understand me  !  At  present,  he  is 
strenuous  only  intellectually  ;  and  has 
given  no  definite  sign  of  preference, 
as  regards  a  vocation  in  life.  But  he 
seems  to  me  to  be  one  practical  in 
this  sense,  that  his  theorems  will 
shape  life  for  him,  directly ;  that  he 
will  always  seek,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
the  effective  equivalent  to — the  line  of 
being  which  shall  be  the  proper  con- 
tinuation of — his  line  of  thinking. 
This  intellectual  rectitude,  or  candour, 
which  to  my  mind  has  a  kind  of  beauty 
in  it,  has  re-acted  upon  myself,  I  con- 
fess, with  a  searching  quality."  That 
searching  quality,  indeed,  many  others 
also,  people  far  from  being  intellectual, 
had  experienced — an  agitation  of  mind 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


349 


in  his  neighbourhood,  oddly  at  vari- 
ance with  the  composure  of  the  young 
man's  manner  and  surrounding,  so 
jealously  preserved. ' 

In  the  crowd  of  spectators  at  the 
skating,  whose  eyes  followed,  so  well- 
satisfied,  the  movements  of  Sebastian 
van  Storck,  were  the  mothers  of  mar- 
riageable daughters,  who  presently 
became  the  suitors  of  this  rich  and 
distinguished  youth,  introduced  to 
them,  as  now  grown  to  man's  estate, 
by  his  delighted  parents.  Dutch  aris- 
tocracy had  put  forth  all  its  graces  to 
become  the  winter  morn  :  and  it  was 
characteristic  of  the  period  that  the 
artist  tribe  was  there,  on  a  grand 
footing — in  waiting  for  the  lights  and 
shadows  they  liked  best.  The  artists 
were,  in  truth,  an  important  body  just 
then,  as  the  natural  complement  of 
the  nation's  hard -won  prosperity; 
helping  it  to  a  full  consciousness  of 
the  genial  yet  delicate  homeliness  it 
loved  ;  for  which  it  had  fought  so 
bravely,  and  was  ready  at  any  moment 
to  fight  anew,  against  man  or  the  sea. 
Thomas  de  Keyser,  who  understood 
better  than  any  one  else  the  kind  of 
quaint  new  Atticism  ^hich  had  found 
its  way  into  the  world  over  those 
waste  salt  marshes,  wondering  whether 
quite  its  finest  type,  as  he  understood 
it,  might  ever  actually  be  seen  there, 
saw  it  at  last,  in  lively  motion,  in  the 
person  of  Sebastian  van  Storck,  and 
desired  to  paint  his  portrait.  A  little 
to  his  surprise,  the  young  man  de- 
clined the  offer ;  not  graciously,  as 
was  thought. 

Holland,  just  then,  was  reposing  on 
its  laurels  after  its  long  contest  with 
Spain,  in  a  short  period  of  complete 
well-being,  before  troubles  of  another 
kind  should  set  in.  That  a  darker 
time  might  return  again,  was  clearly 
enough  felt  by  Sebastian  the  elder — a 
time  like  that  of  William  the  Silent, 
with  its  insane  civil  animosities,  which 
might  demand  similarly  energetic  per- 
sonalities, and  offer  them  similar  op- 
portunities. And  then — it  was  part 
of  his  honest  geniality  of  character  to 
admire  those  who  "get  on"  in  the 


world.  Himself  had  been,  almost 
from  boyhood,  in  contact  with  great 
affairs.  A  member  of  the  States- 
General  which  had  taken  so  hardly 
the  kingly  airs  of  Frederick  Henry, 
he  had  assisted  at  the  Congress  of 
Munster,  and  figures  conspicuously  in 
Terburg's  picture  of  that  assembly, 
which  had  finally  established  Holland 
as  a  first-rate  power.  The  heroism  by 
which  the  national  well-being  had 
been  achieved  was  still  of  recent 
memory — the  air  full  of  its  reverbe- 
ration, and  great  movement.  There 
was  a  tradition  to  be  maintained ;  the 
sword  by  no  means  resting  in  its 
sheath.  The  age  was  still  fitted  to 
evoke  a  generous  ambition ;  and  this 
son,  from  whose  natural  gifts  there 
was  so  much  to  hope  for,  might  play 
his  part,  at  least  as  a  diplomatist,  if 
the  present  quiet  continued.  Had  not 
the  learned  man  said  that  his  natural 
disposition  would  lead  him  out  always 
upon  practice?  And  in  truth,  the 
memory  of  that  Silent  hero  had  its 
fascination  for  the  youth.  When, 
about  this  time,  Peter  de  Keyser, 
Thomas's  brother,  unveiled  at  last  his 
tomb  of  wrought  bronze  and  marble 
in  the  Nieuwe  Kerk  at  Delft,  the 
young  Sebastian  was  one  of  a  small 
company  present,  and  relished  greatly 
the  cold  and  abstract  simplicity  of 
the  monument,  so  conformable  to  the 
great,  abstract,  and  unuttered  force 
of  the  hero  who  slept  beneath. 

In  complete  contrast  to  all  that  is 
abstract  or  cold  in  art,  the  home  of 
Sebastian,  the  family  mansion  of  the 
Storcks — a  house,  the  front  of  which 
still  survives  in  one  of  those  patient 
architectural  pieces  by  Jan  van  der 
Heyde — was,  in  its  minute  and  busy 
well-being,  like  an  epitome  of  Holland 
itself,  with  all  the  good-fortune  of  its 
"thriving  genius"  reflected,  quite 
spontaneously,  in  the  national  taste. 
The  nation  had  learned  to  content 
itself  with  a  religion  which  told  little, 
or  not  at  all,  on  the  outsides  of  things. 
But  we  may  fancy  that  something  of 
the  religious  spirit  had  gone,  accord- 
ing to  the  law  of  the  transmutation 


350 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


of  forces,  into  the  scrupulous  care  for 
cleanliness,  into  the  grave,  old-world, 
conservative  beauty,  of  Dutch  houses, 
which  meant  that  the  life  people  main- 
tained in  them  was  normally  affec- 
tionate and  pure. 

The  most  curious  florists  of  Holland 
were  ambitious  to  supply  the  Burgo- 
master van  Storck  with  the  choicest 
products  of  their  skill,  for  the  garden 
spread  below  the  windows  on  either 
side  of  the  portico,  and  the  central 
avenue  of  hoary  beeches  which  led  to 
it.  Naturally,  this  house,  within  a 
mile  of  the  city  of  Haarlem,  became  a 
resort  of  the  artists,  then  mixing  freely 
in  great  society,  giving  and  receiving 
hints  as  to  the  domestic  picturesque. 
Creatures  of  leisure — of  leisure,  on  both 
sides — they  were  the  appropriate  com- 
plement of  Dutch  prosperity,  as  it  was 
understood  just  then.  Sebastian  the 
elder  could  almost  have  wished  his  son 
to  be  one  of  them  :  it  was  the  next 
best  thing  to  the  being  an  influential 
publicist  or  statesman.  The  Dutch  had 
just  begun  to  see  what  a  picture  their 
country  was — its  canals,  and  boompjis, 
and  endless,  broadly-lighted  meadows, 
and  thousands  of  miles  of  quaint 
water-side :  and  their  painters,  the 
first  true  masters  of  landscape  for  its 
own  sake,  were  further  informing  them 
in  the  matter.  They  were  bringing 
proof,  for  all  who  cared  to  see,  of  the 
wealth  of  colour  there  was  all  around 
them,  in  this,  supposably,  sad  land. 
Above  all,  they  developed  the  old  Low- 
country  taste  for  interiors.  Those 
innumerable  genre  pieces — conversa- 
tion, music,  play — were  in  truth  the 
equivalent  of  novel- reading  for  that 
day;  its  own  actual  life,  in  its  own 
proper  circumstances,  reflected  in 
various  degrees  of  idealisation :  with 
no  diminution  of  the  sense  of  reality 
(that  is  to  say)  but  with  more  and 
more  purged  and  perfected  delightful- 
ness  of  interest.  Themselves  illustra- 
ting, as  every  student  of  their  history 
knows,  the  good-fellowship  of  family 
life,  it  was  the  ideal  of  that  life  which 
these  artists  depicted ;  the  ideal  of 
home  in  a  country  where  the  prepon- 


derant interest  of  life,  after  all,  could 
not  well  be  out  of  doors.  Of  the  earth 
earthy — genuine  red  earth  of  the  old 
Adam — it  was  an  ideal  very  different 
from  that  which  the  sacred  Italian 
painters  had  evoked  from  the  life  of 
Italy,  yet,  in  its  best  types,  was  not 
without  a  kind  of  natural  religious- 
ness. And  in  the  achievement  of  a 
type  of  beauty  so  national  and  ver- 
nacular, the  votaries  of  purely  Dutch 
art  might  well  feel  that  the  Italianisers, 
like  Berghem,  Both,  and  Jan  Weenix, 
went  so  far  afield  in  vain. 

The  fine  organisation  and  acute  in- 
telligence of  Sebastian  would  have 
made  him  an  effective  connoisseur  of 
the  arts,  as  he  showed  by  the  justice 
of  his  remarks  in  those  assemblies  of 
the  artists  which  his  father  so  much 
loved.  But  in  truth  the  arts  were  a 
matter  he  could  but  just  tolerate. 
Why  add,  by  a  forced  and  artificial 
production,  to  the  monotonous  tide  of 
competing,  fleeting  existence  ?  Only, 
finding  so  much  fine  art  actually  about 
him,  he  was  compelled  (so  to  speak)  to 
adjust  himself  to  it ;  to  ascertain  and 
accept  that  in  it  which  should  least 
collide  with,  or  might  even  carry  for- 
ward a  little,  his  own  characteris- 
tic tendencies.  Obviously  somewhat 
jealous  of  his  intellectual  interests,  he 
loved  inanimate  nature,  it  might  have 
been  thought,  better  than  man.  He 
cared  nothing,  indeed,  for  the  warm 
sand-banks  of  Wynants,  nor  for  those 
eerie  relics  of  ancient  woodland  which 
survive  in  Hobberna  and  Ruysdael, 
still  less  for  the  highly-coloured 
sceneries  of  the  academic  band  at 
Rome,  in  spite  of  the  escape  they  pro- 
vide one  into  clear  breadth  of  atmo- 
sphere. For  though  Sebastian  van 
Storck  refused  to  travel,  he  loved  the 
distant, — he  enjoyed  the  sense  of  things 
seen  from  a  distance, — carrying  us,  as 
on  wide  wings  of  space  itself,  far  out  of 
one's  actual  surroundings.  His  pre- 
ference in  the  matter  of  art  was, 
therefore,  for  those  prospects  ct  vol 
d'oiseau — of  the  caged  bird  on  the 
wing  at  last — of  which  Rubens  had 
the  secret,  and  still  more  Philip  de 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


351 


Koninck,  four  of  whose  choicest  works 
occupied  the  four  walls  of  his  chamber 
• — visionary  escapes,  north,  south,  east, 
and  west,  into  a  wide-open  though,  it 
must  be  confessed,  a  somewhat  sullen 
land.     For  the  fourth  of  them  he  had 
exchanged  with  his  mother  a  marvel- 
lously vivid  Metsu,  lately  bequeathed 
to  him,  in  which  she  herself  was  pre- 
sented.   They  were  the  sole  ornaments 
he  permitted  himself.     From  the  midst 
of  the  busy  and  busy-looking  house, 
crowded  with  the  furniture  and  the 
pretty  little  toys  of  many  generations, 
a  long  passage  led  the  rare  visitor  up 
a  winding  staircase  ;  and  (again  at  the 
end  of  a  long  passage)  he  found  him- 
self   as  if    shut    off   from   the  whole 
talkative    Dutch   world,    and   in   the 
embrace  of  that  wonderful  quiet,  which 
is    also    possible  in    Holland,  at  its 
height  all  around  him.     It  was  here 
that    Sebastian    could   yield   himself, 
with  the  only  sort  of  love  he  had  ever 
felt,  to  the  supremacy  of  his  difficult 
thoughts. — A    kind    of   empty    place  ! 
Here,  you  felt,  all  had  been  mentally 
put  to  rights  by  the  working-out  of  a 
long  equation,  which  had  "  zero  equals 
zero  "  for  its  result.     Here  one  did, 
and  perhaps  felt,  nothing ;  one  only 
thought.       Of   living   creatures   only 
birds  came  there  freely,  the  sea-birds 
especially,  to  attract  and  detain  which 
there  were  all  sorts  of  ingenious  con- 
trivances about  the  windows,  such  as 
one  may  see  in  the  cottage  sceneries  of 
Jan   Steen   and  others.       There   was 
something  perhaps  of  his  passion  for 
distance  in  this  welcoming  of  the  crea- 
tures of  the  air.     A  great  simplicity 
in  their  manner  of  life  had,  indeed, 
been  characteristic  of  many  a  distin- 
guished Hollander,— William  the  Silent, 
Baruch  de   Spinosa,  the   brothers  de 
Witt.     But  the  simplicity  of  Sebastian 
van  Storck   was   something  different 
from    that,    and     certainly     nothing 
democratic.     His  mother  thought  him 
like  one  disembarrassing  himself  care- 
fully, and  little  by  little,  of  all  impedi- 
ments, habituating  himself  gradually 
to  make  shift  with  as  little  as  possible, 
in  preparation  for  a  long  journey. 


The  Burgomaster  van  Storck  enter- 
tained a  party  of  friends,  consisting 
chiefly   of    his   favourite   artists,  one 
summer  evening.       The   guests   were 
seen   arriving   on    foot    in    the    fine 
weather,   some   of   them  accompanied 
by  their  wives  and  daughters,  against 
the  light  of  the  low  sun,  falling  red  on 
the  old  trees  of  the  avenue  and  the 
faces  of  those  who  advanced  along  it 
— Willem  van  Aelst,  expecting  to  find 
hints    for    a    flower-portrait    in    the 
exotics  which  would  decorate  the  ban- 
quetting-room  ;    Gerard  Dow,  to  feed 
his  eye,  amid  all  that  glittering  luxury, 
on   the  combat   between   candle-light 
and  the  last  rays  of  the  departing  sun ; 
Thomas  de  Keyser,  to  catch  by  stealth 
the  likeness  of  Sebastian  the  younger. 
Albert  Cuyp  was  there,  who,  develop- 
ing the  latent  gold  in  Rembrandt,  had 
brought  into  his  native  Dordrecht  a 
heavy  wealth  of  sunshine,  as  exotic  as 
those  flowers  or  the  eastern  carpets  on 
the  Burgomaster's  tables  ;  with  Hooch, 
the  in-door  Cuyp,  and  Willem  van  de 
Yelde,  who  painted  those  shore-pieces, 
with  gay   ships   of    war,  such  as  he 
loved,  for  his  patron's  cabinet.  Thomas 
de  Keyser  came  in  company  with  his 
brother  Peter,    his  niece,  and  young 
Mr.  Nicholas    Stone    from    England, 
pupil  of  that  brother  Peter,  who  after- 
wards married  the  niece.     For  the  life 
of  Dutch  artists,  too,  was  exemplary 
in  matters  of  domestic  relationship,  its 
history  telling  many  a  cheering  story 
of  mutual  faith  in  misfortune.  Hardly 
less   exemplary  was   the  comradeship 
which    they   displayed    among   them- 
selves, obscuring  their  best  gifts  some- 
times, one  in  the  mere  accessories  of 
another  man's  work,  so  that  they  came 
together    to-night   with    no    fear    of 
falling  out,  and  spoiling  the  musical 
interludes  of  Madame  van  Storck  in 
the  large  back  parlour.      A  little  way 
behind  the  other  guests,  three  of  them 
together,    son,     grandson,    and     the 
grandfather,  moving  slowly,  came  the 
Hondecoeters — Giles,    Gybrecht,    and 
Melchior.     They  led  the  party,  before 
the    house    was    entered,   by   fading 
light  to  see  the  curious  poultry  of  the 


352 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


Burgomaster  go  to  roost ;  and  it  was 
almost  night  when  the  supper-room 
was  reached  at  last.  The  occasion  was 
an  important  one  to  Sebastian,  and  to 
others,  through  him.  For — was  it  the 
music  of  the  duets  ?  he  asked  himself 
next  morning,  with  a  certain  distaste 
as  he  remembered  it  all,  or  the  heady 
Spanish  wines  poured  out  so  freely  in 
those  narrow  but  deep  Venetian 
glasses  1 — on  this  evening  he  ap- 
proached more  nearly  than  he  had 
ever  yet  done  to  Mademoiselle  van 
Westrheene,  as  she  sat  there  beside 
the  clavecin,  looking  very  ruddy  and 
fresh  in  her  white  satin,  trimmed  with 
glossy  crimson  swansdown. 

So  genially  attempered,  so  warm, 
was  life  become,  in  the  land  of  which 
Pliny  had  spoken  as  scarcely  dry  land 
at  all.  And,  in  truth,  the  sea  which 
Sebastian  so  much  loved,  and  with  so 
great  a  satisfaction  and  sense  of  well- 
being  in  every  hint  of  its  nearness,  is 
never  far  distant  in  Holland.  In- 
vading all  places,  stealing  under 
one's  feet,  insinuating  itself  everywhere 
along  an  endless  net-work  of  canals 
(by  no  means  such  formal  channels 
as  we  understand  by  the  name,  but 
picturesque  rivers,  with  sedgy  banks 
and  haunted  by  innumerable  birds) 
its  incidents  present  themselves  oddly 
even  in  one's  park  or  woodland 
walks ;  the  ship  in  full  sail  appear- 
ing suddenly  among  the  great  trees, 
or  above  the  garden  wall,  where  we 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  presence  of 
water.  In  the  very  conditions  of  life 
in  such  a  country  there  was  a  standing 
force  of  pathos.  The  country  itself 
shared  the  uncertainty  of  the  indi- 
vidual human  life :  and  there  was 
pathos  also  in  the  constantly  renewed, 
heavily  taxed  labour,  necessary  to 
keep  the  native  soil,  fought  for  so  un- 
selfishly, there  at  all ;  with  a  warfare 
that  must  still  be  maintained  when 
that  other  struggle  with  the  Spaniard 
was  over.  But  though  Sebastian  liked 
to  breathe,  so  nearly,  the  sea  and  its  in- 
fluences, those  were  considerations  he 
scarcely  entertained.  In  his  passion  for 
Sohwindsucht — in  English,  we  haven't 


the  word — he  found  it  pleasant  to  think 
of  the  resistless  element  which  left  one 
hardly  a  foot-space  amidst  the  yielding 
sand ;  of  the  old  beds  of  lost  rivers, 
surviving  now  only  as  deeper  channels 
in  the  sea  ;  of  the  remains  of  a  certain 
ancient  town,  which  within  men's 
memory  had  lost  its  few  remaining  in- 
habitants, and,  with  its  already  empty 
tombs,  dissolved  and  disappeared  in 
the  flood. 

It  happened,  on  occasion  of  an  excep- 
tionally low  tide,  that  some  remarkable 
relics  were  exposed  to  view  on  the  coast  of 
the  island  of  Vleeland.  A  countryman's 
waggon  overtaken  by  the  tide,  as  he 
returned  with  merchandise  from  the 
shore ! — you  might  have  supposed,  but 
for  a  touch  of  grace  in  the  construc- 
tion of  the  thing — lightly  wrought 
timber-work,  united  and  adorned  by  a 
multitude  of  brass  fastenings,  like  the 
work  of  children  for  their  simplicity ; 
while  the  rude,  stiff  chair,  or  throne, 
set  upon  it,  seemed  to  distinguish  it  as 
a  chariot  of  state.  To  some  anti- 
quarians it  told  the  story  of  the  over- 
whelming of  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the 
old  primeval  people  of  Holland,  amid 
all  his  gala  array,  in  a  great  storm. 
But  it  was  another  view  which  Sebas- 
tian preferred :  that  this  object  was 
sepulchral,  namely,  in  its  motives — * 
the  one  surviving  relic  of  a  grand 
burial,  in  the  ancient  manner,  of  a 
king  or  hero,  whose  very  tomb  was 
dissolved  away. — Sunt  metis  metcel 
There  came  with  it  the  odd  fancy  that 
he  himself  would  like  to  have  been 
dead  and  gone  as  long  ago,  with  a  kind 
of  envy  of  those  whose  deceasing  was 
so  long  since  over. 

On  more  peaceful  days  he  would 
ponder  Pliny's  account  of  those 
primeval  forefathers,  but  without 
Pliny's  contempt  for  them.  A  cloyed 
Roman  might  despise  their  humble 
existence,  fixed  by  necessity  from  age 
to  age,  and  with  no  desire  of  change, 
as  "  the  ocean  poured  in  its  flood  twice 
a  day,  making  it  uncertain  whether 
the  country  was  a  part  of  the  conti- 
nent or  of  the  sea."  But  for  his  part 
Sebastian  found  something  of  poetry 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


353 


in  all  that,  as  he  conceived  what 
thoughts  the  old  Hollander  might  have 
had  at  his  fishing,  with  nets  themselves 
woven  of  sea- weed,  waiting  carefully 
for  his  drink  on  the  heavy  rains,  and 
taking  refuge  as  the  flood  rose  on  the 
sand-hills,  in  a  little  hut  constructed 
but  airily  on  tall  stakes,  conformable 
to  the  elevation  of  the  highest  tides ; 
like  a  navigator,  thought  the  learned 
writer,  when  the  sea  was  risen, 
like  a  shipwrecked  mariner  when  it 
was  retired.  To  the  fancy  of  Sebas- 
tian, he  lived  with  great  breadths  of 
calm  light  above  and  around  him, 
influenced  by,  and  in  a  sense,  living 
upon  them  ;  and  he  felt  that  he  might 
well  complain,  to  Pliny's  so  infinite 
surprise,  on  being  made  a  Roman 
citizen. 

And  certainly  Sebastian  van  Storck 
did  not  felicitate  his  people  on  the  luck 
which,  in  the  words  of  another  old 
writer,  "  hath  disposed  them  to  so 
thriving  a  genius."  Their  restless  in- 
genuity in  making  and  maintaining 
dry  land  where  nature  had  willed  the 
sea,  was  even  more  like  the  industry 
of  animals  than  had  been  the  life  of 
their  forefathers.  Away  !  with  that 
tetchy,  feverish,  unworthy  agitation, 
with  this  and  that,  all  too  importunate, 
motive  of  interest !  And  then,  "  my 
son  !  "  said  his  father,  "  be  stimulated 
to  action !  " — he  too  thinking  of  that 
heroic  industry  which  had  triumphed 
over  nature,  precisely  where  the  contest 
had  been  most  difficult. 

Yet,  in  truth,  Sebastian  was  forcibly 
taken  by  the  simplicity  of  a  great  af- 
fection, as  set  forth  in  an  incident  of 
real  life  of  which  he  heard  just  then. 
The  eminent  Grotius  being  condemned 
to  perpetual  imprisonment,  his  wife 
determined  to  share  his  fate,  alleviated 
only  by  the  reading  of  books  sent  by 
friends.  The  books,  finished,  were 
returned  in  a  great  chest.  In  this 
chest  the  wife  inclosed  the  husband, 
and  was  able  to  reply  to  the  objections 
of  the  soldiers  who  carried  it,  com- 
plaining of  its  weight,  with  a  self-con- 
trol, which  she  maintained  till  the 
captive  was  in  safety,  herself  remain- 
No.  317.  -VOL.  LIII. 


ing  to  face  the  consequences ;  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  absoluteness  of 
affection  in  that,  which  attracted  Se- 
bastian for  a  while  to  ponder  on  the 
practical  forces  which  shape  men's 
lives.  Had  he  turned,  indeed,  to  a 
practical  career,  it  would  have  been 
less  in  the  direction  of  the  military 
or  political  life  than  to  another  form 
of  enterprise  popular  with  his  country- 
men. In  the  eager,  gallant  life  of  that 
age,  if  the  sword  fell  for  a  moment 
into  its  sheath,  they  were  for  starting 
off  on  perilous  voyages  to  the  regions 
of  frost  and  snow  in  search  after  that 
"  north-western  passage,":*  for  the  dis- 
covery of  which  the  States-General  had 
offered  large  rewards.  Sebastian,  in 
effect,  found  a  charm  in  the  thought  of 
that  still,  drowsy,  spell-bound  world 
of  perpetual  ice,  as  in  art  and  life  he 
could  always  tolerate  the  sea.  Ad- 
miral-general of  Holland,  as  painted 
by  Van  der  Heist,  with  a  marine  back- 
ground by  Bakhuysen — at  moments 
his  father  could  fancy  him  so. 

There  was  still  another  very  differ- 
ent sort  of  character  to  which  Sebas- 
tian would  let  his  thoughts  stray, 
without  check,  for  a  time.  His  mother, 
whom  he  much  resembled  outwardly, 
a  Catholic  from  Brabant,  had  had  saints 
in  her  family,  and  from  time  to  time  the 
mind  of  Sebastian  had  been  occupied 
with  the  subject  of  monastic  life,  its 
quiet,  its  negation.  The  portrait  of  a 
certain  Carthusian  prior,  which,  like 
the  famous  statue  of  Saint  Bruno,  the 
first  Carthusian,  in  the  church  of 
Santa  Maria  dei  Angeli  at  Rome,  could 
it  have  spoken,  would  have  said, 
"Silence!"  kept  strange  company 
with  the  painted  visages  of  men  of 
affairs.  A  great  theological  strife 
was  then  raging  in  Holland.  Grave 
ministers  of  religion  assembled  some- 
times, like  the  painted  scene  by  Rem- 
brandt, in  the  Burgomaster's  house  ; 
and  once,  not  however  in  their  com- 
pany, came  a  renowned  young  Jewish 
divine,  Baruch  de  Spinosa,  with  whom, 
most  unexpectedly,  Sebastian  found 
himself  in  sympathy,  meeting  the 
young  Jew's  far-reaching  thoughts  half 

A  A 


354 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


way  to  the  confirmation  of  his  own ; 
and  he  did  not  know  that  his  visitor, 
very  ready  with  the  pencil,  had  taken 
his  likeness  as  they  talked,  on  the  fly- 
leaf of  his  note-book.  Alive  to  that 
theological  disturbance  in  the  air  all 
around  him,  he  refused  to  be  moved 
by  it,  as  essentially  a  strife  on  small 
matters,  anticipating  a  vagrant  regret 
which  may  have  visited  many  other 
minds  since, — the  regret,  namely,  that 
the  old,  pensive,  use-and-wont  Catho- 
licism, which  had  accompanied  the  na- 
tion's earlier  struggle  for  existence,  and 
consoled  it  therein,  had  been  taken 
from  it.  And  for  himself,  indeed, 
what  impressed  him  in  that  old  Catho- 
licism was  a  kind  of  lull  in  it — a  lull- 
ing power — like  that  of  the  monotonous 
organ-music,  which  Holland,  Catholic 
or  not,  still  so  greatly  loves.  But  what 
he  could  not  away  with  in  the  Catho- 
lic religion  was  its  unfailing  drift 
towards  the  concrete  —  the  positive 
imageries  of  a  faith,  so  richly  beset 
with  persons,  things,  historical  inci- 
dents. 

Rigidly  logical  in  the  method  of  his 
inferences,  he  attained  the  poetic 
quality  only  by  the  audacity  with 
which  he  conceived  the  whole  sublime 
extension  of  his  premises.  The  con- 
trast was  a  strange  one,  between  the 
careful,  the  almost  petty,  fineness  of 
his  personal  surrounding — all  the 
elegant  conventionalities  of  life,  in 
that  rising  Dutch  family — and  the 
mortal  coldness  of  a  temperament  the 
intellectual  tendencies  of  which  seemed 
uo  necessitate  straightforward  flight 
from  all  that  was  positive.  He  seemed, 
if  one  may  say  so,  in  love  with  death ; 
preferring  winter  to  summer ;  finding 
only  a  tranquillising  influence  in  the 
thought  of  the  earth  beneath  our  feet 
cooling  down  for  ever  from  its  old 
cosmic  heat ;  watching  pleasurably 
how  their  colours  fled  out  of  things, 
and  the  long  sandbank  in  the  sea, 
which  had  been  the  rampart  of  a  town, 
was  washing  down  in  its  turn.  One 
of  his  acquaintance,  a  penurious  young 
poet,  who,  having  nothing  in  his 
pockets  but  the  imaginative  or  other- 


wise barely  potential  gold  of  manu- 
script verses,  would  have  grasped  so 
eagerly,  had  they  lain  within  his 
reach,  at  the  elegant  outsides  of  life, 
thought  the  fortunate  Sebastian,  pos- 
sessed of  every  possible  opportunity 
of  that  kind,  yet  bent  only  on  dispens- 
ing with  it ;  certainly  a  most  puzzling, 
and  comfortless  creature.  A  few 
only,  half  discerning  what  was  in  his 
mind,  would  fain  have  shared  his 
intellectual  clearness,  and  found  a 
kind  of  attractive  beauty  in  this 
youthful  enthusiasm  for  an  abstract 
theorem.  Extremes  meeting,  his  cold 
and  dispassionate  detachment  from  all 
that  is  most  attractive  to  ordinary 
minds  came  to  have  the  impressiveness 
of  a  great  passion.  And  for  the  most 
part,  people  had  loved  him;  feeling 
instinctively  that  there  must  be  some- 
where the  justification  of  his  difference 
from  themselves.  It  was  like  being 
in  love :  or  it  was  an  intellectual 
malady,  such  as  pleaded  for  forbear- 
ance, like  bodily  sickness,  and  gave  at 
times  a  resigned  and  touching  sweet- 
ness to  what  he  did  and  said.  Only 
once,  at  a  moment  of  the  wild  popular 
excitement,  which  at  that  period  was 
easy  to  provoke  in  Holland,  there  was 
a  certain  group  of  persons  who  would 
have  shut  him  up  as  no  well-wisher  to, 
and  perhaps  a  plotter  against,  the 
common-weal.  A  single  traitor  might 
cut  the  dykes  in  an  hour,  in  the  inter- 
est of  the  English  or  the  French.  Or, 
had  he  already  committed  some 
treasonable  act,  who  was  so  anxious 
to  expose  no  writing  of  his  that  he 
left  his  letters  unsigned,  and  there 
were  little  stratagems  to  get  specimens 
of  his  fair  manuscript  ?  For  with  all 
his  breadth  of  mystic  intention,  he 
was  anxious,  as  the  hours  crept  on,  to 
leave  all  the  inevitable  details  of  life 
at  least  in  order,  in  equation.  And 
all  his  singularities  appeared  to  be 
summed  up  in  his  refusal  to  take  his 
place  in  the  life-sized  family  group, 
painted,  tree  distingue  et  ires  soigne, 
remarks  a  modern  critic  of  the  work — 
about  this  time.  His  mother  expostu- 
lated with  him  on  the  matter — she  must 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


355 


needs  feel,  a  little  icily,  the  emptiness 
of  hope,  and  something  more  than  the 
due  measure  of  cold  in  things  for  a 
woman  of  her  age,  in  the  person  of 
a  son  who  desired  but  to  fade  out  of 
the  world  like  a  breath, — and  suggest- 
ed filial  duty.  "  Good  mother  ! "  he 
answered,  "there  are  duties  towards 
the  intellect  also,  which  women  can 
but  rarely  understand." 

The  artists   and  their   wives   were 
come  to  supper  again,  with  the  Burgo- 
master   van    Storck.        Mademoiselle 
van  Westrheene  was  also  come,  with 
her  sister  and  mother.     The  girl  was 
by  this  time  fallen  in.  love  with  Sebas- 
tian ;  and  she  was  one  of  the  few  who, 
in  spite  of  his  terrible  coldness,  really 
loved  him  for  himself.     But  though  of 
good  birth  she  was  poor,  while  Sebas- 
tian could  not  but  perceive  that  there 
he  had   many  suitors   of   his  wealth. 
In   truth,   Madame  van  Westrheene, 
her  mother,   did  wish  to   marry  this 
daughter  into   the   great   world,   and 
plied  many  arts  to  that  end,  such  as 
"  daughterful "    mothers    use.        Her 
healthy  freshness  of  mien  and   mind, 
her  ruddy  beauty,  some  showy  presents 
that  had  passed,  were  of  a  piece  with 
the  ruddy  colouring  of  the  very  house 
those    people    lived    in ;    and    for    a 
moment  the  cheerful  warmth  that  may 
be  felt  in  life  seemed  to  come  very 
close  to  him — to  come  forth,  and  en- 
fold him.     Meantime  the  girl  herself, 
taking  note  of   this,  and   that   on  a 
former   occasion  of  their  meeting  he 
had  seemed  likely  to  respond  to  her 
inclination,  and  that  his  father  would 
readily  consent  to  such  a   marriage, 
surprised    him   on   the   sudden    with 
those  coquetries  and  importunities,  all 
those  little  arts  of  love,  which  often 
succeed  with  men.     Only,  to  Sebastian 
they  seemed  opposed  to  that  absolute 
nature    we    suppose    in    love.      And 
while,  in  the  eyes  of  all  around  him 
to-night,    this    courtship     seemed    to 
promise  him,  thus  early  in  life,  a  kind 
of  quiet  happiness,  he  was  coming  to 
an    estimate    of    the    situation,   with 
regard  to  that  ideal  of  a  calm,  intel- 
lectual indifference,  of  which  he  was 


the  sworn  chevalier.  Set  in  the  cold, 
hard  light  of  that,  this  girl,  with  the 
pronounced  personal  views  of  her 
mother,  and  in  the  very  effectiveness 
of  arts  prompted  by  a  real  affection, 
bringing  the  warm  life  they  prefigured 
so  close  to  him,  seemed  vulgar !  And 
still  he  felt  himself  bound  in  honour  • 
or  judged  from  their  manner  that  she 
and  those  about  them  thought  him 
thus  bound.  He  did  not  reflect  on 
the  inconsistency  of  the  feeling  of 
honour  (living,  as  it  does  essentially, 
upon  the  concrete  and  minute  detail 
of  social  relationship)  for  one  who,  on 
principle,  set  so  slight  a  value  on  any 
thing  whatever  that  is  merely  relative 
in  its  character. 

The  guests  growing  late  and  lively, 
were  almost  pledging  the  betrothed  in 
the  rich  wine.  Only  Sebastian's 
mother  knew  ;  and  at  that  advanced 
hour,  while  the  company  were  thus 
intently  occupied,  drew  away  the  Bur- 
gomaster to  confide  to  him  the  misgiv- 
ing she  felt,  grown  to  a  great  height 
just  then.  The  young  man  had  slipped 
from  the  assembly  ;  but  certainly  not 
with  Mademoiselle  van  Westrheene, 
who  was  suddenly  withdrawn  also. 
And  she  never  appeared  again  in  the 
world.  Already,  next  day,  with  the 
rumour  that  Sebastian  had  left  his 
home,  it  was  known  that  the  expected 
marriage  would  not  take  place.  The 
girl,  indeed,  alleged  something  in  the 
way  of  a  cause  on  her  part ;  but 
seemed  to  fade  away  continually  after- 
wards, and  in  the  eyes  of  all  who  saw 
her  was  like  one  perishing  of  wounded 
pride.  But  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
her  poor  girlish  worldliness,  before  she 
became  a  beguine,  she  confessed  to  her 
mother  the  receipt  of  the  letter — the 
cruel  letter  that  had  killed  her.  And 
in  effect,  the  first  copy  of  this  letter, 
written  with  a  very  deliberate  fine- 
ness, rejecting  her — accusing  her,  so 
natural,  and  simply  loyal !  of  a  vulgar 
coarseness  of  character — was  found, 
oddly  tacked  on,  as  their  last  word,  to 
the  studious  record  of  the  abstract 
thoughts  which  had  been  the  real 
business  of  Sebastian's  life,  in  the 
A  A  2 


356 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


room  whither  his  mother  went  to  seek 
him  next  day,  littered  with  the  frag- 
ments of  the  one  portrait  of  him  in 
existence. 

The  neat  and  elaborate  manuscript 
volume,  of  which  this  letter  formed 
the  final  page,  (odd  transition !  by 
which  a  train  of  thought  so  abstract 
drew  its  conclusion  in  the  sphere  of 
action,)  afforded  at  length,  to  the  few 
who  were  interested  in  him,  a  much- 
coveted  insight  into  the  curiosity  of 
his  existence ;  and  I  pause  just  here 
to  indicate  in  outline  the  kind  of 
reasoning  through  which,  making  the 
"  Infinite  "  his  beginning  and  his  end, 
Sebastian  was  come  to  think  all  defi- 
nite forms  of  being,  the  warm  pressure 
of  life,  the  cry  of  humanity  itself,  no 
more  than  a  troublesome  irritation  of 
the  surface,  a  passing  vexatious 
thought,  or  uneasy  dream,  of  the 
absolute  mind — at  its  height  of  petu- 
lant importunity  in  the  eager  human 
creature. 

The  volume  was,  indeed,  a  kind  of 
treatise  to  be ;  a  hard,  systematic, 
well-concatinated  train  of  thought, 
still  implicated  in  the  circumstances 
of  a  journal.  Liberated  from  the 
accidents  of  that  particular  form,  its 
unavoidable  details  of  place  and  oc- 
casion, the  theoretic  strain  would  have 
been  found  mathematically  continuous. 
The  already  so  weary  Sebastian  might 
perhaps  never  have  taken  in  hand,  or 
succeeded  in,  this  detachment  of  his 
thoughts ;  every  one  of  which,  begin- 
ning with  himself  there,  as  the  peculiar 
and  intimate  apprehension  of  this  or 
that  particular  day  and  hour,  seemed 
still  to  protest  against  such  disturb- 
ance, as  if  reluctant  to  part  from  those 
accidental  associations  of  the  personal 
history  which  had  prompted  it,  and  be- 
come a  purely  intellectual  abstraction. 
The  series  began  with  Sebastian's 
boyish  enthusiasm  for  a  strange,  fine 
saying  of  Doctor  Baruch  de  Spinosa's, 
concerning  the  Divine  Love — That 
whoso  loveth  God  truly  must  not 
expect  to  be  loved  by  Him  in  return. 
Through  mere  reaction  against  an 
actual  surrounding  of  which  every 


circumstance  tended  to  make  him  a 
finished  egotist,  that  bold  assertion 
defined  for  him  the  ideal  of  an  intel- 
lectual disinterestedness,  of  a  domain 
of  unimpassioned  mind,  with  the  de- 
sire to  put  one's  subjective  side  out  of 
the  way,  and  let  pure  reason  speak. 

And  what  pure  reason  affirmed,  in 
the  first  place,  as  the  "beginning  of 
wisdom,"  was  that  the  world  is  but  a 
thought,  or  series  of  thoughts,  existent, 
therefore,  solely  in  mind.     It  showed 
him,  as  he  fixed  the  mental  eye  with 
more  and  more  of  self-absorption  on 
the  facts  of  his  intellectual  existence, 
a  picture  or  vision  of  the  universe  as 
actually   the    product,   so    far   as   he 
really   knew   it,    of    his    own   lonely 
thinking    power — of    himself,    there, 
thinking :     as     being     zero     without 
him :   and   as   possessing   a  perfectly 
homogeneous  unity  in  that.     "  Things 
that  have  nothing   in   common   with 
each  other,"  said  the  axiomatic  reason, 
"cannot   be  understood  or  explained 
by   means    of    each   other."     But   to 
pure  reason  things   discovered   them- 
selves   as    being,    in    their    essence, 
thought — all    things,    even    the   most 
opposite  things,  mere   transmutations 
of    a    single    power — the    power    of 
thought.    All  was  but  conscious  mind. 
Therefore,   all   the   more   exclusively, 
he   must   minister    to   mind,    to    the 
intellectual  power,  submitting  himself 
to  the  sole  direction  of  that  whither- 
sover  it  might  lead  him.     Everything 
must  be  referred  to,  and,  as  it  were, 
changed  into  the  terms  of  that,  if  its 
essential  value  was  to  be  ascertained. 
"Joy,"  he  said,  anticipating  Spinosa, 
— that,  for  the  attainment  of   which 
men  are  ready  to  surrender  all  beside 
— "  is  but  the  name  of  a  passion  in 
which  the  mind   passes  to  a  greater 
perfection  or  power    of  thinking;  as 
grief  of  the  passion  in  which  it  passes 
to  a  less." 

Looking  backward  for  the  genera- 
tive source  of  that  power,  from  himself 
to  the  cause  of  his  mysterious  being, 
he  still  reflected,  as  one  can  but  do, 
himself  —  the  pattern  of  himself  — 
vaguer  and  enlarged,  upon  the  broad 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


357 


screen  of  the  supposable  world  with- 
out. In  this  way,  some,  at  all  events, 
would  have  explained  his  mental  pro- 
cess. To  him  it  was  nothing  less  than 
the  apprehension,  the  revelation,  of 
the  greatest  and  most  real  of  ideas — 
the  secret  structure  of  all  things.  He, 
too,  with  his  vividly-coloured  existence, 
with  this  picturesque  and  sensuous 
world  of  Dutch  art  and  Dutch  reality 
all  around,  which  would  fain  have 
made  him  the  prisoner  of  its  colours, 
its  genial  warmth,  its  struggle  for  life, 
its  selfish  and  crafty  love,  was  but  a 
transient  perturbation  of  the  absolute 
mind;  of  which,  indeed,  all  finite 
things  whatever,  time  itself,  the  most 
durable  achievements  of  nature  and 
man,  and  all  that  seems  most  like 
independent  energy,  are  no  more  than 
petty  accidents  or  affections.  Theorem 
and  corollary  !  Thus  they  stood  : 

"  There  can  be  only  one  substance: 
corollary — the  greatest  of  errors  is  to 
think  that  the  non-existent,  the  world 
of  finite  things  seen  and  felt,  really 
is :  theorem, — for,  whatever  is,  is 
but  in  that :  corollary  (practical) 
one's  wisdom,  therefore,  consists  in 
hastening,  so  far  as  may  be,  the  ac- 
tion of  those  forces  which  tend  to  the 
restoration  of  equilibrium,  to  the  calm 
surface  of  the  absolute  and  untroubled 
mind,  to  tabula  rasa,  by  the  extinction 
in  one  of  all  that  is  but  correlative 
to  the  finite  illusion  —  by  the  sup- 
pression of  ourselves." 

In  the  loneliness  which  was  gather- 
ing round  him,  and  oddly  enough  as 
a  somewhat  surprising  thing,  he  won- 
dered whether  there  were,  or  had  been 
others,  who  had  like  thoughts,  ready 
to  welcome  any  such  as  his  veritable 
compatriots.  And,  in  fact,  he  became 
aware  just  then,  in  readings  difficult 
indeed,  but  which  their  absorbing  in- 
terest caused  to  seem  almost  like  an 
illicit  pleasure,  a  sense  of  kinship  with 
certain  older  minds.  The  study  of 
many  an  earlier  adventurous  theorist 
satisfied  his  curiosity,  as  the  record 
of  daring  physical  adventure,  for  in- 
stance, might  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
the  healthy.  It  was  a  tradition,  a  con- 


stant  tradition — that  daring  thought 
of  his  j  an  echo,  or  haunting  recur- 
rent voice  of  the  human  soul  itself, 
(and  as  such,  sealed  with  natural  truth,) 
which  certain  minds  would  not  fail  to 
heed ;  discerning  also,  if  they  were 
really  loyal  to  themselves,  its  practical 
conclusion.  The  One  alone  is  :  and  all 
things  beside  are  but  its  passing 
affections,  which  have  no  proper  right 
to  be. 

Even  as,  but  its  accidents  or  affec- 
tions, there  might  have  been  found, 
within  the  circumference  of  the  infinite 
thinker,  an  adequate  scope  for  the  joy 
and  love  of  the  creature.  There  have 
been  dispositions  in  which  that  abstract 
theorem  has  only  induced  a  renewed 
value  for  the  finite  interests  around 
and  within  us.  Centre  of  heat  and 
light, — truly,  nothing  has  seemed  to  lie 
beyond  the  touch  of  its  perpetual 
summer.  It  has  allied  itself  to  the 
poetical  or  artistic  sympathy,  which 
feels  challenged  to  become  acquainted 
with  and  explore  the  various  forms  of 
finite  existence  all  the  more  intimately, 
just  because  of  that  sense  of  one  lively 
spirit  circulating  through  all  things 
— a  tiny  soul  in  the  very  sunbeam,  or 
leaf.  Sebastian  van  Storck,  on  the 
contrary,  was  determined,  perhaps  by 
some  inherited  satiety  and  fatigue  in 
his  nature,  to  the  opposite  issue  of  the 
practical  dilemma.  For  him,  it  was  the 
pallid  arctic  sun,  disclosing  itself  over 
the  dead  level  of  a  glacial,  a  barren 
and  absolutely  lonely,  sea.  The  lively 
purpose  of  life  had  been  frozen  out  of 
it.  What  he  must  admire,  and  love 
if  he  could,  was  "  equilibrium,"  the 
void,  the  tabula  rasa,  into  which, 
through  all  those  apparent  energies  of 
man  and  nature  that  in  truth  are  but 
forces  of  disintegration,  the  world 
was  really  settling.  And,  himself  a, 
mere  circumstance  in  a  fatalistic  series, 
to  which  the  clay  of  the  potter  was  no 
adequate  parallel,  he  could  not  expect 
to  be  "loved  in  return."  At  first, 
indeed,  he  had  a  kind  of  delight  in  his 
thoughts — in  the  eager  pressure  for- 
ward, to  whatsoever  conclusion,  of  an 
intellectual  gymnastic,  which  was  like 


.358 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


the  making  of  Euclid.  Only,  little  by 
little,  under  the  freezing  influence  of 
the  propositions  themselves,  the  the- 
oretic vitality  itself,  and  with  it  his 
old  eagerness  for  truth,  the  care  to 
track  it  from  proposition  to  proposition, 
was  chilled  out  of  him.  And,  in  fact, 
the  conclusion  was  there  already  (might 
be  foreseen)  in  the  premises.  By  a 
singular  perversity,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  every  one  of  those  passing  affec- 
tions— himself,  alas  !  at  times — was  for 
ever  trying  to  be — to  assert  itself ;  to 
maintain  its  isolated  and  petty  self,  by 
a  kind  of  practical  lie  in  things ;  all 
through  every  incident  of  that  hypo- 
thetic existence  it  had  protested  that 
its  proper  function  was  to  die.  Surely  ! 
they  marred  the  freedom,  the  truth, 
the  beatific  calm,  of  the  absolute 
selfishness,  which  could  not,  if  it  would, 
pass  beyond  the  circumference  of  itself  ; 
to  which  at  times,  with  a  fantastic 
sense  of  well-being,  he  found  himself 
capable  of  a  kind  of  fanatical  devotion. 
And  those,  as  he  conceived,  were  his 
moments  of  genuine  theoretic  insight, 
in  which,  under  the  abstract  "light 
perpetual,"  he  died  to  self ;  while  yet 
the  intellect,  after  all,  had  attained  a 
freedom  of  its  own,  through  the 
vigorous  act  which  assured  him  that 
as  nature  was  but  a  thought  of  his,  so 
himself  also  was  but  the  passing 
thought  of  God. 

No  !  rather  a  puzzle  only  —  an 
anomaly  —  upon  that  one,  white, 
unruffled  consciousness !  His  first 
principle  once  recognised,  all  the  rest, 
the  whole  array  of  propositions  down 
to  the  heartless  practical  conclusion, 
must  follow  of  themselves.  Detach- 
ment :  to  hasten  hence  :  to  fold  up 
one's  whole  self,  as  a  vesture  put  aside  : 
to  anticipate,  by  such  individual  force 
as  he  could  find  in  him,  the  slow  dis- 
integration by  which  Nature  herself 
is  levelling  the  eternal  hills  : — here 
would  be  the  secret  of  peace,  of  such 
dignity  and  truth  as  there  could  be  in 
a  world  which  after  all  was  essentially 
an  illusion.  For  Sebastian  at  least, 
the  world  and  the  individual  alike  had 
been  divested  of  all  effective  purpose. 


The  most  vivid  of  finite  objects;  the 
dramatic  episodes    of   Dutch  history ; 
the  brilliant  personalities   which  had 
found  their  parts  to  play  in  them  ;  that 
golden  art,  surrounding  one  with  an 
ideal   world,   through   which  the  real 
world  was  discernible  indeed  beyond, 
but  etherealised  by  the  medium  through 
which   it  came   to   one ;  all  this,  for 
most  men  so  powerful  a  link  to  exist- 
ence, only  set  him  on  the  thought  of 
escape — means  of  escape — into  a  form- 
less and  nameless  infinite  world,  evenly 
grey.      The   very   emphasis   of    those 
objects,  their  importunity  to  the  eye, 
the  ear,  the  finite  intelligence,  was  but 
the   measure   of    their   distance   from 
what  really  is.     One's   personal   pre- 
sence— the  presence,  such  as  it  is,  of 
the  most  incisive  things  and  persons 
around  one — could  but    lessen   by  so 
much,    that   which   really  is ;  yet   is, 
undeniably,  of  a  very  transient  nature. 
To  restore    tabula    rasa,    then,    by    a 
continual  effort    at  self-effacement ! — 
Actually    proud,    at     times,    of     his 
curious,    well  -  reasoned    nihilism,    he 
could  only  regard  what  is  called  the 
business  of    life  as  no  better  than  a 
trifling  and  wearisome  delay.    Bent  on 
making  sacrifice  of  the  rich  life  possi- 
ble for  him  (as  he  would  readily  have 
sacrificed  that  of  other  people)  to  the 
bare  and  formal  logic  of  the  reply  to 
a   query,    never  proposed  by  entirely 
healthy  minds,  regarding  the  remote 
conditions  and  tendencies  of  that  life, 
he  did  not  reflect  that  if  others  had 
inquired    as    scrupulously   the    world 
could  never  have  come  so  far  at  all — 
that  the  fact  of  its  having   come  so 
far  was  itself  a  weighty  exception  to 
his    hypothesis.     His   fantastic    devo- 
tion souring   into  fanaticism,    into   a 
kind   of   religious   mania,   with   what 
was  really  a  vehement  assertion  of  his 
individual  will,  he  had  formulated  duty 
as  the  principle  to  hinder  as  little  as 
possible  what  he  called  the  restoration 
of   equilibrium,  of   the   primary   con- 
sciousness  to   itself — its    relief    from 
that  uneasy,  tetchy,  unworthy  dream 
of  a  world,  made  so  ill,  or  dreamt  so 
weakly — to  forget,  to  be  forgotten. 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


359 


And  at  length  this  dark  fanaticism, 
losing  the  support  of  pride  in  the 
mere  novelty  of  a  reasoning  so  hard 
and  dry,  turned  round  upon  him,  as 
our  fanaticism  will,  in  black  melan- 
choly. The  theoretic,  or  imaginative, 
desire  to  urge  Time's  creeping  footsteps, 
was  felt  now  as  the  physical  fatigue 
which  leaves  the  book  or  the  letter 
unfinished,  or  finishes  eagerly,  out  of 
hand,  for  mere  finishing's  sake,  un- 
important business.  Strange !  that 
the  presence  to  the  mind  of  a  meta- 
physical abstraction  should  have  had 
this  power  over  one  so  fortunately 
endowed  for  the  reception  of  the 
sensible  world.  It  could  hardly  have 
been  so  with  him  but  for  the  concur- 
rence of  physical  causes  with  the 
influences  proper  to  a  mere  thought. 
The  moralist,  indeed,  might  have  noted 
that  a  kind  of  pride,  a  morbid  fear  of 
vulgarity,  lent  secret  strength  to  the 
intellectual  prejudice,  which  realised 
duty  as  the  renunciation  of  all  finite 
objects,  the  fastidious  refusal  to  be  or 
do  any  limited  thing.  But  beyond 
this,  it  was  legible  in  his  own  admis- 
sions from  time  to  time,  that  the  body, 
following,  as  it  will  with  powerful 
temperaments,  the  lead  of  mind  and 
the  will,  the  intellectual  consumption 
(so  to  term  it)  had  been  concurrent 
with,  strengthened  and  was  strength- 
ened by,  a  vein  of  physical  phthisis — 
by  a  merely  physical  accident,  after 
all,  of  his  bodily  constitution ;  which 
might  have  taken  a  different  turn,  had 
another  accident  led  him  to  the  hills 
instead  of  to  the  shore.  Is  it  only  the 
result  of  disease  1  he  would  ask  himself 
sometimes  with  a  sudden  suspicion  of 
his  intellectual  cogency  —  this  per- 
suasion that  myself,  and  all  that 
surrounds  me,  are  but  a  diminution  of 
that  which  really  is  1 — this  unkindly 
melancholy  3 

The  journal,  with  that  "  cruel " 
letter  to  Mademoiselle  van  Westrheene 
coming  as  the  last  step  in  the  rigid 
process  of  theoretic  deduction,  circu- 
lated among  the  curious  ;  and  people 
made  their  judgments  upon  it.  There 
were  some  who  held  that  such  opinions 


should  be  suppressed  by  law ;  that 
they  were,  or  might  become,  dangerous 
to  society.  Perhaps  it  was  the  con- 
fessor of  his  mother  who  thought  of 
the  matter  most  justly.  The  aged 
man  smiled,  observing  how,  even  for 
minds  by  no  means  slight,  the  mere 
dress  alters  the  look  of  a  familiar 
thought — with  a  happy  sort  of  smile 
as  he  added  (meaning  that  the  truth 
of  Sebastian's  apprehension  was  duly 
covered  by  the  propositions  of  his  own 
creed,  and  quoting  Sebastian's  favourite 
pagan  wisdom  from  the  lips  of  Saint 
Paul)  "  In  Him,  we  live,  and  move, 
and  have  our  being." 

Next  day,  as  Sebastian  escaped  to 
the  sea  under  the  long,  monotonous 
line  of  wind -mills,  in  comparative  calm 
of  mind — reaction  of  that  pleasant 
morning  from  the  madness  of  the 
night  before — he  was  making  light,  or 
trying  to  make  light  with  some  success, 
of  his  late  distress.  He  would  fain 
have  thought  it  a  small  matter,  to  be 
adequately  set  at  rest  for  him  by 
certain  well-tested  influences  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  in  a  long  visit  to  the 
place  he  liked  best :  a  desolate  house, 
amid  the  sands  of  the  Helder,  one  of 
the  old  lodgings  of  his  family, — property 
now,  rather,  of  the  sea-birds,  and 
almost  surrounded  by  the  encroaching 
tide;  though  there  were  still  relics 
enough  of  hardy,  sweet  things  about  it, 
to  form  what  was  to  Sebastian  the 
most  perfect  garden  in  Holland.  Here 
he  could  make  "  equation "  between 
himself  and  what  was  not  himself,  and 
set  things  in  order,  in  preparation 
towards  such  deliberate  and  final 
change  in  his  manner  of  living  as 
circumstances  so  clearly  necessitated. 

As  he  stayed  in  this  place,  with  one 
or  two  silent  serving  people,  a  sudden 
rising  of  the  wind  altered,  as  it  might 
seem,  in  a  few  dark,  tempestuous 
hours,  the  entire  world  around  him. 
The  strong  wind  changed  not  again  for 
fourteen  days ;  and  its  effect  was  a 
permanent  one  ',  so  that  people  might 
have  fancied  that  an  enemy  had  indeed 
cut  the  dykes  somewhere — a  pin-hole, 
enough  to  wreck  the  ship  of  Holland, 


360 


Sebastian  Van  Storck. 


or  at  least  that  portion  of  it,  which 
underwent  an  inundation  of  the  sea 
the  like  of  which  had  not  occurred  in 
that  province  for  half  a  century.  Only, 
when  the  body  of  Sebastian  was  found, 
apparently  not  long  after  death,  a  child 
lay  asleep,  swaddled  warmly  in  his 
heavy  furs,  in  an  upper  room  of  the 
old  tower,  to  which  the  tide  was  almost 
risen  ;  though  the  building  still  stood 
firmly,  and  still  with  the  means  of  life 
in  plenty.  And  it  was  in  the  saving 
of  this  child,  with  a  great  effort,  as 
certain  circumstances  seemed  to  indi- 
cate, that  Sebastian  had  lost  his  life. 
His  parents  were  come  to  seek  him, 


believing  him  bent  on  self-destruction, 
and  were  almost  glad  to  find  him  thus. 
A  learned  physician,  moreover,  en- 
deavoured to  comfort  his  mother  by 
remarking  that  in  any  case  he  must 
certainly  have  died  ere  many  years 
were  passed,  slowly,  perhaps  painfully, 
of  a  disease  then  coming  into  the 
world  :  disease  begotten  by  the  fogs  of 
that  country — waters,  he  observed, 
not  in  their  place,  "  above  the  firma- 
ment"— on  people  grown  somewhat 
over- delicate  in  their  nature  by  the 
effects  of  modern  luxury. 

WALTER  PATER. 


361 


THE  OFFICE  OF  LITERATURE. 


DR.  JOHN  BROWN'S  pleasant  story 
has  become  well-known  of  the  country- 
man who  being  asked  to  account  for 
the  gravity  of  his  dog  replied,  "  Oh 
sir !  life  is  full  of  sariousness  to  him 
— he  can  never  get  eneugh  o'  fechtin." 
Something  of  the  spirit  of  this  sad- 
dened dog  seems  lately  to  have  entered 
into  the  very  people  who  ought  to  be 
freest  from  it — our  men  of  letters. 
They  are  all  .  very  serious  and  very 
quarrelsome.  To  some  of  them  it  is 
dangerous  even  to  allude.  Many  are 
wedded  to  a  theory  or  period,  and  are 
the  most  uxorious  of  husbands — ever 
ready  to  resent  an  affront  to  their 
lady.  This  devotion  makes  them  very 
grave,  and  possibly  very  happy  after 
a  pedantic  fashion.  One  remembers 
what  Hazlitt,  who  was  neither  happy 
nor  pedantic,  has  said  about  pedantry  : 

"The  power  of  attaching  an  interest  to  the 
most  trifling  or  painful  pursuits  is  one  of  the 
greatest  happinesses  of  our  nature.  The  com- 
mon soldier  mounts  the  breach  with  joy, 
the  miser  deliberately  starves  himself  to  doath, 
the  mathematician  sets  about  extracting 
the  cube-root  with  a  feeling  of  enthusiasm, 
and  the  lawyer  sheds  tears  of  delight  over 
Coke  upon  Lyttelton.  He  who  is  not  in  some 
measure  a  pedant  though  he  may  be  a  wise 
cannot  be  a  very  happy  man." 

Possibly  not ;  but  then  we  are  surely 
not  content  that  our  authors  should 
be  pedants  in  order  that  they  may  be 
happy  and  devoted.  As  one  of  the 
great  class  for  whose  sole  use  and 
behoof  literature  exists — the  class  of 
readers — I  protest  that  it  is  to  me  a 
matter  of  indifference  whether  an 
author  is  happy  or  not.  I  want  him 
to  make  me  happy.  That  is  his  office. 
Let  him  discharge  it. 

I  recognise  in  this  connection  the 
corresponding  truth  of  what  Sydney 
Smith  makes  his  Peter  Plymley  say 
about  the  private  virtues  of  Mr. 
Perceval,  the  Prime  Minister  : — 


"You  spend  a  great  deal  of  ink  about 
the  character  of  the  present  Prime  Minister. 
Grant  all  that  you  write — I  say,  I  fear  that 
he  will  ruin  Ireland,  and  pursue  a  line  of 
policy  destructive  to  the  true  interests  of  his 
country,  and  then  you  tell  me  that  he  is 
faithful  to  Mrs.  Perceval,  and  kind  to  the 
Master  Percevals.  I  should  prefer  that  he 
whipped  his  boys  and  saved  his  country." 

We  should  never  confuse  functions 
or  apply  wrong  tests.  What  can 
Books  do  for  us  ?  Dr.  Johnson, 
the  least  pedantic  of  men,  put  the 
whole  matter  into  a  nutshell  (a  cocoa- 
nut  shell,  if  you  will — Heaven  forbid 
that  I  should  seek  to  compress  the 
great  doctor  within  any  narrower 
limits  than  my  metaphor  requires), 
when  he  wrote  that  a  book  should 
teach  us  either  to  enjoy  life  or  endure 
it.  "  Give  us  enjoyment !  "  "  Teach 
us  endurance ! "  Hearken  to  the 
ceaseless  demand  and  the  perpetual 
prayer  of  an  ever  unsatisfied  and  an 
always  suffering  humanity ! 

How  is  a  book  to  answer  the  cease- 
less demand  ? 

Self-forgetfulness  is  of  the  essence 
of  enjoyment,  and  the  author  who 
would  confer  pleasure  must  possess 
the  art,  or  know  the  trick  of  destroy- 
ing for  the  time  the  reader's  own 
personality.  Undoubtedly  the  easiest 
way  of  doing  this  is  by  the  creation 
of  a  host  of  rival  personalities — hence 
the  number  and  the  popularity  of 
novels.  Whenever  a  novelist  fails 
his  book  is  said  to  flag ;  that  is,  the 
reader  suddenly  (as  in  skating)  comes 
bump  down  upon  his  own  personality, 
and  curses  the  unskilful  author.  No 
lack  of  characters  and  continual 
motion  is  the  easiest  recipe  for  a  novel, 
which,  like  a  beggar,  should  always  be 
kept  "moving  on."  Nobody  knew 
this  better  than  Fielding,  whose  novels, 
like  most  good  ones,  are  full  of  inns. 

When  those    who    are  addicted  to 


362 


The  Office  of  Literature. 


what  is  "called  "  improving  reading  " 
inquire  of  you  petulantly  why  you 
cannot  find  change  of  company  and 
scene  in  books  of  travel,  you  should 
answer  cautiously  that  when  books  of 
travel  are  full  of  inns,  atmosphere,  and 
motion  they  are  as  good  as  any  novel ; 
nor  is  there  any  reason  in  the  nature 
of  things  why  they  should  not  always 
be  so,  though  experience  proves  the 
contrary. 

The  truth  or  falsehood  of  a  book  is 
immaterial.  George  Borrow's  '  Bible 
in  Spain  '  is,  I  suppose,  true ;  though 
now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  in 
what  is  to  me  a  new  light,  one  remem- 
bers that  it  contains  some  odd  things. 
But  was  not  Borrow  the  accredited 
agent  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible 
Society  ?  Did  he  not  travel  (and  he 
had  a  free  hand)  at  their  charges? 
Was  he  not  befriended  by  our  minister 
at  Madrid,  Mr.  Yilliers,  subsequently 
Earl  of  Clarendon  in  the  peerage 
of  England  ?  It  must  be  true  ; 
and  yet  at  this  moment  I  would 
as  lief  read  a  chapter  of  the  '  Bible  in 
Spain '  as  I  would  '  Gil  Bias ' ;  nay, 
so  pleasantly  have  my  Borrovian 
memories  been  stirred  by  Mr.  Saints- 
bury  in  the  January  number  of  this 
magazine  that  I  positively  would  give 
the  preference  to  Senor  Giorgio. 

Nobody  can  sit  down  to  read 
Borrow's  books  without  as  completely 
forgetting  himself  as  if  he  were  once 
more  a  boy  in  the  forest  with  Gurth 
and  Wamba. 

Borrow  is  provoking  and  has  his 
full  share  of  faults,  and  though  the 
owner  of  a  style,  is  capable  of  excru- 
ciating offences.  His  habitual  use  of 
the  odious  word  "individual"  as  a 
noun-substantive  (seven  times  in  three 
pages  of  '  The  Romany  Bye,')  elicits 
the  frequent  groan,  and  he  is  certainly 
once  guilty  of  calling  fish  the  "  finny 
tribe."  He  believed  himself  to  be  ani- 
mated by  an  intense  hatred  of  the 
Church  of  Rome,  and  disfigures  many 
of  his  pages  by  Lawrence-Boythorn-like 
tirades  against  that  institution;  but  no 
Catholic  of  sense  need  on  this  account 
deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  reading 


Borrow,  whose  one  dominating  passion 
was  camaraderie,  and  who  hob-a-nobbed 
in  the  friendliest  spirit  with  priest  and 
gipsy  after  a  fashion  as  far  beyond 
praise  as  it  is  beyond  description  by 
any  pen  other  than  his  own.  Hail  to 
thee,  George  Borrow !  Cervantes  him- 
self, Gil  Bias,  do  not  more  effectually 
carry  their  readers  into  the  land  of  the 
Cid  than  does  this  miraculous  agent  of 
the  Bible  Society,  by  favour  of  whose 
pleasantness  we  can  any  hour  of  the 
week  enter  Yillafranca  by  night,  or 
ride  into  Galicia  on  an  Andalusian 
stallion  (which  proved  to  be  a  foolish 
thing  to  do)  without  costing  anybody  a 
peseta,  and  at  no  risk  whatever  to  our 
necks — be  they  long  or  short. 

Cooks,  warriors,  and  authors  must 
be  judged  by  the  effects  they  pro- 
duce :  toothsome  dishes,  glorious 
victories,  pleasant  books  —  these  are 
our  demands.  We  have  nothing  to  do 
with  ingredients,  tactics,  or  methods. 
We  have  no  desire  to  be  admitted  into 
the  kitchen,  the  council,  or  the  study. 
The  cook  may  clean  her  saucepans  how 
she  pleases — the  warrior  place  his  men 
as  he  likes — the  author  handle  his 
material  or  weave  kis  plot  as  best  he 
can — when  the  dish  is  served  we  only 
ask  is  it  good?  when  the  battle  has 
been  fought,  who  won  ?  when  the  book 
comes  out,  does  it  read  ? 

Authors  ought  not  to  be  above  being 
reminded  that  it  is  their  first  duty  to 
write  agreeably — some  very  disagree- 
able men  have  succeeded  in  doing  it,  so 
there  is  no  need  for  any  one  to  despair. 
Every  author,  be  he  grave  or  gay, 
should  try  to  make  his  book  as  ingra- 
tiating as  possible.  Reading  is  not  a 
duty,  and  has  therefore  no  business  to 
be  made  disagreeable.  Nobody  is  under 
any  obligation  to  read  any  other  man's 
book. 

Literature  exists  to  please ;  to 
lighten  the  burden  of  men's  lives  ;  to 
make  them  for  a  short  while  forget 
their  sorrows  and  their  sins,  their 
silenced  hearths,  their  disappointed 
hopes,  their  grim  futures — and  those 
men  of  letters  are  the  best  loved  who 
have  best  performed  literature's  truest 


The  Office  of  Literature. 


363 


office.  Their  name  is  happily  legion, 
and  I  will  conclude  these  disjointed 
remarks  by  quoting  from  one  of  them, 
as  honest  a  parson  as  ever  took  tithe 
or  voted  for  the  Conservative  candi- 
date, the  Rev.  George  Crabbe.  Hear 
him  in  '  The  Frank  Courtship  ' : 

'  I  must  be  loved  ; '  said  Sybil ;  '  I  must  see 
The  man  in  terrors,  who  aspires  to  me  : , 
At    my  forbidding  frown  his  heart  must 

ache, 
His  tongue  must  falter,  and  his  frame  must 

shake ; 

And  if  I  grant  him  at  my  feet  to  kneel 
What  trembling  fearful  pleasure  must  he  feel: 
Nay,    such   the    raptures   that   my  smiles 

inspire 

That  reason's  self  must  for  a  time  retire. ' 
'Alas  !  for  good  Josiah,'  said  the  dame, 
'  These  wicked  thoughts  would  fill  his  soul 

with  shame  ; 

He  kneel  and  tremble  at  a  thing  of  dust ! 
He  <  cannot,  child  : ' — the  child  replied,  *  He 

must.'  " 

Were  an  office  to  be  opened  for  the 


insurance  of  literary  reputations  no 
critic  at  all  likely  to  be  in  the  society's 
service  would  refuse  the  life  of  a  poet 
who  can  write  like  Crabbe.  Cardinal 
Newman,  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen,  Mr. 
Swinburne  are  not  always  of  the  same 
way  of  thinking,  but  all  three  hold 
the  one  true  faith  about  Crabbe. 

But  even  were  Crabbe  now  left 
unread,  which  is  very  far  from  being 
the  case,  his  would  be  an  enviable 
fame — for  was  he  not  one  of  the 
favourite  poets  of  Walter  Scott,  and 
whenever  the  closing  scene  of  the 
great  magician's  life  is  read  in  the 
pages  of  Lockhart,  must  not  Crabbe' s 
name  be  brought  upon  the  reader's 
quivering  lip  1 

To  soothe  the  sorrow  of  the  soothers 
of  sorrow,  to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes 
and  smiles  to  the  cheeks  of  the  lords 
of  human  smiles  and  tears  is  no  mean 
ministry,  and  it  is  Crabbe's. 


.364 


VICTOR  GRAHAM.1 


FOR  all  its  memories  of  Charles  Lamb 
the  Temple  is  not,  I  think,  a  very 
cheerful  place  to  live  in.  Yet  1  live 
there,  have  lived  there  now  for  many 
years,  and,  for  aught  I  can  see  in  the 
future,  shall  live  there  till  my  lease  of 
all  sublunar  tenements  shall  expire,  to 
be  renewed  no  more.  Its  possibilities 
of  cheerfulness  will,  of  course,  depend 
very  much  on  the  individual's  capacity 
for  enjoying  existence ;  but,  given  a 
predisposition  to  melancholy,  I  know 
no  place  wherein  the  very  doubtful 
luxury  of  woe  can  be  so  easily  and 
uninterruptedly  enjoyed.  And  for  such 
purposes  it  is  on  an  autumn  evening 
above  all  other  times  and  seasons  in 
its  prime.  So  I  remember  well  to 
have  found  it  one  particular  evening 

in  early  autumn  not  many  years  ago • 

a  dismal  evening  to  a  dismal  day, 
when,  through  my  own  sheer  laziness, 
my  fire  was  dying  low  in  the  grate, 
my  lamp  unlit,  my  curtains  yet  un- 
drawn, and  when,  in  the  utter  silence 
of  my  darkening  room,  I  could  hear 
the  leaves  falling  in  the  court  below, 
as  the  harsh  gusts  whirled  them  from 
the  tossing  branches. 

As  I  sat  there  amid  the  growing 
shadows,  musing  on  the  vanity  of 
human  wishes,  the  spite  of  Fortune, 
the  law's  delay,  and  all  those  in- 
effectual thoughts  that  men  who  have 
learned  neither  to  labour  nor  to  wait 
delight  to  cherish,  I  heard  with 
careless  curiosity  the  postman's  step 
mounting  my  staircase,  and  then  a 
letter  drop  into  my  box  Was  it  a 
bill  ?  No,  it  was  not  that ;  nor  a 
missive  from  those  tormentors  of  the 
poor  whom  the  law  (putting  by  her 

1  The  main  idea  of  this  little  story  is  the 
same  as  that  of  < Eyre's  Acquittal.'  It  should 
be  saicUthat  '  Victor  Graham '  was  conceived, 
and  in  part  composed,  four  years  before  the 
publication  of  Miss  Mathers's  book. 


delay  for  once)  permits  to  mix  them- 
selves in  other  men's  affairs.  To  so 
much  my  long  and  sad  experience 
enabled  me  to  .swear  at  sight,  and  with 
a  mind  at  er.se  I  opened  it.  It  was 
signed  Victor  Graham,  and  besought 
the  pleasure  of  my  company  at  his 
house  in  B — shire,  so  soon  as  I  might 
find  it  convenient  to  leave  London, 
and  for  so  long  a  time  as  I  could 
spare  from  my  business.  Convenient ! 
With  a  fervent  hope  that  in  these 
matters  my  convenience  might  not  too 
far  outrun  my  friend's,  I  wrote  a  glad 
acceptance,  and  went  straightway  out 
to  post  it. 

Victor  Graham  !  It  was  the  name 
of  one  I  had  called  friend  from  early 
days  :  and  though  of  late  years  we 
had  met  but  rarely  and  mostly  by  ac- 
cident, he  had  ever  kept  his  place  in 
my  heart.  At  school  and  college  our 
friendship  had  been  a  by-word;  and 
then  we  parted — he  to  a  fair  estate 
and  a  rent-roll  carefully  nourished  by 
a  thrifty  guardian,  and  I — well,  that 
concerns  no  one  who  may  read  these 
pages.  For  a  year  or  two  after 
taking  his  degree,  though  loving 
quiet  and  of  rather  studious  temper, 
he  had  moved  about  London,  a  wel- 
come guest  everywhere,  with  his 
handsome  face  and  winning  manners, 
set  off  by  the  lavish  gilding  of  Fortune. 
All  men  spoke  well  of  him  •  fair 
women  smiled  on  him  \  and  mothers, 
with  daughters  waiting  in  the  mar- 
riage market-place,  upheld  him  for 
the  fine  flower  of  his  age. 

Then  he  married,  suddenly,  and 
London  knew  him  no  more.  Whom 
he  had  married  I  never  knew ;  no  one, 
I  think,  precisely  knew.  Though  I 
saw  and  heard  little  of  the  babbling 
world,  yet  stray  notes  of  gossip  would 
float  sometimes  up  to  my  dim  garret, 
and  as  I  was  known  to  have  been 
once  Graham's  friend,  all  that  was  to 


Victor  Graham. 


365 


be  said  against  his  wife  of  course  I 
heard.  It  was  confused  stuff.  She 
was  a  foreigner,  of  doubtful  birth,  and 
an  environment  not  at  all  doubtful. 
She  had  been  an  actress,  or  a  singer — 
at  any  rate  had  learned  to  earn  her 
living  by  such,  or,  it  was  even  hinted 
— especially,  of  course,  by  the  women 
who  had  once  so  loudly  sung  her 
husband's  praises — by  still  less  con- 
venient practises.  One  thing,  at  least, 
was  certain :  Yictor  Graham  had 
behaved  shamefully. 

Soon  after  his  marriage  he  had 
gone  abroad,  and  his  visits  to  Eng- 
land had  been  rare  and  short,  and 
always,  so  far  as  I  knew,  made  with- 
out his  wife.  Occasionally  we  had 
encountered  in  the  street ;  once  or 
twice  he  had  climbed  my  toilsome 
stairs,  and  vaguely,  though  always 
kindly,  expressed  a  hope  that  we 
should  see  more  of  each  other  when 
he  had  settled  again  at  home.  But 
of  the  third  party  to  this  arrange- 
ment he  had  never  spoken  more 
than  once  or  twice,  and  always 
as  "  my  wife."  Of  her  very  name 
even  I  was  ignorant.  Naturally  I 
did  not  court  a  confidence  my  friend 
withheld ;  and  besides,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  had  so  little  curiosity  in  the 
matter.  I  was  very  fond  of  him, 
though  years  and  absence  had  of 
course  somewhat  dimmed  the  bloom 
of  our  early  friendship ;  I  was 
quite  prepared  to  like  his  wife, 
when  the  day  came,  if  it  ever  came, 
for  me  to  know  her ;  but  for  that 
day  I  was  content  to  wait  with  a 
perfectly  equal  mind.  And  now, 
it  seemed,  the  day  was  at  hand. 
Who,  or  what  she  was,  mattered 
nothing  to  me,  or  what  she  had  done. 
As  long  as  she  made  her  husband 
happy,  and  her  husband's  friends 
welcome — and  from  what  I  knew  of 
Graham  I  felt  sure  this  last  at  least 
would  be  so — really  I  cared  not  how 
black  the  catalogue  of  her  crimes 
might  be.  So  with  a  sense  of  rest 
and  cheerfulness,  which  for  many  a 
long  night  had  been  a  stranger  to  me, 
I  betook  me  to  my  bed,  and  slept. 


II. 

MY  friend  was  waiting  for  me  at 
the  station.  I  found  a  greater  change 
in  him  than  the  years  only  should  have 
brought.  He  had  been,  I  have  said, 
singularly  handsome  in  his  youth.  His 
beauty  was  not  gone;  but  something  was 
there  that  should  not  have  been.  The 
finger  of  Fate  seemed  to  have  touched 
the  white  smooth  forehead  before  its 
time  :  in  the  frank  blue  eyes  there 
was  a  shade  of  weariness,  and  in  the 
voice  a  note  of  sadness  that  had  no 
business  there  in  one  so  young,  so 
blessed  with  what  we  all  agree  to  call 
good  gifts.  Still,  he  seemed  unf eignedly 
glad  to  see  me  ;  and  as  we  drove  over 
the  few  miles  which  lay  between  the 
station  and  his  home  we  came  nearer 
to  our  old  friendship  than  I  had  ever 
thought  to  come  again. 

His  wife  was  a  beautiful  woman — 
no  doubt  of  that.  A  daughter  of  the 
gods,  but  divinely  dark.  She  welcomed 
her  husband's  friend  most  charmingly, 
in  perfect  English,  touched  with  an 
accent  that  to  my  unpractised  ear 
conveyed  no  particular  nationality. 
By  her  look  she  might  have  been  either 
Italian  or  Spanish ;  it  was,  at  any 
rate,  certain  that  she  was  of  no 
northern  blood.  Her  husband  called 
her  Laure,  and  they  seemed  supremely 
happy  with  each  other. 

The  house  was  a  rambling  old  place  ; 
a  medley  of  all  styles,  altered  and 
added  at  the  whims  of  many  a  genera- 
tion of  Grahams.  To  such  a  purist  as 
Lord  Grimthorpe  it  would  have  been 
an  eyesore  and  a  profanity,  no  doubt ; 
but  to  me  it  was  simply  delightful. 
There  was  a  noble  hall,  in  which  we 
sometimes  sat  after  dinner,  smoking, 
for  Mrs.  Graham  was  generosity  itself 
in  the  matter  of  tobacco ;  an  infinity 
of  passages  leading  to  nothing ;  a 
glorious  panelled  dining-room;  tapes- 
try, stained  glass,  old  oak,  old  armour, 
old  pictures,  old  books ;  and,  withal, 
all  modern  comforts  necessary  to  nine- 
teenth-century salvation.  The  grounds 
were  all  one  would  have  expected  with 
such  a  house :  the  gardens  large  and 


366 


Victor  Graham. 


kept  in  rare  order,  without  any  sus- 
picion of  primness,  and  there  was  a  kit- 
chen-garden which,  besides  the  things 
convenient  to  such  places,  boasted  an 
old  brick  wall  that  was  in  itself  a  crown 
of  glory — are  there  many  things  more 
good  and  comforting  to  the  eye  than  a 
brick  wall  lovingly  handled  by  time  1 
And  beyond  the  gardens  stretched  a 
noble  park,  wherein  the  waters  of  a 
winding  lake  danced  silver-bright  in 
the  sunshine,  or  slept  amber-coloured 
beneath  the  shade  of  immemorial 
trees.  Whatever  had  been  the  reasons 
which  may  have  led  my  friend  to  for- 
swear the  violent  delights  of  life  in 
London,  when  I  saw  the  home  fortune 
had  given  him,  I  had  no  doubt  he  had 
chosen  the  better  part.  And  for  me, 
such  a  refuge  was  as  a  dream  of  some 
impossible  Paradise.  After  the  cease- 
less struggle  for  existence  in  my  lonely 
chambers,  this  easy,  careless,  luxurious 
life  was  inexpressibly  grateful.  The 
return  would  be  doubly  bitter,  no 
doubt  ;  but  for  the  present,  the 
present  was  enough. 

And  so  the  happy  days  passed, 
lazily,  noiselessly,  as  though  the  great 
roaring  tide  of  human  affairs  were 
rolling  in  another  planet.  The 
Grahams  were  little  troubled  with 
neighbours.  A  small  village,  boasting 
the  usual  factors  of  rural  society,  the 
parson,  and  the  doctor,  slumbered 
peacefully  at  their  gates  ;  and  between 
it  and  the  great  house  all  needful 
good  fellowship  existed.  But  of  other 
society — that  bugbear  of  country  life 
— there  was  happily  a  plentiful  lack. 
In  the  lands  that  marched  with 
Graham's  stood  a  mighty  pile  of  stone, 
the  seat  of  some  great  lord.  But  it 
stood  empty,  save  for  a  week  or  two  in 
the  shooting-season,  while  the  owner 
scattered  with  both  hands  a  fortune 
laboriously  built  up  by  his  trading 
sires.  The  few  squires  about  had  left 
their  cards,  and  the  ceremony  had 
been  duly  returned.  But  there  the 
intercourse  had  ceased.  "  We  are 
all  excellent  friends,"  said  Graham, 
"  when  we  meet,  but  somehow  we  do 
not  meet  very  often  \  perhaps  that  is 


what  keeps  up  our  friendship.  Laure 
and  I  are  at  one  in  our  dislike  to  leaving 
home,  and  except  the  parson  and  his 
wife — who  are  both  good  fellows — you 
are  the  first  guest  we  have  seen.  She 
does  not  seem  bored  ;  and  I,  as  you 
know,  never  did  care  much  for  general 
company."  The  parson  and  his  wife 
were  now  away,  making  holiday  some- 
where, so  there  was  nobody  and 
nothing  to  interrupt  the  most  even 
tenor  of  our  existence.  The  days  were 
passed  in  reading,  sauntering,  boating 
on  the  lake,  and  sketching,  in  which 
Graham  was  a  great  proficient,  and  I 
an  enthusiastic,  though  not  gifted, 
amateur;  the  evenings  in  talk  and 
music,  Mrs.  [Graham  both  playing 
and  singing  divinely,  as  became  her. 
A  dull  time,  I  dare  say,  most  people 
would  have  called  it ;  to  me  it  was  as 
the  renewal  of  existence.  Children,  I 
should  add,  there  were  none. 

I  have  said  my  friend  and  his  wife 
were  supremely  happy  with  each  other. 
Very  fond  of  each  other  they  certainly 
were,  but  happy  was  perhaps  not  quite 
the  right  word,  if  it  must  signify  any 
sense  of  gaiety  or  cheerfulness.  Cheer- 
ful or  gay,  in  the  common  meaning  of 
the  terms,  they  were  not.  About  Mrs. 
Graham,  as  about  her  husband,  there 
was  an  air  of  melancholy,  though  with 
her  it  seemed  rather  a  natural  .part  of 
her  temperament.  It  was  not  unpleas- 
ing,  certainly  not  depressing  ;  at  least, 
I  found  it  not  so.  Perhaps  it  suited 
with  my  mood.  As  we  leave  our 
youth  farther  and  farther  behind  us, 
advancing  into  that  debateable  land 
which  melts  into  the  middle  age,  we 
rarely,  I  think,  carry  with  us  our  fond- 
ness for  the  more  active  forms  of  gaiety. 
It  is  not  well,  perhaps,  to  say,  with 
the  wise  man,  sorrow  is  better  than 
laughter  ;  and  verily  not  always  by  the 
sadness  of  the  countenance  is  the  heart 
made  better.  Nor  have  I  any  patience 
with  those  who,  like  Master  Stephen, 
procure  stools  to  be  melancholy  upon ; 
the  poetic  luxury  of  woe  has  always 
seemed  to  me  a  very  bastad  sort  of 
enjoyment.  But  as  the  golden  morn- 
ing of  youth  grows  dim,  as  the  en- 


Victor  Graham. 


367 


chantments  of  the  dawn  fade  into  the 
hard  light  of  noon,  there  comes,  I 
think,  on  most  of  us  a  tender  feeling, 
a  seriousness  rather  than  a  sadness, 
which  is  neither  unpleasing  nor  in- 
convenient. And  so  the  quiet  sober 
atmosphere  of  my  present  life  seemed 
to  me  precisely  that  I  had  always 
longed  for.  And  it  matched,  too,  with 
the  lovely  autumn  days,  with  the 
golden  woodlands,  smiling  somewhat 
sadly  in  the  soft  September  sunlight ; 
the  misty  mornings,  the  crimson  even- 
ings, the  crisp  touch  of  frost  that  came 
up  with  the  darkness — all  the  rich 
heritage  of  an  English  autumn.  Our 
summer  had  gone  ;  our  autumn  was 
upon  us ;  it  was  well  to  think  of  the 
winter. 

But  we  were  very  far  from  sad  ;  our 
hearts  were  not  in  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing. Graham  had  read  much,  and 
travelled  much  ;  many  lands  and  cities 
of  men  he  had  seen,  and  could  talk 
well  of  them,  and  of  other  things. 
And  she  bore  her  part  in  the  conver- 
sation, for  she  had  clearly  been  her 
husband's  companion  in  many  of  his 
studies  as  in  his  travels;  her  tastes 
had  either  become  moulded  to  his,  or 
were  in  natural  sympathy  with  them  ; 
while  I  provided  just  that  occasional 
spice  of  disagreement  which  was  needed 
to  keep  the  symposium  alive.  And, 
when  the  talk  had  run  its  course,  she 
would  turn  to  her  piano,  and  charm  us 
into  new  channels  of  thought  with 
strains  of  music  and  snatches  of  song, 
tender  and  triumphant,  strange  and 
sweet  and  sad,  such  as  I  felt  ready  to 
swear  never  came  from  one  who  had 
learned  the  mystery  of  music  for  bread. 
But  always  between  her  husband  and 
me  there  was  science  about  her  past. 
About  their  married  life,  which  had 
been  spent,  it  seemed,  almost  wholly 
in  travel,  he  spoke  unreservedly  ;  but 
about  her,  save  as  the  companion,  the 
loved  companion,  of  his  travels,  he 
never  spoke. 

And  so  we  passed  the  days,  as  happy 
in  our  own  way  as  three  human 
beings  could  be.  Once  or  twice  I  had 
murmured  something  about  London ; 


but  they  would  not  hear  of  it.  And 
when  once  Graham  asked  me  outright, 
in  his  wife's  presence,  if  it  was  ne- 
cessary for  my  work  that  I  should  go 
back  to  my  garret  and  my  lonely  life, 
I  could  not  but  say  it  was  not.  So  I 
stayed  on,  with  no  thought  of  the 
future. 

III. 

SEPTEMBER  had  passed  into  October ; 
the  sweet  Indian  summer  that  England 
sometimes  knows  was  upon  us.  We 
had  passed  a  glorious  day  in  the  open 
air,  roaming  since  a  late  breakfast 
about  the  park  and  the  woods,  Graham 
and  I  on  foot,  and  Mrs.  Graham  on  a 
strange,  unkempt  little  pony  they  had 
brought  home  with  them  from  some 
foreign  mountain-land,  as  active  as  a 
cat  and  quiet  as  a  sheep.  We  had 
lunched  at  a  keeper's  house  far  away 
on  the  skirts  of  an  outlying  wood,  and 
had  returned  through  the  evening  sha- 
dows to  a  very  late  dinner.  Beautiful 
as  the  day  had  been,  we  had  all  three 
been  a  little  silent  and  depressed,  I 
think,  as  we  made  our  way  home 
through  the  dim  paths,  now  thickly 
strewn  with  ruined  leaves,  and  along 
the  border  of  the  quiet  lake,  up  through 
a  noble  avenue  of  limes  to  the  house. 
But  dinner  had  somewhat  renewed  us ; 
and  after  dinner  we,  the  two  men, 
walked  up  and  down  the  terrace  that 
ran  past  the  windows  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  library,  continuing  over  our 
cigars  a  vivacious  argument  on  some 
book — I  forget  what — that  had  been 
started  during  the  meal.  As  we  walked 
and  talked  Mrs.  Graham  played,  and 
ever  and  again  her  voice  came  floating 
out  on  the  stillness  of  the  night  in 
fitful  company  to  her  music.  A 
favourite  piece  of  hers  had  always 
been  those  lovely  lines  of  Hood's, 
beginning — 

"  Farewell  Life,  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim. " 

She  had  set  them  to  some  strange 
music  of  her  own,  and  never  had  I 
heard,  and  never  have  heard  since, 
anything  so  ineffably  sad  as  the  effect 
of  the  first  stanza;  then  she  would 


368 


Victor  Graham. 


strike  a  different  note,  and  the  strain 
would  rise  in  gradual  cheerfulness  till 
it  culminated  in  a  burst  of  triumph 
with  the  closing  lines — 

"  O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 
Warm  perfume  for  vapour  cold — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  !  " 

That  night  she  sang  the  first  stanza, 
with  a  deeper,  a  more  intolerable  sad- 
ness than  I  had  ever  heard  her  throw 
into  the  words  before — 

"  Farewell  Life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  : 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapour  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odour  grows — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  !  " 

And  as  she  sang  the  silver  mists  came 
creeping  up  from  the  lake,  spreading 
and  wreathing  themselves  over  the 
landscape  in  all  manner  of  strange  and 
ghostly  shapes.  Then  she  stopped. 

"  Go  on,  Laure,"  said  her  husband  ; 
we  had  stayed  our  walk  at  the  window 
to  listen.  "Go  on ;  the  vapours  are 
stealing  up  ;  we  want  the  gayer  strain 
to  drive  them  back." 

But  she  rose  and  shut  the  piano. 
"  No,"  she  said,  coming  to  the  window, 
"  no  gayer  strain.  I  am  not  in  the 
mood  for  it.  I  cannot  smell  the  rose 
above  the  mould  to-night." 

Yet  as  she  came  into  the  moonlight 
she  was  smiling,  and  her  voice,  though 
gentle  and  low,  as  always,  had  no 
unusual  note  of  sadness  in  it  as  she 
bade  us  good-night. 

"  Are  you  sleepy  ? "  said  Graham, 
after  we  had  come  in,  and  the  butler 
had  set  the  usual  array  of  bottles  and 
glasses  in  the  smoking-room.  That 
butler,  by  the  way,  was  the  only 
feature  in  our  life  I  did  not  like ;  a 
cold,  sullen,  uneasy  fellow,  though 
certainly  a  most  admirable  servant. 
Before  leaving  the  room  he  had  asked 
his  master  if  he  could  speak  to  him 
for  a  minute  j  but  Graham,  usually 
most  gentle  and  considerate  to  his 
servants,  had  answered,  a  little  sharply 
for  him,  that  the  morning  would  be 
time  enough  for  business.  So  the  man 


left  the  room,  with  a  curious  dogged 
look  on  his  face  which  did  not  improve 
its  habitual  expression. 

"  Are  you  sleepy  ?  "  asked  Graham, 
preparing  to  light  a  fresh  cigar. 

No,  I  was  in  no  humour  for  sleep,  I 
said. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  he  answered  ; 
"  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  been 
sleeping  so  badly  of  late — which  is 
rot  at  all  a  common  trick  of  mine — 
that  I  quite  dread  the  idea  of  saying 
good-night.  For  the  last  week  I  have 
had  a  bed  made  up  in  my  dressing- 
room,  so  as  not  to  disturb  Laure,  who 
always  sleeps,  happy  woman,  like  a 
child.  But,  with  your  help,  I  think 
we  should  manage  to  exorcise  the  fiend 
to-night." 

So  we  lit  our  cigars,  and  smoked 
and  talked  far  on  into  the  small  hours  ; 
till  at  last  Graham  rose  and  said, 
"Well,  thanks  to  your  good-nature 
and  my  selfishness,  I  think  I  shall 
manage  to  wear  through  the  rest  of 
the  night  pretty  well." 

"  The  dawn  cannot  be  very  far  off," 
said  I,  winding  up  my  watch. 

"Ah,  well,"  replied  Graham,  laugh- 
ing, as  he  led  the  way  out  of  the  room, 
"  we  are  not  much  troubled  with  early 
hours  and  morning  gongs  in  this  house. 
Any  one  who  wished  it  might  sleep  till 
the  first  Monday  after  eternity,  for 
all  the  wakening  he  would  get  here." 

But  when  I  got  to  my  room  I  found 
that  I  had  taken  part  of  my  host's 
burden  on  my  own  shoulders.  I  could 
not  sleep.  Accordingly  I  did  what 
every  wise  man  will  do  in  such  cir- 
cumstances ;  I  lit  a  candle,  and  took 
up  a  book  which  I  had  carried  up  to 
my  room  a  few  nights  previously.  It 
was  a  volume  of  Shakespeare,  con- 
taining one  of  my  favourite  plays, 
the  play  of  'Antony  and  Cleopatra,' 
and  I  settled  myself  in  a  tolerably 
equal  mood  to  endure  what  after  all 
was  no  very  great  hardship.  But  the 
devil  was  in  it — I  could  not  fix  my 
mind  upon  the  words.  I  read  and 
re-read  them,  but  my  thoughts  were 
straying  far  away  from  great  Egypt 
and  her  high  Roman  lover,  straying 


Victor  Graham. 


369 


to  the  dim  wet  woodland  paths,  and 
the  two  who  had  walked  therein  with 
me  that  day,  to  the  creeping  mists, 
and  the  haunting  strain  that  had 
seemed  to  call  them  up  from  the 
bosom  of  the  night.  Angry  with 
myself,  I  tossed  the  book  down,  and 
left  my  bed.  No  one  slept  near  me  \ 
my  room  was  at  the  end  of  a  gallery 
devoted  to  guests,  and  guests  there 
were  none  save  this  poor  sleepless 
soul.  The  large  window  at  the  end  of 
the  gallery  looked  over  the  park  to- 
wards the  lake ;  my  own  windows 
faced  towards  the  garden,  above  the 
terrace  where  Graham  and  I  had  stood 
listening  to  his  wife's  song.  I  opened 
my  window,  and  leaned  out ;  all  was 
still ;  Nature  was  happier  than  I ; 
she  slept  beneath  her  silvery  coverlet. 
Then  I  stepped  into  the  gallery,  and 
looked  out  across  the  park,  where  the 
trees  rose  like  shadowy  islands  out  of 
some  great  haunted  water,  as  though  I 
were  gazing  from  some — • 

"  Magic  casement  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas  in  fairy  lands  forlorn." 

As  I  looked,  a  figure  came  noiselessly 
out  from  under  the  house  and  moved 
off  like  a  phantom  in  the  misty  moon- 
light across  the  park  towards  the 
distant  woods.  In  the  stra.Dge  mood 
I  was  then  in,  it  seemed  all  natural 
enough;  and  I  turned  back  into  my 
room  with  no  more  thought  for  this 
midnight  traveller  than  if  I  had  seen 
a  policeman  pacing  the  empty  moon- 
lit streets  of  London.  A  midnight 
traveller — nay,  if  he  had  any  way  to 
go,  the  day  would  find  him  on  his 
journey,  for  already  the  eastern  sky 
was  lightening,  and  that  mysterious 
stir  which  heralds  the  dawn  was  in 
the  air.  The  night-breeze  had  cooled 
my  blood,  and  settled  my  brain ;  and 
it  was  with  an  assurance  that  this 
time  I  should  not  court  sleep  in  vain 
that  I  laid  my  head  once  more  on  my 
pillow. 

The  sun  was  high  when  I  was 
awaked  by  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 
One  of  the  footmen,  with  a  white, 
scared  face,  stood  by  my  bedside. 

No.  317 — VOL.  LIII. 


"  Oh,  sir  !  Get  up,"  he  cried.  "  My 
mistress,  my  poor  mistress  !  " 

"  Your  mistress,"  said  I,  leaping  to 
my  feet,  "  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  is 
the  matter  with  her  1 " 

"  Dead,  sir,  dead — murdered  in  her 
sleep !  But  come  quick,  sir,  quick ; 
come  to  my  master." 

Slipping  on  some  clothes  I  followed 
the  man  down  the  gallery  to  the  other 
wing,  where  Graham  and  his  wife 
slept.  Did  the  servants  know  ?  I 
asked,  as  we  hurried  along.  Yes,  was 
the  answer.  Her  maid  had  found  her 
about  half-past  nine  lying  dead ; 
stabbed  to  the  heart  as  she  slept. 
One  of  the  grooms  had  gone  for  the 
doctor — who  had  unfortunately  left 
his  house  very  early,  and  would  not 
be  back  till  late  —  though  all  the 
doctors  in  the  world  could  do  nothing 
for  her  now.  And  Mr.  Graham?  I 
asked.  He  was  with  her.  Where 
was  Roberts  1  Roberts  was  the  butler. 
The  man  stopped  suddenly,  and,  with- 
out looking  at  me,  said,  "  Roberts  has 
gone,  sir."  "  Gone  1 "  "  Yes,  sir ;  left  the 
house,  some  time  in  the  night  it  must 
have  been.  None  of  us  saw  him  after 
he  took  the  tray  into  the  smoking- 
room  about  eleven,  as  you  know.  He 
never  went  to  bed  at  all ;  but  he  has 
took  nothing  with  him,  and  he  wasn't 
seen  to  pass  through  any  of  the  lodge 
gates." 

I  thought  of  the  figure  I  had  seen 
in  the  moonlight,  but  of  course  said 
nothing  to  my  companion.  At  the 
foot  of  the  little  flight  of  steps  lead- 
ing up  to  the  group  of  rooms  occupied 
by  the  Grahams  the  man  stopped  again. 
"  He  is  in  there,  sir,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  the  half-open  door  of  what  had 
been  Mrs.  Graham's  sitting-room.  It 
led  through  her  dressing-room  into  the 
bed-room  beyond.  Graham's  dressing- 
room,  where  he  had  slept,  lay  to  the 
right,  and  beyond,  another  small  room, 
which  he  often  used  as  a  study 
in  the  early  morning.  A  door  led 
from  his  dressing-room  into  his  wife's 
sitting-room,  and  one  opened  from  her 
bed-room  on  to  a  small  landing  leading 
down  to  the  servants'  quarters ;  so 

B  B 


370 


Victor  Graham. 


that  the  former  could  be  reached  with- 
out passing  through  the  sitting-room. 
I  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  latter 
and  advanced  into  the  room.  A  voice 
from  the  bed-room  called  my  name, 
and  I  went  in.  Graham  was  sitting 
by  the  bed  ;  as  I  entered  he  looked  up 
at  me,  and  said,  in  a  quiet  voice, 
"  She  is  quite  dead,  George."  And 
there  she  lay,  smiling  with  a  happier 
expression  than  her  face  had  often 
worn  in  life.  Her  glorious  black  hair 
streamed  over  the  pillow,  but  the 
light  in  the  glorious  black  eyes  was 
quenched  for  ever. 

"They  did  their  cruel  work  well," 
he  said.  "Thank  God,  she  can  have 
known  nothing  and  felt  nothing.  She 
always  slept  so  sound." 

And  as  he  spoke  he  turned  back  the 
night-dress.  There,  just  over  the  heart, 
was  a  small  wound,  from  which  one 
single  drop  of  blood  had  welled  out  on 
to  the  white  skin. 

"  This  is  what  they  did  it  with,"  he 
went  on,  holding  up  a  small  dagger, 
sharp  and  strong  enough  to  need  no 
second  blow.  It  was  some  costly 
foreign  toy  that  I  had  often  noticed 
lying  about  on  the  tables,  or  between 
the  leaves  of  a  book. 

"  I  gave  it  to  her  in  Genoa,"  he 
said,  "  soon  after  our  marriage.  A 
cursed  gift :  I  feel  as  though  my 
own  hand  had  had  a  share  in  the 
cruelty." 

All  this  time  he  was  very  quiet  and 
composed ;  his  voice  never  faltered, 
and  he  re  arranged  the  dress  with  un- 
shaking  hand.  But  such  a  look  as 
his  I  never  saw  on  human  face  before, 
and  most  fervently  I  pray  never  to 
see  again.  It  was  not  only  sorrow 
for  her ;  with  the  sorrow  was  a  haunt- 
ing sense  of  horror  and  fear  for  the 
future,  indescribable  and  awful. 

I  may  make  a  quick  end  of  this 
part  of  my  story.  There  is  no  need 
to  dwell  over  the  painful  time  which 
followed — the  doctor's  fruitless  visit, 
the  inevitable  inquest,  the  funeral,  and 
so  forth.  It  will  be  enough  to  say 
that  the  verdict  was  an  open  one.  I 
told,  of  course,  what  I  had  seen  ;  but 


there  was  ample  proof  to  clear  Roberts 
— for  he  it  was — from  all  suspicion. 
It  seemed  that  he  had  been  betting 
for  some  time  past,  and  had  got  into 
trouble  with  some  of  the  ministers  to 
his  folly.  When  he  had  asked  over 
night  to  speak  to  his  master  he  intended, 
no  doubt,  to  make  confession  ;  but,  as 
this  chance  was  denied  him,  he  deter- 
mined to  leave  the  house  and  get  out 
of  the  reach  of  his  persecutors.  He 
went  straight  from  us  to  the  cottage 
of  one  of  the  stablemen,  who  had  been 
concerned  with  him  in  his  speculations ; 
and  there  he  had  stayed,  talking  over 
his  troubles,  till  I  had  seen  him  making 
his  way  across  the  park.  He  had  told 
the  man  his  intentions  and  where  he 
was  going,  and  had  asked  for  his 
clothes  and  other  possessions  to  be 
sent  after  him.  This  story  was  proved 
true.  He  had  given  the  right  address, 
and  it  was  found  also  that  he  had  left 
his  stewardship  in  fair  order  behind 
him.  Whatever  else  he  may  have 
been,  the  fellow  was  no  thief  ;  and 
so  he  passes  out  of  our  story. 
Clue  to  the  murder  there  was  abso- 
lutely none.  No  robbery  had  been 
committed;  there  were  no  signs  to 
show  how  or  when  the  murderer  had 
got  into  or  left  the  house ;  that,  how- 
ever, was  not  surprising,  for  a  door 
leading  into  the  garden  through  a  con- 
servatory at  the  end  of  the  billiard- 
room  had  been  always  left  unlocked, 
that  Graham,  whose  habits  had  been 
ever  somewhat  vagrant,  might  leave 
the  house  at  any  hour  without  disturbing 
the  sleepers.  Robberies  were  unknown 
in  that  happy  valley,  and  during  the 
summer  months  the  house  stood  gene- 
rally open  night  and  day.  The  country 
police  looked  wisely  and  talked  mys- 
teriously ;  a  famed  detective  came  down 
from  London,  but,  unlike  his  brethren 
of  fiction,  very  soon  owned  frankly 
that  he  was  completely  puzzled.  It 
was  clear  that  unless  some  special  re- 
velation were  vouchsafed,  or  Ate  her- 
self intervened,  the  wits  of  man  were 
powerless.  The  murder  of  this  poor 
lady  was  to  be  one  of  those  many 
grim  secrets  shrouded  for  ever  from 


Victor  Graham. 


371 


human  eyes  on  the  knees  of  the  silent 
gods. 

For  some  few  days  after  the  funeral 
I  stayed  on  at  the  house  by  my 
friend's  particular  request ;  then  he 
told  me  that  he  felt  he  should  be 
better  alone,  and,  indeed,  it  had  now 
become  necessary  for  me  to  return  to 
London.  Before  I  left,  he  promised 
that  I  should  see  him,  or  hear  from 
him,  when  he  had  decided  on  his 
future  course  of  action.  A  week  after 
my  return  a  letter  came  from  him. 
He  could  not  see  me,  he  said,  but  he 
wrote  to  tell  me  his  plans.  The  house 
was  to  be  shut  up,  and  he  was  going 
abroad ;  he  was  not  certain  yet  where 
he  should  go,  or  for  how  long  he  should 
be  away ;  much  would  depend  on  cir- 
cumstances at  present  in  the  air.  But 
I  should  certainly  hear  from  him 
before  long.  He  was  taking,  he  said, 
the  dagger  with  him;  and  this  was 
the  only  allusion  he  made  to  his  wife's 
death.  It  had,  I  thought,  a  strange 
suggestiveness  about  it. 

IV. 

Two  years  had  gone;  it  was 
autumn  ;  and  again  I  sat  alone  in  my 
garret,  on  much  the  same  evening  and 
in  much  the  same  mood  as  when  I  had 
been  bidden  on  that  fatal  visit.  Dur- 
ing the  first  year  of  his  absence  I  had 
heard  from  Graham  three  times  ;  from 
Genoa  he  had  written,  from  Naples, 
and  from  Venice.  His  letters  had 
been  short  and  unsatisfactory,  had 
told  me  little  of  himself,  and  still 
expressed  no  definite  plans  for  the 
future*  Then  they  had  stopped  ;  but  I 
had  heard  of  him  occasionally  from  men 
who  had  come  across  him,  or  on  his 
track,  in  various  cities.  In  Spain  and 
Algiers  he  had  been  seen;  then  he 
had  set  his  face  eastward,  had  been 
heard  of  in  Bucharest  and  in  Constan- 
tinople, and  had  been  last  seen  in 
Cairo.  What  I  heard  filled  me  with 
grave  fears  and  sorrow  for  my  friend. 
It  was  said  that  Victor  Graham,  the 
most  refined,  cleanly  and  temperate  of 
men,  had  taken  to  evil  ways.  He  was 
drinking  hard,  they  said,  and  gamb- 
ling, consorting  with  the  worst  com- 


pany of  both  sexes.  One  or  two  of 
those  from  whom  this  ill  report  came 
were  men  not  prone  to  exaggerate  or 
to  speak  uncharitably  of  their  neigh- 
bour ;  so  that  I  could  hardly  doubt 
that,  even  allowing  for  the  inevitable 
properties  of  rumour,  the  shock  of  his 
wife's  terrible  death  had  driven  Gra- 
ham, for  the  time  at  any  rate,  off  his 
balance.  It  was  very  sad. 

As  I  sat  there,  alone,  in  the  dusk, 
brooding  over  that  strange  death  and 
all  the  pity  that  had  come  of  it — for 
that  very  morning  I  had  met  one  of 
those  who  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Graham  in  his  wild  life — once  more,  as 
on  that  past  autumn  evening,  there 
came  a  footstep  up  my  stairs  and  the 
knocker  sounded  on  my  outer  door. 
I  rose,  and  opened  it,  Graham  himself 
stood  before  me. 

Victor  Graham ;  but  ah,  how 
changed !  All  the  beauty  had  gone 
from  his  face  ;  the  blue  eyes  were  dim 
and  hollow ;  the  smooth  white  skin 
was  wrinkled  and  discoloured;  the 
fair  soft  hair  was  thin  and  grey ;  his 
very  stature  seemed  shrunken.  He 
looked  an  old  man,  and — God  help 
him  ! — an  evil  one.  But  he  was  my 
friend  still. 

"  Victor  !  "  I  said,  stretching  out 
both  hands  to  him,  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  at  last." 

He  took  my  hands,  and  held  them 
hard  ;  but  he  did  not  look  at  me,  and 
he  did  not  speak.  He  moistened  his 
thin  white  lips  feverishly,  and  his  face 
worked  ;  but  he  did  not  speak. 

I  led  the  way  into  my  sitting-room, 
and  wheeled  a  chair  to  the  fire.  He 
dropped  into  it,  like  one  utterly 
wearied  and  broken  down,  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  At  length  he 
raised  his  head,  and  spoke  hoarsely, 
coughing  terribly  as  he  finished  his 
sentence. 

"  Give  me  something  to  drink, 
George,"  he  said ;  "I  have  been  very 
ill." 

I  mixed  some  weak  brandy  and 
water,  which  seemed  to  put  a  little 
life  into  him.  Poor  fellow !  he  was 
very  ill. 

"  Can  you  put  me  up  for  the  night, 
B  B  2 


372 


Victor  Graham. 


George  1 "  he  went  on.  "  Anywhere  ; 
that  sofa  will  do.  I  have  much  to 
say  to  you.  I  landed  this  morning 
early,  and  have  been  busy  all  day  with 
my  lawyer,  and  other  people  ;  and  I 
am  desperately  tired.  But  I  must 
talk  to  you,  if  you  can  spare  your 
evening  to  me." 

"All  my  time  is  yours,  dear  Victor: 
and  of  course  you  can  stay  here,  to- 
night and  as  many  nights  as  you 
please  ;  my  quarters  are  not  splendid, 
as  you  know ;  but  there  is  always 
room  for  a  friend." 

He  thanked  me,  and  then,  for  a 
time,  there  was  silence  again  between 
us.  At  last  he  began  : — 

"I  wrote  to  you  first  from  Genoa. 
When  1  left  England  I  went  there 
straight.  I  could  not  say  why  \  I  had  no 
certain  plan  of  any  kind  in  my  head  ; 
but  that  cursed  dagger,  which  I  carried 
always  with  me,  day  and  night,  some- 
how seemed  to  point  to  Genoa.  The 
first  week  or  two  after  I  got  there  was 
an  awful  time.  I  never  left  my  lodg- 
ings— they  were  the  same  she  and  I 
nad  used  before — till  nightfall,  and 
then  would  wander  about  the  city  till 
day  broke,  not  to  sleep — very  little 
sleep  have  I  known  these  last  two 
years — but  to  rest  my  tired  limbs,  and 
try  to  still  my  aching  heart.  I  had 
taken  no  servant  with  me,  and  am 
glad  I  did  not ;  and  save  to  answer 
the  people  in  the  house  when  they 
asked  for  orders  I  never  spoke  to  a 
human  being.  Then  I  met  some 
friends — men,  at  least,  I  had  met  be- 
fore, there  and  elsewhere.  No  friends, 
indeed !  One  of  them  you  used  to 
know  at  college — Burton,  the  man  they 
called  the  Anatomy  —  as  infernal  a 
scoundrel  as  ever  went.  There  was 
quite  a  colony  of  them  in  Genoa,  for 
whom  the  air  of  England  was  not,  I 
imagine,  very  good.  They  lived  to- 
gether, they  and  their  women  folk, 
and  a  precious  crew  they  were.  Well, 
I  got  among  this  lot — " 

Then  he  paused,  and,  still  looking 
into  the  fire,  said  :  "  You  have  not 
heard  from  me,  George,  for  more  than 
a  year ;  have  you  heard  anything  of 
me?" 


I  answered  that  I  had. 

"  And  nothing  very  good,  eh  \ " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"It  was  all  true  enough.  I  soon 
grew  as  big  a  blackguard  as  the  rest 
of  my — friends.  I  was  never  a  rogue, 
as  they  all  were  ;  I  had  no  need  to  be 
that.  I  was  rich,  and,  terribly  as  I 
have  thrown  money  about  these  last 
eighteen  months,  I  am  a  pretty  rich 
man  still.  It  was  the  money  that 
commended  me,  of  course,  for,  Heaven 
knows,  I  was  no  boon  companion  to 
them.  While  I  shared  in  their  pur- 
suits and — bah  !  their  pleasures — I 
never  tried  to  hide  my  loathing  for  it 
all,  and  for  them.  We  were  very  near 
quarrelling  more  than  once,  but  a 
grateful  remembrance  of  my  money- 
bags always  came  in  time  to  calm 
them ;  and  so  we  lived  on,  I  a 
privileged  death's  head  at  their  evil 
feasts,  and  they  my  obsequious  satel- 
lites. You  mustn't  think  this  shame- 
ful life  gave  me  any  pleasure,  George, 
but  it  helped  me  to  forget,  and  I  was 
so  miserable  then,  and  so  desperate, 
that  memory  meant  either  madness  or 
death.  I  must  tell  you,  too,  that  this 
sort  of  life  was  not  so  utterly  un- 
known to  me  as  you  and  my  friends 
would  suppose.  Something  of  it  I  had 
seen  before,  though  of  nothing  quite 
so  bad  as  this ;  and  moreover,  though 
I  had  been  among  such  creatures,  I 
had  never  been  of  them.  You  have 
always  known  me  as  a  quiet,  rather 
shy,  studious  sort  of  fellow ;  and  so  I 
am,  but  by  will  rather  than  tempera- 
ment. I  have  a  touch  of  the  Berserk 
in  me,  as  my  father  had  before  me — 
you  never  heard  of  him ;  he  died 
when  I  was  quite  young.  I  knew 
this,  and  have  always  fought  against 
it.  But  it  was  near  breaking  out 
twice,  though  I  never  let  it  quite  get 
the  better  of  me,  and  none  of  my 
friends  ever  knew  of  it.  Once  was  in 
Paris,  and  once  again  in  London.  The 
second  time  I  was  saved  by  my  wife. 

"  I  have  never  told  you  anything 
about  her,  George  ;  I  never  spoke  to  any 
of  my  friends  about  her.  God  knows 
she  was  as  pure  as  our  mothers,  but  she 
came  of  an  evil  stock.  When  I  met 


Victor  Graham. 


373 


her  she  was  living  with  her  brother, 
whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  in 
Paris  and  elsewhere,  but  never  in  good 
company.  He  looked,  I  suppose,  to 
use  her  as  a  decoy — you  know  how 
beautiful  she  was — and  I,  no  doubt, 
was  to  be  her  first  prey.  So  I  was, 
but  not  in  the  way  her  brother  fancied. 
I  married  her,  and  took  her  away  for 
ever  from  that  infernal  crew.  Perhaps 
I  saved  her ;  she  had  saved  me  had 
she  lived.  Four  years  we  were  to- 
gether ;  what  happy  years  they  must 
have  been,  you  alone  of  all  my  friends 
could  judge.  Never  once  did  I  wish 
to  be  away  from  her,  or  live  otherwise 
than  as  you  saw  us  living.  But  it  was 
not  to  be.  She  died — you  know  how 
she  died  ;  and  what  remains  of  me  you 
can  see. 

"  Here,  I  may  as  well  say  that  I 
heard  two  or  three  times  from  Whit- 
man, the  detective ;  but  he  only  wrote 
to  say  he  had  nothing  to  say.  He 
had  kept  Roberts  in  touch,  but  had 
very  soon  satisfied  himself  that  the 
man  was  as  innocent  as  you  are.  I 
had  let  him  make  inquiries  among  the 
servants  in  a  quiet  way;  but  I  had 
earnestly  prayed  him  to  do  or  say 
nothing  to  frighten  or  hurt  them.  I 
was  so  certain  from  the  first  no  servant 
of  ours  had  ever  raised  a  hand  against 
her.  How  could  they  ?  They  all  loved 
her  :  everybody  who  knew  her  loved 
her.  I  am  sure  that  even  the  man 
who  struck  the  blow  could  have  borne 
her  no  ill-will. 

"  Well,  to  go  on  j  I  led  this  life 
some  three  or  four  months,  the  worst, 
as  I  really  felt  myself,  of  all  the 
vile  lot.  At  last  I  broke  from 
it.  I  had  been  out  at  sea  for  a 
few  days  in  a  little  yacht  I  had 
hired,  and  the  quiet  of  the  sea 
and  sky,  the  pure  breeze,  the  open 
sunlight,  and  the  night  with  her  high 
solemn  stars,  had  all  filled  me  with 
ineffable  disgust  and  shame.  I  could 
bear  it  no  more.  I  returned ;  made 
certain  hasty  preparations — any  leave- 
taking  I  thought  a  quite  unnecessary 
ceremony ;  and  within  four-and-twenty 
hours  had  turned  my  back  on  Genoa. 

"  I  did  not  go  alone.     Poor  soul ! 


she  was  not  all  bad ;  and  in  her  way 
I  think  she  honestly  liked  me,  and 
was  sorry  for  me.  She  was  a  gentle- 
woman by  birth  and  education — I 
never  knew,  nor  cared  to  know,  how 
she  had  come  to  this — and  was  able 
to  be  a  real  companion  to  me,  when 
my  mood  would  suffer  her.  But  this 
was  not  often,  and  we  parted  soon. 
I  was  never  unkind  to  her ;  but  such 
a  man  as  I,  carrying  such  a  burden, 
could  not  but  have  been  intolerable  to 
a  woman  to  whom  it  was  necessary  as 
air  and  food  that  she  should  be  never 
sick  nor  sorry — should  never  think, 
Intolerable,  she  frankly,  and  not  un- 
kindly, told  me  at  last  I  was.  I 
frightened  her,  she  said,  and  made  her 
think  too  much  ;  we  were  best  apart. 
She  was  right,  and  we  said  good-bye. 
I  was  able,  I  hope,  to  be  of  some  real 
service  to  her ;  but  I  have  never  heard 
from  her  or  of  her  since. 

"  It  was  in  Spain  that  we  parted, 
in  Seville,  and  I  made  my  way  alone 
south,  and  crossed  over  into  Africa. 
And  there  the  charm  of  that  wonder- 
ful Eastern  life  got  hold  of  me,  and 
for  a  time  I  knew  quiet  and  some- 
thing that,  compared  with  what  I  had 
so  lately  known,  was  almost  happiness. 
But  the  charm  soon  faded  ;  the  devils 
returned  and  drove  me  forth  again, 
maddening,  like  lo,  over  Europe.  You 
tell  me  that  you  had  news  of  me  from 
time  to  time,  and  I  myself  supposed  it 
would  be  so ;  for  more  than  once  I 
came  across  men  you  knew,  and  spoke 
to  them,  when  I  could  not  help  it,  and 
felt  that  they  would  tell  you  what 
they  had  seen  and  heard.  But  I  had 
never  the  heart  to  send  any  word  of 
my  own  to  you.  I  need  not  weary 
you  with  any  details  of  my  wander- 
ings. They  would  be  most  monoto- 
nously unprofitable.  I  never  quite 
sank  so  low  again  as  I  had  sunk  in 
Genoa,  for  I  mixed  but  little  with 
my  own  kind.  But  it  was  all  bad 
enough.  Let  us  get  on  to  the  last 
scene  of  this  wretched  tragedy. 

"  It  opens  in  Egypt.  I  had  been  a 
week  in  Alexandria,  quite  alone,  and 
never  stirring  out  till  it  was  dark. 
There  were  many  Englishmen  in  the 


374 


Victor  Graham. 


place,  whom  I  had  known,  and  who,  as 
once  or  twice  I  passed  them  in  the 
crowd,  stared  inquisitively  at  me,  as  at 
one  they  thought  they  should  know — • 
though  I  was  changed  enough,  as  you 
can  see,  from  the  Victor  Graham  they 
remembered.  Well,  one  night  I  went 
out ;  it  was  stiflingly  hot,  and  that  evil- 
smelling  city  smelled  more  evilly  than 
ever.  I  walked  through  the  narrow 
muddy  streets,  meeting  no  living  being 
but  the  occasional  patrol — those  Alex- 
andrian streets  are  no  pleasant  places 
for  a  solitary  European  to  wander  in 
after  nightfall,  but  I  cared,  as  you 
may  fancy,  little  for  that.  I  went  down 
towards  the  harbour,  and  at  last 
stopped  before  a  low  long  building 
which  I  had  seen  often  before,  but  never 
entered.  It  bore  no  good  name,  as 
the  favourite  drinking-haunt  of  the 
sailors  who  swarm  in  Alexandria,  a 
motley  crowd  gathered  from  all  parts 
of  the  civilised  and  uncivilised  globe — 
of  the  latter  mostly,  one  might  fancy. 
I  pushed  open  the  door,  and  went  in. 
It  was  a  long  room,  wrapped  in  tobacco- 
smoke,  and  noisy  with  a  Babel  of  every 
tongue  under  the  sun.  Small  round 
tables  were  scattered  about  the  dirty 
wooden  floor,  and  at  these  sat  a  strange 
crew,  drinking,  playing  dominoes, 
smoking,  chattering,  singing,  swearing, 
laughing,  quarrelling.  Englishmen 
there  were,  Frenchmen,  Italians, 
Greeks,  Maltese,  Levantines,  Negroes, 
Arabs,  Turks — it  would  be  hard  to 
say  what  race  of  man  was  unrepre- 
sented in  that  strange  scene.  The 
noise  was  deafening,  the  atmosphere 
appalling.  But  I  made  my  way 
through  it  all  to  a  long  bar  crowded 
with  flagons  and  glasses,  which  tra- 
versed the  room  at  its  upper  end. 

"  Behind  the  bar  stood  a  girl,  who 
looked  indeed  a  sunbeam  in  that 
shady  place.  If  she  was  not  all  Eng- 
lish, you  could  swear  at  a  glance  she 
had  English  blood  in  her  veins.  Yery 
pleasant  she  was  to  look  at,  and  very 
pleasantly  she  greeted  me  :  how  grate- 
ful it  was  to  hear  one's  own  language 
again  !  She  talked  as  one  would  never 
have  expected  to  hear  a  girl  talk  in 
such  a  place  ;  but  in  the  middle  of  her 


conversation  with  me,  which  was 
innocence  itself,  she  turned  to  a  little 
knot  of  quarrelsome  fellows  standing 
near,  and  rated  them  in  a  polyglot 
jargon,  adapted  to  the  nationality  of 
each  of  the  group,  and  in  a  style  that 
made  even  my  blunted  ears  tingle ; 
the  next  moment,  however,  she  was 
smiling  in  my  face,  as  frank  and 
gentle  as  ever. 

"  A  strange  girl !  She  told  me  some- 
thing of  herself.  Her  father  was  an 
English  sailor,  a  bit  of  a  smuggler, 
and  possibly  something  of  a  pirate. 
Her  mother  she  never  knew.  Ruffian 
as  her  father  was,  he  had  been  kind  to 
her,  and  done  the  best  for  her  he  could 
after  his  lights.  She  had  come  with  him 
to  Alexandria  about  a  year  ago,  and 
shortly  after  their  arrival  he  had 
died.  Then,  through  the  interest  of 
some  sailors  who  had  known  him,  she 
got  her  present  situation,  where  she 
was  well  paid,  she  said,  and  pretty 
well  treated.  She  was  a  great  attrac- 
tion, especially  to  the  English  sailors, 
who  made  a  great  pet  of  her ;  so  that 
it  was  her  master's  interest  to  deal 
fairly  with  her,  and  scoundrels  as  those 
Levantines  are,  they  are  not  the  men 
to  mar  their  own  interests.  She  had 
been  in  her  time,  poor  thing,  what  we 
call  '  no  better  than  she  should  be ' 
— she  was,  I  suppose,  then  about  two- 
and-twenty :  but  I  am  sure  she  never 
could  have  been  a  bad  girl. 

"  Well,  I  went  to  the  place  several 
times,  and  at  last  I  persuaded  her  to 
leave  it  with  me.  She  had  been  at- 
tracted to  me  from  the  first  as  aa 
Englishman,  and  I  was  more  courteous, 
probably,  and  gentler  to  her  than  the 
other  men  she  saw  ;  that  will  be  quite 
sufficient  reason  to  explain  her  consent. 
I  got  her  master's  consent  too,  of 
course,  which  was  a  mere  matter  of 
money ;  and  within  a  week  we  were 
at  Cairo,  making  preparations  for  the 
Nile. 

"  Had  that  voyage  been  less  awful  in 
its  results  than  it  was,  I  should  never 
forget  it.  It  was  burning  hot  in  the 
day,  of  course;  but  the  wind  blew 
always  from  the  north,  as  it  does  at 
that  time  pf  the  vear — it  was  June 


Victor  Graham. 


375 


when  we  started ;  and  as  the  sun  set 
all  nature  seemed  to  revive.  Through 
the  day  we  lay  beneath  the  awning  of 
our  boat,  I  sometimes  reading  to  her 
while  she  worked,  or  she  reading  to 
me  as  I  sketched.  And  ever  farther 
and  farther  we  floated  away  from  the 
great  noisy  cruel  world,  on  into  the 
everlasting  mysteries  of  those  solemn 
sands.  Sometimes  we  would  land  and 
pass  a  week  or  more  beneath  our 
tents,  in  the  shadow  of  some  mighty 
group  of  immemorial  ruins,  or  in  a 
grove  of  high-branched  palms.  I  think 
the  girl  was  happy,  and  I  at  least  was 
at  rest.  The  soul  of  the  brooding  East 
passed  into  mine,  the  silence  of  the 
desert  cooled  my  fevered  blood,  and 
I  was  at  rest  at  last — for  a  time  ! 

"  One  evening,  after  a  week  among 
the  palms  and  temples  of  beautiful 
Philo3,  we  had  gone  on  board  again  at 
dusk,  though,  according  to  custom,  we 
were  not  to  start  till  dawn.  For  the 
last  few  days  my  old  plague  of  sleep- 
lesness  had  returned,  though  since 
leaving  Cairo  I  had  been  most  happily 
free  from  it,  and  I  had  gone  back  to 
a  practice  I  had  never  used  since  that 
fatal  time  at  home.  I  told  you,  George, 
on  that  night,  that  I  had  not  been 
sleeping  well ;  but  I  did  not  tell  you, 
nor  anybody,  that  I  had  been  taking 
a  draught  to  drive  the  demon  away. 
The  last  three  nights  on  Philoe  I  had 
done  the  same;  but  though  I  had 
managed  to  get  some  sleep,  it  was  a 
restless,  broker},  unrefreshing  thing. 
The  girl  was  very  tired  when  we 
went  on  board,  and  almost  immediately 
went  down  to  her  cabin.  But  I  stayed 
on  deck,  smoking  and  musing,  till  close 
on  midnight ;  then,  feeling  as  though  I 
might  sleep,  I  went  to  mine,  and  slip- 
ping off  some  of  my  clothes — we  were 
not  cumbered  with  many  garments  in 
that  climate — I  lay  down.  That  night 
I  did  not  take  my  usual  draught,  but 
I  was  soon  asleep. 

"Great  God!  George,  what  a  wak- 
ing !  I  was  roused  by  a  shriek  ringing 
loud  and  shrill  in  my  ear,  and  a  hand 
grasping  my  wrist.  The  girl  was 
sitting  up  in  her  berth,  with  a  look  of 
horror  in  her  eyes — her  eyes  that  were 


turned  on  me,  who  stood  over  her  with 
one  hand  raised,  the  hand  held  in  her 
grasp,  and  in  that  hand  the  dagger  stain- 
ed with  my  wife's  blood  !  Fortunately  I 
had  the  sense  to  slip  the  dagger  in  my 
vest,  and  turn  to  the  deck  to  meet  the 
watch  and  such  of  the  crew  as  had 
been  waked  by  the  noise  with  the  assur- 
ance that  Madam  had  been  disturbed 
by  a  bad  dream,  but  that  all  was  well 
again. 

"  Poor  girl !  she  was  sadly  startled 
and  frightened,  of  course ;  but  she  saw 
that  I  had  been  really  asleep,  and  it 
was  easier  work  to  pacify  her  than  I 
could  have  hoped.  Hers  was  a  gentle 
trusting  nature  for  all  her  hard  life  ; 
and  she  had  more  affection  for  me 
than  I  deserved. 

"  But  my  feelings,  George !  can  you 
conceive  them  ?  Can  you  not  guess 
how  the  cloud  rolled  away  from  the 
past,  and  the  mystery  of  that  awful 
night  was  a  mystery  no  more  ?  For 
the  first  of  many  nights  I  took  no 
sleeping  draught,  after  we  had  parted 
then ;  for  the  first  of  many  nights  I 
had  not  taken  one  that  August  night 
upon  the  Nile.  You  remember  my 
words  over  her  dead  body]  1  feel  as 
though  my  own  hand  had  had  a  share 
in  the  cruelty." 

He  rose,  and  paced  the  room  for  a 
time  in  silence ;  then  he  came  back  to 
the  fire,  and  stood  looking  down  into 
its  light — the  only  light  there  was. 
Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  need  not  go  over  the  voyage 
back.  Of  course  I  took  every  care  to 
guard  against  any  further  mischance ; 
sleeping — or  resting  rather,  it  could 
hardly  have  been  called  sleep — by  day, 
and  keeping  watch  with  my  men  at 
night.  We  came  home  as  quickly  as 
we  could,  and  I  left  my  companion  at 
Brindisi,  in  the  charge  of  some  old 
seafaring  friends  of  her  father's — good 
kindly  souls,  better  than  one  would 
have  thought  to  find  among  the  friends 
of  such  an  one  as  her  father — who 
promised  to  do  well  by  her.  Of 
course  I  left  them  ample  means  to 
keep  their  promise,  and  part  of  my 
business  with  the  lawyer  to-day  was 
on  her  account.  Poor  thing !  I  think 


376 


Victor  Graham. 


at  least  I  have  done  now  what  I  could 
to  let  her  suffer  no  more  hurt  from 
her  affection  for  me.  Then  I  came 
straight  home,  and  to  you.  George, 
you  can  guess  what  my  thoughts  have 
been  busy  on  for  every  mile  of  the 
long  road  back  to  England.  What 
should  I  do  ?  If  any  one  were  in 
trouble  now  for  this  dreadful  thing — 
if  there  were  any  suspicion  abroad — 
my  course  would  be  plain  enough.  But 
as  it  is,  I  know  not  what  to  think. 
Will  you  help  me,  George  ? " 

What  could  I  say  ?  flight  or  wrong 
I  had  but  one  thing  to  say,  and  I  said 
it.  No  living  man  but  he  and  I 
knew  his  terrible  secret ;  let  it  be 
kept  a  secret  still.  What  was  to  be 
gained,  who  would  be  profited,  by  his 
going  before  the  world  to  tell  his  piti- 
ful tale  ?  Justice  would  not  be  served  ; 
there  was  no  wrong  now  to  be  re- 
paired. I  felt  that  the  gentle  soul  of 
his  dead  wife  would  counsel  him  as  I 
did. 

He  heard  me  to  the  end,  and  then 
thanked  me  very  quietly  and  kindly. 
Then  he  said  he  would  sleep.  "  I  am 
so  deadly  tired,"  he  said,  smiling  very 
sadly,  "  that  I  think  even  I  shall  sleep 
to-night." 

I  had  a  small,  spare  room — little 
more  than  a  closet — but  there  was  a 
bed  in  it.  There  I  took  him,  and 
telling  him  I  would  take  care  no 
servant  disturbed  him  in  the  morning, 
I  left  him.  But  I  was  in  no  mood 
for  sleep  myself.  Hour  after  hour  I 
lay  awake  thinking  over  the  strange 
sad  story  I  had  heard.  Twice  I  rose,  and 
went  softly  into  Victor's  room.  He 
lay  in  a  heavy  sleep,  the  dreamless 
sleep  of  sheer  exhaustion.  His  face 
was  turned  to  the  open  window :  in 
the  moonlight  it  was  more  like  the 
face  I  had  known  in  happier  times; 
but  as  I  looked  on  it  I  felt  that,  save 
as  a  memory,  it  was  a  face  I  should 
know  but  a  short  while  longer.  At 
last  I,  too,  slept,  as  the  dawn  was 
whitening  the  east,  and  the  sparrows 
twittering  in  the  Temple  gardens. 

When  I  woke  it  was  past  ten 
o'clock,  and  Victor  was  gone.  The 


old  woman  who  ministered  to  my  few 
wants  was  making  ready  my  breakfast. 
"  The  gentleman  left  a  note  for  you, 
sir,  but  wouldn't  have  me  wake  you," 
she  said.  "  It  had  just  gone  eight 
when  he  came  out  of  his  room.  What 
a  handsome  gentleman  he  must  have 
been — but  lord,  sir,  how  deadly  ill  he 
looked !  " 

The  note  said  that  he  did  not  feel 
equal  to  seeing  me  again  just  yet,  after 
last  night.  He  should  go  home,  and 
think  over  what  I  had  said.  I  should 
hear  from  him  again  very  soon. 

I  did  not  hear  from  him  for  a 
fortnight.  Then  he  wrote  to  say  he 
was  sure  I  had  counselled  well,  and 
he  had  determined  to  let  me  be  the 
sole  sharer  of  his  secret.  He  was  not 
well,  he  added — the  old  trouble,  sleep- 
lessness, and  a  bad  cough.  Little 
Doctor  Wilson — did  I  remember  him? 
he  had  asked  after  me — was  very 
kind,  but  looked  very  grave,  and  shook 
his  head  even  more  than  usual.  But 
the  quiet  life  and  country  air  he  him- 
self thought  would  do  him  good  ;  and 
it  was  so  welcome  to  be  at  home  again, 
for  all  the  bitter  memories  the  old 
familiar  sights  recalled.  Would  I 
come  and  see  him  there  ?  "  You  have 
always  been  a  good  friend  to  me, 
George — a  much  better  one  than  ever 
I  have  been  to  you ;  but  you  will  never 
prove  your  friendship  more  than  by 
consenting  to  share  my  solitude.  I 
am  afraid  it  is  selfish  of  me  to  ask 
you  ;  but  there  is  none  but  you  in  the 
world  I  could  ask,  and  I  do  so  long  for 
some  one.  I  have  been  rather  worse 
for  the  last  day  or  two  ;  but  when  I 
am  better  again  I  will  write." 

He  never  wrote,  and  I  never  saw 
my  friend  again.  Within  a  week 
Victor  Graham  was  sleeping  sound 
enough  —  "  the  morningless  and  un- 
awakening  sleep : "  and  all  that  was 
left  for  me  was  to  help  to  lay  him 
in  the  little  churchyard  beside  the 
wife  he  had  loved  so  well.  Short  had 
been  their  married  life,  awful  their 
parting  ;  but  they  were  together  now 
to  part  no  more, 


377 


A  CENTURY  OF  BOOKS. 


MOST  people  have,  at  some  unhappy 
moment,  been  compelled  to  play  at  in- 
tellectual games.  As  the  sufferers 
know,  intellectual  games  are  played 
(they  call  it  play)  with  pieces  of  paper 
and  pencils.  You  are  obliged  to 
write  lines  to  a  series  of  idiotic 
rhymes,  or  to  do  things  even  more 
difficult  than  this.  Sometimes  the 
cruel  task  is  to  state,  in  writing,  your 
likes  and  dislikes — a  sport  familiar, 
as  M.  Daudet  tells  us,  to  the  natives 
of  Tarascon.  The  likes  of  the  great 
Tartarin  are  familiar  to  all ;  he  pre- 
ferred, among  heroes,  William  Tell, 
among  trees  the  baobab-tree,  and  his 
beloved  author  was  Fenimore  Cooper, 
— and  a  very  good  choice  too  ! 

For  weeks  and  months  the  enter 
prising  editor  of  the  '  Pall  Mall 
Gazette  '  has  been  making  people  of 
notoriety  play  this  game  with  him.  I 
don't  know  whether  the  public  have 
been  amused  more  than  by  other  in- 
tellectual games.  Some  of  the  con- 
fessions extorted  by  the  literary  editor 
are  comic  enough.  Many  of  his  play- 
mates know  nearly  as  much  about 
books  as  Hottentots  do  about  the  spot 
stroke.  Many  of  the  best  literary 
judges  in  England  seem  either  to  have 
been  omitted  from  this  round  game,  or 
to  have  churlishly  declined  to  play. 
However,  the  actual  struggles  of  the 
victims  are  not  without  amusement 
to  the  observer  who  has  time  to  be 
amused. 

Sir  John  Lubbock  started  the  game 
by  a  lecture  delivered  at  the  Working 
Men's  College.  Sir  John,  talking  of 
books,  announced  a  craving  for  a  list 
of  the  hundred  best  books,  excluding 
contemporary  authors.  Why  a  hun- 
dred ?  Why  not  eleven,  or  twenty- 
two,  or  thirty- one,  or  forty  save  one, 
like  the  stripes  in  the  Jewish  law? 
No  one  knows,  nor  is  the  answer  of  the 


faintest  importance.  At  games  one 
must  start  with  something  arbitrary, 
and  Persian  and  Chinese  skittles  offer 
far  more  pins  to  the  striker  than  the 
humble  and  limited  skittles  which, 
with  beer,  make  an  English  holiday. 
Again,  does  a  book  mean  a  book,  or  all 
the  works  of  an  author,  or  a  selection 
from  these?  And  for  whom  is  the 
ideal  list  to  be  constructed  1  For  an 
intelligent  working  man,  only  ac- 
quainted with  his  own  language,  or  for 
an  intellectual  young  lady,  or  for  a 
guardsman,  or  a  philosopher,  or  a 
gamekeeper,  or  an  inspector  of  fac- 
tories, or  a  stockbroker,  or  a  barrister  ? 
Barristers,  and  stockbrokers,  and  mar- 
ried ladies,  and  reviewers,  do  not,  as  a 
rule,  read  at  all ;  and  I  have  only  known 
one  omnibus  conductor  who  studied 
Plato,  in  the  Master  of  Balliol's  trans- 
lation. On  the  other  hand,  judges 
read  a  good  deal  (mainly  novels)  ;  and 
prime  ministers  are  students  (Prince 
Bismarck  likes  Gaboriau,  Mr.  Glad- 
stone is  fond  of  Homer  and  the 
'  Speaker's  Commentary  ') ;  while  in- 
tellectual girls  and  intelligent  work- 
ing men  are  believed  to  love  to  have 
"  a  course  of  reading  chalked  out  for 
them,"  as  the  saying  goes.  For  whom, 
then,  is  the  ideal  list  of  a  hundred 
books  to  be  compiled  1  Probably  for 
the  amateurs  who  feel  they  need  di- 
rection ;  that  is,  for  well-meaning  per- 
sons, entirely  devoid  of  the  literary 
temperament,  but,  in  compensation, 
abundantly  supplied  with  a  conscien- 
tious sense  of  "  what  they  owe  to  their 
own  culture." 

If  a  man,  or  woman,  is  reading  for 
a  definite  purpose,  then  you  can  give 
them  directions.  Let  us  say  that  a 
working  man  wants  to  understand  the 
history  of  England,  and  how  we  all 
got  into  our  present  discreditable 
muddle.  You  may  recommend  him 


378 


A  Century  of  Books. 


Mr.   Green's   '  Short    History '    to    be 
taken,    as    much   as  possible,    "  at  a 
gulp,"    as    Mr.     Browning's    Spanish 
monk,     "swigged    his  orange- water." 
Then,  if  he   is  very  patient  and  toil- 
some,  this  working   man   may   work 
through  Professor  Freeman's  '  Norman 
Conquest/  and  take  the  various  good 
histories  of  special  periods  in  succession 
— Mr.  Froude's,   Mr.  Gardiner's,  Ma- 
caulay's,  Lord  Stanhope's,  and  so  forth, 
throwing  in  Carlyle's  '  French  Revolu- 
tion,' and  perhaps  finishing  with  Mr. 
McCarthy's    'History    of    Our    Own 
Time,'    which    I  have    not    read,    but 
(like  Colonel  Newcome  in  the  case  of 
Mill's   *  History  of  India  '),  hear  well 
spoken   of    for  erudition.     Next    the 
scholar  may  sit  down  to  the  Bishop  of 
Chester's  '  Constitutional  History,'  and 
by  the  time  he  has  added  that  to  the 
conquests  of  his  culture,  he  will  be  as 
old  as  Cato  when  Cato  began  to  learn 
Greek.     He  may  then  devote  his   re- 
maining span  to  the  Latin  tongue,  and 
read  the  '  De  Scaccario '  for  himself  in 
the   original.      He     will    know  quite 
enough   about    English    history,    and 
will  be  able  to  tell  his  grandchildren, 
perhaps,  all  about  the  English  Com- 
mune, and  the  relapse  of  the   island 
into  savagery,  which,  by  the  way,  can 
be   studied  in  Mr.  Richard  Jefferies's 
'After  London.' 

There  is  a  brief  but  sufficient 
"  course  "  chalked  out  for  a  man  who 
reads  for  a  given  purpose.  For  any 
other  given  purpose,  whether  it  be  to 
learn  all  that  is  known  about  meta- 
physics, political  economy,  the  nearest 
fixed  star,  the  origin  of  religion,  or 
what  not,  courses  may  be  deftly 
chalked.  But  if  a  reader  vaguely 
wishes  to  ''improve  his  mind,"  how 
can  any  list  be  made  2  The  thing  is 
absurd,  unless  you  know  what  little 
there  is  to  be  known  aboub  the  intel- 
lect in  question  •  and  the  purpose,  as 
Mr.  James  Payn  sensibly  says,  is 
priggish.  Of  all  feeble  folk  the  feeblest 
are  those  who  meander  about  asking 
to  be  educated.  They  tell  one  that 
they  are  "  trying  to  educate  themselves 
into  liking  Turner,"  and  you  find  them, 


blinking  and  bemused,  among  his 
water-colours  at  Burlington  House. 
All  this  is  vanity.  One  is  born  with 
a  soul,  or  a  system,  capable  of  know- 
ing what  is  beautiful  when  one  sees 
it,  or  one  is  not.  In  the  former  case, 
one  revels  in  Turner  as  soon  as  one 
has  a  chance  of  seeing  his  work.  In 
the  latter  case,  one  has  no  joy  in 
him,  and  there  should  be  an  end 
of  it. 

To  go  about  making  believe  very 
much  to  try  to  acquire  taste,  as 
Pascal  would  have  us  acquire  faith, 
by  pretending  that  we  have  it  till  we 
delude  ourselves,  is  childish,  and  were 
it  less  impotent  dulness,  would  be  im- 
moral. The  same  rule  holds  about 
Wagner,  and  Mr.  Irving' s  acting  (both 
equally  unintelligible  to  me),  and  the 
Elgin  marbles,  and  Tanagra  terra- 
cottas, and  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  pic- 
tures. Some  people  are  born  incapable 
of  enjoying  these  forms  of  art,  as  others 
are  born  with  a  natural  aversion  to 
politics,  and  to  Archdeacon  Farrar's 
'  Life  of  Christ,'  and  to  M.  Kenan's 
attempts  to  be  funny  like  Yoltaire, 
and  to  M.  Paul  Bourget's '  Psychologic,' 
and  to  minced  veal,  and  family  dinner- 
parties, and  Russian  cigarettes. 

These  little  likes  and  dislikes  are 
affairs  of  natural  taste  and  tempera- 
ment, and  I  don't  mean,  for  one,  to 
educate  myself  into  liking  any  of  the 
things  which  are  naturally  obnoxious 
to  me.  If  people  would  be  as  fair  about 
literature  they  would  be  much  more 
happy.  They  would  not  take  up  books 
infinitely  too  good  for  them,  or  yawn 
over  cribs  to  Plato,  or  epitomes  of  the 
'  Mahabharata,'  or  Hume's  'History 
of  England,'  or  Darwin's  'Origin  of 
Species,'  when  what  they  really  could 
be  comfortable  with  is  the  'Spectator, 'or 
the  t  Sporting  Times,'  or  the  '  Licensed 
Victuallers'  Gazette,'  or  'King  Solo- 
mon's Mines.'  I  never  read  Darwin's 
'  Origin  of  Species,'  and  I  am  not  going 
to  begin.  I  am  not  a  pigeon  fancier, 
and  I  do  not  care  a  pin  whether  I  was 
created  or  evolved.  The  book  is  a 
masterpiece,  but  a  masterpiece  for 
others;  "good  absolute,  not  for  me 


A  Century  of  Books. 


379 


though,"  says  the  Piper.     Then  why 
should  I  read  it,  and  waste  my  time, 
even  if  a  hundred  'Pall  Mall'  counsels 
thunder  anathemas  at  me.     But  it  is 
just  as  absurd   to  tell  people  not  to 
read  Darwin,  as  Mr.  Ruskin  does,  as 
not  to  read  Grote,  if  people  like  Grote. 
Either  book  might  be  the  making  of 
a  man's  mind,  and  the  beginning  of 
an   honourable   career   in  science,   or 
politics  (if  a  career  in  politics  can  be 
honourable),    or    in    historical   study. 
Mr.  Ruskin,    that  fine   practical  hu- 
mourist, denounces  Darwin  and  Grote 
and     Yoltaire     and     Thackeray    and 
Kingsley ;    he    does    not    like    them, 
he    thinks    they    are    not    good    for 
us,    he   thinks   they    do   not  tell  him 
enough      about     the    habits     of    the 
shrimp   and  other  insects.     But  who 
made  Mr.   Ruskin  a  judge  or  a  nur- 
sery   governess    over    us  1     A   great 
many  well-meaning  young  people  hang 
on  his  lips,  and  perhaps  do  not  read 
Thackeray,    and  miss  those  beautiful 
examples  of  noble  life  which  Thackeray 
shows  us,  and  miss  all  that  charitable 
philosophy  of  the  humourist,  and  all 
the  magic  of  his  style,  because    Mr. 
Ruskin  happens  to  be  one  of  the  people 
who  are  so  constituted  as  to  think  the 
author  of  '  Esmond  '  a  cynic.     Nor  is 
Kingsley  good  enough  for  this  critical 
gentleman,  so  difficult  to  please.     He 
blames  the  horror  of  *  Hypatia,'  which 
Kingsley  thought  worth   mentioning 
at  a  moment  when  monkery  was  rather 
fashionable     in     England.      And    he 
either  forgets  or  dislikes  '  Westward 
Ho/  with  all  its  vigour,  its  pathos,  its 
poetry.    Gibbon,  too,  lacks  "wit,"  and 
we   remember  that    William  Words- 
worth thought  Yoltaire  dull.    He  may 
not  agree  with  Mr.  Ruskin,  just  as 
coffee  or  tobacco  or  Bass's  beer  may 
be  pernicious  to  Mr.  Ruskin's  consti- 
tution.    But  that  is  no  reason  why 
this     great     irresponsible     humourist 
should  bid  the  rest   of   us   enter   on 
a    career    of    total    abstinence    from 
'Pendennis'    and    'The    Newcomes/ 
As  to  Grote's  '  History,'  Mr.  Ruskin's 
remarks  would  be  provoking  in  a  critic 
less  obviously  determined  to  be  wildly 


humourous.  Mr.  Grote's  style  was 
cumbrous  and  clumsy  ;  with  his  dan- 
gerous Radical  opinions  I  have  no 
sympathy.  But  Mr.  Grote  had  sense, 
and  what  a  pleasure  it  is,  after  months 
of  wandering  among  German  and 
Anglo-German  mares'  nests,  to  return 
to  his  straightforward,  simple  sagacity. 
He  had,  moreover,  immense  and  amaz- 
ing knowledge  of  the  facts  preserved 
in  the  whole  mass  of  Greek  literature. 
But  Mr.  Ruskin  holds  that  any  head- 
clerk  of  a  bank  could  write  a  better 
history  than  Mr.  Grote's,  if  he  had 
the  vanity  to  waste  his  time  on  it. 

As  to  Mr.  Darwin,  he  is  "barred," 
because  it  is  "  every  man's  business  to 
know  what  he  is ; "  as  if  Mr.  Darwin — 
that  modest,  strenuous,  honest,  and 
gentle  labourer  in  a  field  which,  per- 
sonally, one  happens  not  to  wish  to 
enter — as  if  Mr.  Darwin  did  not  know 
what  is  in  man,  and  could  prevent 
others  from  knowing  themselves.  To 
object  to  him  because  he  has  a  queer 
"tail"  of  followers  does  not  become 
Mr.  Ruskin,  whose  own  "  tail "  would 
not  much  grace  a  march  through 
Coventry. 

To  return  to  Sir  John  Lubbock's  list 
and  the  origin  of  the  game  of  the  Hun- 
dred Best  Books  who  are  the  people 
who  should  read  Confucius  ?  or  the 
Koran  1  Is  it  necessary  to  intellectual 
salvation  ?  Why  not  the  '  Upanishads  ; ' 
why  not  all  the  Brahmanas,  whose 
names  Lucy  rattles  off  in  '  Le  Monde 
ou  1'on  1'ennuie '  ?  And  Lewes's, 
'  History  of  Philosophy  ! '  Of  all 
hopeless  books,  put  together  on  a 
subject  which  the  author  was  con- 
genitally  incapable  of  knowing  any- 
thing about  Lewes's  '  History  of  Phil- 
dsophy,'  to  my  mind,  is  the  most  deplor- 
able. Then  the  '  Ethics  '  of  Aristotle— 
who  is  to  read  them,  and  is  it  to  be  in 
Chase's,  or  Williams's,  or  Peters's  ver- 
sion 1 "  With  a  great  price  " — namely, 
by  many  toilsome  hours  in  company 
with  Liddell  and  Scott,  after  many 
and  many  months  of  college  lec- 
tures "bought  I  this  freedom,"  namely, 
the  possession  of  some  shadowy  no- 
tions as  to  what  Aristotle  is  driving 


380 


A  Century  of  Books. 


at  in  the  <  Ethics.'  To  that  intelligent 
working  man,  or  conscientious  and 
highly-educated  young  lady,  who 
proposes  to  begin  the  '  Ethics,'  I 
venture  to  cry,  "  Don't.  You  will  be 
dreadfully  bored,  and  you  are  not  at 
the  historical  point  of  view  from 
which  you  can  understand  the  Sta- 
girite.  He  is  either  laboriously 
hammering  out  into  articulate  speech 
ideas  which  have  long  been  common- 
place, or  he  is  in  a  region  of  mystic 
speculation  where  you  cannot  follow 
him,  or  he  is  dealing  with  moral  pro- 
blems peculiar  to  a  society  all  unlike 
that  in  which  you  are  living.  Nor  is 
it  likely  that  the  '  Sheking  '  will  please 
or  interest  you,  more  than  the  '  Trac- 
tatus  Theologico-Politicus  '  of  Spinosa. 
There  is  a  Chinese  work  which  Dr. 
Legge  calls  a  Sacred  Book,  a  kind  of 
Bible,  and  which  M.  Terrien  de  la 
Couperie  takes  for  a  sort  of  Diction- 
ary of  Synonyms.  Should  this  be 
among  the  hundred  best  books  ?  Greek 
and  Oriental  classics  are,  with  rare 
exceptions,  meant  for  a  few  scholars 
and  highly-educated  specialists,  not 
for  working  men  or  young  ladies." 

The  literature  is  good  for  us  which 
we  find  to  be  good  in  our  progress 
through  books,  and  amongst  men, 
not  the  literature  which  is  highly 
recommended  to  us.  We  do  not  appre- 
ciate Horace  and  Virgil  at  school. 
We  are  not  capable,  yet,  of  knowing 
what  style  is,  and  what  thought 
means.  Later  in  our  day  we  return 
to  these  great  poets,  and  to  Sophocles  ; 
at  school  we  are  well  enough  content 
with  Macaulay's  '  Lays,'  and,  at  all 
ages,  Homer  and  Scott  appeal  to  us  and 
delight  us.  But,  if  we  are  to  draw  up 
a  list  of  the  best  books  for  pleasure 
and  delight — the  true  ends  of  reading 
— then  individual  taste  comes  in,  and  a 
proper  list  is  impossible.  We  scarcely 
get  beyond  Shakespeare,  and  even 
then  we  are  not  thinking  so  much  of 
what  women  can  enjoy,  as  of  what  is 
matter  for  men.  Helen  Pendennis 
sometimes  read  Shakespeare,  "whom 
she  pretended  to  like,  but  didn't,"  and 
many  excellent  ladies  are  like  Helen. 


A  crowd  of  modern  folk  "  cannot  read 
Dickens."  Then  let  them  leave  him 
alone.  It  is  a  weary  thing  to  see 
a  person  "trying  to  educate  himself 
into  liking  Dickens."  Hawthorne  can- 
not be  universally  recommended  ;  Scott 
is  eclipsed  by  Ouida.  It  would  be 
pedantic  to  recommend  Scott,  or  Field- 
ing, to  people  who  prefer  Ouida ;  do 
not  let  us  even  say  to  them,  moriemini 
in  peccatis  vestris.  It  is  much  less  a 
sin  to  like  Ouida,  and  say  so,  and 
read  that  adventurous  author,  than  to 
pine  for  her  secretly,  and  waste  time 
in  struggling  for  apples  "  atop  of  the 
topmost  bough,"  struggling  to  like  the 
comedy  of  Dickens,  the  wit  of  Moliere, 
the  style  and  the  humour  of  Thackeray, 
the  manly  charm  of  Scott,  the  romance 
of  Dumas.  These  good  things  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  many  worthy 
people.  And  why  should  they  not 
prefer  Keble  to  Mimnermus,  and 
Art  emus  Ward  to  Swift,  and  the 
author  of  *  Phyllis '  to  Miss  Burney, 
and  Miss  Braddon  to  Miss  Austen  ? 

For  my  part  I  can  be  happy  with 
all  these  writers,  except,  perhaps, 
Keble  \  but  there  is  no  reason  why 
one  should  be  discontented  with  one's 
favourites  because  the  lady  one  sits 
next  at  a  dinner  party  cannot  read 
Rabelais  (Heaven  forbid  it  !)  or 
Dickens.  It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a 
world.  Let  me  confess  that  I  don't 
care  for  *  Don  Quixote,'  or  Cicero's 
'De  Officiis  '  (or  his  de  anything  else), 
or  Titus  Livius,  or  the  '  Rig  Veda,'  or 
Chaucer,  or  any  of  the  Elizabethans 
except  Shakespeare  and  Marlowe.  Who 
else  is  there  that  I  fail  to  enjoy  ? 
There  are  Pope,  and  Dryden,  and 
Juvenal,  and  '  Paradise  Lost.'  I  pre- 
fer Horace,  and  Herrick,  and  the 
'  Georgics,'  and  *  Lycidas,'  and  Ron- 
sard,  and  Beloe's  *  Anecdotes  of 
Books,'  and  Homer,  and  Herodotus. 

A  man  can  have  these  little  pre- 
ferences without  making  a  religion 
of  them.  I  dislike  roast  mutton 
and  roast  beef — am  I  to  put  them 
in  an  index  expurgatorius  ?  Mr. 
Ruskin  may,  and  doubtless  would  do 
so,  if  any  editor  asked  him  for  a 


A  Century  of  Books. 


381 


list  of  a  hundred  dishes,  and  if  he  hap- 
pened not  to  be  a  great  eater  of  beef. 
Let  us  permit  people  to  go  their  own 
way,  in  reading  as  in  eating,  unless  a 
friend  asks  us  to  recommend  a  novel. 
Even  then  let  us  be  cautious  not  to 
let  the  poor  man  see  that  we  think 
him  a  cretin  because  he  cannot  stand 
'  Le  Crime  et  le  Chatiment,'  or  *  Le 
Crime  de  1'Opera,'  or  '  Modeste  Mig- 
non,'  as  the  case  may  be.  Personally 
I  am  extremely  partial  to  '  Popol 
Vuh,'  but  I  do  not  desire  to  thrust 
that  remarkable  book  on  any  reader. 
It  has  not,  so  far,  been  added  to  the 
lists  of  the  multitude  of  counsellors  of 
the  'Pall  Mall  Gazette.'  What  is 
a  Century  of  Books  without  '  Popol 
Yah '  ?  As  to  these  counsellors, 
their  advice  is  sometimes  entertain- 
ing, when  it  illustrates  their  habit 
of  mind.  In  an  age  of  scandals 
and  horrors,  what  happiness  it  is  to 
reflect  that  we  have  still  the  pure 
taste  of  Lord  Coleridge  with  us.  To 
him  "the  splendid  genius  of  Aristo- 
phanes does  not  seem  to  atone  for  the 
bareness  and  vulgarity  of  his  mind." 
This  would  never  have  occurred  to  an 
ordinary  person — a  mere  judge  of 


literature.  But  this  is  better  still  : 
"  with  the  poem  of  Malory  on  the 
'  Morte  d'Arthur '  I  am  quite  unac- 
quainted." Well,  I  have  heard  of  the 
man  who  never  heard  of  Scott,  and 
there  is  a  legend  that  Lord  Coleridge 
never  heard  of  Mr.  Coiney  Grain. 
But  Lord  Coleridge  is  not  alone  in  his 
ignorance  of  Malory's  compositions  in 
verse.  Here  his  judicial  nescience  is 
universally  shared. 

Some  other  lists  are  interesting — 
Mr.  William  Morris's,  because  it  is  so 
earnest ;  Mr.  Swinburne's,  because  it 
is  so  good — really  good  for  real  lovers 
of  books,  not  for  people  who  want  to 
educate  themselves.  Mr.  Stanley's 
account  of  how  he  dropped  books  all 
across  the  Dark  Continent,  as  in  a 
paper-chase,  is  diverting ;  so  is  Lord 
Wolseley's  characteristic  and  very 
brief  roll  of  works  that  travel  with  a 
general.  But  who  does  not  hail  with 
pleasure,  after  so  much  of  the  intellec- 
tual game,  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's 
resolute  refusal  to  play  1  "  Lists,  such 
as  Sir  John  Lubbock's,  are  interesting 
things  to  look  at,  but  I  feel  no 
disposition  to  make  one." 


382 


IN  GEORGE   SAND'S    COUNTRY. 


I. 

PEASANT    FARMING    IN   LE    BERRY. 

ENGLISH  tourists  in  the  regions  fami- 
liarised to  them  by  George  Sand's 
immortal  pastorals  are  few  and  far 
between.  Nowhere,  perhaps,  through- 
out Europe  is  the  great  novelist  more 
read  and  appreciated  than  among 
ourselves,  yet  I  was  told  at  Chateau- 
roux  that  the  sight  of  an  English 
face  was  phenomenal  there.  It  is 
now  ten  years  since  the  author  of  '  La 
Petite  Fadette,'  la  bonne  dame,  as  the 
village  folks  called  her,  was  laid  to  rest 
in  a  quiet  corner  of  her  own  garden ; 
I  was  nevertheless  the  first  English 
pilgrim,  so  the  servants  at  Nohant 
assured  me,  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  illus- 
trious grave.  Stranger  still,  Ameri- 
can tourists  have  not  discovered 
George  Sand's  country,  so  full  of 
beauty  and  interest.  It  must  be  added 
that  Nohant,  the  author's  home,  and 
La  Chatre,  the  little  town  now  adorned 
with  her  statue,  were,  till  within  the 
last  year,  quite  out  of  the  beaten  track. 
When  George  Sand  quitted  her  coun- 
try house  for  a  visit  to  Paris,  or  any- 
where else,  she  had  to  take  the  slow, 
tumble-down  diligence  to  Chateauroux, 
in  company  of  her  humbler  neigh- 
bours. The  ancient,  prettily  situated 
little  town  of  La  Chatre  led  nowhere. 
Now,  however,  it  is  made  accessible  by 
a  most  convenient  line  of  railway, 
connecting  Tours  by  Chateauroux  and 
La  Chatre  with  Montlugon.  The  con- 
veniences of  this  line  to  travellers  in 
France  are  very  great,  as  it  enables 
them  to  get  from  east  to  west  with- 
out going  to  Paris  ;  but  at  present  the 
guide-books  ignore  it,  so  that  I  jour- 
neyed from  Dijon  to  Paris  and  from 
Paris  to  Chateauroux,  whereas  the 
direct  line  would  be  from  Dijon  thither 
by  Chagny,  Moulins  and  Montlugon. 
Chateauroux  is  a  cheerful,  pros- 


perous, thoroughly  French  town  on  the 
Indre,  and  may  conveniently  be  made 
the  tourist's  head-quarters  in  these 
parts. 

As  English  notions  on  the  subject  of 
French  geography  are  apt  to  be  some- 
what hazy,  let  me  mention  that  the 
department  of  the  Indre,  of  which 
Chateauroux  is  the  capital  town,  was 
chiefly  formed  in  1790  of  that  district 
called  Le  Bas  Berry,  in  contradistinc- 
tion to  Le  Haut  Berry,  now  forming 
the  department  of  Le  Cher,  with 
Bourges  as  its  capital  town.  If,  how- 
ever, English  notions  as  to  French 
geography  are  not  so  accurate  as  they 
might  be,  still  more  incorrect  are  they 
on  the  subject  of  land  tenure  in 
France.  It  is  an  accepted  theory  in 
England  that  all  France  is  cut  up 
into  those  "  little  scraps  of  land,"  of 
which  Lady  Verney  speaks  so  contemp- 
tuously. Nothing  can  be  farther  from 
the  truth.  There  are  large  farms  and 
middling-sized  farms  in  plenty  through- 
out France,  and  every  kind  of  tenure 
may  be  studied  there;  the  peasant 
freehold  of  ten  to  thirty  acres,  the 
metairie  of  several  hundred,  and  the 
large  farms  let  on  lease  or  cultivated 
by  their  owners,  precisely  as  in  Eng- 
land. My  object,  then,  in  visiting  the 
Indre  or  Le  Bas  Berry,  was  twofold.  I 
wanted  to  visit  friends  in  the  country, 
and  to  judge  for  myself  of  the  condi- 
tion of  peasant  proprietors  in  this  part 
of  central  France ;  and  I  had  a  no 
less  keen  desire  to  visit  the  scenes  de- 
scribed in  George  Sand's  lovely  pasto- 
rals, '  La  Petite  Fadette,'  '  Francois  le 
Champi,'  and  others,  and  to  see  the 
statue  and  tomb  of  the  great  writer. 

No  department  in  France  offers 
better  opportunities  of  studying  the 
land  question  than  the  Indre.  It  is  a 
purely  agricultural  region.  It  is  a 
region  in  which,  during  the  last  fifty 
years,  large  tracts  of  land  have  passed 


In  George,  Sand's  Country. 


383 


into  the  hands  of  the  peasants.  Side 
by  side,  moreover,  with  the  smallest 
holdings,  farms  of  five  acres,  acquisi- 
tions of  yesterday,  may  here  be  seen 
farms  of  several  hundred  acres,  man- 
aged on  the  system  known  as  that  of 
metayage. 

My  host,  a  large  landowner,  living 
within  a  few  miles  of  Chateauroux,  was 
the    very   person   to    instruct  an  in- 
quirer   like    myself.       Formerly    the 
owner  of  an  entire  commune,  he  has 
gradually  reduced  the  size  of  his  estates 
by  selling  small  parcels  of  land  to  his 
neighbours,  and   in   former  days   his 
farm  labourers,  the  peasants.     He  has 
been  induced  to  take  these  steps  by 
mixed   motives,  personal  and  philan- 
thropic.    From  a  commercial  point  of 
view  he  is  a  gainer.     The  expense  of 
keeping  such  large  tracts  of  land  in 
good  cultivation  would  be  very  great, 
and  he  could  not  realise  anything  like 
the  returns  of  the  small  farmer.     His 
land,   often   consisting  of   much   that 
has    been    hitherto    unproductive,   is 
thus  turned   into  capital,  whilst   the 
'results  of  the  transaction  as  regards 
the  condition  of   the  people  and  the 
land  are  incalculable.     The  cultivator 
of  the  soil  is  raised,  both  socially  and 
morally  \    he  is   able   to   advance  his 
children    still    further     in     life ;     his 
future,  as  well  as  their  own,  is  assured 
from  want ;  and  having  a  stake  in  the 
welfare  of  his  country,  he  is  certain  to 
be  found  on  the  side  of  law  and  order. 
He   is   thus,    in    his    own    person,   a 
guarantee  of  the  political  stability  of 
his  country. 

"When  we  have  solved  the  like 
problem  in  our  cities  and  large  towns," 
observed  my  host  to  me,  "  when  the 
French  artisan,  like  the  French  pea- 
sant, becomes  a  possessor,  a  freeholder, 
then  the  condition  of  France  as  a 
nation  will  be  firm  as  a  rock  (ine- 
branlable)."  Great  as  are  the  moral 
gains  alike  to  the  individual  and  the 
State  by  this  extension  of  peasant  pro- 
prietorship, the  material  benefits  accru- 
ing to  the  nation  are  yet  more  con- 
siderable. Land  in  the  country  round 
about  Chateauroux — I  do  not  here 


allude  to  suburban  building  plots,  but 
to  purely  agricultural  districts — has 
doubled,  trebled,  and  quadrupled  in 
value  within  the  last  forty  or  fifty 
years. 

Roads  and  railways  have  contributed 
to   effect  this  rise  in  value,  but  the 
change  has  been  chiefly  brought  about 
by  the  indomitable  perseverance  and 
laboriousness  of  the  peasant.       As  all 
readers  of  George  Sand's  novels  know 
already,  Le  Berry  is  a  region  of  landes, 
or  wastes.     Owing  to  the  exertions  of 
the  peasants,  the  extent  of  these  waste 
lands    is    being     gradually     reduced. 
Every   acre  of   ground   that   is   sold, 
therefore,  every  thousand  francs   the 
peasant  expends  upon  land,  is  so  much 
added  wealth  to  the  country.     Much 
of  the  scenery  lying  between  Chateau- 
roux   and   the   village   in   which   my 
friend   lives,   is    very   pretty.      Very 
English,  too  !      But  for  the  patches  of 
vineyard  here  and  there,  the  grapes 
now  of  deepest  purple  amid  the  crim- 
soning leaves,  one  could  have  fancied 
oneself  in  Sussex,  or  in  a  Devonshire 
lane.    The  road  was  bordered  with  tall 
hedges,  trellised  with  wild  clematis  and 
briony,  and  ferny  banks,  whilst  beyond 
we  got  glimpses  of  wide  fields  and  vast 
pastures,   divided,  as  in  England,  by 
close- set  hawthorn.      Yet  the  English 
notion  prevails  that  not  a  hedge  worth 
speaking   of   is   to   be   found    in    all 
France !      Quiet  shady  paths  led  into 
woodland  nooks,  or  by  winding  rivers 
bordered  with  lofty  poplars;   and  in 
every    meadow     the     beautiful    tan- 
coloured  cattle   of   the   district   were 
taking  their  ease.     Here  and  there,  at 
some   little    distance   from   the   road, 
one  saw  a  large  farm-house,  manoir  of 
some  gentleman- farmer,  or  a  metairie, 
standing  in  the  midst  of  farm  build- 
ings— a    sight   in   itself   sufficient   to 
disprove    the    accepted    theory    that 
France  is  divided  into  tiny  holdings, 
each  with  its  cottage — or  hovel ! 

Soon  we  entered  the  vast  forest  of 
Chateauroux,  and  for  a  time  followed 
a  broad  beautiful  road,  winding 
amid  oak,  chestnut,  and  walnut  trees ; 
a  warm  blue  sky  lending  fresh 


384 


In  George  Sand's  Country, 


brilliance  to  the  foliage  ;  and  then  we 
came  upon  stretches  of  waste,  where, 
amid  the  broom  and  heather,  a  little 
Fadette  kept  her  flock  of  geese  or 
turkeys. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say  more  than 
a  word  about  French  hospitality,  so 
unaffected,  so  gracious,  so  free  from 
anything  like  show  or  pretentiousness. 
Let  me  now  describe  exactly  what  I 
saw  in  the  company  of  my  host  during 
my  visit.  We  began  by  visiting  one 
of  the  smallest  holdings  that  had  been 
recently  purchased  of  him,  namely,  a 
farm  of  two  and  a-half  hectares,  or  say, 
six  acres.  Here,  as  in  most  other 
cases,  the  purchaser  had  built  himself 
a  house  and  laid  out  a  vegetable 
garden.  As  land  now  fetches  forty 
pounds  the  hectare,  we  have  already 
evidence  of  an  economy  to  the  extent 
of  a  hundred  pounds.  Then  there  is 
the  cost  of  building  materials,  the  pur- 
chase of  agricultural  implements  and 
stock,  consisting  of  pigs,  a  few  sheep, 
geese,  a  pony  or  donkey,  and  poultry, 
in  all  representing  as  much  outlay 
again.  My  host  informed  me  that  the 
owner  of  ten  to  twelve  hectares,  that 
is  to  say,  from  twenty-five  to  thirty 
acres,  may  be  set  down  as  a  capitalist 
to  the  extent  of  eight  hundred  or  a 
thousand  pounds.  We  may,  therefore, 
consider  the  owner  of  two  and  a-half 
hectares  to  be  worth  a  fourth-part  of 
that  sum.  It  is  obvious  that  a  hold- 
ing so  small  will  not  support  a  family  ; 
in  order  to  make  ends  meet,  and  also 
to  save  for  future  purchases,  the  small 
farmer  works  half  the  week  for  wages, 
or  pays  by  his  own  labour,  for  the  use 
of  a  team.  And,  by  little  and  little, 
accumulated  savings  enable  the  pur- 
chaser to  add  to  his  domain.  Five 
hectares  will  keep  a  cow,  or  even  two 
oxen  for  tillage.  Five  hectares  will 
support  a  family,  whilst  ten  or  twelve 
mean  comfort  and  ease. 

The  first  holding  we  visited  was 
a  recent  acquisition,  and  it  was  delight- 
ful to  witness  the  friendly  feeling  that 
existed  between  the  old  proprietor  and 
the  new.  The  farmer  quitted  his  work 
in  a  field  adjoining  to  shake  hands 


with  us,  and  invite  us  to  enter, 
evidently  very  proud  of  his  home. 
Everything  was  primitive  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point,  but  there  were  solid  oak 
presses  full  of  homespun  linen,  goodly 
flitches  of  bacon  hanging  from  the 
wall,  a  neat  hearth,  and  even  a  few 
pictures  and  bits  of  pottery  for  orna- 
ment. As  a  rule,  the  best  bedstead 
stands  in  the  front  kitchen,  and  my 
host  informed  me  of  the  reason  of  this 
arrangement.  In  the  first  place,  the 
bedstead  with  its  furniture,  generally 
of  some  bright  colour,  is  regarded  with 
pride ;  and  secondly,  as  winters  are 
very  rude  here,  the  kitchen  is  a  much 
warmer  place  to  sleep  in  than  the  back 
room.  The  upper  rooms  are  always 
used  as  store-rooms. 

The  housewife  and  children,  here  as 
everywhere  else,  wore  good  useful 
clothes  exactly  suited  to  their  occupa- 
tion, and  were  perfectly  clean  and 
tidy.  I  alluded  afterwards  to  the  bare 
look  of  the  cottage  compared  to  that 
of  our  English  ones,  homes  of  ill-paid 
day-labourers,  possessed  of  not  one 
farthing,  and  whose  future  is  the  in- 
evitable workhouse.  My  host  informed 
me  that  this  absence  of  little  comforts 
in  the  way  of  a  bit  of  carpet,  an  arm- 
chair, neat  curtains,  and  the  like, 
arose  not  from  want  of  means,  but 
from  lack  of  taste.  They  could  have 
all  these,  and  much  more  if  they  de- 
sired it.  The  craving  for  comfort  and 
prettiness  in  the  home  would  come  in 
good  time. 

We  soon  came  upon  an  instance  in 
point.  One  new  proprietor  of  two  and 
a-half  hectares  only,  had  built  himself 
a  house  with  a  front  kitchen  or  keep- 
ing room,  and  a  back  chamber,  used  as 
bedroom  only.  "  C'est  beaucoup  plus 
propre,"  he  said,  using  the  word 
propre  in  its  secondary  sense  of  tidy, 
becoming. 

This  cottage  had  been  built  on  to  a 
hovel  of  the  pre-Revolutionary  period. 
What  a  contrast  the  two  presented  ! 
The  one  spick  and  span,  roomy,  light- 
some, airy;  the  other  a  wretched, 
windowless  cabin.  Here,  as  every- 
where else,  we  were  received  with  the 


In    George  Sand's  Country. 


385 


kindliest  welcome.  It  was  evident 
that  the  newly-acquired  position  of 
landowner  was  highly  appreciated, 
whilst,  for  his  part,  my  host  ex- 
pressed himself  delighted  with  the 
new  state  of  things.  "  Not  only  is 
the  condition  of  the  land  improved 
from  year  to  year,  but,  in  conjunction 
with  the  rest  of  the  community,  I  am 
socially  a  gainer,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
for  neighbours  well  conditioned,  satis- 
fied, honest  people.  Family  life  is  en- 
couraged, the  moral  tone  of  the  people 
is  raised,  and  good  feeling  promoted 
among  all  classes." 

We  next  visited  several  other  farms, 
mostly  varying  in  extent  from  two 
and  a  half  to  twelve  hectares,  and 
found  everywhere  the  same  evidences 
of  thrift,  content edness,  and  well- 
being.  The  tendency  here  is  ever  to  in- 
crease rather  than  diminish  the  size 
of  holdings.  Thus,  the  purchaser  of 
five  hectares  does  not  rest  till  he  has 
acquired  ten ;  the  owner  of  ten  will  in 
time  obtain  twenty,  and  so  on.  The 
provident,  self-denying  spirit  of  these 
peasants  is  beyond  all  praise.  It 
takes  more  than  one  bad  season,  or 
even  a  succession  of  bad  seasons,  to 
ruin  the  small  French  farmer.  He  is 
so  accustomed  to  look  far  ahead  that 
he  is  ever  prepared  to  encounter  the 
evil  day. 

The  farming,  judged  according  to  an 
English  standard,  is  somewhat  rude 
and  primitive.  Corn  is,  however, 
always  threshed  by  machinery,  artifi- 
cial manure  is  now  largely  used,  and 
more  scientific  methods  are  beginning 
to  prevail.  It  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  the  new  acquirer  of  land  here  has 
often  great  difficulties  to  contend  with, 
as  his  purchase  may  consist  partly  of 
mere  waste.  This  is  cleared  after 
rough-and-ready  fashion  ;  the  ground  is 
broken  with  the  harrow,  and  rye 
planted  ;  hay  follows  as  a  second 
crop,  and  thus  the  soil  is  prepared 
by  degrees. 

The  vine  is  cultivated  round  about 
Chateauroux,  but  these  country-people, 
soberest  of  the  sober,  indulge  neither 
in  wine  nor  beer.  Their  favourite 

No.  317 — VOL.  LIII. 


beverage  is  a  kind  of  sirop  made  of 
fruit.  They  are  a  fine,  stalwart  race, 
on  good  terms  with  M.  le  Cure,  but 
extremely  reserved  as  to  their  political 
opinions.  No  one,  not  even  the  wife 
of  his  bosom,  will  know  how  the 
peasant  votes  on  election  day.  He 
reads  the  newspapers  and  thinks  for 
himself. 

We  next  visited  a  metairie  of  nearly 
four  hundred  acres,  also  the  property 
of  my  host.  The  metayer  system,  it 
may  be  as  well  to  remind  the  reader, 
is  nothing  else  than  a  kind  of  partner- 
ship. The  owner  gives  the  land  rent 
free,  the  metayer  supplies  the  labour, 
and  all  profits  are  equally  shared.  This 
arrangement  is  in  full  force  in  Le 
Berry,  and  answers  admirably.  The 
first  condition  of  success  is  that  both 
owner  and  farmer  work  harmoniously 
together,  as  every  detail  has  to  be 
gone  into  by  both  parties.  The  metayer 
generally  boards  his  farm  labourers, 
as  was  once  the  custom  in  England. 
Wages  are  high,  from  two  and  a  half 
to  five  francs  for  a  day's  work,  with 
or  without  board  ;  thirty  or  forty 
years  ago  a  day  labourer  could  be  had 
here  for  seventy  centimes  a  day. 

Besides  these  smaller  holdings  and 
metairies,  extensive  farms  may  be 
seen  here  managed  by  their  owners. 
Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  further 
from  the  truth  than  to  suppose  that 
France  is  cut  up  into  infinitesimally 
small  portions  of  land ;  whilst  equally 
fictitious  is  the  theory  that  the  smallest 
and  least  prosperous  peasant  proprietor 
in  France  can  for  a  moment  be  disad- 
vantageously  compared  with  our  own 
agricultural  labourer.  On  an  average 
the  former  is  a  capitalist  to  the  extent 
of  eight  hundred  or  a  thousand  pounds, 
no  matter  where  you  look  for  him ; 
whilst  in  many  regions,  in  Seine  et 
Marne  for  instance,  and  the  Cote  d'Or, 
he  is  rich. 

Let  us  turn  to  another  class  of  pro- 
prietors. At  Chateauroux,  the  problem 
before  alluded  to  of  turning  the 
artisan  into  a  proprietor  has  been 
realised.  Here  at  least  the  workman 
has  emulated  the  zeal  of  his  thrifty 

c  c 


386 


In   George  Sand's  Country. 


neighbours  in  the  country,  and  hardly 
a  journeyman  shoemaker,  carpenter, 
or  builder  in  the  place  but  has  a  house 
and  bit  of  garden  to  call  his  own. 
In  other  words,  he  also  is  a  freeholder 
and  capitalist  to  the  extent  of  two 
hundred  or  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds. 

The  admirable  workmen's  cities  of 
Mulhouse  have  been  already  described 
in  this  magazine  by  the  present  writer. 
But  the  initiative  at  Chateauroux  has 
been  taken  by  the  artisan  himself,  and 
herein  lies  the  great  interest  of  the 
matter.  Self-help  and  sobriety  have 
been  the  sole  influences  at  work.  In 
company  of  the  director  of  the  "  station 
agronomique  de  Chateauroux,"  I  visited 
a  good  many  of  these  neat  houses, 
not  massed  together,  forming  quarters 
apart  as  at  Mulhouse,  but  just  planted 
where  a  bit  of  building  ground  was  to 
be  had.  In  appearance  one  is  very 
much  like  another,  although  we  found 
a  considerable  difference  in  the  in- 
teriors, some  being  fastidiously  clean 
and  wearing  an  air  of  comfort,  others 
less  so.  A  front  kitchen,  in  which  the 
best  bedstead  stands  conspicuous,  a 
back  room,  a  couple  of  attics,  out- 
houses and  small  garden ;  such  is  the 
artisan's  home  at  Chateauroux,  and  if 
it  has  not  the  trim  appearance  of  a 
model  English  cottage,  he  can  at  least 
say  with  Touchstone,  "'Tis  a  poor 
thing,  but  mine  own." 

One  interesting  feature  about  these 
workmen's  homes  is  that,  in  a  great 
measure,  they  are  the  handiwork  of 
their  owners.  The  plot  of  ground 
purchased,  the  purchaser  devotes  every 
spare  moment  to  the  construction  of 
his  house.  Such  help  as  he  needs 
in  the  way  of  carpentry,  glazing,  etc., 
he  gets  from  journeymen  like  himself. 
The  thought  of  going  to  a  shop  never 
occurs  to  him.  In  every  case  we 
found  that  the  value  of  the  freehold 
and  house  was  about  two  hundred 
pounds,  often  more,  which  in  the  case 
of  journeymen  betokens  a  prodigious 
economy.  It  will  sometimes  happen 
that  money  is  borrowed  in  order  to 
complete  the  purchase,  an  extra  stimu- 


lus to  self-denial  and  exertion,  by 
which  these  loans  are  speedily  paid  off. 
Chateauroux,  therefore,  may  be  de- 
scribed as  a  huge  village,  in  great  part 
made  up  of  cottages,  all  of  compara- 
tively recent  date.  My  conductor 
happened  to  know  many  of  the  owners 
of  these  little  domains,  and  we  visited 
several,  always  being  cordially  re- 
ceived. The  women  in  these  parts  are 
exceedingly  affable  ;  the  men,  although 
brusque  and  often  uncouth  in  manner, 
are  quite  ready  to  answer  any  ques- 
tions put  to  them.  Like  the  small 
farmers,  they  are  very  proud  of  their 
property. 

The  morality  of  the  place  has  been 
greatly  improved  by  this  transforma- 
tion of  the  artisan  into  a  freeholder. 
Early  marriages  are  the  rule,  and 
young  women,  many  of  whom  are 
employed  in  the  State  tobacco  manu- 
factory here,  instead  of  spending  their 
earnings  on  finery,  lay  by  in  order  to 
help  their  futur  in  the  purchase  of 
a  home.  Public-houses  are  few  and 
far  between ;  want,  rags,  and  drunken- 
ness all  but  unknown. 

Nothing,  indeed,  throughout  my 
varied  French  experiences,  has  ever 
impressed  me  more  than  what  I  saw 
at  Chateauroux.  These  scores  of  small 
holdings  and  hundreds  of  substantial 
little  dwellings,  each  the  property  of 
its  occupier,  represent  neither  State 
help,  benevolence,  nor  philanthropy, 
but  individual  determination  to  be- 
come independent, — to  be  a  man  I 


II. 

LA   CHATRE    AND   NOHANT. 

WERE  the  good  townsfolk  of  these 
parts  less  well-to-do  and  less  satisfied 
with  their  lot,  they  would  discover 
that  a  mine  of  gold  lies  at  their  very 
doors.  The  fame  of  George  Sand,  if 
turned  to  proper  account,  might  enrich 
them  all.  Every  year  holiday  resorts 
are  getting  more  hackneyed  and  more 
overcrowded.  Every  year  the  number 
of  holiday  makers  is  on  the  increase. 
Clean,  well-appointed  hotels,  such  as 
we  find  at  Gerardmer  in  the  Yosges, 


In    George  Sand's   Country. 


387 


are  only  needed  in  these  old-world 
towns  of  Le  Berry,  to  attract  tourists 
in  large  numbers.  There  is  every 
variety  of  enticement  for  the  lover  of 
the  picturesque;  lovely  little  rivers, 
romantic  valleys,  wild  crags  crowned 
by  majestic  ruins,  in  every  town  and 
village  a  Romanesque  church,  and  last 
but  not  least,  the  poetic,  pastoral 
charm  that  breathes  throughout  the 
pages  of  George  Sand.  Between 
Chateauroux  and  La  Chatre  lies  the 
valley  of  the  Indre,  the  Vallee  Noire 
of  '  La  Petite  Fadette.'  We  may  get 
a  good  notion  of  the  country  from 
the  railway,  but  a  more  leisurely  way 
is  to  alight  at  the  little  village  of 
Mers,  between  Chateauroux  and  La 
Chatre,  and  thence  drive  to  Nohant. 
It  is  a  region  that  requires  sunshine 
to  beautify  it.  The  broad,  brilliant 
pastures  traversed  by  alder- bordered 
streams  ;  the  solitary  stretches  of 
waste,  covered  with  broom  and 
heather  ;  the  wide  fallow,  across 
which  some  blue-bloused  peasant  pa- 
tiently leads  his  team ;  the  isolated 
cottage  here  and  there;  the  solitary 
field,  in  which  a  little  goose-girl  knits 
her  stocking  amid  her  flock,  all  else 
lonely  and  silent  about  her — such 
scenes  as  these  are  gloomy  under  a 
dull  grey  sky ;  but  when  the  sun 
shines  bright  and  warm  there  is  a 
wonderful  freshness  and  charm  about 
the  landscape. 

Nohant  will  shortly  have  its  railway 
station,  but  at  present  is  generally 
reached  by  carriage  from  the  pictur- 
esque town  of  La  Chatre.  High 
above  the  valley  rise  its  old-world 
houses,  whilst  below,  amid  lofty  pop- 
lars and  by  pleasant  gardens  and 
sunny  meads,  flows  the  Indre,  Balzac's 
favourite  river,  as  well  as  George 
Sand's.  A  broad,  handsome  boule- 
vard leads  from  the  station  to  the 
upper  and  newer  town.  Here,  con- 
spicuous in  the  midst  of  a  tastefully 
laid  out  little  pleasure-ground,  is  the 
noble  statue  by  Aime  Millet.  Greatly 
to  the  credit  of  the  town  be  it  men- 
tioned, a  town  numbering  little  more 
than  five  thousand  inhabitants,  this 


monument  is  entirely  due  to  local  initia- 
tive and  generosity.      Rich  and  poor 
alike,actual  residents  and  townsfolk  far 
away,  contributed  their  share.    When 
the  statue  was  unveiled  last  year,  the 
day   was   kept   as   one   of   public  re- 
joicing,   flags  flying,    bands   playing, 
every  house  decorated,  and  a  grand 
banquet  in  honour  of  the  event.    In 
fact,  as  much  fuss  was  made  as  by  a 
provincial  English  town  in  honour  of 
a  royal  visit.     It   is   a   fine  piece  of 
work.     Carved    out    of     pure    white 
marble,   the   figure    somewhat   larger 
than  life,  she  sits  in  an  easy,  contem- 
plative attitude,  with  one  knee  crossed 
over  the  other,  and  face  uplifted.     In 
her  right   hand  she   holds  a  pen,  in 
the  left  a  note-book.     Her  dress  has 
a  Greek  nobleness  and  simplicity  about 
it,  with    large,   unconventional   folds, 
and   no  suggestion  of    epoch   or  mil- 
linery.   Such  a  dress  might  have  been 
worn  a  thousand  years  ago,  or  in  it 
might  appear  some  Sappho  a  thousand 
years  hence.     A  scarf  is  loosely  knot- 
ted round  the  throat  under  the  plain 
collar;  the  hair,  hiding  the  ears,  falls 
back   in   waves    from    the    vivacious 
face,  with  its  beauty  of  intellect  rather 
than  of  outline.     Intellectual  force,  a 
fearless  spirit,    a   powerful   will    and 
mental  faculty. that  are  wholly  inde- 
pendent of  sex,  are  admirably  rendered 
by  the  sculptor.     She  is  represented 
in  her  prime.      On   the   front  of  the 
pedestal  is  inscribed  her  name,  with 
dates  of  birth  and  death;  on  the  other 
three,  the  names  of  her  masterpieces. 
Strange    how    this    monument   lends 
interest  and  importance  to  the  town  ! 
Everybody   is   proud    of    it,    and    no 
wonder.    Even  the  waiters  at  the  little 
inns  will   chat   to   you    of   their    dis- 
tinguished countrywoman,  and  of  her 
affability  to  all.      "  C'etait  une  bien 
charmante  femme,"  said  an  old  waiter 
to  me.     During  her  life-time  La  Chatre 
was   roused  from   its   quietude.     The 
mistress   of    Nohant  loved   to  gather 
her    neighbours    about    her,    and    to 
organise  theatricals  and  social  gather- 
ings. 

La  Chatre  commends  itself  to  the 
c  c  2 


388 


In    George  Sand's  Country. 


lover  of  old  domestic  architecture. 
Two  rare  old  houses  with  beautiful 
timber  casements  and  dormers  in  per- 
fect preservation  are  here  ;  the  whole 
place  is  as  antiquated  as  some  out  of 
the  way  town  in  Brittany.  It  is 
about  an  hour's  drive  to  Nohant,  the 
hamlet  in  which  the  greater  part  of 
George  Sand's  life  was  spent.  A  broad 
road  bordered  with  walnut  trees  leads 
out  of  the  town.  Soon  we  lose  sight 
of  the  Indre  winding  amid  suburban 
gardens,  and  are  in  the  heart  of  the 
country,  George  Sand's  country  indeed ! 
"Whenever  she  quitted  her  home 
to  go  to  Paris,  she  would  take  this 
road,  and  in  her  daily  walks  would 
frequently  come  here.  One  could 
fancy  how  she  would  chat  with 
the  peasants  on  the  way.  It  was 
very  evident  from  the  look  of  the 
cottages  that  the  "bonne  dame,"  as 
the  village  folks  called  their  chatelaine, 
contented  herself  with  playing  the 
part  of  an  old-fashioned  Lady  Bounti- 
ful, and  did  not  preach  to  them  on  the 
subject  of  sanitation  or  hygiene.  She 
took  and  loved  the  rustics  as  she  found 
them.  In  one  of  her  novels, '  Jeanne,' 
occurs  this  sentence.  "  The  French 
peasant  does  not  think."  She  accepted 
his  patience,  his  laboriousness,  his 
resignation,  and  asked  no  more. 

The  country  between  La  Chatre  and 
Nohant  is  purely  agricultural  ;  no 
romance  or  sublimity  here,  only 
suggestions  of  that  rustic  life  George 
Sand  loved  to  portray.  We  pass  a 
lonely  cottage  here  and  there,  fields, 
meadows,  and  farm-buildings,  till  we 
reach  what  appears  to  be  a  small 
forest.  It  is  in  reality  the  park  of 
Nohant.  The  house  itself  is  an  ordin- 
ary, spacious,  modern  French  country- 
house,  for  which  chateau,  but  for  its 
lodge  and  small  courtyard,  would  seem 
an  inappropriate  name.  It  stands 
near  the  road,  and  close  adjoining  on 
the  other  side  is  the  village  church 
and  graveyard. 

M.  Maurice  Sand,  the  writer's  son 
and  the  present  owner  of  Nohant, 
admits  no  one  within  the  chateau ; 
strangers  are,  however,  courteously 


shown  into  the  garden,  where  his 
mother  lies  buried.  But  in  conse- 
crated ground!  And  let  me  here 
make  an  explanation  which  shows 
the  real  amiability  and  benevo- 
lence of  her  character.  The  author  of 
'  Mauprat,'  and  '  Mile,  de  la  Quin- 
time,'  as  all  readers  are  aware,  was  no 
believer  in  church  or  theology.  She 
was  what  our  French  neighbours  call 
a  spiritualists,  in  other  words,  a  Deist. 
She  did  not  for  herself  desire  Christian 
burial ;  but  she  could  not  bear  to 
shock  the  good  village  folks  whom  she 
loved,  and  who  loved  her  so  well. 
What  would  they  think  of  their 
"  bonne  dame  "  if  she  was  buried  in 
unconsecrated  ground  and  without  the 
ritual  of  the  Church?  So  a  small 
portion  of  the  village  graveyard  ad- 
joining the  vast  Nohant  garden  was 
purchased  and  inclosed,  and  here, 
after  being  interred  with  due  religious 
ceremony  and  within  a  dozen  yards  of 
her  own  home,  the  greatest  woman 
writer  of  France  takes,her  long  rest. 

No  grave  ever  impressed  me  more. 
On  one  side  the  writer's  home,  the 
scene  of  her  intellectual  labours,  on 
the  other,  of  her  warmest  sympathies 
and  truest  inspirations.  The  rustic 
village  life,  represented  by  church  and 
cemetery,  was  the  poetry  which  made 
George  Sand's  greatness.  It  is  by  her 
idylls  that  she  will  be  remembered. 
The  tomb  is  as  simple  as  can  be,  a 
plain  slab  of  grey  granite,  on  which 
is  inscribed  her  name  with  dates  of 
birth  and  death.  A  little  iron  pali- 
sade divides  the  inclosure  from  the 
parish  burial  ground  and  also  from 
the  garden  of  Nohant.  Round  about 
are  lofty  trees  and  flowers  in  abund- 
ance, whilst  on  the  slab  lie  wreaths 
deposited  by  pious  townsfolk. 

A  quiet,  unpretentious,  delightful 
retreat,  this  chateau  of  Nohant  in 
summer-time ;  but  dreary  in  winter,  one 
would  think,  except  to  passionate 
lovers  of  the  country  and  rustic  life. 
I  stayed  a  week  at  Chateauroux,  a 
place  described  in  English  guide-books 
as  "offering  little  interest  to  the 
traveller."  The  hasty  tourists  may 


In  George  Sand's  Country. 


389 


get  over  the  ground  much  faster,  giv- 
ing one  day  to  La  Chatre  andNohant, 
and  a  second  to  Gargilesse,  the  scene 
of  *  Le  Peche  de  M.  Antoine,'  and  the 
most  picturesque  spot  in  Le  Berry. 
Gargilesse  may  also  be  taken  in  the 
way  to  Limoges,  if  the  traveller  hap- 
pen to  be  bound  thither.  The  railway 
is  quitted  at  Eguzon,  and  even  a  few 
hours,  if  put  to  good  account,  will  suf- 
fice to  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  curious 
and  most  romantic  valley  of  the 
Creuse.  A  far  better  plan  for  those 
who  really  love  French  scenery,  and 


are  -not  Sybarites  in  the  matter  of 
hotels,  is  to  decide  on  a  much  longer 
stay,  and  make  excursions  in  all  direc- 
tions. Chateauroux  and  Argenton  may 
be  made  head- quarters.  The  time 
chosen  should  be  early  in  September,  or 
even  August,  and  the  '  Promenades 
autour  d'un  Tillage'  will  suffice  for 
guide  book.  No  one  would  be  bold 
enough  to  attempt  any  description  of 
Gargilesse  and  its  scenery  after  George 
Sand. 

M.  BETHAM-EDWARDS. 


390 


THE  SOCIALISTIC  TENDENCIES  OF  MODERN  DEMOCRACY. 


I  HAVE  undertaken  to  address  you  to- 
night on  one  of  the  gravest  and  most 
practical  questions  that  can  engage 
the  attention  of  such  an  audience  on 
the  opening  of  a  new  Parliament, 
elected,  for  the  first  time,  by  universal 
household  suffrage.  It  is  the  question 
whether  the  Socialistic  tendencies 
which  all  must  recognise  in  modern 
Democracy  are  to  be  accepted  as  irre- 
sistible, or  treated  as  capable  of  being 
checked  and  guided  ;  how  far  they  are 
favourable,  and  how  far  adverse,  to 
social  progress,  in  its  highest  sense  ; 
and  what  attitude  towards  them 
should  be  adopted  by  one  who  is 
neither  a  theorist  nor  an  agitator,  but 
simply  desires  to  promote  the  happi- 
ness of  men,  women,  and  children — 
the  supreme  object  of  true  statesman- 
ship. In  approaching  this  question,  I 
do  not  propose  to  occupy  your  time  by 
labouring  to  show  that  we  are  actually 
face  to  face  with  the  perils  and  the 
responsibilities,  the  privileges  and  the 
aspirations,  of  Democratic  Government. 
I  regard  the  Reform  Act  of  last  year 
as  having  crowned  and  consummated 
the  effect  of  causes  long  in  operation, 
and  as  having  converted  the  British 
Constitution  into  a  Democracy,  con- 
ducted under  monarchical  forms  and 
not  without  aristocratic  safeguards, 
but  still  a  genuine  and  typical  Demo- 
cracy. Henceforth,  the  ultimate  con- 
trol of  national  policy  is  lodged,  if  not 
in  the  whole  people,  yet  in  the  heads 
of  households  and  a  very  large  body 
of  non-householders  in  town  and 
country ;  while  electoral  power  is  so 
distributed  as  to  leave  few,  if  any, 
breakwaters  of  personal  influence  to 
stand  out  athwart  the  current  of  the 
popular  will.  This  is  Democracy — 
the  government  of  the  people  by  the 
people;  and  as  modern  Democracy 

1  An  address  delivered  at  the  Birmingham 
and  Midland  Institute  on  February  8,  1886. 


visibly  moves  in  a  Socialistic  direction, 
it  is  well  that  we  should  clearly  realise 
the  nature  and  probable  results  of 
that  movement — at  least,  so  far  as 
concerns  this  country. 

When  I  attribute  Socialistic  tenden- 
cies to  Democracy,  as  it  is  now  estab- 
lished in  England,  I  desire  to  limit 
the  meaning  of  the  word  "  Socialism  " 
for  the  purpose  of  our  present  inquiry. 
Let  us  at  once  dismiss  from  considera- 
tion the  wild  and  criminal  schemes  of 
foreign  Nihilists  and  Anarchists 
which  are  incompatible  with  the  exis- 
tence of  organised  society,  whether  on 
the  basis  of  Socialism  or  on  that  of 
individual  liberty.  Such  projects  have 
found  little  acceptance  in  England, 
and  are  not  even  countenanced  by  the 
Socialistic  programme  of  the  Democra- 
tic Federation.2  The  grand  object  of 
that  programme  was  described  by  Mr. 
Hyndinan,  in  his  discussion  with  Mr. 
Bradlaugh,ras  "an  endeavour  to  sub- 
stitute for  the  anarchical  struggle  or 
fight  for  existence,  an  organised  co- 
operation for  existence."  This  is  as  plau- 
sible as  it  is  vague  ;  but,  as  Mr.  Brad- 
laugh  pointed  out,  the  means  proposed 
for  the  achievement  of  this  object  are 
the  abolition  and  destruction  of  indi- 
vidual property ;  if  possible,  by  argu- 
ment ;  if  not,  by  force.  Not  only 
does  the  Democratic  Federation  dis- 
tinctly advocate  the  so-called  "  nation- 
alisation "  of  railways  and  shipping, 
but  it  adopts  the  plan  shamelessly 
expounded  in  the  well-known  treatise 
of  Mr.  Henry  George  on  '  Progress 
and  Poverty '  for  the  nationalisation 
of  land  without  respect  for  vested  inter- 
ests. "By  the  apostles  of  agrarian 
plunder,"  says  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith, 

2  A  few  hours  before  this  address  was  de- 
livered, the  West  End  of  London  was  the  scene 
of  a  disgraceful  riot,  attended  by  pillage,  con- 
sequent on  a  meeting  of  Social  Democrats  held 
in  Trafalgar  Square. 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


391 


*'  it  is  proposed  to  confiscate,  either 
openly,  or  under  the  thin  disguise  of 
the  taxing  power,  every  man's  free- 
hold— even  the  farm  which  the  settler 
has  just  reclaimed  by  the  sweat  of  his 
own  brow  from  the  wilderness.  And 
it  is  emphatically  added,  with  all  the 
exultation  of  insolent  injustice,  that 
no  compensation  is  to  be  allowed. 
That  the  State  has,  by  the  most  solemn 
and  repeated  guarantees,  ratified  pri- 
vate proprietorship  and  undertaken  to 
protect  it,  matters  nothing  ;  nor  even 
that  it  has  itself  recently  sold  the  land 
to  the  proprietor,  signed  the  deed  of 
sale,  and  received  the  payment.  That 
such  views  can  be  propounded  any- 
where but  in  a  robber's  den  or  a 
lunatic  asylum ;  still  more,  that  they 
can  find  respectful  hearers  ;  is  a  proof 
that  the  economical  world  is  in  a  state 
of  curious  perturbation." 

Happily,  the  Socialistic  tendencies 
of  English  Democracy  have  not  yet 
been  forced  into  the  grooves  carved  out 
by  Mr.  Henry  George  or  the  Demo- 
cratic Federation.  Widespread  as  they 
are,  they  have  never  shaped  themselves 
into  a  creed,  nor  is  it  by  any  means 
easy  to  bring  within  the  compass  of 
any  one  definite  conception  the  various 
Socialistic  ideas  now  floating  in  the 
Democratic  atmosphere.  We  are  bound, 
however,  to  make  the  effort,  and 
perhaps  we  may  best  realise  the  nature 
of  the  Socialism  which  now  claims  our 
allegiance  in  this  country  by  clearly 
identifying  the  ideas  against  which  it 
is  a  protest.  One  of  these  ideas  is  the 
so-called  laissez  faire  principle ;  that 
is,  the  principle  which  regards  the  free 
play  of  individual  liberty  as  the  best 
security  for  the  good  of  society,  and 
State  intervention  as  an  evil  only  to 
be  justified  by  extreme  necessity. 
Another  is  the  principle  of  proprietary 
right,  which,  in  its  extreme  form, 
treats  property  as  a  creature  of  nature 
or  of  Providence  rather  than  of  human 
law,  and  condemns  legislative  restric- 
tions of  it,  for  the  supposed  interest 
of  the  community,  not  only  as  inex- 
pedient but  as  unjust.  A  third  is  the 
principle  according  to  which  competi- 


tion, and  not  co-operation,  is  the 
soundest  mainspring  of  human  pro- 
gress, and  the  best  regulator  of  social 
life.  The  popular  Socialism  of  the 
present  day  is  the  negation  and 
antithesis  of  these  ideas.  It  embraces 
a  great  variety  of  theories,  but  its 
aspirations  are  specially  directed  to- 
wards equalising  the  distribution  of 
wealth  in  the  community,  by  means  of 
direct  State  interference  with  free- 
dom of  contract  and  individual  pro- 
prietorship. This  is  the  form  of 
Socialism  which  I  have  in  view  to- 
night when  I  proceed  to  examine  the 
"  Socialistic  tendencies  of  Democracy." 
No  doubt  the  phrase  has  been  loosely 
applied,  by  friends  as  well  as  by  foes, 
to  many  other  Democratic  measures, 
some  of  which  have  already  been 
adopted  by  Parliament.  But  a  little 
consideration  will  show  that  most  of 
these  are  derived  from  entirely  distinct 
principles,  and  that  our  proposed  defi- 
nition embraces  nearly  all  the  claims 
of  legislative  reform  now  current, 
which  directly  conflict  with  the  rights 
of  liberty  and  property,  as  hitherto 
understood. 

1.  For  instance,  a  whole  series  of 
Acts  in  our  Statute-book  is  directed  to 
check  monopolies  and  privileges  of 
various  kinds,  commercial  and  other- 
wise. Such  monopolies  and  privileges 
are  inconsistent  with  the  industrial 
equality  dear  to  Socialists,  but  they 
are  equally  inconsistent  with  the  in- 
dustrial liberty  dear  to  anti-Socialists ; 
and  the  policy  which  prohibits  them 
is  dictated  not  by  a  desire  to  increase 
the  protective  sphere  of  State-inter- 
ference, but,  on  the  contrary,  by  a 
desire  to  set  free  individual  competi- 
tion. These  Acts,  therefore,  are  the 
reverse  of  Socialistic.  Again,  the 
substitution  of  equal  division  for  the 
law  of  Primogeniture,  as  the  rule  of 
descent  for  landed  property  on  in- 
testacy, would  be  in  no  respect  a 
Socialistic  reform.  It  would  tend, 
indeed,  so  far  as  it  operated,  to 
equalise  the  possession  of  landed  pro- 
perty in  the  community — which  is  a 
Socialistic  object ;  but  it  would  in- 


392 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


volve  no  interference,  direct  or  even 
indirect,  on  the  part  of  the  State  with 
freedom  of  disposition. 

2.  There  are  instances  in  which  the 
distribution  of  wealth  is  more  or  less 
affected  by  legislation,  which,  however, 
cannot  be  truly  described  as  Socialistic, 
because  it  does  not  restrict  individual 
liberty.  But  there  are  other  instances 
in  which  the  word  "  Socialistic "  is 
erroneously  applied  to  measures  which 
do  indeed,  more  or  less,  restrict  indivi- 
dual liberty,  but  do  not  affect  either 
the  action  of  competition  or  the  distri- 
bution of  wealth.  Such  are  the 
Sanitary  Acts  and  the  Education  Acts. 
The  principle  of  these  Acts  is  no  more 
Socialistic  than  the  principle  of  the 
old  Common  Law,  which  is,  in  fact, 
the  principle  of  all  law.  The  old 
Common  Law  prohibited  nuisances, 
and  gave  every  man  a  right  to  prose- 
cute a  neighbour  who  should  pollute 
his  well  or  injure  the  health  of  his 
family  by  neglect  of  drainage,  though 
it  did  not  actually  legalise  drainage 
rates  and  water  rates.  On  the  other 
hand,  at  Common  Law,  every  able- 
bodied  man  was  liable  to  be  called 
out  for  compulsory  military  service. 
In  these  days  military  service  is 
voluntary,  while  taxation  for  drainage 
and  water  supply  is  compulsory ;  but 
the  principle  is  exactly  the  same,  and 
the  object  in  both  cases  is  not  the 
equalisation  of  fortunes,  but  the  good 
of  the  community.  Still  more  empha- 
tically may  this  be  said  of  the  Edu- 
cation Acts.  Assuredly  it  was  not 
the  poorer  classes  who  clamoured  for 
education  to  be  given  to  them  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  rich.  On  the  contrary,  the 
movement  came  from  above.  It  was 
the  State  that,  for  its  own  purposes, 
compelled  the  poorer  classes  to  have 
their  children  educated,  and  to  forego 
their  earnings,  however  unwilling  they 
might  be  to  do  so  ;  :and  even  to  pay 
school-fees,  except  where  extreme 
destitution  could  be  pleaded.  It  is  a 
very  serious  question  whether,  in 
enforcing  this  obligation,  the  State 
was  not  bound  to  go  a  step  further 
and  to  establish  free  schools ;  but,  at 


all  events,  a  system  which  lays  a  heavy 
burden  on  the  poor  for  a  public  object 
which  few  of  them  appreciate  cannot 
justly  be  called  Socialistic.  No  doubt, 
the  larger  proportion  of  sanitary  and 
education  rates  is  paid  by  those  who 
derive  less  direct  benefit  from  them  ; 
but  this  result  is  accidental;  and,  if 
this  be  Socialism,  it  must  be  Socialism 
to  levy  taxes  for  keeping  up  prisons 
from  honest  men  who  are  never  likely 
to  be  lodged  in  gaol. 

3.  For  like  reasons,  we  cannot  regard 
as  Socialistic  the  numerous  measures 
which  have  been  passed  of  late  years 
for  the  protection  of  various  classes, 
whether  or  not  they  encroach  on  free- 
dom of  contract,  if  they  do  not  attempt 
to  enrich  one  man  at  the  expense  of 
another.  If  the  Factory  Laws  enacted 
that  women  and  children  should  only 
work  half-time,  but  should  be  paid  for 
full-time,  such  an  enactment,  futile 
as  it  might  be,  would  be  clearly 
Socialistic.  So,  too,  would  be  an 
Employers'  Liability  Act  declaring  that 
no  deduction  should  be  made  from  the 
wages  of  any  workman  by  reason  of 
the  new  liability  thereby  imposed  upon 
the  employer ;  or  an  Artisans'  Dwelling 
Act,  forbidding  more  than  a  certain 
low  rent  to  be  demanded  from  each 
family  occupying  a  tenement.  But 
there  are  no  such  provisions  in  the 
actual  Factory  Acts,  or  the  Employers' 
Liability  Act,  or  the  Artisans'  Dwell- 
ing Act ;  and  they  do  not  become 
Socialistic  merely  because  their  aim  is 
protective,  or  their  effect  levelling. 
All  remedial  Acts  must  needs  benefit 
most  those  weak  and  struggling 
classes  for  whose  relief  they  are  de- 
signed ;  and  all  impartial  taxation 
must  needs  extract  a  larger  contribu- 
tion per  head  from  the  rich  than  from 
the  poor.  But  this  is  not  Socialism  ; 
and,  if  it  were,  no  Christian  Govern- 
ment would  be  possible  except  on  a 
Socialistic  basis.  It  is  a  fallacy, 
countenanced  alike  by  cunning  advo- 
cates of  Socialism  and  by  partisans  of 
the  Liberty  and  Property  Defence 
League,  that  every  legislative  restraint 
of  individual  liberty  is,  in  its  essence, 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


393 


Socialistic.  From  this  point  of  view, 
we  can  only  escape  from  Socialism  by 
letting  every  man  do  that  which  is 
right  in  his  own  eyes,  regardless  of 
his  neighbour;  and  not  only  commercial 
protection  but  all  protection  is  but  a 
practical  application  of  the  Socialistic 
gospel.  No  wonder  that  Socialism, 
obscured  by  such  a  confusion  of 
thought,  should  appear  as  the  in- 
separable companion  of  modern  De- 
mocracy. For  it  is  now  self-evident 
that,  however  sound  within  the  sphere 
of  exchange,  the  free  play  of  indivi- 
dual liberty  and  interest  cannot  satisfy 
all  the  requirements  of  humanity  and 
justice  recognised  by  Democracy.  We 
must  get  beyond  it,  in  various  direc- 
tions, and  if  getting  beyond  it  in  any 
direction  amounts  to  Socialism,  then 
we  must  all  be  Socialists. 

Having  thus  glanced  at  some  ex- 
amples of  remedial  legislation,  mis- 
called Socialistic,  let  us  consider  a 
single  typical  example  of  truly  Social- 
istic legislation,  the  nature  of  which 
is  seldom  realised — I  mean  the  English 
Poor  Law.  If  society,  and  not  in- 
dividuals, were  responsible  for  bringing 
children  into  the  world — if  the  State 
could  rigorously  limit  the  number  of 
its  citizens  and  regulate  their  industry 
— it  would  naturally  undertake  the 
burden  of  maintaining  the  sick  and 
decrepit,  unless,  indeed,'  it  should 
enforce  thrift  by  a  system  of  compul- 
sory national  insurance.  Inasmuch, 
however,  as  marriage  is  free  to  all, 
and  no  check  is  or  can  be  placed  on 
the  increase  of  population,  a  law 
which  guarantees  to  every  new-comer, 
however  unwelcome,  a  bare  subsistence 
at  least,  and  protects  him,  at  the 
expense  of  others,  against  the  proper 
consequences  of  his  own  improvidence, 
vice,  or  crime,  is  pure  Socialism  and 
nothing  else.  To  levy  rates  upon 
struggling  workpeople  for  the  support 
of  worthless  idlers  and  their  children, 
legitimate  or  illegitimate,  is  a  deliber- 
ate interference  of  the  State  with  the 
action  of  natural  laws  in  the  lowest 
stratum  of  the  community,  and  re- 
sults in  impoverishing  the  worthier, 
to  save  from  starvation,  if  not  to 


enrich,  the  less  worthy.  Yet  this 
law,  dating  from  an  age  in  which  the 
name  of  Socialism  was  unknown, 
is  consecrated  by  public  opinion  and 
the  usage  of  three  centuries,  nor  could 
it  be  repealed  without  shocking  our 
sense  of  humanity.  But  if  the  Poor 
Law  itself  be  Socialistic  in  principle, 
what  are  we  to  say  of  the  claims  some- 
times preferred  on  behalf  of  those  who 
happen  to  inhabit  certain  overcrowded 
quarters  of  London  ?  It  may  be  well 
to  state  these  claims  nakedly  and 
without  disguise.  "Here,"  it  is  urged, 
"  are  so  many  thousands  of  us  living 
upon  a  certain  area ;  we  claim  the 
right  to  remain  there,  for  we  do  not 
mean  to  migrate,  nor  yet  to  emigrate, 
still  less  to  go  into  the  workhouse. 
We  further  claim  the  right  to  multiply 
at  our  own  discretion,  and  it  is  possible 
that  we  may  be  reinforced  by  new 
settlers  pressing  in  from  the  country, 
especially  if  Government  should  com- 
ply with  our  demand.  That  demand 
is  that,  however  numerous  we  may 
become,  jostling  each  other  like  rabbits 
in  a  warren,  and  however  little  our 
labour  may  be  required,  a  sufficient 
maintenance  and  decent  homes  shall 
be  provided  for  all  of  us,  at  the  cost 
of  the  community,  not  elsewhere,  but 
on  this  very  spot,  to  which  by  our  own 
free  will  we  are  rooted."  Of  course, 
the  bare  statement  of  such  a  claim  is 
its  best  refutation,  but  the  fact  that 
something  very  like  this  has  been 
seriously  advanced  is  a  fact  that 
cannot  be  ignored  in  discussing  the 
"  Socialistic  tendencies  of  Democracy." 
It  remains  to  determine  the  sources  of 
these  tendencies,  as  we  now  see  them 
in  operation,  to  examine  some  of  the 
legislative  proposals  to  which  they 
have  given  birth,  and  to  consider 
how  far  they  ought  to  be  encouraged 
or  resisted  by  a  wise  statesman. 

One  thing  is  certain.  The  Socialism 
now  imported  into  English  politics  is 
essentially  English,  and  of  essentially 
modern  origin.  It  has  little  in  com- 
mon with  the  paternal  despotism  of 
the  State  under  the  ancient  republics 
or  feudal  monarchies — a  despotism  of 
which  some  traditions  survive  in  the 


394 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


combination  of  Democracy  with  State 
control  on  the  Continent  of  Europe. 
Though  English  Democracy  is  much 
less  Socialistic  than  French  or  German 
Democracy,  it  must  be  confessed  that 
most  of  the  external  causes  which 
favour  the  spread  of  modern  Socialism 
have  operated  with  peculiar  intensity 
in  England.  "Nowhere  else  is  the 
contrast  more  appalling  between  the 
lot  of  Dives  and  the  lot  of  Lazarus, 
and  nowhere  else  is  this  contrast  so 
emphasised  and  stereotyped  as  it  is  by 
the  English  institution  of  Primogeni- 
ture, with  all  its  far-reaching  conse- 
quences. In  no  other  country  is  the 
gulf  between  manufacturer  and  work- 
man more  impassable,  or  the  class 
prejudices  of  workmen  more  liable  to 
be  stimulated  by  their  aggregation 
into  great  factories  and  their  visible 
separation  both  from  the  mercantile 
aristocracy  and  from  the  bourgeoisie.  In 
no  other  country  have  the  small  work- 
ing employers,  and  other  intermediate 
links  between  capital  and  labour,  been 
more  nearly  crushed  out  by  the  de- 
velopment of  industrial  organisation. 
In  no  other  do  so  few  husbandmen 
own  the  lands  which  they  cultivate ; 
in  no  other  is  landed  property  con- 
centrated in  the  hands  of  a  landed 
aristocracy  so  weak  numerically,  and 
so  constantly  decreasing.  No  other 
Legislature  has  adopted  and  applied 
Free  Trade  doctrines  so  consistently  as 
our  own,  whereas  no  other  body  of 
workpeople  in  Europe  have  carried 
the  system  of  Trade-Unionism  to  such 
perfection  as  the  English."  * 

But  the  Socialistic  tendencies  of  our 
new  Democracy  are  not  merely  the 
product  of  such  external  causes  as 
these.  They  also  represent  a  profound 
reaction  against  that  faith  in  indi- 
vidual rights  and  individual  freedom 
which  has  governed  the  ideas  of  most 
political  reformers  in  England  since 
the  days  of  Adam  Smith,  and  has 
been  re-asserted,  in  an  extreme  form, 
by  the  Liberty  and  Property  Defence 
League.  It  is  not  so  much  that  men 

1  See  an  article  by  the  present  writer  on 
'  Democracy  and  Socialism '  in  the  '  Nineteenth 
Century  '  for  April,  1884. 


have'again  begun  to  idolise,  as  they  once 
did,  the  collective  wisdom  of  the  State, 
as  such,  or  to  maintain  its  capacity  to 
preside,  like  an  earthly  Providence, 
over  the  social  life  of  its  citizens.  It 
is  rather  that  large  classes  of  indi- 
vidual citizens,  and  especially  those 
who  have  most  to  gain  by  change,  are 
eager  to  employ  the  powerful  machi- 
nery of  government  now  placed  within 
their  grasp  for  the  redress  of  their 
supposed  grievances,  and  the  attain- 
ment of  their  favourite  objects.  It  is 
felt,  and  not  without  reason,  that  indi- 
viduality and  free  competition,  the 
struggle  for  existence  and  the  law  of 
supply  and  demand,  have  now  had  a 
full  trial,  and  have  failed  to  produce 
the  happiness  or  contentment  which 
their  earlier  advocates  expected  of 
them.  It  is  believed  that  all  which 
could  be  gained,  in  the  long  run,  by 
the  action  of  these  principles,  at  the 
cost  of  infinite  waste  and  suffering, 
may  be  gained  far  more  speedily  and 
surelyjby  co-operation  and  organisation, 
and  that  without  any  countervailing 
loss.  It  is  hoped  that,  by  some  fortu- 
nate adjustment  of  providential  laws, 
the  harvest  of  liberty  may  be  reaped 
without  sowing,  and  the  benefits  of 
State  protection  secured  without  the 
sacrifice  of  personal  energy  and 
independence. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  show  else- 
where how  these  Socialistic  forces, 
material  and  moral,  have  been  hap- 
pily tempered  in  England  by  a 
multitude  of  modifying  influences — 
such  as  the  national  sense  of  humanity 
and  justice,  the  wide  diffusion  of 
charity,  both  private  and  public,  the 
right  of  public  meeting,  the  freedom 
of  the  Press,  the  general  recognition 
of  promotion  by  merit,  the  absence  of 
conscription,  the  infinite  development 
of  association  on  lines  ever  crossing 
and  intersecting  class-divisions,  the 
kindly  intercourse  between  gentle  and 
simple  in  country  districts,  and  the 
sacred  traditions  of  family  life  in  the 
English  home.  To  these  and  other 
like  characteristics  of  English  society 
we  probably  owe  our  immunity  from 
those  violent  and  Communistic  forms 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


395 


of  Socialism  which  have  occasionally 
broken  out  into  volcanic  eruption  on 
the  Continent.  For  let  it  be  observed, 
once  for  all,  that  Communistic  Social- 
ism is  one  thing,  Constitutional  Social- 
ism is  another.  Communistic  Socialism 
aims  at  levelling  down  by  confiscating 
all  private  fortunes,  abolishing  the 
institution  of  property,  and  destroying 
all  motive  for  personal  industry ;  Con- 
stitutional Socialism  aims  at  levelling 
up,  and  purports  to  conserve  all  the 
vigour  of  individual  activity,  and  even 
to  respect  legitimate  property,  while 
it  seeks  to  cripple  the  excessive  power 
of  wealth  by  subjecting  it  to  a 
constant  process  of  depletion. 

In  order  to  estimate  the  lengths  to 
which  Socialistic  ideas  have  been  car- 
ried in  practical  schemes  for  Democratic 
legislation  in  England,  we  cannot  do 
better  than  review  briefly  some  lead- 
ing articles  of  the  so-called  '  Radical 
Programme' — a  volume  which  has  been 
widely  circulated  of  late ;  not  that  it 
possesses  the  slightest  authority,  but 
that  it  contains  a  convenient  repertory 
of  the  demands  actually  preferred, 
during  the  late  election,  on  behalf  of 
the  new  Democracy. 

We  may  at  once  put  aside  as  foreign 
to  our  subject  those  demands  which 
relate  to  the  payment  of  members,  the 
abolition  of  the  Upper  House,  the 
destruction  of  the  Established  Church, 
the  Democratic  reform  of  Local  Govern- 
ment, and  the  creation  of  a  National 
Council  for  Ireland.  These  demands 
may  be  reasonable  and  constitutional, 
or  they  may  be  revolutionary  and 
mischievous ;  but  there  is  nothing 
Socialistic  in  their  principle.  Almost 
the  same  may  be  said  of  the  demand 
for  free  education ;  for  though  it  may 
be  advocated  in  a  Socialistic  tone,  it 
is  capable,  as  we  have  seen,  of  being 
supported  by  non-Socialistic  argu- 
ments. But  what  are  we  to  say  of 
such  proposals  as  those  for  confiscating 
and  redistributing  the  revenues  of  the 
Church  ;  for  reforming  the  whole  Eng- 
lish system  of  land  tenure  in  the 
interest  of  tenants  and  labourers  \  for 
unsettling  the  whole  basis  of  taxation  in 
the  interest  of  the  proletariat ;  for  dele- 


gating to  public  bodies  with  sweeping 
powers  the  duty  of  housing  the  poor 
comfortably,  and  providing  them  with 
allotments ;  for  the  "  restitution  "  of 
land  improperly  inclosed,  and  for 
nationalising  corporate  property  1  Let 
us  look  at  one  or  two  of  these  pro 
posals  more  closely,  with  a  view  to 
ascertain  how  far  they  are  Socialistic 
in  principle  ;  whether  or  not  they  be 
defensible  on  independent  grounds. 

1.  The  proposed  scheme  for  disen- 
dowing the  Church  rests  on  the 
assumption  that  Church  property  is 
State  property,  and  may  be  reappro- 
priated  by  the  State,  from  time  to 
time,  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole 
nation.  This  assumption  is  not  strictly 
accurate.  True  it  is  that  the  Church, 
as  such,  has  no  personality  and  no 
property  of  its  own,  though  it  consists 
of  many  thousand  corporations,  each 
of  which  holds  property.  But  the 
same  rule  applies  equally  to  endowed 
charities  ;  and  it  would  be  more  cor- 
rect to  say  that  all  corporate  property, 
ecclesiastical  or  otherwise,  is  held,  and 
always  has  been  held,  at  the  disposal 
of  the  State,  with  exceptions  in  favour 
of  vested  interests  and  modern  en- 
dowments. The  Church  of  Christ  is  a 
spiritual  body,  unknown  to  law;  but 
the  Church  of  England  is  a  creation  of 
the  law,  and  it  is  the  law  alone  which 
secures  parochial  revenues  to  clergy- 
men of  the  Anglican  communion, 
excluding  Roman  Catholic  priests — 
whose  tenets  are  more  in  harmony 
with  those  of  the  original  donors — and 
Nonconformist  ministers,  who  decline 
episcopal  ordination.  It  would  be  a 
Socialistic  measure  to  seize  all  these 
revenues,  without  compensation  to 
living  incumbents  or  patrons,  and 
divide  them  among  the  ministers  of 
all  denominations,  or  among  the  rate- 
payers of  England.  It  would  be  a 
scarcely  less  Socialistic  measure  to 
confiscate  endowments  bestowed  on  the 
National  Church  by  private  donors, 
without  also  confiscating  those  be- 
stowed under  like  conditions,  and 
within  the  same  limits  of  time,  on 
other  religious  communions.  Subject, 
however,  to  such  reservations,  what- 


396 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


ever  may  be  said  against  disendow- 
ment,  on  religious  or  political  grounds, 
there  would  be  no  Socialism  in  apply- 
ing public  Church  property,  inherited 
from  bygone  ages,  with  due  regard  for 
vested  interests,  to  any  purpose  of 
national  utility, 

2.  Several  of  the  popular  schemes 
of  agrarian  reform  are  far  more  dis- 
tinctively    Socialistic,    and    far    less 
defensible    on    principles   of    justice. 
This  Socialistic  bias  in  dealing  with 
questions  relating  to  land  is  the  more 
remarkable  because  an  exactly  oppo- 
site bias  is  characteristic  of  Continental 
Socialism.     In  France,  for  instance,  it 
is  capital  invested    in    trade  against 
which  all  the  attacks  of  Socialism  are 
directed.     In  the  forcible  language  of 
Mr.   Goldwin  Smith,    "Capital,  spelt 
with  a  big  initial  letter,  swells  into  a 
malignant  giant — the  personal  enemy 
of  Labour  ;  spelt  in  the  natural  way, 
it  is   simply  that  with  which  Labour 
starts  on  any  enterprise,  and  without 
which  no  labour  can  exist  at  all,  unless 
it  be  that  of  the  savage  grubbing  roots 
with  his  nails."     On  the  other  hand, 
among  French  Socialists,  property  in 
land    is    not    only  tolerated    but  re- 
spected.    No  one  proposes  to  alter  the 
articles  in  the  Code  Napoleon  which 
regulate  land-tenure ;  and  these  arti- 
cles, while  they  compel  sub-division  on 
death,  are  otherwise  founded  on  the 
strictest  principles  of  contract.     This 
contrast  between  the  views  of  French 
and  English  Radicals  in  regard  to  land 
is  most  significant,   and  admits  of  a 
very  simple  explanation.     In  France, 
the  landowners  are  reckoned  by  mil- 
lions,  and  no  man  dares  to   propose 
despoiling  them  ;  in  England,  they  are 
reckoned  by  thousands,  and  many  of 
them  are  rich  enough  to  offer  a  tempt- 
ing bait  for  Socialistic  cupidity.      The 
authors  of  the   '  Radical  Programme  ' 
are  shrewd  enough  to  see  through  the 
enormous  fallacies  which  underlie  Mr. 
George's  scheme  for  "  nationalising  " 
land,  and  point  out  that  it  could  only 
be  worked  by  a  long  series  of  whole- 
sale confiscations.      But  they  do  not 
see  the  equally  palpable  fallacies  which 
underlie  their  own  schemes  of  philan- 


thropic    robbery,    veiled    under    the 
specious  name  of  "restitution."    They 
tacitly  assume  that  every  man  has  a 
right    to    marry    when     he    pleases, 
whether  or  not  he  possesses  the  means 
to  maintain  children  ;   and  that  every 
child  so    born  into  the  world  has  a 
right,    not    to    maintenance,    a    free 
education  only,  but  to  a   slice  of  his 
native  soil  (perhaps  "  three  acres  and 
a  cow  ") — not  against  his  parents,  who 
are  responsible  for  his  existence,  but 
against    society   which,    if    it    could, 
would  have  prevented  his  coming  into 
the  world  at  all.     They  assume  that 
the    present    generation    of    English 
labourers  inherits  the  rights  and  the 
wrongs  of  the  old  English  peasantry, 
and  can  justly  claim  the  restoration  of 
lands  from  which  their  forefathers  are 
supposed   to  have  been  ousted — as  if 
many  of  them  were  not  descended  from 
landless   serfs,  others  from  town  arti- 
sans, others  from  the  very  landlords 
who    are    held     up     to    obloquy    as 
oppressors ;  while,   if  their   hereditary 
right  were  admitted,  they  would  have 
to  share  their  patrimony  with  millions 
of  cousins  who  are  now  peopling  the 
continents  of  America  and  Australia,    j 
They  assume,  conversely,  that  nearly 
all  landowners  derive  their  title  from    \ 
a  line  of  ancestors,  and  are  rolling  in 
ill-gotten  wealth  ;  whereas  a  very  large 
proportion   of    them   have   purchased    j 
their  estates  out  of  trade  earnings,  or 
are  the  sons  of  those  who  so  purchased 
them ;  and  many  thousands  of  the  rest 
would  now  be  in    rags  if  they  were 
living  on  their  rentals  alone,  and  are 
actually  subsidising  their  landed  pro 
perty  out  of  other  sources  of  income. 
They  assume — as  it  was  assumed  by 
those  simple    people  who    killed  the 
goose  that  laid  the  golden  eggs — they 
assume    that,    after     destroying    the 
security  of  landed   property  and  the 
mutual  confidence  between  the  classes 
engaged  in  agriculture,  capital  would 
flow  into  agriculture  more  freely  than 
ever,  and  all  the  fruits  which  spring 
from  security  and  confidence  would  be 
enjoyed  in  still  greater  abundance. 

To  refute  such  assumptions  as  these 
would  be  to  give   elementary  lessons 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


397 


in  moral  philosophy  and  political 
economy ;  yet  upon  them  are  based 
Socialistic  doctrines  which  have  been 
widely  accepted.  For  instance,  when 
it  is  urged  that  house  property  in 
towns  should  be  taken  for  purposes  of 
improvement  at  less  than  its  market 
value,  it  is  seldom  realised  how  much 
of  this  property  belongs  to  struggling 
men  who  have  invested  their  savings 
in  it,  and  might  be  half  ruined  by  its 
partial  confiscation.  When  the  demo- 
lition of  illegal  inclosures  on  common 
land  is  loudly  demanded,  it  is  forgot- 
ten how  many  of  such  encroachments 
have  been  made  by  poor  squatters, 
whose  children  or  grandchildren  are 
now  living  upon  them  in  perfect  inno- 
cence ;  and  it  is  also  forgotten  how 
many  popular  rights  stand  or  fall 
with  these  very  rules  of  prescription 
which  are  so  lightly  swept  aside. 
When  "fair  rents"  and  "  free  sale  " 
are  advocated  in  the  same  breath 
as  cardinal  points  of  the  new 
agricultural  charter,  it  is  not  per- 
ceived that  "free  sale  "must  inevit- 
ably kill  "fair  rent  "—that  is,  that 
on  the  next  transfer  of  a  tenancy 
under  "  free  sale,"  the  price  to  be  paid 
by  the  incoming  tenant  will  be  large 
in  proportion  as  the  rent  is  low,  and 
the  interest  upon  that  sum,  together 
with  the  "  fair  rent,"  must  needs 
amount  to  a  full  rack  rent.  When 
"  fixity  of  tenure "  is  propounded  in 
another  clause  of  the  same  charter,  it 
is  not  only  overlooked  that  onesided 
fixity  of  tenure  is  unjust — that  a 
tenant  ought  not  to  have  a  right  of 
remaining  on  a  farm,  unless  the  land- 
lord has  a  corresponding  right  of  keep- 
ing him  there ;  it  is  also  overlooked 
that  a  landlord  may  happen  to  be 
poor,  and  a  tenant  may  happen  to  be 
rich,  in  which  case  Dives  would  be 
quartered  on  the  homestead  of  Laza- 
rus, at  a  minimum  rent,  and  without 
the  possibility  of  being  removed. 

These  are  but  specimens  of  the  un- 
reasoning injustice  into  which  men 
who  desire  to  be  reasonable  and  just 
are  hurried  by  the  shallow  logic  of 
Socialism,  by  which  the  'Radical 
Programme '  is  largely  tainted.  "  The 


problem,"  we  are  told,  "  is  how  to 
make  life  worth  living  for  those  to 
whom  it  is  now  a  prolonged  misery." 
The  one  solution  proposed,  under 
various  forms,  is  the  impoverishment 
of  those  who  have,  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  have  not ;  and  the  authors 
appear  blind  to  all  but  the  momentary 
relief  which  might  be  thus  obtained. 
Perhaps  they  never  heard  of  Bastiat's 
famous  discourse  on  '  That  which  is 
Seen  and  that  which  is  not  Seen.' 
They  see,  at  least  in  imagination,  free 
schools  all  over  the  country  supported 
out  of  the  revenues .  of  a  disendowed 
Church.  What  they  do  not  see  is  the 
gradual  extinction  of  numberless  charit- 
able agencies  now  centred  in  the 
parish  clergyman  and  his  family,  or 
the  diversion  of  numberless  subscrip- 
tions from  their  present  objects  for 
the  support  of  the  minister  deprived 
of  his  tithes.  They  see  the  immediate 
advantage  to  accrue  from  the  expro- 
priation of  A  and  the  taxation  of  B 
for  the  purpose  of  erecting  C  into  a 
peasant  proprietor.  What  they  do 
not  see  is  the  difficulty  of  keeping  C  a 
peasant  proprietor,  of  saving  him 
from  the  hands  of  the  money  lender, 
and  of  preventing  him  from  letting 
his  land  at  an  extortionate  rent  to 
some  more  enterprising  or  industrious 
neighbour.  They  see  the  arguments — 
and  they  are  very  strong — in  favour 
of  a  graduated  Income  Tax,  as  en- 
couraging a  more  equal  distribution  of 
wealth  in  the  country.  What  they 
do  not  see  is  its  tendency  to  check  the 
accumulation  of  capital,  the  sole  reser- 
voir of  wages,  or  the  utter  impossi- 
bility of  limiting  such  a  principle,  if  it 
were  once  introduced.  They  see  the 
palpable  blessings  which  might  be 
realised  by  a  liberal  expenditure  out 
of  the  rates  for  the  benefit  of  the  most 
destitute  class.  What  they  do  not 
see  is  the  burden  thereby  imposed  on 
the  poorer  ratepayers,  themselves  on 
the  brink  of  pauperism,  or  the  cer- 
tainty of  improvidence  and  over-popu- 
lation being  stimulated  by  the  diminu- 
tion of  the  motives  for  industry.  They 
see  the  evils  incident  to  individual 
ownership  of  land,  and  unrestricted 


398 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


competition  in  trade  or  manufacture. 
What  they  do  not  see  is  the  risk  of 
colossal  jobbery  and  mismanagement 
in  the  corporate  ownership  of  land, 
the  hardship  to  consumers  involved  in 
restrictions  on  trade  or  manufactures, 
or  the  paralysis  of  individual  enter- 
prise sure  to  ensue  ;  though  all  of  these 
consequences  have  been  amply  demon- 
strated by  past  experience.  In  a 
word,  the  views  of  Socialistic  re- 
formers, though  honest,  are  eminently 
narrow  and  shortsighted.  They  are 
impatient  of  those  slow,  but  sure, 
processes  which  have  their  counterpart 
in  Nature,  and  by  which  economical 
laws,  no  less  than  physical  laws,  vin- 
dicate themselves  in  "the  long  run." 
The  very  idea  of  "the  long  run"  is 
repulsive  to  them,  since  their  sole  aim 
is  to  meet  the  pressure  of  present 
exigencies.  As  for  the  future,  they 
are  content  to  leave  it  to  grapple  with 
the  ruin  which  they  would  bequeath 
to  it ;  and  as  for  the  past,  they  con- 
fidently but  ignorantly  appeal  to  it  as 
attesting  the  failure  of  the  laissez- 
faire  system,  of  which  they  speak  as 
if  it  were  an  evil  power,  knowing  no- 
thing of  the  miseries  which  preceded 
the  development  of  it. 

But  is  there  really  no  alternative 
between  this  system  and  the  crude 
Socialistic  proposals  to  which  the  new 
Democracy  lends  so  ready  an  ear? 
This  is  a  question  which  every  states- 
man ought  now  to  ask  himself,  and 
which,  happily,  admits — if  not  of  a 
conclusive,  yet  of  a  definite,  answer. 
Between  the  principle  of  absolute  non- 
intervention and  the  revolutionary 
principle  of  meddlesome  interference 
with  individual  freedom,  lies  the  whole 
sphere  of  legislative  evolution  and 
constructive  reform.  A  single  example 
already  noticed  will  illustrate  the 
direction  which  such  legislation  may 
take.  More  than  forty  years  ago  the 
national  conscience  was  shocked  by 
revelations  of  over-work  on  miserably 
small  wages,  especially  among  women 
and  children,  in  factories.  Had  the 
Legislature  adopted  short  -  sighted 
counsels,  it  might  have  attempted  to 
fix  a  minimum  rate  of  wages,  at  so 


much    per    hour,  leaving    the    work- 
people to   fix   their    own    number  of 
hours.       In    this    attempt    it    would 
assuredly  have  failed,  and  might  very 
probably  have  aggravated  the  evil  to  be 
cured.     Instead  of  this,  it  left  wages 
to   regulate   themselves,    and   limited 
the    hours    of    work,    nominally    for 
women  and  children,  but  incidentally 
for  all  factory  workers.     The   result 
has  been,  on  the  whole,  economically 
successful,    as    well    as    beneficial  to 
health  and  morals  ;  actually  showing 
that  a  greater  product,   with    better 
profits  and  higher  wages,  may  be  ob- 
tained   from  reduced  hours  of  work. 
Here   the    Legislature   wisely    antici- 
pated the  operation  of  natural  laws, 
and  saved  an  important  class  of  the 
population    the    necessity  of  working 
out  its  own  salvation  at  a  great  cost 
of  needless  suffering.  A  similar  lesson 
may  be   learned  from  the  history  of 
the  Poor  Law.     When  the  Poor  Law 
relief  was    so   administered  as   to  be 
practically  a  rate  in  aid  of  wages,  and 
able-bodied  men  were  pensioned  off  at 
the  expense  of  their  neighbours,  the 
rural  labourers  were  pauperised  and 
demoralised    by  it ;    when  the  work- 
house test  was  firmly  but  judiciously 
enforced,  not  only  was  thrift  encour- 
aged, but  the  standard  of  wages  was 
sensibly  raised.     What  such  examples 
show  is  that  legislation  which  may  be 
called    Socialistic  is   not   always  mis- 
chievous ;   but   that  it  needs   a   high 
order  of  statesmanship  to  distinguish 
between    the    cheap    form    of    State 
intervention  which    defeats    its    own 
object,  and  the  rarer  form  which,  like 
the  art  of  the   skilful   physician,  aids 
and  strengthens  the  remedial  forces  of 
nature.    Those  who  still  idolise  "  the 
State"  would  do  well  to  ask  themselves 
what  "  the  State  "  really  is ;  and  how  it 
is  possible  for  it  to  possess  any  wisdom 
beyond  that  which  it  derives  from  the 
individuals  who  constitute  it.     They 
would  then  discover  that,    after  all, 
the  object   of  their  worship  is  not  a 
Supreme,  nor  even  a  Superior,  being ; 
but  only  a  convenient  expression  for 
ministers,    Parliamentary   representa- 
tives and  officials,  more  or  less  capable 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


399 


and  more  or  less  public-spirited,  but 
creatures  of  like  passions  with  our- 
selves, quite  as  fallible,  more  open  to 
motives  of  jobbery,  and  far  less  com- 
petent to  manage  property  than  in- 
dividual owners  personally  looking 
after  their  own  affairs  on  the  spot, 
knowing  their  own  wants  and  studying 
their  own  interests.  Having  realised 
this,  once  for  all,  they  could  not  fail 
to  see  why  the  presumption  should 
always  be  in  favour  of  individual 
liberty ;  subject,  however,  to  many 
necessary  exceptions.  Of  course,  no 
strict  rules  can  be  laid  down  for 
determining  in  what  cases  it  may  be 
wise  to  set  aside  this  presumption, 
and  to  substitute  legislative  compulsion 
for  the  law  of  liberty.  But  there  are 
some  principles  which  may  help  to  guide 
us,  and  to  save  us  from  delusive 
projects  for  regenerating  society  with- 
out regenerating  the  units  of  which 
it  is  composed. 

Foremost  among  these  principles  is 
a  scrupulous  regard  for  justice  between 
man  and  man.  It  may  possibly  be 
right,  for  instance,  to  regulate  agri- 
cultural tenancies  by  law ;  but  it 
cannot  possibly  be  right  to  frame  a 
one-sided  code  of  regulation — to  enable 
a  tenant  to  get  his  rent  reduced 
without  his  landlord's  consent,  but  to 
disable  the  landlord  from  getting  it 
raised  without  his  tenant's  consent. 
It  may  be  right,  because  for  the  public 
good,  to  facilitate  the  hiring,  or  even 
the  purchase,  of  small  plots  by  cot- 
tagers, through  the  agency  of  village 
corporations  ;  but  it  cannot  be  right  to 
give  A  B  the  power  of  claiming 
"  restitution "  from  C  D,  on  the 
absurd  plea  that  A  B  may  be  de- 
scended from  some  one  who  may  have 
been  evicted,  several  generations  ago, 
by  some  one  else  who  may  have  been 
the  remote  ancestor  of  C  D.  It  may 
be  right  to  recognise  the  fact  that,  in 
past  ages,  the  interests  of  peasants 
and  artisans  were  too  much  neglected 
by  a  Parliament  composed  of  the  landed 
and  commercial  aristocracy,  not  out  of 
ill-will  or  selfishness,  but  out  of  pure 
ignorance  ;  and  that,  in  order  to  make 
up  arrears  of  reform  in  a  Democratic 


sense,  some  knots  must  be  cut  which 
never  ought  to  have  been  tied.  But  it 
cannot  be  right  to  redress  unconscious 
class-legislation  in  the  past  by  wilful 
and  deliberate  class-legislation  in  the 
present.  It  may  be  right  to  pave  the 
way  by  well-advised  measures  for  a 
more  equal  distribution  of  fortunes  in 
the  near  future ;  but  it  cannot  be 
right  to  rob  Peter  to  pay  Paul,  to 
strip  men  of  property  honestly  ac- 
quired under  the  guarantee  of  the 
law,  and  to  consecrate  a  new  era  of 
Equality  and  Fraternity,  without 
Liberty,  by  a  flagrant  breach  of 
public  faith. 

Happily,  no  such  violation  of  mo- 
rality is  involved  in  the  advance  of 
Democracy  if  only  it  be  wisely  led — 
not  in  the  spirit  of  Cleon,  but  in  that 
of  Pericles.  During  the  blood-stained 
rule  of  the  Paris  Commune,  two  ideas, 
essentially  distinct,  were  persistently 
confounded — the  idea  of  Communism, 
and  the  idea  of  Communalism.  The 
Communal  idea,  instead  of  being  radi- 
cally opposed  to  individuality,  is 
really  the  extreme  assertion  of  local 
individuality,  and  the  right  of  self- 
government,  against  the  central 
authority.  The  Communistic  idea  is, 
logically,  the  negation  of  all  indivi- 
duality, and  especially  of  the  individual 
right  to  property.  Now,  it  is  the 
former  idea,  and  not  the  latter,  which 
is  in  harmony  with  the  best  and 
deepest  instincts  of  modern  Democracy. 
The  pride  of  citizenship,  as  it  was  felt 
in  ancient  Athens,  and  as  it  is  now 
felt  in  the  United  States,  not  only 
does  not  foster  Communistic  senti- 
ment, but  is  actually  an  antidote  to 
it.  Hence  it  is  that  America,  though 
it  is  the  favourite  trial-ground  of  social 
experiments,  is  very  little  affected  by 
the  doctrines  of  Socialism,  and  still 
less  by  those  of  Communism.  In  pro- 
portion as  a  true  manly  self-respect 
is  developed  in  a  nation  or  in  a  class, 
the  sense  of  weakness  out  of  which 
springs  the  gregarious  craving  for 
State-protection  will  gradually  die  out, 
and  give  place  to  nobler  aspirations. 
True  Democracy  will  not  long  tolerate 
false  Socialism ;  for  true  Democracy 


400 


The  Socialistic  Tendencies  of  Modern  Democracy. 


asserts,  what  false  Socialism  denies, 
the  supremacy  and  independence  of 
the  individual  soul.  Not  only  in  the 
material  universe,  but  in  the  realm  of 
social  and  political  speculation,  the 
poet's  words  are  still  as  true  as 
ever : — 

"  Though  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 

roll, 

Round  us,  each  with  differing  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, — 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? " 

Democracy  in  its  infancy  may  trifle 
with  Socialism,  and  use  it,  so  to  speak, 
as  a  plaything  ;  but  full-grown  Demo- 
cracy will  be  far  more  likely  to  insist, 
with  John  Stuart  Mill,  on  the  inde- 
feasible rights  of  each  man's  free  will, 
except  where  they  come  into  direct  col- 
lision with  the  no  less  sacred  rights  of 
other  men's  free  will.  It  will  submit 
to  limitations  imposed  by  an  authority 
responsible  to  itself,  for  the  sake  of 
securing  the  greatest  happiness  of  the 
greatest  number ;  but  it  will  be  very 
impatient  of  restrictions  imposed  by 
an  authority  so  far  removed  from  its 
own  control  as  a  Central  Government 
or  a  National  Committee  of  Lands 
and  Public  "Works.  In  other  words, 
it  will  be  Communalistic,  but  it  will 
not  be  Communistic. 

The  Socialistic  tendencies  of  Demo- 
cracy, then,  are  not  to  be  condemned 
or  resisted  as  evil  in  themselves,  but 
only  as  needing  wise  and  statesman- 
like guidance.  They  are  mischievous, 
if  they  encourage  a  felonious  craving 
for  other  men's  property ;  they  are 
beneficial,  if  they  inspire  honest  efforts 
to  combine  Liberty  with  Equality  and 
Fraternity.  They  are  delusive,  so  far 
as  they  spring  from  a  superstitious 
faith  in  an  imaginary  State  above 
all  the  prejudices  and  weaknesses  of 
human  nature,  infallible  in  its  judg- 
ment, and  incorruptible  in  its  action  ; 
they  are  worse  than  delusive,  so  far  as 
they  call  upon  this  earthly  Provi- 
dence not  to  deliver  us  from,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  to  gratify,  the  passions 
of  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  un- 


charitableness.  But  they  are  sound 
and  healthy  so  far  as  they  foster 
an  earnest  and  robust  faith  in  self- 
government,  as  a  means  of  securing 
higher  ends  than  mere  national  de- 
fence or  internal  police.  The  cynical 
view  of  human  affairs  which  led  Goethe 
and  the  first  Napoleon  to  despise  all 
schemes  of  "world  bettering"  can 
have,  and  ought  to  have,  no  place 
in  a  Democratic  age.  Political  co- 
operation may  effect  much  good  which 
could  never  be  attained  through  a 
mere  struggle  for  existence  among 
individuals;  and  the  community  has 
the  power  of  largely  improving  the 
material  and  moral  condition  of  its 
members.  Only  we  must  never  for- 
get that,  after  all,  civilisation  is  the 
creation  of  individual  energy,  and  that 
it  is  the  character  of  the  individual 
members  which  must  determine  the 
character  of  the  community.  No  arbi- 
trary transfer  of  property,  no  organi- 
sation of  industry,  no  artificial  creation 
of  social  equality,  can  supply  the  place 
of  intelligence,  of  temperance,  of  in- 
tegrity, of  self-restraint,  or  of  public 
spirit ;  and  the  Socialistic  Utopia  de- 
mands for  its  maintenance  a  diffusion 
of  the  Christian  virtues  such  as  has 
never  yet  been  witnessed  in  the  his- 
tory of  mankind.  It  is  vain  to  expect 
of  Democratic  statecraft  that  which  is 
the  proper  task  of  morality  and  re- 
ligion ;  and  if  the  lessons  taught  on 
the  hills  of  Galilee  two  thousand  years 
ago  had  been  laid  to  heart  by  the 
human  race,  there  would  be  little 
need  or  room  for  the  doctrines  of 
modern  Socialistic  reformers.  For 
these  doctrines,  so  far  as  they  are 
true,  are  little  more  than  an  appli- 
cation of  Gospel  precepts  to  social 
politics ;  and  if  Democracy,  rising 
above  the  selfish  counsels  of  dema- 
gogues, should  ever  seek  to  realise  its 
own  highest  ideal,  it  will  do  well  to 
seek  inspiration,  not  from  the  bor- 
rowed light  of  Socialism,  but  from  the 
original  light  of  Christianity  itself. 

GEORGE  C.  BRODRICK. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


APRIL,  1886. 


A    LEGEND    OF    ANOTHER    WORLD. 

BY    THE   AUTHOR   OF    'A    STRANGE    TEMPTATION/ 


INTRODUCTION. 

AMONG  the  papers  of  the  late  distin- 
guished astronomer  and  inventor, 
Dickinson  Elliott  Jones,  there  has 
been  found  one  which  bears  on  the 
outside  a  singular  explanatory  state- 
ment. It  is  well  known  that  Mr. 
Elliott  Jones  professed,  during  the 
later  years  of  his  life,  to  have  dis- 
covered a  highly  practicable  method 
of  visiting  the  planets,  and  even  of 
reaching  the  nearer  tixed  stars.  He 
referred  to  this  knowledge  when  he 
desired  to  account  for  his  mysterious 
periodical  disappearances,  which  dis- 
appearances have  never  indeed  re- 
ceived any  satisfactory  explanation. 
In  the  absence  of  positive  proof,  how- 
ever, the  possibility  of  his  having 
taken  journeys  through  space  in  a 
manner  which — not  to  mention  other 
difficulties — must  have  been  incon- 
ceivably rapid,  cannot  for  a  moment 
be  entertained.  Mr.  Elliott  Jones 
always  refused  to  give  any  hint  of  the 
details  of  his  marvellous  discovery. 
On  this  point,  therefore,  he  must  have 
been  subject  to  some  hallucination, 
although  on  other  points  his  mind 
remained  clear  and  subtle  to  the  last. 
In  the  solution  of  difficult  scientific 
problems  his  help  was  always  wel- 
come ;  on  points  of  astronomical 
inquiry  his  opinion  was  invariably 
received  with  respect  by  his  fellow- 
scientists.  He  even  furnished  us  with 
No.  318.— VOL.  LIII. 


much  information  concerning  the 
heavenly  bodies — proved  correct  by 
subsequent  experiment — which  could 
not  have  been  obtained  originally  by 
any  known  method  of  observation. 
How  he  procured  this  information  he 
never  revealed  to  us,  and  the  secret  is 
now  unhappily  lost  by  his  death. 

The  one  defect  in  his  character  or 
intelligence — we  hardly  know  where 
to  place  it — this  instinct  of  secrecy 
combined  with  a  claim  to  extravagant 
personal  power,  interferes  with  the 
great  value  which  would  otherwise 
attach  to  all  his  written  works.  The 
document  of  which  I  now  speak 
claims,  by  his  notes  upon  it,  to  be 
the  substance  of  a  narrative  related 
to  him  by  a  very  extraordinary  in- 
dividual ;  a  man  who  was  an  inhabitant 
of  another  world,  and  who,  even  in 
that  world,  was  an  exception  and  a 
mystery.  He  was  reputed  to  be  many 
generations  old,  and  none  of  those 
with  whom  he  lived  knew  anything 
of  his  origin.  Of  this  old  man,  and 
the  world  in  which  he  lived,  and  the 
people  who  inhabited  it  with  him, 
Mr.  Elliott  Jones  left  a  full  and 
particular  account,  which  it  is  not  my 
purpose  to  offer  here.  It  is  sufficient 
to  say  that  the  old  man  who  told  his 
story  had  a  reputation  for  great 
knowledge  and  a  character  of  great 
benevolence.  He  was  consulted  by 
his  countrymen — like  our  friend  Mr. 
Jones — on  all  abstruse  and  difficult 

D   D 


402 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


questions ;  bub,  on  the  point  of  his 
personal  history  and  individual  power 
he  was — again  like  our  friend  Mr. 
Jones — reputed  to  be  somewhat  mad. 
As  the  editor  of  the  papers  of  the  late 
Mr.  Elliott  Jones  (for  whom  I  had  a 
very  warm  affection  and  admiration), 
it  is  not  for  me  to  pass  any  opinion 
upon  the  weight  to  be  attached  to  the 
document  which  I  now  put  before  the 
public.  I  give  it  as  I  found  it.  It 
seems  to  me,  however,  that,  whether  it 
•  s  regarded  as  the  history  of  an  actual, 
though  apparently  impossible,  life,  or 
only  as  the  work  of  my  friend's  too 
ardent  imagination,  it  may  be  accepted 
as  a  contribution  (fragmentary,  in- 
deed, but  not  without  suggestiveness) 
to  that  discussion  on  the  value  of  life 
and  the  growth  of  creatures  in  the 
direction  of  happiness  or  misery,  which 
has  occupied  so  much  of  the  attention 
of  modern  society.  Without  further 
preface,  then,  I  offer  the  story  as  I 
found  it  among  my  friend's  papers. 


Because  I  loved  iny  fellows  with  a 
love  which  absorbed  my  whole  heart, 
and  because  I  had  no  desires  for  my 
own  happiness,  the  great  gift  was 
granted  to  me  of  a  term  of  life  beyond 
that  which  was  accorded  unto  others. 
Generations  were  born  and  died,  na- 
tions rose  and  fell,  and  still  I  was  left 
alive  to  work  among  the  new  races, 
and  to  help  them  with  my  knowledge. 
This  gift  was  bestowed  on  me  because 
it  was  not  for  myself  that  I  desired 
it,  perhaps  because  for  myself  I  desired 
nothing;  it  may  be  that  I  hold  it 
only  on  these  conditions,  but  that 
indeed  I  cannot  tell.  From  the  days 
of  my  first  youth  a  great  love  and  a 
great  compassion  has  had  possession 
of  me  whenever  I  have  looked  upon  the 
toiling  multitudes  around.  I  have  seen 
them  in  their  early  ignorance  strug- 
gling dumbly  with  physical  troubles 
and  wresting  from  nature  a  diffi- 
cult and  painful  existence.  I  have 
watched  them  in  their  later  luxury 
becoming  the  victims  of  indolence  and 
melancholy,  of  a  hundred  diseases  and 


a  thousand  sins  inherited  with  the 
wealth  and  the  knowledge  of  their 
forefathers.  If  you  ask  me  which  state 
was  the  worse  I  cannot  tell  you ;  I 
only  know  that  in  the  first  there  was 
a  great  hope,  and  in  the  last  there  is 
a  deep  despair. 

It  is  many  ages  since  the  gift  of  a 
long  life  was  bestowed  on  me ;  none 
can  remember  the  granting  of  it  ; 
there  is  no  record  of  it  except  in  mv 
own  heart ;  and  none  will  believe  me 
when  I  speak  of  it.  It  was  a  great 
thing  to  have,  a  wonderful  thing. 
Many  had  desired  it  before  me,  and 
had  been  forced  to  go,  letting  their 
unfinished  task  drop  out  of  their 
hands.  To  me  only  was  it  said,  "  You 
have  the  ages  to  work  in ;  an  almost 
endless  life  is  yours  in  which  to  toil 
for  the  benefit  of  your  fellow  men  ; 
your  strength  shall  not  fail  while 
your  love  does  not  weary.  The  people 
may  find  in  you  a  benefactor  and  a 
teacher  who  shall  not  be  taken  from 
them." 

But  the  gift  that  was  bestowed  on 
me  was  too  great  for  a  man  to  endure. 
As  the  generations  went  by,  the  sum 
of  all  that  I  could  do  to  serve  them 
seemed  small  compared  with  the  sum 
of  their  sorrows  and  their  needs ;  for 
these  seemed  to  grow  with  the  ages, 
and  could  not  be  checked  nor  changed. 
Then  I  said  in  my  heart  at  last, 
"There  is  no  remedy,  nor  any  hope; 
for  every  new  life  makes  a  new  sorrow, 
and  every  new  circumstance  breeds  a 
new  pain.  My  help  is  only  as  a  straw 
in  the  torrent  of  tribulation  which 
roars  onwards  through  the  ages  and 
will  never  be  dried  up."  And  in  my 
despair  I  went  away  from  the  people 
to  a  great  solitude  where  I  could 
brood  without  interruption  over  the 
sorrows  of  the  world,  seeking  always 
for  some  thought  or  some  hope  which 
might  bring  to  it  healing  and  help. 

But  no  thought  would  come  to 
me,  nor  any  hope,  save  one  :  "It 
would  be  better  for  this  suffering 
people  that  death  should  fall  upon 
them  swiftly,  a  painless  death,  over- 
taking them  like  a  sleep  from  which 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


403 


they  may  never  awaken."  Like  a 
whisper  came  these  words  in  answer 
to  my  thought :  "  This  gift  also  is 
yours,  because  you  have  desired  it 
unselfishly.  Behold,  it  is  in  your 
hands  to  do  even  as  you  have  said." 

But  I  was  afraid,  and  shrank  back 
.  from  the  power  which  was  offered  to 
me  ;  for  I  knew  not,  nor  know  I  fully 
now,  whether  it  was  given  as  a  re- 
ward of  my  great  love,  or  a  trial  of 
my  sincerity  and  constancy  of  purpose; 
or  even  as  a  punishment  for  my  over- 
weening ambition  to  stand  against 
the  tide  of  things  and  to  protect  my 
own  people  from  the  woes  appointed 
to  them  to  bear. 

Instead  of  turning  my  hasty 
thought  into  an  irremediable  act,  I 
went  down  once  more  among  the 
people  and — with  that  great  power 
unused  in  my  hands — I  saw,  as  I  had 
never  seen  before,  the  joy  and  the 
gladness  of  life.  Babies  clapped  their 
hands  in  the  sunlight,  and  children 
laughed  gleefully  at  their  play  ;  lovers 
plighted  their  troth  without  fear  or 
foreboding,  and  mothers  led  their 
boys  proudly  by  the  hand,  showing 
them  the  world  which  they  were  to 
conquer  ;  husbands,  while  they  kissed 
their  wives,  thanked  them  for  the 
love  which  made  life  beautiful ;  sisters 
and  brothers  rejoiced  in  the  happiness 
of  each  other  ;  and  young  girls  looked 
out  upon  life  with  sweet  expectant 
eyes,  certain  of  praise  and  affection, 
and  many  good  things  to  come.  The 
painter  gloried  in  his  picture,  the 
author  loved  his  book.  In  every  trade 
and  every  profession  were  men  who 
delighted  in  their  task  and  who  put 
their  best  strength  joyfully  into  it. 
Beyond  all  these  joys,  and  common  to 
all  men,  were  other  good  things ;  the 
loveliness  of  the  skies  and  of  the 
world,  of  moving  seas  and  growing 
trees  and  running  waters  ;  the  beauty 
of  music,  of  perfumes,  of  form,  and  of 
colour  ;  the  ecstasy  of  motion  and  the 
sweetness  of  rest ;  the  pleasant  cheer- 
fulness of  social  intercourse  and  the 
peaceful  influences  of  solitude  \  the 
satisfaction  of  originating  a  new 


thought,  and  the  joy  of  feasting  on 
the  thoughts  of  greater  men ;  the 
pleasure  of  approbation  and  the  happi- 
ness of  worship.  Beholding  all  these 
things,  I  said,  "  Is  not  life  a  good 
thing  after  all  ?  How  should  I  dare 
to  take  it  from  those  who  have  not 
had  their  full  portion  ?  " 

So  I  waited  and  put  .the  gift  by. 
But  the  old  sadness  returned,  and  I 
only  lied  to  myself  when  I  said  that  I 
was  content ;  for  always  the  sum  of 
the  evil  was  greater  than  the  sum  of  the 
good,  and  if  a  few  were  happy  many 
more  were  miserable.  Not  a  single 
life  was  perfect ;  not  a  single  joy 
went  on  to  the  end.  The  pleasure  of 
one  seemed  to  bring  the  trouble  of 
another  ;  for  the  balance  of  things 
was  awry,  and  the  weight  lay  heavy  on 
the  side  of  evil. 

As  I  watched  the  people,  and  waited, 
and  doubted  (having  still  that  power 
in  my  hands  to  use  as  I  would),  I  saw 
that  as  they  grew  more  unhappy  they 
grew  more  wicked  also  ;  for  the  strong 
races  are  purified  by  suffering,  but  the 
weaker  ones  are  corrupted  ;  and  the 
strength  had  gone  from  my  people ; 
only  the  obstinate  instinct  of  life,  the 
desperate  determination  to  snatch  en- 
joyment from  the  misery  around, 
survived  among  them.  Virtue  had 
begun  to  go  down  in  the  struggle  with 
vice,  and  generosity  to  retreat  dis 
couraged  before  the  advance  of  selfish- 
ness. Men  had  no  time  to  be  kind, 
and  no  power  to  be  good.  The  clear 
springs  of  the  most  innocent  lives 
seemed  to  be  polluted  at  their  source ; 
babies  were  born  to  sin  as  their  fathers 
had  sinned,  and  the  fairest  promise  of 
youth  carried  secretly  the  germ  of  its 
own  destruction.  The  moral  disease 
which  had  taken  root  among  the  people 
spread  upwards  and  downwards ;  it 
perverted  to  viciousness  the  simplest 
instincts  of  human  nature,  and  trans- 
formed to  selfishness  the  higher  intel- 
lectual tendencies.  Cruelty,  sensuality, 
and  the  pride  of  mental  power 
flourished  together.  Men  ceased  tc 
keep  faith  with  one  another ;  they 
began  to  despise  their  mothers :  most 
r>  D  2 


404 


A  Legend  of  Another    World. 


of  them  had  long  neglected  their 
wives.  The  strong  ill-treated  the 
weak,  and  the  weak  hated  and  lied 
to  the  strong.  Treachery  lurked  in 
every  corner  :  oppression  ruled  in  the 
name  of  order,  and  cruelty  abounded 
under  the  plea  of  necessity.  If  men 
were  unkind  to  each  other  they  were 
absolutely  pitiless  to  the  lower  crea- 
tures in  their  power.  Most  of  them 
had  long  ceased  to  worship  or  to  fol- 
low after  anything  except  their  own 
satisfaction  and  glory,  or — as  some 
among  them  preferred  to  put  it, 
loving  noble  names  for  ignoble  things 
— the  satisfaction  and  glory  of  their 
species.  A  few  indeed  kept  up  a 
fiction  of  belief  in  a  creating  power 
worthy  of  reverence,  but  this  power 
was  little  more  than  a  magnified  ideal 
of  their  own  desires.  They  did  not 
boast  that  they  were  made  in  the 
image  of  God  ;  rather  did  they  make 
their  God  in  the  image  of  themselves. 
He  was,  as  they  represented  Him,  the 
base  ally  of  the  human  race  in  its 
struggle  with  the  other  conscious 
creatures  of  His  making.  These  other 
creatures  He  had  abandoned — according 
to  their  showing — to  bhe  tender  mercies 
of  His  unworthy  favourite — man. 
Therefore  many  were  ill-treated  and 
tormented  in  the  name  of  pleasure, 
or  of  health,  or  of  science,  nay,  of 
humanity,  and  even  of  religion  itself : 
for  men  had  come  to  say  that  whatso- 
ever they  did  for  their  own  ultimate 
good,  was  good  in  itself,  absolutely 
and  always. 

And  still  they  waxed  no  happier. 
The  suffering  they  inflicted  seemed  to 
recoil  in  manifold  ways  upon  them- 
selves, until  at  last  I  could  endure  the 
sight  of  it  no  more;  for  I  thought, 
"  If  this  people,  whom  I  have  loved 
and  desired  to  help,  continue  in  their 
evil  ways,  I  shall  learn  to  hate  them 
at  last,  and  all  good  things  must  hate 
them,  and  there  will  be  no  help  for 
them  anywhere.  It  is  better  that  they 
should  die." 

Then,  in  one  night,  silently  and 
without  any  warning,  so  that  no  one 
suffered  fear  or  felt  a  single  pang,  I 


did  the  thing  that  had  been  given  to  me 
to  do ;  and  the  cities  of  the  living  be- 
came the  cities  of  the  dead.  The 
people  slept  and  awoke  no  more,  and 
with  them  slept  also  all  the  other  crea- 
tures of  the  world ;  and  I  was  left 
alone. 

The  greatness  of  the  act  sustained 
me  in  its  doing ;  but  when  it  was 
over  I  was  appalled  by  the  solitude 
I  had  made,  and  by  the  strange  great 
silence  which  followed,  as  if  it  had 
been  lurking  like  a  wild  beast  ready 
to  seize;  upon  the  desolation.  I  went 
down  to  the  lately  populous  places, 
and  trod  the  streets  where  my  foot- 
steps echoed  alone.  I  looked  on  the 
faces  of  the  dead,  but  I  did  not 
repent,  for  all  were  at  rest ;  and — for 
the  first  time  for  so  many  genera- 
tions— I  heard  no  sounds  of  weeping, 
nor  saw  any  signs  of  woe.  Yet  I 
think  I  should  have  been  glad  if  some 
little  thing,  some  lower  creature  which 
could  not  suffer  much  from  its  pro- 
longed consciousness,  had  escaped  the 
general  death,  to  be,  as  it  were,  a 
visible  shadow  of  my  own  life  in  the 
unpeopled  world.  That  life  of  mine, 
left  single  and  unlike  all  the  creation 
on  w^hich  I  looked,  became  immediately 
a  monstrosity  and  a  horror  to  me ;  it 
had  reached  beyond  its  proper  term, 
and  survived  its  natural  use.  How, 
then,  could  it  continue  to  be  ? 

The  first  few  hours  of  my  travel 
among  the  dead  seemed  indeed  as  long 
as  a  lifetime.?  A  dreadful  curiosity 
drove  me  through  the  silent  cities  ;  I 
wished  to  convince  myself  that  all 
their  inhabitants  were  of  a  certainty . 
asleep  for  ever,  that  none  had,  by  any 
chance,  escaped.  I  was  not  hungry, 
nor  thirsty  ;  the  need  to  eat  or  to  drink 
would  have  seemed  a  mockery  in  the 
face  of  all  these  people  whose  wants 
were  at  an  end  for  all  time.  My  own 
soul  seemed  dead  within  me,  and  my 
life  a  vision  and  no  reality. 

Towards  evening  I  came  upon  a 
house  where  there  was  a  cradle,  and  a 
baby  in  it.  I  stood  looking  at  the  child 
idly  for  a  moment,  having  seen  many 
such  sights  that  day  ;  but  there  was 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


405 


something  in  the  appearance  of  this 
little  baby  which  made  my  heart  begin 
to  beat  suddenly  and  violently.  Death 
could  not  terrify  me ;  it  was  life  that 
I  looked  upon  with  wonder  and  dismay. 
The  child  was  breathing,  slowly  and 
faintly,  more  faintly  every  moment ; 
but  it  was  breathing  still.  A  few 
hours  more  and  its  life  would  have 
ebbed  away,  the  last  wave  left  on  the 
shore  of  time  of  all  that  great  tide  so 
full  a  little  while  ago.  Should  I  leave 
it  to  die,  or  snatch  it  back  to  the  exist- 
ence it  had  scarcely  tasted  1 — an  exist- 
ence it  had  never  by  any  act  of  its  own 
polluted  or  forfeited.  The  tender 
beauty  of  its  face,  the  rounded  soft- 
ness of  its  limbs,  touched  me  with 
a  thrill  of  longing  tenderness.  Its 
little  hands,  rosy  and  dimpled,  drew 
me  towards  them,  helpless  as  they 
were,  with  a  giant's  strength. 

I  held  my  breath  as  I  gazed  upon 
it.  I,  who  had  desired  and  accom- 
plished the  annihilation  of  a  race, 
could  not  leave  this  single  little  one 
alone  to  die.  All  my  natural  instincts 
fought  for  the  child's  life,  yet  I  knew 
that  my  deeper  reason  had  willed  its 
death.  My  selfish  desires  for  a  com- 
panion of  my  solitude  had  dropped 
away  from  me ;  it  was  of  the  child 
alone  that  I  thought  as  I  watched  it, 
afraid  to  move  lest  so  I  should  decide 
its  fate  one  way  or  another. 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  this 
might  be  a  trial,  or  temptation,  to 
prove  the  reality  of  my  own  belief  in 
the  necessity  of  what  I  had  done ;  to 
test  whether  I  had  the  strength  to 
complete  what  I  had  begun.  I  did  not 
think  of  this.  I  thought  only  of  the 
child.  And  as  I  looked  I  forgot  one 
by  one  the  generations  of  the  past ;  all 
the  problems  of  life  slipped  from  me  ; 
I  had  no  memory  of  its  troubles  or  its 
losses.  I  saw  only  a  little  child,  a 
young  creature  whose  helplessness  ap- 
pealed for  help,  and  whose  innocence  de- 
manded a  cherishing  love.  I  bent  over 
it,  and  the  warmth  of  my  breath 
touched  its  cheeks ;  then  it  stretched 
its  dimpled  hands  and  uttered 
a  tiny  cry.  Without  any  will  of  my 


own,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me,  for 
thought  had  left  me,  and  instincts 
long  forgotten  had  full  possession  of 
me,  I  put  out  my  arms  and  lifted 
the  child  from  its  cradle. 


II. 

After  that  there  was  no  question  of 
leaving  it  to  die.  I  took  it  away  from 
the  cities  of  the  dead  to  the  solitary 
mountains,  where  there  was  no  rem- 
nant of  anything  that  had  had  a 
conscious  life.  I  nursed  it  back  to 
strength  ;  I  fed  it,  and  guarded  it,  and 
cherished  it ;  for  its  life  had  become 
mine,  and  I  had  no  thought  of  any 
other  thing. 

Those  were,  I  think,  the  happiest 
days  of  any  that  I  had  lived.  My 
great  yearning  to  be  a  healer  of 
trouble,  a  giver  of  love,  was  satisfied. 
In  my  arms  I  could  hold  all  the  life  of 
the  world,  with  my  hands  I  could  care 
for  it,  and  guard  it  and  caress  it.  In 
return  I  had — wonderful  indeed  to 
think  of — all  the  love  that  the  world 
contained  for  my  very  own  :  but  this 
latter  good  was  the  smallest  part  of 
my  joy ;  the  greater  blessing  was  my 
power  to  guard  from  trouble  the  life  I 
had  saved,  so  that  none  could  interfere 
to  work  it  any  woe. 

Sometimes,  however,  as  I  looked  at 
the  lovely  child,  when  she  had  learned 
to  speak  to  me,  and  to  run  about  with 
agile  feet,  I  wondered  if  sickness  and 
old  age  must  come  also  upon  her  as 
upon  her  forefathers.  From  these 
things  I  could  not  protect  her,  as  I 
could  from  want  and  wrong.  Her  very 
life  held  its  own  elements  of  decay, 
and  in  her  breast  lurked  those  in- 
herited instincts  of  generations  which 
might  some  day  demand  more  than  I 
could  give  her — a  more  passionate 
love,  a  fuller  life;  and  with  these 
things  the  trouble  that  they  bring. 

As  she  grew  older  she  proved  very 
gentle  and  obedient.  The  sins  of  her 
fathers  seemed  to  have  left  no  rebel- 
lious inclinations,  no  morbid  desires 
in  her  pure  spirit.  The  life  which  we 
lived  together  seemed  for  a  lorg  time 


406 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


to  satisfy  her  completely.  The  reve- 
rential affection  with  which  she  re- 
garded me  was  sufficient  to  occupy  her 
whole  heart. 

I  kept  her  away  from  the  cities  of 
the  dead,  from  those  vast  remains  of 
an  ancient  civilisation,  which  I  myself 
nevertheless  visited  from  time  to  time. 
We  read  books  together ;  books  chosen 
by  myself,  which  had  to  do  with  the 
larger  aspects  of  physical  creation,  and 
touched  little  on  its  human  element. 
And  yet,  as  she  grew  older  and  more 
thoughtful  every  day,  I  was  aware 
that  fancies  were  rising  in  her  mind 
which  it  would  be  difficult  to  treat 
with  wisdom.  She  gazed  at  me  often, 
with  a  sort  of  wonder  in  her  eyes. 
"  It  is  strange,  dear  father,"  she  said 
once,  "  that  there  should  be  only  you 
and  I,  just  two  and  no  more.  This  is 
such  a  great  world  that  we  live  in;  it 
has  room  for  so  many  others." 

And  again  she  observed  to  me,  when 
she  was  growing  tall  and  strangely 
fair  to  look  upon — 

"  I  change,  dear  father,  as  the  time 
goes  on.  I  remember  when  I  could 
not  look  through  the  window  of  my 
little  room  ;  now  I  am  tall  enough  to 
see  much  higher  than  that.  I  change, 
but  you  remain  always  the  same. 
Why  should  this  be  2  and  will  it  go 
on  for  ever  ?  " 

"  You  are  young,"  I  answered,  "  and 
not  yet  completely  grown.  I  came  to 
my  full  size  long  ago." 

"  What  is  it  to  be  young  ? "  she 
asked ;  "  and  are  there  any  other 
creatures  that  are  young  besides  me  ? 
The  things  that  we  see  around  us  do 
not  alter,  except  backwards  and  for- 
wards as  the  seasons  come  and  go. 
But  I  change  always  one  way,  and 
you  not  at  all." 

These  and  other  speculations  work- 
ing in  her  mind  produced  after  a  time 
a  certain  restlessness,  and  a  blind 
desire  to  reach  that  wider  knowledge 
of  which  she  perceived  dimly  the  indi- 
cations in  the  world  about  her  and 
in  my  teachings.  I  could  not  keep  her 
ignorant  for  ever  of  her  own  nature, 
and  of  the  history  of  her  race  :  but  I 


could  not  bear  to  hasten  by  any  reve- 
lation of  my  own  the  crisis  which 
must  come.  I  did  not  know  what 
mood  would  follow  a  full  understand- 
ing of  her  position ;  resignation  to  her 
lot,  so  peaceful,  but  so  isolated;  or 
bitter  disappointment  and  indignation 
against  me,  as  the  author  of  her 
strange  fate. 

The  crisis  came,  without  any  action 
of  mine  to  hasten  or  retard  it.  One 
day,  when  I  came  back  from  a  journey, 
I  missed  her  from  our  home.  She  had 
often  asked  me  why  I  went  away  and 
left  her  alone,  and  I  had  explained 
that  it  was  needful  for  me  to  seek 
from  time  to  time  fresh  stores  of  the 
things  which  we  used ;  she  was  not 
strong  enough,  so  I  told  her  truthfully, 
to  endure  the  fatigues  of  travel.  She 
never  asked  where  I  found  the  things 
I  brought  to  her,  nor  how  they  were 
made ;  she  had  a  boundless  confidence 
in  my  resources,  in  my  knowledge  and 
ingenuity ;  she  was  satisfied  to  accept 
what  I  offered  her,  and  to  use  it  as  I 
directed  her. 

But  now  she  was  gone,  and,  what- 
ever way  her  wandering  footsteps  took 
her,  she  could  not  fail  to  come  upon 
some  strange  memorials  of  the  past. 
She  might  indeed  travel  far  before  I 
could  trace  and  overtake  her;  she 
might  be  overcome  by  hunger  and 
fatigue.  I  felt  certain  that  it  would 
be  in  one  of  the  great  cities  that  1 
should  find  her,  because  she  must  in- 
evitably chance  upon  some  of  the 
ancient  roads  before  she  had  gone 
very  far,  and  one  of  these  she  would 
follow  to  see  what  they  meant  and 
whither  they  led.  It  was  inevitable 
that  she  should  see  things  it  would 
have  been  better  for  her  never  to  look 
upon,  and  learn  things  which  she  had 
better  not  have  known.  The  time  of 
her  happiest  ignorance  was  gone  for 
ever. 

In  a  city  of  the  dead  I  found  her  at 
last.  I  had  travelled  long  through  the 
silent  streets  and  peered  often  into  the 
silent  houses.  There  was  no  one  from 
whom  I  could  ask  any  tidings  of  my 
lost  darling-;  no  one  to  tell  me  if  her 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


40- 


delicate  feet  had  trodden  those  solitary 
ways,  or  her  sweet  young  eyes  looked 
in  upon  the  grim  remains  of  death. 

So  many  years  had  passed  away, 
since  the  night  of  the  great  death, 
that  the  most  terrible  and  dangerous 
effects  of  the  universal  mortality  were 
at  an  end.  The  houses  stood  as  when 
their  inhabitants  were  alive,  and  there 
had  been  none  to  bury  the  dead  ;  but 
at  least  these  had  lost  all  resemblance 
to  their  old  forms  in  life,  and  so  to 
any  form  that  my  darling  had  ever 
seen.  I  found  her  sitting  in  a  luxu- 
rious room  in  a  large  house,  leaning 
back  in  a  carved  chair,  and  looking 
with  wonder  and  curiosity,  but  with- 
out any  repugnance  or  terror,  on  the 
skeletons  who  were,  besides  herself, 
the  sole  inhabitants  of  the  place. 

"  Dear  father,"  she  said,  putting 
her  hands  out  to  me  with  a  smile, 
and  looking  at  me  as  if  my  discovery 
of  her  had  nothing  strange  in  it,  "  I 
am  glad  you  have  come.  I  am  tired, 
and  I  have  had  so  little  to  eat !  Be- 
sides, I  want  you  to  tell  me  many 
things.  What  a  strange  place  this  is  ! 
and  what  strange  carvings  these  are ! 
But  the  most  curious  thing  of  all  is 
that  they  should  be  dressed  in  clothes 
something  like  what  I  wear.  Who 
made  them  like  this?  and  did  you 
know  that  they  were  here  1 " 

I  took  her  hands,  and  my  own  trem- 
bled so  that  she  looked  down  on  them 
in  surprise. 

"  I  knew  of  them,"  I  answered  ; 
"  but  you  must  not  stay  where  they 
are.  It  is  bad  for  you  to  be  here." 

"I  do  not  feel  it  so.  I  like  it.  I 
should  like  to  stay.  It  seems  as  if 
some  one  had  lived  here  who  loved  the 
things  I  love,  and  gathered  them  all 
about  her.  But  there  never  was  any 
one,  was  there  1 "  she  asked  wistfully. 

I  spoke  to  her  with  more  sternness 
than  I  had  ever  used  before.  "  You 
must  come  away  at  once.  If  it  had 
been  good  for  you  to  be  here  I  should 
have  brought  you  myself.  You  ought 
to  have  known  that." 

She  rose  with  a  reluctant  sigh,  and 
followed  me  slowly,  pausing  half-way 


across  the  room  to  look  at  an  empty 
cradle. 

"  What  a  strange  little  bed  ! "  she 
remarked,  with  interest ;  "  something 
like  mine,  only  so  very  small ;  as  if  i 
might  have  slept  in  it  before  I  grew 
high  enough  to  look  through  the 
window.  Was  it  made  for  me  ?  Was 
there  ever  another  me  before  this 
one  1 " 

Some  fatality  might  have  led  her 
steps  to  that  house  and  to  that  room, 
for  she  was  looking  at  the  very  cradle 
from  which  I  had  taken  her.  I  hur- 
ried her  impatiently  away,  refusing  to 
answer  her  questions.  She  looked  at 
me  in  surprise  from  time  to  time,  often 
with  an  air  of  awakened  observation  ; 
something  other  than  the  old  complete 
confidence  in  me  and  docile  fidelity  to 
my  will  was  working  in  her  heart. 
She  was  ceasing  to  be  entirely  recep- 
tive ;  soon  she  might  become  critical. 

"How  many  homes!"  she  mur- 
mured, as  she  passed  along  the  streets, 
"  and  no  one  to  live  in  any  of  them  ! 
How  did  they  all  come  here,  gathered 
together  in  one  place  1  Did  they  grow 
like  trees  in  a  forest  ? " 

I  did  not  attempt  to  answer  all  her 
questions,  but  I  got  her  home  again 
as  soon  as  I  could.  Knowledge — a 
full  knowledge  of  the  life  she  had 
lost — could  only  bring  to  her  sadness 
and  discontent.  Her  present  per- 
plexity seemed  better  than  that,  and  I 
was  resolved  to  leave  her  in  ignorance 
as  long  as  it  was  possible.  She  could 
see  that,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
I  was  seriously  displeased  with  her ; 
yet  even  this  affected  her  less  than  it 
would  have  done  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances. When  we  reached  our  home, 
I  spoke  to  her  impressively. 

"  What  is  good  for  you  to  know  I 
will  tell  you  ;  what  is  good  for  you  to 
see  I  will  show  you,"  I  said,  holding 
her  hands  in  mine  and  looking  stead- 
fastly into  her  eyes.  "Promise  me 
that  you  will  never  again  seek  out 
new  things  alone." 

To  my  astonishment  she — who  had 
hitherto  been  so  obedient,  tender,  and 
sweetly  acquiescent — drew  her  hands 


408 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


from  mine,  covered  her  face  with 
them,  and  broke  out  into  passionate 
weeping. 

"I  cannot  promise,"  she  answered  ; 
"everything  that  I  have  I  owe  to 
you ;  without  you  I  should  be  nothing 
at  all.  I  wish  to  obey  you ;  I  will 
try  to  obey  you;  but  there  is  some- 
thing in  my  heart  stronger  than  you 
are,  and  so  I  cannot  promise." 

That  was  all  she  would  say  to  me ; 
and  from  that  time  I  knew  that  she 
cherished  many  thoughts  and  wishes 
of  which  she  never  spoke.  I  no  longer 
possessed  her  full  confidence.  She 
understood  that  there  existed  powers 
beyond  mine,  and  that,  even  of  the 
power  I  had,  I  had  not  offered  all  the 
results  to  her.  Yet  she  was  tender 
to  me,  very  tender  and  sweet,  as  if 
she  wished  to  make  up  to  me  by  grate- 
ful deeds  for  that  reserve  of  force,  of 
intention,  of  possible  rebellion,  in  her 
heart. 

One  day  she  brought  to  me  a  book, 
not  a  book  which  I  had  given  to  her, 
but  which  she  had  found  in  her  wan- 
derings among  the  habitations  of  the 
past.  She  had  been  studying  it  in 
secret,  and  it  was  a  love  story. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "who 
made  this  book,  and  what  it  means  ? 
It  tells  me  of  many  things  of  which 
you  have  never  spoken  at  all." 

I  could  not  lie  to  her,  though  truth 
must  bring  the  bitterness  of  conscious 
loss,  of  unavailing  desire.  If  she  knew 
that  I  lied  to  her  she  would  have 
none  left  to  trust  or  to  lean  upon ; 
she  could  not  fail  to  become  miserably 
aware  of  her  own  loneliness  and  help- 
less ignorance. 

"  It  tells  of  things  which  it  is  better 
for  you  not  to  know,"  I  answered. 
"  They  belong  to  the  past,  and  can 
never  be  again." 

"  Ah ! "  she  said,  her  eyes  glowing 
with  a  strange  light,  "then  it  is  all 
true  !  Others  have  lived  like  me,  and 
have  known  each  other,  and  have  been 
happy  together.  They  were  not  lonely 
asjl  am — oh,  not  for  ever  alone  !  " 

"  I  am  with  you,"  I  answered 
briefly. 


"You!"  she  said,  "you?"  Then 
she  paused  and  looked  at  me  con- 
templatively. "  You  are  not  like 
me,"  she  went  on,  with  deliberation. 
"  You  are  like  the  rocks  and  the  trees 
and  the  soil  and  the  light ;  always  the 
same,  always  giving  me  help,  never 
wanting  anything  back.  But  I — I 
change  from  day  to  day.  Life  is  full 
of  surprise  to  me,  and  of  longing.  I 
want  some  one  like  myself  to  be  my 
companion,  to  talk  with,  as  the  men 
and  women  talk  in  that  book.  I 
always  wondered  why — since  all  other 
things  were  many — there  should  be  but 
one  man  and  one  woman,  you  and  I. 
You  so  old  and  changeless ;  I  so  young 
and  full  of  change.  I  know  now  what 
it  is  to  be  young.  It  is  to  be  un- 
finished— not  as  you  are  ;  to  feel  new 
every  day — not  as  you  do  ;  to  be  in- 
complete, and  to  long  for  something 
outside  myself  ;  to  feel  the  need  of 
other  lives  to  mix  with  mine  ;  not  to 
be  satisfied  to  go  on  alone.  That  is 
what  it  is  to  be  young,  and  I  am 
young.  But  you — oh !  you  are  very 
old.  How  did  it  come  to  be  that  we 
are  alone  together  2  " 

"  Because  you  are  weak,  and  I  am 
strong,"  I  answered  her;  "because 
you  need  care,  and  I  can  give  it." 

"  I  would  rather  have  lived  when 
the  other  people  were  here,"  she 
replied  ;  "  then  we  could  have  helped 
one  another.  I  understand  now  why 
all  those  homes  stand  empty.  Once 
men  and  women  lived  there  and — loved 
each  other,  and — were  happy.  I  have 
learnt  many  beautiful  things  from  that 
book.  I  wish  you  had  taught  them 
to  me  before.  Tell  me  only  this  one 
thing — if  the  people  were  there  once, 
why  are  they  not  there  now? " 

"They  went  away  ;  they  will  never 
come  again,"  I  answered,  for  I  could 
not  speak  to  her  of  death.  In  the 
book  that  she  had  read  the  whole 
history  of  life  was  not  recorded,  only 
its  bright  beginning ;  and  of  death, 
towards  which  her  life  led  her,  to- 
wards which  her  bright,  expectant 
face  was  turned  in  all  unconscious- 
ness, she  knew  nothing. 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


409 


It  was  some  weeks  afterwards  that 
I  found  her  waiting  for  me  near  our 
home  as  I  turned  my  steps  thither  for 
our  evening  meal.  It  was  not  strange 
to  see  her  waiting  so  ;  but  it  was  very 
strange,  it.  was  wonderful,  that  she 
was  not  alone.  Destiny  had  found 
her,  and  had  defeated  me ;  for  a  kin- 
dred life  had  come  to  her  from  another 
world,  and  with  life  had  come  love, 
the  love  which  explained  life  to  her 
and  completed  it.  There  was  no  sur- 
prise in  her  eyes,  for  the  things  we 
have  desired  come  to  us  as  old  com- 
panions and  not  as  strangers  ;  rather 
was  there  a  look  of  radiant  happiness 
and  triumph. 

Her  companion  was  a  stranger  to 
me,  however.  He  was  not  a  creature 
of  our  world ;  he  belonged  to  a  race 
stronger  and  more  beautiful  than  my 
own ;  yet  he  was  not  wholly  unlike 
some  of  the  young  men  I  had  known, 
not  so  unlike  that  he  should  not  seem 
a  fitting  mate  for  the  beautiful  woman 
beside  him.  He  appeared  to  have  easily 
established  communication  with  her; 
but  to  me  he  was  silent,  regarding 
me  with  a  haughty  curiosity  as  I 
approached  them.  She  seemed  already 
to  belong  to  him;  and  she  met  me 
with  a  look  of  eager  gladness,  as  if 
I  must  certainly  rejoice  in  her  hap- 
piness, and  welcome  the  wonderful 
being  who  brought  it. 

"The  book  spoke  the  truth,"  she 
said.  "  There  are  others  alive  besides 
myself  :  others  who  are  young  as  I 
am,  and  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and 
sweet  to  live  with.  And  he — he  has 
come  from  another  world  to  find 
me." 

I  ought  to  have  slain  him  as  he 
stood  there  in  the  proud  conscious- 
ness of  his  youth,  splendour,  and 
strength,  with  that  serenity  of  aspect 
which  was  born  of  a  perfect  convic- 
tion of  his  own  claims  to  satisfaction, 
and  of  his  power  to  seize  it ;  with  that 
gracious  courtesy  of  manner  which 
partly  hid  his  haughtiness  and  was 
the  offspring  of  his  simple  selfishness 
of  purpose.  At  his  feet  lay  a  strange 
garment,  a  dark-coloured  wrap,  hooded 


and  winged,  the  ingenious  instrument 
of  his  transit  from  another  world. 

"  I  was  afraid  when  I  saw  him 
first/'  said  my  darling,  whose  eyes 
had  followed  mine.  "He  was  black 
and  dreadful  to  look  upon,  and  his 
face  was  hidden.  But  when  he  threw 
that  veil  away  and  stood  before  me, 
it — it  was  like  a  sun  bursting  from 
behind  a  hideous  cloud." 

She  caught  his  hand  as  she  spoke, 
with  her  white  caressing  fingers,  and 
looked  up  into  his  shining  eyes  with 
a  smile  of  love  and  confidence. 

I  ought  to  have  slain  him  as  he 
stood  there.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  her,  better  for  all  things — 
for  myself,  last  and  least  of  all.  He 
had  no  happiness  to  give  which  would 
not  bring  its  trouble,  though  my  dar- 
ling, with  her  face  towards  the  sun, 
could  not  see  the  shadow  it  cast  behind 
her.  I  had  no  right  to  undo  and 
destroy  the  great  gift  that  had  been 
granted  to  me  ;  I  had  no  right,  for 
the  sake  of  one  simple  girl,  to  let  the 
beautiful  world  become  once  more  the 
habitation  of  sorrow  that  grew,  and 
sin  that  increased  from  day  to  day. 

I  ought  to  have  slain  him.  It 
would  have  been  easy.  For  my  power 
was  greater  than  his,  in  spite  of  that 
dazzling  youthful  splendour  which  he 
had  about  him.  But  I  looked  at  my 
darling,  and  my  hand  was  stayed. 
Once  more,  for  the  sake  of  one  whose 
innocence  appealed  to  me,  I  forgot 
the  misery  of  a  world.  I  could  not 
bring  horror  to  the  eyes  where  glad- 
ness now  shone  ;  I  could  not  turn  the 
look  of  tenderness  with  which  she 
gazed  at  him  to  one  of  hate  for  me. 
I  could  not  teach  her  then  and  there 
what  death  was,  and  the  meaning  of 
sorrow  and  separation  and  despair.  I 
turned  and  left  them.  As  a  criminal 
flies  from  the  scene  of  his  crime  I  fled 
from  the  sight  of  the  happiness  which 
had  no  right  to  be,  longing  only  for 
that  death  to  come  to  me  which  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  give  to  another. 

I  did  not  die.  I  could  not  die.  My 
punishment  is  to  live.  For  a  time  my 
darling  was  happy ;  joyously  and 


410 


A  Legend  of  Another    World. 


laughingly  at  first,  afterwards  tenderly 
and  quietly.  Children  came  to  her, 
and  she  loved  them  with  a  passion  of 
delight,  as  if  they  were  gifts  that  none 
other  had  had  before — created  for 
the  employment  of  her  tenderness 
alone. 

Her  husband  was  kind  to  her,  in 
his  splendid,  lordly,  condescending 
fashion ;  but  he  spoke  to  her  little  of 
the  world  from  which  he  came,  and 
for  which  he  often  left  her.  He  told 
her  that  it  was  impossible  to  take  her 
with  him  on  these  visits,  and  he 
probably  had  no  desire  to  take  her. 
His  discovery  of  her  youth  and  beauty 
in  an  apparently  empty  and  abandoned 
world,  on  which  he  had  by  chance 
alighted,  had  been  a  pleasant  surprise 
to  him ;  he  had  taken  full  advantage 
of  the  circumstance,  but  he  did  not  let 
it  interfere  in  the  least  degree  with 
his  freedom  of  action.  He  left  me  to 
provide,  as  before,  for  the  material 
wants  of  his  wife,  and  of  her  children 
also.  He  told  her,  when  she  desired 
to  go  away  with  him,  that  she  was 
sweetest  and  best  as  he  had  found  her  ; 
that  intercourse  with  others  could 
only  spoil,  and  must  distress  her. 
This  satisfied  her  at  first,  for  his 
passionate  admiration  of  her  beauty 
gave  her  keen  delight ;  afterwards, 
when  she  had  her  children  to  think 
of,  she  no  longer  desired  to  go 
away. 

As  for  me,  when  I  found  that  I  was 
needed,  I  took  up  my  burden  again 
and  became  her  servant.  I  hoped  for 
the  best.  Surely  this  new  race,  which 
had  been  cut  loose  from  all  the  base 
traditions,  habits,  and  examples  of  the 
past,  might  run  a  brighter  and  purer 
course  than  the  last.  The  sweet 
fidelity  and  tenderness  of  the  mother, 
the  keen  and  cultivated  intelligence  of 
the  father,  must  form  a  hopeful  herit- 
age for  the  boys  and  girls  who  were 
born  to  them.  The  temptations  lurk- 
ing in  the  old  social  conditions  were 
swept  away ;  degrading  memories, 
bitter  recollections,  these  things  had 
no  place  in  the  good  new  world  where 
my  darling  kissed  her  children  and 


told  them  to  love  one  another.  I 
hoped  for  the  best,  but  the  worst  was 
to  come. 

Her  first  real  trouble  fell  on  her 
when  one  of  her  babies  died.  She 
could  not  be  made  to  understand  what 
had  happened  to  it,  for  she  had  never 
heard  of  death.  Her  husband  de- 
lighted in  all  her  innocent  ignorances 
and  left  them  undisturbed.  She 
thought  me  therefore  strangely  cruel 
when  I  wanted  to  take  the  dead  child 
from  her  and  to  put  it  away  under 
the  ground.  No,  she  said,  she  would 
wait  any  length  of  time  and  not  grow 
tired  of  nursing  it,  even  if  it  should 
never  wake  again.  She  loved  it  as 
it  was,  and  would  keep  it  with  her. 
But  her  husb.'ind  interfered  with  his 
authority,  and  she  listened  to  him  as 
she  would  not  listen  to  me. 

"It  is  necessary, entirely  necessary, 
that  you  should  let  the  dead  child  go." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  dead 
child  ? "  she  asked ;  but  he  did  not 
trouble  to  explain  himself. 

"  You  must  obey  those  who  know 
things  of  which  you  are  ignorant," 
was  all  he  vouchsafed  to  say  to  her 
on  this  point.  "There  are  reasons  of 
which  you  need  not  be  told ;  but 
supposing  that  there  were  none,  why 
should  you  waste  your  time,  and  your 
love,  and  your  care,  on  a  thing  which 
can  no  longer  feel,  or  see,  or  kear  1 
which  cannot  have  any  consciousness 
of  what  you  do  for  it  ?  Have  you  not 
your  husband  to  think  of,  and  your 
other  children  ?  Do  you  suppose  that 
I  would  permit  such  a  waste  of  your 
energy  and  love  1  What  is  a  dead 
baby,  that  never,  even  when  it  was 
alive,  understood  your  affection 
foriU" 

"  It  is  my  child — I  am  its  mother," 
was  all  she  could  answer,  out  of  her 
ignorance  and  blind  maternal  yearn- 
ings ;  but  she  used  the  words  that 
she  had  received  from  my  lips  as  if 
her  own  experience  were  enough  to 
sanctify  them,  without  that  associa- 
tion with  the  love  of  generations  of 
mothers  which  they  carried  to  my 
ears.  Her  simple  plea  could  avail  her 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


411 


nothing,  however.  Her  baby  was 
buried,  and  her  husband  made  light 
of  her  trouble. 

"  What  is  one  child  more  or  less  2 " 
he  would  say  to  her.  "  Surely  enough 
are  left  to  you." 

Perhaps  she  thought  he  was  cruel ; 
perhaps  his  words  only  perplexed  her. 
She  ceased  to  speak  of  the  dead  child  ; 
its  memory  lay  silent  in  her  heart, 
carefully  covered  from  sight  by  living 
loves  and  daily  efforts ;  but  it  was  a 
sorrowful  mystery  to  her,  a  broken 
chord  in  the  musical  instrument  to 
which  tenderness  had  tuned  her  life  ; 
no  more  such  perfect  harmony  could 
be  born  for  her  again  as  she  had 
listened  to  before. 

A.S  the  years  passed  her  husband's 
absences  became  longer  and  more 
frequent ;  but  the  care  of  her  children 
occupied  her  at  these  times.  She  was 
one  of  those  women  who  are  too  sweet 
to  permit  themselves  to  be  unhappy 
while  happiness  is  possible  ;  because 
anything  less  than  satisfaction  with 
their  lot  would  be  a  sort  of  complaint 
against  those  who  love  them.  If  she 
saddened,  it  was  inwardly ;  and  the 
outward  signs  of  it  were  an  increased 
tenderness  and  patience.  Her  child- 
ren ceased  to  be  entirely  a  joy  to  her, 
but  she  never  expressed  any  of  the 
grief  which  they  must  have  caused 
her.  They  had  inherited  from  the 
ancestors  of  whom  she  knew  so  little 
instincts  and  tendencies  strange  and 
repugnant  to  her  pure  and  loving 
heart.  The  boys  were  quarrelsome 
and  disrespectful,  the  girls  frivolous 
and  vain.  They  exhibited  airs  and 
graces  such  as  their  grandmothers 
had  cultivated  in  the  lost  city  life, 
which  offended  the  simple  sweetness 
of  their  mother.  Their  brothers 
struggled  for  pre-eminence  and  per- 
sonal satisfaction  in  the  vast  solitudes 
which  surrounded  them,  just  as  their 
forefathers  had  struggled  in  the 
crowded  settlements  of  the  past. 
Still  my  darling  loved  them,  and 
smiled  when  they  wounded  her,  and 
would  not  blame  or  utter  any  regret. 
Only  she  looked  at  me  wonderingly, 


sympathetically,  sometimes  almost 
remorsefully. 

•'  I  think  sometimes,  father,"  she 
said  to  me  once,  "  that  you  knew  of 
all  these  things  beforehand,  and 
wanted  to  save  me  from  them.  I 
think  that  perhaps  there  is  more,  very 
much  more,  that  is  plain  to  you,  but 
that  I  do  not  know  yet." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  at 
me  wistfully.  "  It  must  be  sad  to 
know,"  she  went  on  slowly;  "I  wonder 
if  you  have  known  always.  I  do  not 
want  you  to  tell  me.  I  would  rather 
— wait."  She  ended  with  a  little 
shudder,  and  turned  to  kiss  her 
youngest  child  with  a  sudden  passion 
that  was  born  of  sorrow  and  of  fear. 
She  had  no  desire  to  lift  higher  the 
dark  veil  which  hid  the  possibilities  of 
the  future  from  her  eyes. 

There  came  a  time  when  her  hus- 
band went  away,  and  did  not  return. 
Still  she  made  no  complaint,  and 
asked  no  useless  questions.  This,  she 
thought,  was  one  of  the  hidden  things 
of  the  future,  against  which  there  was 
no  appeal.  Her  children  became  more 
troublesome  and  difficult  to  manage. 
They  knew  what  fear  was,  but  had  no 
sense  of  reverence.  They  had  feared 
their  father  and  obeyed  him,  because 
his  will  was  hard  as  iron  against 
theirs,  and  as  pitiless  ;  in  my  devotion, 
unrewarded  and  undemanding,  they 
saw  only  weakness.  They  were  swift 
to  learn  lessons  of  evil ;  and  as  their 
father  had  treated  me  with  a  courtesy 
touched  with  contempt,  so  they  be- 
haved to  me  with  a  disobedience  hardly 
modified  by  politeness.  They  despised 
their  mother  a  good  deal,  and  loved 
her  a  little  (again  imitating  their 
father's  sentiments  with  the  propor- 
tions reversed) ;  and  thus  it  came  to 
pass  that  they  subdued  none  of  their 
faults  in  her  presence ;  and  it  was  in 
the  face  of  her  own  children  that  my 
darling  learned  to  read  the  evil  passions 
which  had  reigned  in  the  unknown 
world  of  the  past.  Anger  she  .saw, 
and  jealousy ;  cowardice,  ill-temper, 
cruelty,  greed,  and  insolence.  With  a 
throb  of  terror  in  her  heart  she  recog- 


412 


A  Legend  of  Another    World. 


nised  them  for  the  evil  things  they 
were,  the  beginning  of  trouble  to 
which  there  would  be  no  end. 

Her  trial  was  not  so  long  as  it 
might  have  been.  She  missed,  at  least, 
the  pangs  of  sickness  and  the  weak- 
ness of  old  age.  She  did  not  live  to 
see  herself  counted  a  burden  where 
she  had  been  a  treasure,  nor  to  receive 
ingratitude  and  slights  in  return  for 
all  her  loving  care.  She  never  lost 
her  health  or  her  beauty ;  and  the  end 
that  came  to  her,  bitter  as  it  was,  was 
merciful,  in  that  it  was  not  long 
delayed.  For  her,  at  least,  the  curtain 
was  never  lifted  to  its  height,  and  the 
depth  of  the  darkness  behind  it  was 
left  unfathomed. 

Her  boys  read  books  that  she  had 
never  seen,  for  after  the  first  she 
longed  for  no  more.  They  knew  things 
of  which  she  was  ignorant ;  the  learn- 
ing and  history  of  the  past  were  no 
secrets  to  them.  They  became  ran- 
sackers  of  the  ancient  cities,  and 
brought  home  strange  spoils  of  wea- 
pons, and  jewels,  and  carving,  and 
ingenious  instruments.  One  day  two 
of  them  came  upon  a  great  store  of 
daggers.  Together  they  brought  them 
home,  and  set  to  work  to  polish  and 
sharpen  them.  Their  mother  looked 
on,  and  wondered  what  the  strange 
knives  were  made  for,  but  felt  no  fear. 
Over  the  division  of  the  spoil,  how- 
ever, the  brothers  quarrelled. 

"  I  am  the  elder,"  said  one,  "  and 
the  books  Bay  that  to  the  elder  goes 
the  larger  portion." 

"  But  I  am  the  stronger,"  said  the 
other,  "  and  I  laugh  at  the  books,  and 
bid  them  come  and  get  the  knives 
from  me  if  they  can  !  " 

Then  in  anger  the  two  rushed  to- 
gether, and  the  mother,  with  a  cry  of 
terror,  ran  between.  But  their  rage 
was  increased  by  her  interference. 

"Leave  us  alone,"  said  the  elder; 
"  I  have  read  in  the  books  that  women 
ought  not  to  interfere  with  the  affairs 
of  men.  Go  back  to  your  own  work, 
and  leave  us  to  fight  it  out." 

"Put  the  knives  down,"  she  en- 
treated ;  "  they  are  sharp  like  those 


with  which  the  old  father  cuts  wood 
for  our  fire.  It  is  not  good  to  play 
with  them." 

"  We  are  not  playing,"  answered  the 
stronger.  "These  are  made  for  men 
to  fight  with.  The  men  of  the  past 
forged  things  like  these  with  which  to 
strike  and  slay  one  another  when  they 
were  angry.  We  are  men,  too,  and 
must  do  as  they  did." 

"Strike?  Slay?"  she  repeated,  her 
face  growing  paler  still  at  the  ominous 
sound  of  those  strange  new  words, 
coming,  with  a  fierceness  suggestive  of 
their  meaning,  from  the  lips  of  her  son. 
"  You  are  speaking  of  something 
dreadful,  something  else  that  is  wait- 
ing in  the  secret  past  to  spring  into 
our  happy  future.  Let  it  go  !  Put 
them  down  !  —ah,  I  can  see  it  in  your 
eyes !  " 

It  was  murder  that  she  saw,  and 
could  not  understand ;  but  she  held 
her  two  sons  apart  for  one  moment, 
while  her  panting  breath  refused  to  let 
her  say  more.  The  young  men  were 
stronger  than  she  was,  however,  and 
they  wasted  no  words  upon  her.  By 
mutual  consent  they  thrust  her  from 
between  them,  and  rushed  together 
again.  The  daggers  gleamed  in  the 
air,  but  before  they  had  time  to  fall, 
the  mother,  with  a  wild  shriek  of 
terror,  had  flung  herself  forward  once 
more,  with  her  slender  hands  trying  to 
part  the  combatants. 

And  the  daggers  fell.  Was  it  one 
wound  or  two  beneath  which  she 
slipped  to  the  ground,  as  water  slips 
from  a  hollowed  rock  when  the  barrier 
is  taken  away  ?  She  had  no  strength 
left  to  struggle  or  to  rise,  but  lay  as 
she  had  fallen,  her  life  flowing  away 
in  a  warm  current.  The  boys  looked 
at  her  in  wonder,  and  then  at  the  red 
daggers  in  their  hands.  This  thing 
they  had  not  meant  to  do,  and  they 
uttered  a  loud  cry  of  dismay,  which 
brought  me  from  afar. 

I  lifted  my  darling's  head,  and  knew 
that  there  was  no  hope.  She  would 
die  so,  lying  with  her  bright  hair  on 
my  knee,  and  her  eyes  full  of  wonder 
and  pain. 


A  Legend  of  Another   World. 


413 


"  My  children,  what  have  you  done 
to  me  3"  she  asked  pitifully.  "  What 
is  this  new  thing  that  you  have 
brought  into  our  lives  ?  " 

I  soothed  her  and  comforted  her, 
telling  her  that  the  pain  would  soon 
be  over. 

"  But  I  grow  weaker,"  she  answered. 
"  I  am  slipping  away  into  the  dark- 
ness. You  seem  farther  off  every 
moment." 

"  Rest  will  come  soon,"  I  told  her  ; 
"and  I  will  put  you  to  sleep  with 
your  little  one,  where  no  trouble  can 
reach  you." 

She  smiled  then,  faintly  and  wanly. 

"  Is  it  true  1  Have  you  kept  her 
for  me  ?  Put  her  in  my  arms  and  let 
us  sleep  together.  Better  the  night 
and  the  darkness.  I  want  no  more 
daytime  and  knowledge.  She  only  of 
them  all  never  looked  at  me  with 
something  dreadful  in  her  eyes.  Let 
me  go  to  my  little  one !  "  cried  the 
poor  mother,  trying  with  a  last  effort 
of  life  to  raise  herself  from  my  arms. 
"  Why  should  I  stay  longer  1  My 
children  do  not  love  me,  and  my 
husband  has  forsaken  me  !  "  So  with 
her  dying  words  she  uttered  that  secret 
of  her  sorrow  which  she  had  kept 
hidden  in  her  heart  before. 

I  buried  her  in  her  baby's  grave, 
and  with  her  I  buried  all  hopes  of  a 
glad  new  world.  With  her  children  I 
could  do  nothing  ;  they  mocked  at  my 
teaching,  and  at  last  drove  me  from 
among  them.  The  boys  who  had  slain 
their  mother,  brooded  over  her  loss 
at  first,  and  reproached  one  another. 
After  a  time,  however,  the  most  cal- 
culating of  the  two  put  his  grief 
away,  and  tried  to  make  use  of  his 
experience. 

"  I  know  what  death  is  now,"  he 
was  heard  to  explain  to  a  younger 
one  ;  "  it  is  a  useful  thing — a  thing 
that  takes  people  out  of  your  way 


when  they  want  to  interfere  with  you. 
But  it  must  be  used  carefully,  because 
it  lasts  for  ever,  and  cannot  be 
undone." 

Since  the  day  of  my  darling's  death 
it  has  seemed  to  me  that  each  gene- 
ration has  been  worse  than  the  one 
before  it.  The  remnants  of  an  old 
civilisation  which  the  new  race  in- 
herited proved  a  snare  and  a  trouble 
only.  The  people  hated  to  work  with 
their  hands,  and  loved  to  live  on  the 
labour  of  others.  They  were  always 
plotting  to  do  little  and  to  have  much. 
The  keen  intelligence  handed  down  to 
them  from  their  father  helped  them 
in  this  respect ;  they  became  the 
cleverest  and  the  most  self-indulgent 
of  races.  Some  affections  survived 
among  them,  but  these  were  regarded 
as  weaknesses,  and  as  hindrances  to 
true  prosperity.  The  stronger  of  them 
oppressed  the  weaker,  until  at  last 
there  was  a  terrible  outbreak,  in 
which  multitudes  were  slain  :  the 
survivors  lived  perpetually  on  their 
guard,  as  in  an  enemy's  country,  each 
seeking  his  own  advantage  and  striving 
to  circumvent  his  neighbour.  After  a 
time  they  became  too  idle  even  for 
warfare,  and  grew  to  be — what  you 
see  them  now. 

It  is  my  punishment  to  live  among 
them  ;  to  be  despised  by  them  :  to  be 
unable  to  render  them  any  real  help 
or  service ;  while  I  am  a  constant 
witness  of  their  wickedness  and  woe. 
Their  sins  seein  to  be  mine,  and  their 
sorrows  too ;  and  I  repent  with  a 
repentance  which  has  no  end.  For  I 
dared  once  to  ask — in  the  arrogance 
of  a  great  desire  to  help — that  the 
fate  of  a  whole  race  should  be  put  in 
my  hands.  I  dared,  with  my  finite 
will,  to  meddle  with  issues  that  were 
infinite.  How  then  can  there  be  any 
end  to  my  sorrow,  since  there  is  no 
end  to  the  misery  I  have  made  ? 


414 


THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK. 


ABOUT   ten    years    ago   Mr.    Bentley 
conferred  no  small  favour  upon  lovers 
of  "English  literature  by  reprinting,  in 
compact   form    and    good    print,    the 
works   of  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  up 
to   that   time   scattered   and   in  some 
cases  not  easily  obtainable.     So  far  as 
the  publisher  was  concerned  nothing 
more  could  reasonably  have  been   de- 
manded ;    it  is  not  easy  to  say  quite 
so   much  of   the  editor,   the    late  Sir 
Henry    Cole.      His    editorial   labours 
were  indeed  considerably  lightened  by 
assistance    from    other   hands.     Lord 
Houghton  contributed   a  critical  pre- 
face, which  has  the  ease,  point,  and 
grasp  of  all  his  critical   monographs. 
Miss     Edith    Nicolls,    the    novelist's 
granddaughter,  supplied  a  short  bio- 
graphy, written  with  much  simplicity 
and   excellent  good  taste.     But  as  to 
editing  in  the  proper  sense — introduc- 
tion, comment,  illustration,  explanation 
— there  is  next  to  none  of  it  in  the 
book.     The  principal  thing,  however, 
was  to  have  Peacock's  delightful  work 
conveniently  accessible,  and  that  the 
issue    of    1875     accomplished.       The 
author,  like  Borrow,  is  an  author  by 
no  means  universally  or  even  generally 
known  ;  but  this  and  a  very  curious 
robustness  of  prejudice  are  the  only 
points  of    contact   between    him    and 
the  author  of   'The  Bible   in  Spain.' 
He  has  also  been   much   more   of   a 
critic's  favourite  than  Borrow.  Almost 
the  only  dissenter,  as  far  as  I  know, 
is  Mrs.  Oliphant,  who    has  confessed 
herself  in  her   book    on  the    literary 
history  of  Peacock's  time  not  merely 
unable  to  comprehend  the  admiration 
expressed  by  certain  critics  for  '  Head- 
long Hall '  and  its  fellows,  but  is  even, 
if  I  do   not    mistake    her,  somewhat 
sceptical  of  the  complete  sincerity  of 
that    admiration.      There  is  no  need 


to  argue  the  point  with  this  agreeable 
practitioner  of  Peacock's  own  art.  A 
certain  well-known  passage  of  Thack- 
eray, about  ladies  and  Jonathan 
Wild,  will  sufficiently  explain  her  own 
inability  to  taste  Peacock's  persiflage. 
As  for  the  genuineness  of  the  relish 
of  those  who  can  taste  him  there  is 
no  way  that  I  know  to  convince  scep- 
tics. .For  my  own  part  I  can  only 
say  that,  putting  aside  scattered  read- 
ings of  his  work  in  earlier  days,  1 
think  I  have  read  the  novels  through 
on  an  average  once  a  year  ever  since 
their  combined  appearance.  Indeed, 
with  Scott,  Thackeray,  Borrow  and 
Christopher  North,  Peacock  composes 
my  own  private  Paradise  of  Dainty 
Devices,  wherein  I  walk  continually 
when  I  have  need  of  rest  and  refresh- 
ment. This  is  a  fact  of  no  public 
importance,  and  is  only  mentioned  as 
a  kind  of  justification  for  recommend- 
ing him  to  others. 

Peacock  was  born  at  Weymouth  on 
October  the  18th,  1785.  His  father 
(who  died  a  year  or  two  after  his 
birth)  was  a  London  merchant;  his 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  naval 
officer.  He  seems  during  his  childhood 
to  have  done  very  much  what  he 
pleased,  though,  as  it  happened,  study 
always  pleased  him ;  and  his  gibes  in 
later  life  at  public  schools  and  univer- 
sities lose  something  of  their  point 
when  it  is  remembered  that  he  was  at 
no  university,  at  no  school  save  a 
private  one,  and  that  he  left  even  that 
private  school  when  he  was  thirteen. 
He  seems,  however,  to  have  been  very 
well  grounded  there,  and  on  leaving  it 
he  conducted  his  education  and  his 
life  at  his  own  pleasure  for  many 
years.  He  published  poems  before  he 
was  twenty,  and  he  fell  in  love  shortly 
after  he  was  twenty-two.  The  course 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


415 


of    this    love    did    not    run    smooth, 
and    the   lady,    marrying    some    one 
else,    died    shortly    afterwards.     She 
lived    in    Peacock's  memory   till    his 
death,  sixty  years  later,  which  event 
is    said    to    have    been   heralded  (in 
accordance  with  not  the  least  poetical 
of  the  many  poetical  superstitions  of 
dreaming)  by  frequent  visions  of  this 
shadowy  love  of  the  past.     Probably 
to  distract  himself,  Peacock,  who  had 
hitherto     attempted    no      profession, 
accepted  the  rathei  unpromising  post 
of    under-secretary    to    Admiral    Sir 
Home   Popham  on    board  ship.     His 
mother,   in    her    widowhood,    and   he 
himself  had  lived  much  with  his  sailor 
grandfather,  and  he  was  always  fond 
of  naval  matters.     But  it  is  not  sur- 
prising to   find   that   his   occupation, 
though  he  kept  it  for  something  like 
a  year,  was  not  to  his  taste.     He  gave 
it    up    in    the  spring   of    1809,  and 
returned  to  leisure,  poetry  and  pedes- 
trianism.  The  *  Genius  of  the  Thames/ 
a  sufficiently  remarkable    poem,    was 
the  result  of   the  two  latter  fancies. 
A   year  later  he  went  to  Wales  and 
met    his    future    wife,  Jane   Griffith, 
though  he  did  not  marry  her  for  ten 
years  more.     He  returned  frequently 
to  the  principality,  and  in  1812  made, 
at  Nant  Gwillt,  the  acquaintance  of 
Shelley  and  his   wife  Harriet.     This 
was  the  foundation  of  a  well  known 
friendship,  which  has  furnished  by  far 
the      most     solid     and     trustworthy 
materials   existing  for  the  poet's  bio- 
graphy.     It    was   Wales,     too,    that 
furnished   the  scene  of  his  first   and 
far     from     worst    novel     '  Headlong 
Hall,'   which  was  published  in    1816. 
From  1815  to  1819  Peacock  lived  at 
Marlow,  where    his  intercourse   with 
Shelley  was  resumed,   and  where    he 
produced  not  merely  '  Headlong  Hall ' 
but  '  Melincourt '    (the  most  unequal, 
notwithstanding       many       charming 
sketches,  of  his  works),  the  delightful 
*  Nightmare  Abbey'  (with  a  caricature, 
as   genius  caricatures,  of  Shelley  for 
the  hero),  and  the  long  and  remark- 
able poem  of  « Rhododaphne.' 

During  the  whole  of  this  long  time, 


that  is  to  say  up  to  his  thirty- fourth 
year,  with  the  exception  of  his  year  of 
secretaryship,   Peacock  had  been   his 
own  master.     He  now,  in  1819,  owed 
curtailment    of    his    liberty    but   con- 
siderable   increase    of    fortune    to    a 
long  disused  practice    on  the  part  of 
the    managers  of  public   institutions, 
of  which  Sir  Henry  Taylor  has  given 
another    interesting    example.       The 
directors  of    the  East  India  Company 
offered    him   a    clerkship   because  he 
was    a    clever    novelist    and    a    good 
Greek  scholar.     He  retained  his  place 
( "  a    precious    good    place    too,"     as 
Thackeray  with   good-humoured  envy 
says   of    it   in    '  The   Hoggarty  Dia- 
mond ')  with  due  promotion  for  thirty- 
seven   years,   and   retired   from   it  in 
1856  with  a  large  pension.     He  had 
married    Miss    Griffith    very   shortly 
after  his  appointment ;  in  1822  '  Maid 
Marian  '   appeared,  and  in  1823  Pea- 
cock  took   a   cottage,    which   after  a 
time  became  his  chief  and  latterly  his 
only  residence,  at  Halliford,  near  his 
beloved   river.     For    some    years    he 
published  nothing,  but   1829  and  1831 
saw  the  production  of  perhaps  his  two 
best     books,     *  The     Misfortunes     of 
Elphin '  and  <  Crotchet  Castle.'     After 
*  Crotchet    Castle '    official  duties  and 
perhaps  domestic  troubles  (for  his  wife 
was  a  helpless  invalid)  interrupted  his 
literary  work  for  more   than  twenty 
years,  an  almost  unexampled  break  in 
the  literary  activity  of  a  man  so  fond 
of  letters.     In  1852  he  began  to  write 
again   as   a  contributor  to  '  Fraser's 
Magazine.'     It  is  rather  unfortunate 
that    no    complete   republication,  nor 
even  any  complete  list  of  these  articles, 
has  been  made.    The  papers  on  Shelley 
and   the    charming    story   of    l  Gryll 
Grange  '  were  the  chief  of  them.     The 
author  was  a  very  old  man  when  he 
wrote  this,  but  he  survived  it  six  years, 
and  died  on  the  23rd  of  January,  1866, 
having  latterly  lived  very  much  alone. 
Indeed,  after  Shelley's  death  he  never 
seems  to  have  had  any  very  intimate 
friend   except  Lord  Broughton,   with 
whose  papers  most  of  Peacock's  corre- 
spondence is  for  the  present  locked  up. 


416 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


There  is  a  passage  in  Shelley's 
1  Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne  '  which  has 
been  often  quoted  before,  but  which 
must  necessarily  be  quoted  again 
whenever  Peacock's  life  and  literary 
character  are  discussed  : — 

"  And  there 

Is  English  P ,  with  his  mountain  Fair 

Turned  into  a  flamingo,  that  shy  bird 

That  gleams  i'  the  Indian  air.     Have  you  not 

heard 

When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns  Hindoo, 
His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him  ?    But 

you 

Will  see  him,  and  will  like  him  too,  I  hope, 
With  his  milk-white  Snowdonian  Antelope 
Matched  with  his  Camelopard.    His  fine  wit 
Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it ; 
A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age, 
Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots  ;  let  his  page 
Which  charms  the  chosen  spirits  of  his  time, 
Fold  itself  up  for  a  serener  clime 
Of  years  to  come,  and  find  its  recompense 
In  that  just  expectation." 

The  enigmas  in  this  passage  (where 

it  is  undisputed  that  "  English  P " 

is  Peacock)  have  much  exercised  the 
commentators.  That  Miss  Griffith, 
after  her  marriage,  while  still  remain- 
ing a  Snowdonian  antelope,  should  also 
have  been  a  flamingo,  is  odd  enough  ; 
but  this  as  well  as  the  "  camelopard  " 
(probably  turning  on  some  private  jest 
then  intelligible  enough  to  the  per- 
sons concerned,  but  dark  to  others) 
is  not  particularly  worth  illuminating. 
The  italicised  words  describing  Pea- 
cock's wit  are  more  legitimate  subjects 
of  discussion.  They  seem  to  me, 
though  not  perhaps  literally  explicable 
after  the  fashion  of  the  duller  kind  of 
commentator,  to  contain  both  a  very 
happy  description  of  Peacock's  peculiar 
humour,  and  a  very  sufficient  explana- 
tion of  the  causes  which,  both  then 
and  since,  made  that  humour  palatable 
rather  to  the  few  than  to  the  many. 
Not  only  is  Peacock  peculiarly  liable 
to  the  charge  of  being  "  too  clever," 
but  he  uses  his  cleverness  in  a  way 
peculiarly  bewildering  to  those  who 
like  to  have  "  This  is  a  horse "  writ 
large  under  the  presentation  of  the 
animal.  His  "rascally  comparative" 
fancy,  and  the  abundant  stores  of 
material  with  which  his  reading  pro- 


vided it,  lead  him  perpetually  to  widen 
"  the  wound,"  till  it  is  not  surprising 
that     "the     knife"     (the    particular 
satirical  or  polemical  point  that  he  is 
urging)  gets  "  lost  in  it."     This  weak- 
ness, if  it  be  one,  has  in  its  different 
ways  of  operation  all  sorts  of  curious 
results.     One  is,  that  his  personal  por- 
traits are    perhaps    further  removed 
from  faithful    representations  of    the 
originals  than  the  personal  sketches  of 
any  other  writer,  even  among  the  most 
deliberate  misrepresenters.      There  is, 
indeed,  a  droll  topsy-turvy  resemblance 
to  Shelley  throughout  the  Scythrop  of 
*  Nightmare  Abbey,'   but    there  Pea- 
cock was  hardly  using  "the  knife"  at 
all.       When    he   satirises   persons  he 
goes   so  far  away  from  their  real  per- 
sonalities that  the  libel  ceases  to  be 
libellous.    It  is  difficult  to  say  whether 
Mr.    Mystic,    Mr.     Mosky,    or    Mr. 
Skionar  is  least  like   Coleridge  ;  and 
Southey,  intensely  sensitive  as  he  was 
to  criticism,  need  not    have  lost  his 
equanimity  over  Mr.  Feathernest.     A 
single  point  suggested  itself  to  Peacock, 
that  point  suggested  another,  and  so 
on  and  so  on,  till  he  was  miles  away 
from  the  start.      The  inconsistency  of 
his  political  views  has  been  justly,  if 
somewhat  plaintively,  reflected  on  by 
Lord   Houghton   in   the  words,  "the 
intimate  friends  of  Mr.  Peacock  may 
have    understood   his   political   senti- 
ments, but  it  is  extremely  difficult  to 
discover  them   from  his  works."       I 
should,    however,    myself    say    that, 
though  it   may  be  extremely  difficult 
to  deduce  any  definite  political  senti- 
ments from  Peacock's  works,  it  is  very 
easy  to  see  in  them  a  general  and  not 
inconsistent  political  attitude — that  of 
intolerance    of    the   vulgar    and    the 
stupid.      Stupidity  and  vulgarity  not 
being    (fortunately   or  unfortunately) 
monopolised  by  any  political  party,  and 
being  (no  doubt  unfortunately)  often 
condescended  to  by  both,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising to  find  Peacock — especially  with 
his  noble  disregard   of  apparent  con- 
sistency and  the  inveterate  habit  of 
pillar-to-post  joking,  which  has  been 
commented  on — distributing  his  shafts 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


417 


with  great  impartiality  on  Trojan  and 
Greek  ;  on  the  opponents  of  reform  in 
his  earlier  manhood,  and  on  the  be- 
lievers in  progress  during  his  later ;  on 
virtual  representation  and  the  tele- 
graph ;  on  barouche-driving  as  a  gen- 
tleman's profession,  and  lecturing  as  a 
gentleman's  profession.  But  this  im- 
partiality (or,  if  anybody  prefers  it, 
inconsistency)  has  naturally  added  to 
the  difficulties  of  some  readers  with 
his  works.  It  is  time,  however,  to  en- 
deavour to  give  some  idea  of  the  gay 
variety  of  those  works  themselves. 

Although  there  are  few  novelists 
who  observe  plot  less  than  Peacock, 
there  are  few  also  who  are  more  regu- 
lar in  the  particular  fashion  in  which 
they  disdain  plot.  Peacock  is  in  fic- 
tion what  the  dramatists  of  the  school 
of  Ben  Jonson  down  to  Shadwell  are  in 
comedy — he  works  in  "  humours."  It 
ought  not  to  be,  but  perhaps  is,  neces- 
sary to  remind  the  reader  that  this  is 
by  no  means  the  same  thing  in  essence, 
though  accidentally  it  very  often  is 
the  same,  as  being  a  humourist.  The 
dealer  in  humours  takes  some  fad  or 
craze  in  his  characters,  some  minor 
ruling  passion,  and  makes  his  profit 
out  of  it.  Generally  (and  almost 
always  in  Peacock's  case)  he  takes  if 
he  can  one  or  more  of  these  humours 
as  a  central  point,  and  lets  the  others 
play  and  revolve  in  a  more  or  less 
eccentric  fashion  round  it.  In  almost 
every  book  of  Peacock's  there  is  a  host 
who  has  a  more  or  less  decided  mania 
for  collecting  other  maniacs  round  him. 
Harry  Headlong,  of  Headlong  Hall, 
Esquire,  a  young  Welsh  gentleman  of 
means,  and  of  generous  though  rather 
unchastened  taste,  finding,  as  Peacock 
says,  in  the  earliest  of  his  gibes  at  the 
universities,  that  there  are  no  such 
things  as  men  of  taste  and  philosophy 
in  Oxford,  assembles  a  motley  host  in 
London,  and  asks  them  down  to  his 
place  at  Llanberis.  The  adventures  of 
the  visit  (ending  up  with  several  wed- 
dings) form  the  scheme  of  the  book, 
as  indeed  repetitions  of  something 
very  little  different  form  the  scheme 
of  all  the  other  books,  with  the  excep- 

No.  318. — VOL.  LIII. 


tion  of  « The  Misfortunes  of  Elphin,' 
and  perhaps  '  Maid  Marian.'  Of  books 
so  simple  in  one  way,  and  so  complex 
in  others,  it  is  impossible  and  unneces- 
sary to  give  any  detailed  analysis.  But 
each  contains  characteristics  which 
contribute  too  much  to  the  knowledge 
of  Peacock's  idiosyncrasy  to  pass  alto- 
gether unnoticed.  The  contrasts  in 
1  Headlong  Hall '  between  the  pessi- 
mist Mr.  Escot,  the  optimist  Mr. 
Foster,  and  the  happy-mean  man  Mr. 
Jenkison  (who  inclines  to  both  in 
turn,  but  on  the  whole  rather  to  op- 
timism), are  much  less  amusing  than 
the  sketches  of  Welsh  scenery  and 
habits,  the  passages  of  arms  with  re- 
presentatives of  the  Edinburgh  and 
Quarterly  Reviews  (which  Peacock 
always  hated),  and  the  passing  satire 
on  "  improving  "  craniology  and  other 
manias  of  the  day.  The  book  also 
contains  the  first  and  most  unfriendly 
of  the  sketches  of  clergymen  of  the 
Church  of  England  which  Peacock 
gradually  softened  till,  in  Dr.  Folliott 
and  Dr.  Opimian,  his  curses  became 
blessings  altogether.  The  Keverend 
Dr.  Gaster  is  an  ignoble  brute,  but 
not  quite  life-like  enough  to  be  really 
offensive.  But  the  most  charming 
part  of  the  book  by  far  (for  its 
women  are  mere  lay  figures)  is  to 
be  found  in  the  convivial  scenes. 
'  Headlong  Hall  '  contains,  besides 
other  occasional  verse  of  merit,  two 
drinking  songs — 'Hail  to  the  Head- 
long,' and  the  still  better  'A  Heel- 
tap !  a  heel-tap !  I  never  could  bear 
it ' — songs  not  quite  so  good  as  those 
in  the  subsequent  books,  but  good 
enough  to  make  any  reader  think  with 
a  gentle  sigh  of  the  departure  of  good 
fellowship  from  the  earth.  Under- 
graduates and  Scotchmen  (and  even  in 
their  case  the  fashion  is  said  to  be 
dying)  alone  practise  at  the  present 
day  the  full  rites  of  Comus. 

'  Melincourt,'  published,  and  indeed 
written,  very  soon  after  '  Headlong 
Hall,'  is  a  much  more  ambitious 
attempt.  It  is  some  three  times  the 
length  of  its  predecessor,  and  is, 
though  not  much  longer  than  a  single 

E  L 


418 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


volume  of  some  three-volume  novels, 
the  longest  book  that  Peacock  ever 
wrote.  It  is  also  much  more  ambi- 
tiously planned  ;  the  twice  attempted 
abduction  of  the  heiress,  Anthelia 
Melincourt,  giving  something  like  a 
regular  plot,  while  the  introduction  of 
Sir  Oran  Haut-ton  (an  orang-outang 
whom  the  eccentric  hero,  Forester,  has 
domesticated  and  intends  to  introduce 
to  parliamentary  life)  can  only  be 
understood  as  aiming  at  a  regular 
satire  on  the  whole  of  human  life, 
conceived  in  a  milder  spirit  than 
'  Gulliver,'  but  belonging  in  some 
degree  to  the  same  class.  Forester 
himself,  a  disciple  of  Rousseau,  a  fer- 
vent anti-slavery  man  who  goes  to  the 
length  of  refusing  his  guests  sugar,  and 
an  ideologist  in  many  other  ways,  is 
also  an  ambitious  sketch ;  and  Peacock 
has  introduced  episodes  after  the 
fashion  of  eighteenth  century  fiction, 
besides  a  great  number  of  satirical  ex- 
cursions dealing  with  his  enemies  of  the 
Lake  school,  with  paper  mon-ey  and  with 
many  other  things  and  persons.  The 
whole,  as  a  whole,  has  a  certain  heavi- 
ness. The  enthusiastic  Forester  is  a 
little  of  a  prig,  and  a  little  of  a  bore ;  his 
friend  the  professorial  Mr.  Fax  proses 
dreadfully  ;  the  Oran  Haut-ton  scenes, 
amusing  enough  of  themselves,  are 
overloaded  (as  is  the  whole  book)  with 
justificative  selections  from  Buff  on, 
Lord  Monboddo,  and  other  authorities. 
The  portraits  of  Southey,  Coleridge, 
Wordsworth,  Canning,  and  others,  are 
neither  like,  nor  in  themselves  very 
happy,  and  the  heroine  Anthelia  is 
sufficiently  uninteresting  to  make  us 
extremely  indifferent  whether  the 
virtuous  Forester  or  the  roue  Lord 
Anophel  Achthar  gets  her.  On  the 
other  hand,  detached  passages  are  in 
the  author's  very  best  vein  ;  and 
there  is  a  truly  delightful  scene 
between  Lord  Anophel  and  his  chap- 
lain Grovelgrub,  when  the  athletic 
Sir  Oran  has  not  only  foiled  their 
attempt  on  Anthelia,  but  has  mast- 
headed them  on  the  top  of  a  rock 
perpendicular.  But  the  gem  of  the 
book  is  the  election  for  the  borough 


of  One- Vote — a  very  amusing  farce  on 
the  subject  of  rotten  boroughs.  Mr. 
Forester  has  bought  one  of  the  One- 
Vote  seats  for  his  friend,  the  Orang, 
and  going  to  introduce  him  to  the 
constituency  falls  in  with  the  pur- 
chaser of  the  other  seat,  Mr.  Sarcastic, 
who  is  a  practical  humourist  of  the 
most  accomplished  kind.  The  satirical 
arguments  with  which  Sarcastic  com- 
bats Forester's  enthusiastic  views  of 
life  and  politics,  the  elaborate  spectacle 
which  he  gets  up  on  the  day  of  nomi- 
nation, and  the  free  fight  which  follows 
are  recounted  with  extraordinary 
spirit.  Nor  is  the  least  of  the  attrac- 
tions of  the  book  an  admirable  drink- 
ing song,  superior  to  either  of  those 
in  '  Headlong  Hall,'  though  perhaps 
better  known  to  most  people  by  cer-  • 
tain  Thackerayan  reminiscences  of  it 
than  in  itself  : — 

"THE  GHOSTS. 

"  In  life  three  ghostly  friars  were  we, 
And  now  three  friendly  ghosts  we  be. 
Around  our  shadowy  table  placed, 
The  spectral  bowl  before  us  floats  : 
,  With -wine  that  none  but  ghosts  can  taste 
We  wash  our  unsubstantial  throats. 
Three  merry  ghosts — three  merry  ghosts — 

three  merry  ghosts  are  we  : 
Let  the  ocean  be  port  and  we'll  think  it  good 

sport 

To  be  laid  in  that  Red  Sea. 

"  With  songs  that  jovial  spectres  chaunt, 
Our  old  refectory  still  we  haunt. 
The  traveller  hears  our  midnight  mirth : 
'  Oh  list,'  he  cries,  '  the  haunted  choir  ! 
The  merriest  ghost  that  walks  the  earth. 
Is  now  the  ghost  of  a  ghostly  friar.' 
Three  merry  ghosts — three  merry  ghosts — 

three  merry  ghosts  are  we  : 
Let  the  ocean  be  port  and  we'll  think  it  good 

sport 

To  be  laid  in  that  Red  Sea." 


In  the  preface  to  a  new  edition  of 
'  Melincourt,'  which  Peacock  wrote 
nearly  thirty  years  later,  and  which 
contains  a  sort  of  promise  of  *  Gryll 
Grange,'  there  is  no  sign  of  any  dis- 
satisfaction on  the  author's  part  with 
the  plan  of  the  earlier  book ;  but  in 
his  next,  which  came  quickly,  he 
changed  that  plan  very  decidedly. 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


419 


*  Nightmare  Abbey '  is  the  shortest, 
as  '  Melincourt '  is  the  longest,  of  his 
tales ;  and  as  '  Melincourt '  is  the 
most  unequal  and  the  most  clogged 
with  heavy  matter,  so  '  Nightmare 
Abbey'  contains  the  most  unbroken 
tissue  of  farcical,  though  not  in  the 
least  coarsely  farcical,  incidents  and 
conversations.  The  misanthropic  Scy- 
throp  (whose  habit  of  Madeira-drinking 
has  made  some  exceedingly  literal 
people  sure  that  he  really  could  not 
be  intended  for  the  water- drinking 
Shelley) ;  his  still  gloomier  father,  Mr. 
Glowry ;  his  intricate  entanglements 
with  the  lovely  Marionetta  and  the 
still  more  beautiful  Celinda  ;  his  fall 
between  the  two  stools ;  his  resolve  to 
commit  suicide ;  the  solution  of  that 
awkward  resolve — are  all  simply  de- 
lightful. Extravagant  as  the  thing  is, 
its  brevity  and  the  throng  of  incidents 
and  jokes  prevent  it  from  becoming 
in  the  least  tedious.  The  pessimist- 
fatalist  Mr. Toobad,  with  his  "innumer- 
able proofs  of  the  temporary  supremacy 
of  the  devil,"  and  his  catchword  "  the 
devil  has  come  among  us  having  great 
wrath,"  appears  just  enough,  and  not 
too  much.  The  introduced  sketch  of 
Byron  as  Mr.  Cypress  would  be  the 
least  happy  thing  of  the  piece  if  it  did 
not  give  occasion  for  a  capital  serious 
burlesque  of  Byronic  verse,  the  lines, 
"  There  is  a  fever  of  the  spirit,"  which, 
as  better  known  than  most  of  Peacock's 
verse,  need  not  be  quoted.  Mr.  Flosky, 
a  fresh  caricature  of  Coleridge,  is  even 
less  like  the  original  than  Mr.  Mystic, 
but  he  is  much  more  like  a  human 
being,  and  in  himself  is  great  fun. 
An  approach  to  a  more  charitable  view 
of  the  clergy  is  discoverable  in  the 
curate  Mr.  Larynx,  who,  if  not  ex- 
tremely ghostly,  is  neither  a  sot  nor  a 
sloven.  But  the  quarrels  and  recon- 
ciliations between  Scythrop  and  Mario- 
netta, his  invincible  inability  to  make 
up  his  mind,  the  mysterious  advent  of 
Marionetta' s  rival,  and  her  abode  in 
hidden  chambers,  the  alternate  sym- 
pathy and  repulsion  between  Scythrop 
and  those  elder  disciples  of  pessimism, 
his  father  and  Mr.  Toobad — all  the 


contradictions  of  Shelley's  character,  in 
short,  with  a  suspicion  of  the  incidents 
of  his  life  brought  into  the  most  ludi- 
crous relief,  must  always  form  the  great 
charm  of  the  book.  A  tolerably  rapid 
reader  may  get  through  it  in  an  hour 
or  so,  and  there  is  hardly  a  more 
delightful  hour's  reading  of  anything 
like  the  same  kind  in  the  English 
language,  either  for  the  incidental 
strokes  of  wit  and  humour,  or  for  the 
easy  mastery  with  which  the  whole  is 
hit  off.  It  contains,  moreover,  another 
drinking-catch, "  Seamen  Three,  "which, 
though  it  is  like  its  companion,  better 
known  than  most  of  Peacock's  songs, 
may  perhaps  find  a  place  : — 

"  Seamen  three  !     What  men  be  ye  ? 
Gotham's  three  wise  men  we  be. 
Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free  ? 
To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 
The  bowl  goes  trim,  the  moon  doth  shine, 
And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  ; 
And  you   ballast  is  old  wine. 

"  Who  art  thou  so  fast  adrift 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care. 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 
No  :  I  may  not  enter  there. 
Wherefore  so  ?    'Tis  Jove's  decree 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be  ;  ;  • 

In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 

"  Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll  ? 
No  :  in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 
What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl  ? 
Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 
The  bowl  goes  trim,  the  moon  doth  shine 
And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  ; 
And  your  ballast  is  old  wine." 

A  third  song  sung  by  Marionetta, 
"  Why  are  thy  looks  so  blank,  Grey 
Friar?"  is  as  good  in  another  way; 
nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that  the 
said  Marionetta,  who  has  been  thought 
to  have  some  features  of  the  luckless 
Harriet  Shelley,  is  Peacock's  first  life- 
like study  of  a  girl,  and  one  of  his 
pleasantest. 

The  book  which  came  out  four  years 
after,  '  Maid  Marian,'  has,  I  believe, 
been  much  the  most  popular  and  the 
best  known  of  Peacock's  short  ro- 
manees.  It  owed  this  popularity,  in 
great  part,  no  doubt,  to  the  fact  that 
the  author  has  altered  little  in  the  well- 
E  E  2 


420 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


known  and  delightful  old  story,  and 
has  not  added  very  much  to  its  facts, 
contenting  himself  with  illustrating 
the  whole  in  his  own  satirical  fashion. 
But  there  is  also  no  doubt  that  the 
dramatisation  of  'Maid  Marian'  by 
Planche  and  Bishop  as  an  operetta, 
helped,  if  it  did  not  make,  its  fame. 
The  snatches  of  song  through  the  novel 
are  more  frequent  than  in  any  other 
of  the  books,  so  that  Mr.  Planche 
must  have  had  but  little  trouble  with 
it.  Some  of  these  snatches  are  among 
Peacock's  best  verse,  such  as  the 
famous  "  Bramble  Song,"  the  great  hit 
of  the  operetta,  the  equally  well-known 
'Oh,  bold  Robin  Hood,'  and  the 
charming  snatch : — 

"  For  the  tender  beech  and  the  sapling  oak, 

That  grow  by  the  shadowy  rill, 
Yon  may  cut  down  both  at  a  single  stroke, 
You  may  cut  down  which  you  will ; 

"  But  this  you  must  knoAv,  that  as  long  as 

they  grow, 

"Whatever  change  may  be, 
You  never  can  teach  either  oak  or  beech 
To  be  aught  but  a  greenwood  tree." 

This  snatch,  which,  in  its  mixture  of 
sentiment,  truth,  and  what  may  be 
excusably  called  "  rollick,"  is  very 
characteristic  of  its  author,  and  is  put 
in  the  mouth  of  Brother  Michael, 
practically  the  hero  of  the  piece,  and 
the  happiest  of  the  various  workings 
up  of  Friar  Tuck,  despite  his  con- 
siderable indebtedness  to  a  certain 
older  friar,  whom  we  must  not  call 
"of  the  funnels."  That  Peacock  was 
a  Pantagruelist  to  the  heart's  core 
is  evident  in  all  his  work  ;  but  his 
following  of  Master  Francis  is  no- 
where clearer  than  in  '  Maid  Marian,' 
and  it  no  doubt  helps  us  to  under- 
stand why  those  who  cannot  relish 
Rabelais  should  look  askance  at  Pea- 
cock. For  the  rest  no  book  of  Peacock's 
requires  so  little  comment  as  this 
charming  pastoral,  which  was  pro- 
bably little  less  in  Thackeray's  mind 
than  '  Ivanhoe '  itself  when  he  wrote 
'Rebecca  and  Rowena.'  The  author 
draws  in  (it  would  be  hardly  fair  to 
say  drags  in)  some  of  his  stock  satire 
at  courts,  the  clergy,  the  landed 


gentry,  and  so  forth;  but  the  very 
nature  of  the  subject  excludes  the 
somewhat  tedious  digressions  which 
mar  '  Melincourt,'  and  which  once  or 
twice  menace,  though  they  never 
actually  succeed  in  spoiling,  the  un- 
broken fun  of  '  Nightmare  Abbey.' 

'  The  Misfortunes  of  Elphin,'  which 
followed  after  an  interval  of  seven 
years,  is,  I  believe,  the  least  generally 
popular  of  Peacock's  works,  though 
(not  at  all  for  that  reason)  it  happens 
to  be  my  own  favourite.  The  most 
curious  instance  of  this  general  un- 
popularity is  the  entire  omission,  as  far 
as  I  am  aware,  of  any  reference  to  it 
in  any  of  the  popular  guide-books  to 
Wales.  One  piece  of  verse,  indeed,  the 
"  War-song  of  Dinas  Vawr,"  a  triumph 
of  easy  verse  and  covert  sarcasm,  has 
had  some  vogue,  but  the  rest  is  only 
known  to  Peacockians.  The  abund- 
ance of  Welsh  lore  which,  at  any  rate 
in  appearance,  it  contains,  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  this ; 
though  the  translations  or  adaptations, 
whether  faithful  or  not,  are  the  best 
literary  renderings  of  Welsh  known  to 
me.  Something  also,  and  probably 
more,  is  due  to  the  saturation  of  the 
whole  from  beginning  to  end  with 
Peacock's  driest  humour.  Not  only 
is  the  account  of  the  sapping  and 
destruction  of  the  embankment  of 
Gwaelod  an  open  and  continuous  satire 
on  the  opposition  to  Reform,  but  the 
whole  book  is  written  in  the  spirit 
and  manner  of  '  Candide ' — a  spirit  and 
manner  which  Englishmen  have  gene- 
rally been  readier  to  relish,  when  they 
relish  them  at  all,  in  another  language 
than  in  their  own.  The  respectable 
domestic  virtues  of  Elphin  and  his 
wife  Angharad,  the  blameless  loves  of 
Taliesin  and  the  Princess  Melanghel, 
hardly  serve  even  as  a  foil  to  the 
satiric  treatment  of  the  other  char- 
acters. The  careless  incompetence 
of  the  poetical  King  Gwythno,  the 
coarser  vices  of  other  Welsh  princes, 
the  marital  toleration  or  blindness 
of  Arthur,  the  cynical  frankness  of 
the  robber  King  Melvas,  above  all, 
the  drunkenness  of  the  immortal 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


421 


Seithenyn,  give  the  humourist  themes 
which  he  caresses  with  inexhaustible 
affection,  but  in  a  manner  no  doubt 
very  puzzling,  if  not  shocking,  to 
matter-of-fact  readers.  Seithenyn,  the 
drunken  prince  and  dyke- warden, 
whose  carelessness  lets  in  the  inun- 
dation, is  by  far  Peacock's  most 
original  creation  (for  Scythrop, 
as  has  been  said,  is  rather  a 
humorous  distortion  of  the  actual 
than  a  creation).  His  complete  self- 
satisfaction,  his  utter  fearlessness  of 
consequences,  his  ready  adaptation 
to  whatever  part,  be  it  prince  or 
butler,  presents  itself  to  him,  and 
above  all,  the  splendid  topsy-turviness 
of  his  fashion  of  argument  make 
Seithenyn  one  of  the  happiest,  if  not 
one  of  the  greatest,  results  of  whimsi- 
cal imagination  and  study  of  human 
nature.  "They  have  not" — says  the 
some  while  prince,  now  King  Melvas' 
butler,  when  Taliesin  discovers  him 
twenty  years  after  his  supposed  death — 
<4they  have  not  made  it  [his  death] 
known  to  me  for  the  best  of  all  reasons, 
that  one  can  only  know  the  truth. 
For  if  that  which  we  think  we  know 
is  not  truth,  it  is  something  which 
we  do  not  know.  A  man  cannot 
know  his  own  death.  For  while  he 
knows  anything  he  is  alive ;  at  least, 
I  never  heard  of  a  dead  man  who 
knew  anything,  or  pretended  to  know 
anything :  if  he  had  so  pretended  I 
should  have  told  him  to  his  face  that 
he  was  no  dead  man."  How  nobly 
consistent  is  this  with  his  other  argu- 
ment in  the  days  of  his  princedom 
and  his  neglect  of  the  embankment ! 
Elphin  has  just  reproached  him  with 
the  proverb,  "Wine  speaks  in  the 
silence  of  reason."  "  I  am  very  sorry," 
said  Seithenyn,  "that  you  see  things 
in  a  wrong  light.  But  we  will  not 
quarrel,  for  three  reasons  :  first,  be- 
cause you  are  the  son  of  the  king, 
and  may  do  and  say  what  you  please 
without  any  one  having  a  right  to  be 
displeased  ;  second,  because  I  never 
quarrel  with  a  guest,  even  if  he  grows 
riotous  in  his  cups ;  third,  because 


there  is  nothing  to  quarrel  about. 
And  perhaps  that  is  the  best  reason 
of  the  three ;  or  rather  the  first  is  the 
best,  because  you  are  the  son  of  the 
king ;  and  the  third  is  the  second, 
that  is  the  second  best,  because  there 
is  nothing  to  quarrel  about ;  and  the 
second  is  nothing  to  the  purpose,  be- 
cause, though  guests  will  grow  riotous 
in  their  cups  in  spite  of  my  good 
orderly  example,  God  forbid  that  I 
should  say  that  is  the  case  with  you. 
And  I  completely  agree  in  the  truth 
of  your  remark  that  reason  speaks  in 
the  silence  of  wine." 

'  Crotchet  Castle/  the  last  but  one 
of  the  series,  which  was  published  two 
years  after  '  Elphin '  and  nearly  thirty 
before    '  Gryll  Grange,'    has  been  al- 
ready called  the  best ;  and  the  state- 
ment  is    not    inconsistent    with   the 
description  already  given  of  'Night- 
mare Abbey'   and  of  'Elphin.'     For 
'Nightmare  Abbey'  is  chiefly  farce,  and 
'  The  Misfortunes  of  Elphin '  is  chiefly 
sardonic  persiflage.     '  Crotchet  Castle ' 
is  comedy  of  a  high  and  varied  kind. 
Peacock   has   returned   in   it   to   the 
machinery  of    a  country  house   with 
its  visitors,  each  of  whom  is  more  or 
less  of  a  crotcheteer ;  and  has  thrown  in 
a  little  romantic  interest  in  the  suit  of 
a   certain   unmoneyed    Captain   Fitz- 
chrome  to   a   noble    damsel    who   is 
expected  to  marry  money,  as  well  as 
in  the  desertion  and  subsequent  rescue 
of  Susannah  Touchandgo,  daughter  of 
a  levanting  financier.     The  charm  of 
the  book,  however,  which  distinguishes 
it  from  all  its  predecessors,  is  the  in- 
troduction of  characters  neither  ridi- 
culous nor  simply  good  in  the  persons 
of   the   Rev.  Dr.   Folliott   and   Lady 
Clarinda  Bossnowl,  Fitzchrome's   be- 
loved.     "  Lady    Clarinda,"    says   the 
captain,  when  the  said  Lady  Clarinda 
has  been  playing  off  a  certain  not  un- 
ladylike practical  joke  on  him,  "  is  a 
very  pleasant  young  lady  ;  "  and  most 
assuredly  she  is,  a  young  lady  (in  the 
nineteenth  century   and  in  prose)   of 
the  tribe  of  Beatrice,  if  not  even  of 
Rosalind.     As   for   Dr.  Folliott,   the 


422 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


author  is  said  to  have  described  him 
as  his  amends  for  his  earlier  clerical 
sketches,  and  the  amends  are  ample. 
A  stout  Tory,  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest, 
a  lover  of  good  living,  an  inveterate 
paradoxer,  a  pitiless  exposer  of  current 
cants  and  fallacies,  and,  lastly,  a  tall 
man  of  his  hands,  Dr.  Folliott  is 
always  delightful,  whether  he  is 
knocking  down  thieves,  or  annihilat- 
ing, in  a  rather  Johnsonian  manner, 
the  economist,  Mr.  McQuedy,  and  the 
journalist,  Mr.  Eavesdrop,  or  laying 
down  the  law  as  to  the  composition  of 
breakfast  and  supper,  or  using  strong 
language  as  to  "the  learned  friend  " 
(Brougham),  or  bringing  out,  partly  by 
opposition  and  partly  by  irony,  the 
follies  of  the  transcendentalists,  the 
fops,  the  doctrinaires,  and  the  medie- 
valists of  the  party.  The  book,  more- 
over, contains  the  last  and  not  the 
least  of  Peacock's  admirable  drinking 
songs : — 

"  If  I  drink  water  while  this  dotli  last, 

May  1  never  again  drink  wine  ; 
For  how  can  a  man,  in  his  life  of  a  span, 

Do  anything  better  than  dine  ? 
We'll  dine  and  drink,  and  say  if  we  think 

That  anything  better  can  be  ; 
And  when  we  have  dined,  wish  all  mankind 

May  dine  as  well  as  we. 

"  And  though  a  good  wish  will  fill  no  dish, 

And  brim  no  cup  with  sack, 
Yet  thoughts  will  spring  as  the  glasses  ring 

To  illume  our  studious  track. 
O'er  the  brilliant   dreams  of  our  hopeful 

schemes 

The  light  of  the  flask  shall  shine  ; 
And  we'll  sit  till  day,  but  we'll  find  the  way 
To  drench  the  world  with  wine." 

The  song  is  good  in  itself,  but  it  is 
even  more  interesting  as  being  the 
last  product  of  Peacock's  Anacreontic 
vein.  Almost  a  generation  passed 
before  the  appearance  of  his  next  and 
last  novel,  and  though  there  is  plenty 
of  good  eating  and  drinking  in  '  Gryll 
Grange,'  the  old  fine  rapture  had  dis- 
appeared in  society  meanwhile,  and 
Peacock  obediently  took  note  of  the 
disappearance.  It  is  considered,  I 
believe,  a  mark  of  barbarian  tastes  to 
lament  the  change.  But  I  am  not 


certain  that  the  Age  of  Apollinaris 
and  lectures  has  yet  produced  any- 
thing that  can  vie  as  literature  with 
the  products  of  the  ages  of  Wine  and 
Song. 

*  Gryll  Grange  '  however,  in  no  way 
deserves  the  name  of  a  dry  stick.     It 
is,  next  to  '  Melincourt,'  the  longest 
of  Peacock's  novels,  and  it  is  entirely 
free  from,  the  drawbacks  of  the  forty- 
years-older   book.     Mr.  Falconer,  the 
hero,  who  lives  in  a  tower  alone  with 
seven  lovely  and  discreet  foster-sisters, 
has  some  resemblances  to  Mr.  Forester, 
but  he  is  much  less  of  a  prig.    The  life 
and  the  conversation  bear,  instead  of 
the  marks  of  a  young  man's  writing, 
the  marks  of  the  writing  of  one  who 
has  seen  the  manners   and  cities  of 
many  other  men,  and  the  personages 
throughout     are     singularly    lifelike. 
The   loves    of    the   second   hero   and 
heroine,    Lord     Curryfin     and    Miss 
Niphet,    are   much    more   interesting 
than  their  names  would  suggest.    And 
the   most   loquacious    person    of   the 
book,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Opimian,  if  he  is 
somewhat  less  racy  than  Dr.  Folliott, 
is  not  less  agreeable.    One  main  charm 
of    the    novel    lies    in    its    vigorous 
criticism  of  modern  society  in  phases 
which    have    not    yet    passed    away. 
"  Progress  "  is  attacked  with  curious 
ardour;  and  the  battle  between  lite- 
rature and  science,  which  nowadays 
even  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  wages  but 
as   one   cauponans    bellum,    is   fought 
with  a  vigour  that  is  a  joy  to  see.     It 
would  be  rather  interesting  to  know 
whether  Peacock,  in  planning  the  cen- 
tral incident  of  the  play  (an  "  Aristo- 
phanic    comedy,"    satirising    modern 
ways),  was  aware  of  the  existence  of 
Mansel's    delightful    parody    of    the 
'  Clouds.'     But    '  Phrontisterion '  has 
never  been  widely  known  out  of  Ox- 
ford,   and   the   bearing   of   Peacock's 
own  performance  is  rather  social  than 
political.     Not  the   least  noteworthy 
thing   in  the   book    is    the   practical 
apology    which    is    made    in    it    to 
Scotchmen    and    political    economists 
(two  classes  whom  Peacock  had  earlier 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


423 


persecuted  in  the  personage  of  Mr. 
McBorrowdale,  a  candid  friend  of 
Liberalism,  who  is  extremely  refresh- 
ing) ;  and  besides  the  Aristophanic 
comedy, '  Gryll  Grange '  contains  some 
of  Peacock's  most  delightful  verse, 
notably  the  really  exquisite  stanzas 
on  "  Love  and  Age." 

The  book  is  the  more  valuable 
because  of  the  material  it  supplies 
in  this  and  other  places  for  rebutting 
the  charges  that  Peacock  was  a  mere 
Epicurean,  or  a  mere  carper.  Inde- 
pendently of  the  verses  just  named, 
and  the  hardly  less  perfect  "  Death  of 
Philemon,"  the  prose  conversation 
shows  how  delicately  and  with  how 
much  feeling  he  could  think  on  those 
points  of  life  where  satire  and  jollifica- 
tion are  out  of  place.  For  the  purely 
modern  man,  indeed,  it  might  be  well 
to  begin  the  reading  of  Peacock  with 
'  Gryll  Grange,'  in  order  that  he  may 
not  be  set  out  of  harmony  with  his 
author  by  the  robuster  but  less  fami- 
liar tones,  as  well  as  by  the  rawer 
though  not  less  vigorous  workman- 
ship of  •«  Headlong  Hall '  and  its  im- 
mediate successors.  The  happy  mean 
between  the  heart  on  the  sleeve  and 
the  absence  of  heart  has  scarcely  been 
better  shown  than  in  this  latest 
novel. 

I  have  no  space  here  to  go  through 
the  miscellaneous  work  which  com- 
pletes Peacock's  literary  baggage. 
His  regular  poems,  all  early,  are 
very  much  better  than  the  work  of 
many  men  who  have  won  a  place 
among  British  poets.  His  criticism, 
though  not  great  in  amount,  is  good ; 
and  he  is  especially  happy  in  the  kind 
of  miscellaneous  trifle  (such  as  his  tri- 
lingual poem  on  a  whitebait  dinner), 
which  is  generally  thought  appro- 
priate to  "  university  wits."  But  the 
characteristics  of  these  miscellanies 
are  not  very  different  from  the 
characteristics  of  his  prose  fiction, 
and,  for  purposes  of  discussion,  may  be 
included  with  them. 

Lord  Houghton  has  defined  and  ex- 
plained Peacock's  literary  idiosyncrasy 


as   that   of  a   man  of  the  eighteenth 
century   belated   and    strayed   in  the 
nineteenth.       It    is    always    easy    to 
improve  on    a    given   pattern,    but    I 
certainly  think  that  this  definition  of 
Lord  Houghton's  (which,  it  should  be 
said,  is  not  given  in  his  own  words) 
needs  a  little  improvement.     For  the 
differences  which  strike  us  in  Peacock 
— the  easy  joviality,  the  satirical  view 
of  life,  the  contempt  of  formulas  and 
of    science  —  though    they    certainly 
distinguish   many  chief  literary  men 
of  the  eighteenth  century  from  most 
chief  literary  men  of  the  nineteenth, 
are  not  specially  characteristic  of  the 
eighteenth  century   itself.     They   are 
found    in    the    seventeenth,    in    the 
Renaissance,  in   classical   antiquity — 
wherever,  in  short,  the  art  of  letters 
and  the  art  of  life  have  had  compara- 
tively free  play.    The  chief  differentia 
of   Peacock  is  a  differentia  common 
among  men  of  letters  ;  that  is  to  say, 
among  men  of  letters  who  are  accus- 
tomed to  society,  who  take  no  sacer- 
dotal or  "  singing-robe  "  view  of  litera- 
ture, who   appreciate  the  distinction 
which  literary  cultivation  gives  them 
over   the    "  herd   of    mankind,"    but 
who  by  no  means  take  that  distinc- 
tion    too     seriously.       Aristophanes, 
Horace,  Lucian,  Rabelais,  Montaigne, 
Saint   Evremond,  these  are   all  Pea- 
cock's   literary    ancestors,    each,    of 
course,  with  his  own  difference  in  es- 
pecial and  in  addition.     Aristophanes 
was  more  of    a  politician  and  a  pa- 
triot, Lucian  more  of   a  freethinker, 
Horace  more  of  a  simple  pococurante. 
Rabelais  may  have  had  a  little  inclina- 
tion to  science  itself  (he  would  soon 
have  found  it  out  if  he  had  lived  a 
little  later),  Montaigne  may  have  been 
more  of  a  pure   egotist,  Saint  Evre- 
mond more  of  a  man  of  society,  and 
of  the  verse  and  prose  of  society.  But 
they  all  had  the  same  ethos,  the  same 
love  of  letters    as    letters,  the  same 
contempt    of    mere    progress   as   pro- 
gress, the  same  relish  for  the  simpler 
and  more  human  pleasures,  the  same 
good  fellowship,  the  same  tendency  to 


424 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


escape  from  the  labyrinth  of  life's 
riddles  by  what  has  been  called  the 
humour-gate,  the  same  irreconcilable 
hatred  of  stupidity  and  vulgarity  and 
cant.  The  eighteenth  century  has,  no 
doubt,  had  its  claim  to  be  regarded  as 
the  special  nourishing  time  of  this 
mental  state  urged  by  many  others 
besides  Lord  Houghton ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  the  claim  can  be  sustained,  at 
any  rate  to  the  detriment  of  other 
times,  and  the  men  of  other  times. 
That  century  took  itself  too  seriously 
— a  fault  fatal  to  the  claim  at  once. 
Indeed,  the  truth  is  that  while  this 
attitude  has  in  some  periods  been  very 
rare,  it  cannot  be  said  to  be  the  pecu- 
liar, still  less  the  universal,  character- 
istic of  any  period.  It  is  a  personal 
not  a  periodic  distinction ;  and  there 
are  persons  who  might  make  out  a  fair 
claim  to  it  even  in  the  depths  of  the 
Middle  Ages  or  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

However  this  may  be.  Peacock  cer- 
tainly held  the  theory  of  those  who  take 
life  easily,  who  do  not  love  anything 
very  much  except  old  books,  old  wine, 
and  a  few  other  things,  not  all  of  which 
perhaps  need  be  old,  who  are  rather 
inclined  to  see  the  folly  of  it  than  the 
pity  of  it,  and  who  have  an  invincible 
tendency,  if  they  tilt  at  anything  at 
all,  to  tilt  at  the  prevailing  cants  and 
arrogances  of  the  time.  These  cants 
and  arrogances  of  course  vary.  The 
position  occupied  by  monkery  at  one 
time  may  be  occupied  by  pl^sical 
science  at  another ;  and  a  belief  in 
graven  images  may  supply  in  the  third 
century  the  target,  which  is  supplied 
by  a  belief  in  the  supreme  wisdom  of 
majorities  in  the  nineteenth.  But  the 
general  principles — the  cult  of  the 
muses  and  the  graces  for  their  own 
sake,  and  the  practice  of  satiric 
archery  at  the  follies  of  the  day — 
appear  in  all  the  elect  of  this  particu- 
lar election,  and  they  certainly  appear 
in  Peacock.  The  results  no  doubt  are 
distasteful,  not  to  say  shocking,  to 
some  excellent  people.  It  is  impossible 
to  avoid  a  slight  chuckle  when  one 


thinks  of  the  horror  with  which  some 
such  people  must  read  Peacock's  calm 
statement,  repeated  I  think  more  than 
once,  that  one  of  his  most  perfect 
heroes  "  found,  as  he  had  often  found 
before,  that  the  more  his  mind  was 
troubled  the  more  madeira  he  could 
drink  without  disordering  his  head." 
I  have  no  doubt  that  the  United 
Kingdom  Alliance,  if  it  knew  this 
dreadful  sentence  (but  probably  the 
study  of  the  United  Kingdom  Alliance 
is  not  much  in  Peacock),  would  like  to 
burn  all  the  copies  of  *  Gryll  Grange ' 
by  the  hands  of  Mr.  Berry,  and  make 
the  reprinting  of  it  a  misdemeanour, 
if  not  a  felony.  But  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  follow  Sir  Wilfrid  Lawson,  or 
to  be  a  believer  in  education,  or  in 
telegraphs,  or  in  majorities,  in  order  to 
feel  the  repulsion  which  some  people 
evidently  feel  for  the  Peacockian  treat- 
ment. With  one  sense  absent  and 
another  strongly  present  it  is  impos- 
sible for  any  one  to  like  him.  The 
present  sense  is  that  which  has  been 
rather  grandiosely  called  the  sense  of 
moral  responsibility  in  literature.  The 
absent  sense  ris  that  sixth,  seventh,  or 
eighth  sense,  called  a  sense  of  humour, 
and  about  this  there  is  no  arguing. 
Those  who  have  it,  instead  of  being 
quietly  and  humbly  thankful,  are  per- 
haps a  little  too  apt  to  celebrate  their 
joy  in  the  face  of  the  afflicted  ones 
who  have  it  not ;  the  afflicted  ones, 
who  have  it  not,  only  follow  a  general 
law  in  protesting  that  the  sense  of 
humour  is  a  very  worthless  thing,  if 
not  a  complete  humbug.  But  there 
are  others  of  whom  it  would  be  absurd 
to  say  that  they  have  no  sense  of 
humour,  and  yet  who  cannot  place 
themselves  at  the  Peacockian  point  of 
view,  or  at  the  point  of  view  of  those 
who  like  Peacock.  His  humour  is  not 
their  humour;  his  wit  not  their  wit. 
Like  one  of  his  own  characters  (who 
did  not  show  his  usual  wisdom  in  the 
remark),  they  "  must  take  pleasure  in 
the  thing  represented  before  they  can 
take  pleasure  in  the  representation." 
And  in  the  things  that  Peacock 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


425 


represents  they  do  not  take  pleasure. 
That  gentlemen  should  drink  a  great 
deal  of  burgundy  and  sing  songs 
during  the  process  appears  to  them  at 
the  best  childish,  at  the  worst  horribly 
wrong.  The  prince-butler  Seithenyn 
is  a  reprobate  old  man,  who  was  un- 
faithful to  his  trust  and  shamelessly 
given  to  sensual  indulgence.  Dr. 
Folliott,  as  a  parish  priest,  should  not 
have  drunk  so  much  wine;  and  it 
would  have  been  much  more  satisfac- 
tory to  hear  more  of  Dr.  Opimian's 
sermons  and  district  visiting  and  less 
of  his  dinners  with  Squire  Gryll  and 
Mr.  Falconer.  Peacock's  irony  on 
social  and  political  arrangements  is  all 
sterile,  all  destructive,  and  the  senti- 
ment that  "most  opinions  that  have 
anything  to  be  said  for  them  are  about 
two  thousand  years  old  "  is  a  libel  on 
mankind.  They  feel,  in  short,  for 
Peacock  the  animosity  mingled  with 
contempt  which  the  late  M.  Ainiel  felt 
for  "  clever  mockers." 

It  is  probably  useless  to  argue  with 
any  such.  It  might,  indeed,  be  urged 
in  all  seriousness  that  the  Peacockian 
attitude  is  not  in  the  least  identical 
with  the  Mephistophelian ;  that  it  is 
based  simply  on  the  very  sober  and 
arguable  ground  that  human  nature 
is  always  very  much  the  same,  liable 
to  the  same  delusions  and  the  same 
weaknesses ;  and  that  the  oldest  things 
are  likely  to  be  best,  not  for  any 
intrinsic  or  mystical  virtue  of  an- 
tiquity, but  because  they  have  had 
most  time  to  be  found  out  in,  and  have 
not  been  found  out.  It  may  further 
be  argued,  as  it  has  often  been  argued 
before,  that  the  use  of  ridicule  as 
a  general  criterion  can  do  no  harm, 
and  may  do  much  good.  If  the  thing 
ridiculed  be  of  God,  it  will  stand ;  if 
it  be  not,  the  sooner  it  is  laughed  off 
the  face  of  the  earth  the  better.  But 
there  is  probably  little  good  in  urging 
all  this.  Just  as  a  lover  of  the  greatest 
of  Greek  dramatists  must  recognise  at 
once  that  it  would  be  perfectly  useless 
to  attempt  to  argue  Lord  Coleridge 
out  of  the  idea  that  Aristophanes, 


though  a  genius,  was  vulgar  and  base 
of  soul,  so  to  go  a  good  deal  lower  in 
the  scale  of  years,  and  somewhat  lower 
in  the  scale  of  genius,  everybody  who 
rejoices  in  the  author  of '  Aristophanes 
in  London '  must  see  that  he  has  no 
chance  of  converting  Mrs.  Oliphant,  or 
any  other  person  who  does  not  like 
Peacock.  The  middle  term  is  not  pre- 
sent, the  disputants  do  not  in  fact 
use  the  same  language.  The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  recommend  this 
particular  pleasure  to  those  who  are 
capable  of  being  pleased  by  it,  of 
whom  there  are  beyond  doubt  a  great 
number  to  whom  it  is  pleasure  yet 
untried. 

It  is  well  to  go  about  enjoying  it 
with  a  certain  caution.  The  reader 
must  not  expect  always  to  agree  with 
Peacock,  who  not  only  did  not  always 
agree  with  himself,  but  was  also  a 
man  of  almost  ludicrously  strong  pre- 
judices. He  hated  paper  money  ; 
whereas  the  only  feeling  that  most  of 
us  have  on  that  subject  is  that  we 
have  not  always  as  much  of  it  as  we 
should  like.  He  hated  Scotchmen, 
and  there  are  many  of  his  readers  who 
without  any  claim  to  Scotch  blood, 
but  knowing  the  place  and  the  people, 
will  say, 

"  That  better  wine  and  better  men 
"We  shall  not  meet  in  May," 

or  for  the  matter  of  that  in  any  other 
month.  Partly  because  he  hated 
Scotchmen,  and  partly  because  in  his 
earlier  days  Sir  Walter  was  a  pillar  of 
Toryism,  he  hated  Scott,  and  has  been 
guilty  not  merely  of  an  absurd  and  no 
doubt  partly  humorous  comparison  of 
the  Waverley  novels  to  pantomimes, 
but  of  more  definite  criticisms  which 
will  bear  the  test  of  examination  as 
badly.  His  strictures  on  a  famous 
verse  of  '  The  Dream  of  Fair  Women  ' 
are  indefensible,  though  there  is  per- 
haps more  to  be  said  for  the  accom- 
panying jibe  at  Sir  John  Millais's 
endeavour  to  carry  out  the  description 
of  Cleopatra  in  black  (chiefly  black) 
and  white.  The  reader  of  Peacock 


426 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


must  never  mind  his  author  trampling 
on  his,  the  reader's,  favourite  corns  ;  or 
rather  he  must  lay  his  account  with 
the  agreeable  certainty  that  Peacock 
will  shortly   afterwards   trample    on 
other  corns  which  are  not  at  all  his 
favourites.     For  my  part  I  am  quite 
willing    to    accept    these    conditions. 
And  I  do  not  find  that  my  admiration 
for  Coleridge,  or  my  sympathy  with 
those  who  opposed  the    first  Reform 
Bill,  or  my  inclination  to  dispute  the 
fact  that   Oxford   is  only  a  place  of 
"  unused  libraries  and  unread  books," 
make  me  like  Peacock  one  whit  the 
less.     It  is  the  law  of  the  game,  and 
those  who  play  the  game  must  put  up 
with  its  laws.     And  it  must  be  remem- 
bered   that   at  any  rate  in    his  later 
and  best  books  Peacock  never  wholly 
"took, a  side."    He  has  always  provided 
,some  personage  or  other  who  reduces 
all  -tthe    whimsies    and  prejudices  of 
his    characters,     even    including    his 
own,  under  a  kind  of  dry  light.     Such 
is  Lady  Clarinda,  who  regards  all  the 
crotcheteers  of    Crotchet   Castle  with 
the  same  benevolent  amusement ;  such 
Mr.  McBorrowdale,  who,  when  he  is 
requested    to    settle  the    question   of 
the  superiority  or  inferiority  of  Greek 
harmony  and  perspective  to  modern, 
replies,   "  I  think    ye   may  just    buz 
that  bottle  before  you."     (Alas !    to 
think  that  if  a  man   used  the  word 
"  buz "      nowadays      some      wiseacre 
would  accuse  him  of  vulgarity  or  of 
false  English.)     The  general  criticism 
in  his  work  is  always  sane  and  vigor- 
ous, even  though  there  may  be  flaws 
in  the  particular  censures ;  and  it  is 
very  seldom  that  even    in  his   utter- 
ances of  most  flagrant  prejudice  any- 
thing really  illiberal  can  be  found.  He 
had  read  much  too  widely  and  with 
too    much    discrimination    for    that. 
His    reading  had  been  corrected    by 
too  much  of  the  cheerful  give-and-take 
of  social  discussion,  his  dry  light  was 
softened  and  coloured  by  too  frequent 
rainbows,  the   Apollonian  rays  being 
reflected  on  Bacchic  dew.     Anything 
that  might  otherwise  seem  hard  and 


harsh  in  Peacock's  perpetual  ridicule 
is  softened  and  mellowed  by  this  per- 
vading good  fellowship  which,  as  it  is 
never  pushed  to  the  somewhat  extra- 
vagant limits  of  Wilson,  so  it  distin- 
guishes Peacock  himself  from  the 
authors  to  whom  in  pure  style  he  is 
most  akin  and  to  whom  Lord  Hough- 
ton  has  already  compared  him — the 
French  tale-tellers  from  Anthony 
Hamilton  to  Yoltaire.  In  these,  per- 
fect as  their  form  often  is,  there  is 
constantly  a  slight  want  of  geniality, 
a  perpetual  clatter  and  glitter  of  in- 
tellectual rapier  and  dagger  which 
sometimes  becomes  rather  irritating 
and  teasing  to  ear  and  eye.  Even  the 
objects  of  Peacock's  severest  sarcasm, 
his  Galls  and  Vamps  and  Eavesdrops, 
are  allowed  to  join  in  the  choruses 
and  the  bumpers  of  his  easy  going 
symposia.  The  sole  nexus  is  not  cash 
payment  but  something  much  more 
agreeable,  and  it  is  allowed  that  even 
Mr.  Mystic  had  "  some  super- excellent 
madeira."  Yet  how  far  the  wine  is  from 
getting  above  the  wit  in  these  merry 
books  is  not  likely  to  escape  even  the 
most  unsympathetic  reader.  The  mark 
may  be  selected  recklessly  or  unjustly, 
but  the  arrows  always  fly  straight  to 
it. 

Peacock,  in  short,  has  eminently 
that  quality  of  literature  which  may 
be  called  recreation.  It  may  be  that 
he  is  not  extraordinarily  instructive, 
though  there  is  a  good  deal  of  quaint 
and  not  despicable  erudition  wrapped 
up  in  his  apparently  careless  pages. 
It  may  be  that  he  does  not  prove 
much  \  that  he  has,  in  fact,  very  little 
concern  to  prove  anything.  But  in  one 
of  the  only  two  modes  of  refreshment 
and  distraction  possible  in  literature, 
he  is  a  very  great  master.  The  first  of 
these  modes  is  that  of  creation — that 
in  which  the  writer  spirits  his  readers 
away  into  some  scene  and  manner  of 
life  quite  different  from  that  with 
which  they  are  ordinarily  conversant. 
With  this  Peacock,  even  in  his  pro- 
fessed poetical  work,  has  not  very  much 
to  do;  and  in  his  novels,  even  in 


Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


427 


'  Maid  Marian/  he  hardly  attempts  it. 
The  other  is  the  mode  of  satirical  pre- 
sentment of  well-known  and  familiar 
things,  and  this  is  all  his  own.  Even 
his  remotest  subjects  are  near  enough 
to  be  in  a  manner  familiar,  and  '  Gryll 
Grange,'  with  a  few  insignificant 
changes  of  names  and  current  follies, 
might  have  been  written  yesterday. 
He  is,  therefore,  not  likely  for  a  long 
time  to  lose  the  freshness  and  point 
which,  at  any  rate  for  the  ordinary 


reader,  are  required  in  satirical  hand- 
lings of  ordinary  life ;  while  his  purely 
literary  merits,  his  grasp  of  the  peren- 
nial follies  and  characters  of  human- 
ity, of  the  ludicrum  humani  generis 
which  never  varies  much  in  substance 
under  its  ever-varying  dress,  are  such 
as  to  assure  him  life  even  after  the 
immediate  peculiarities  which  he  satir- 
ised have  become,  or  have  even  ceased 
to  be  history. 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY. 


428 


THE  MUSICAL  AND  THE  PICTURESQUE  ELEMENTS  IN  POETRY. 


THE  view  of  art  that  is  expressed  by 
the  phrase  "  imitation  of  nature  "  has 
left  traces  in  nearly  all  criticism — in 
criticism  of  literature,  as  much  as  in 
criticism  of  art  in  the  more  restricted 
sense.  One  example  of  the  influence 
of  this  definition  is  the  stress  that  is 
often  laid  on  "  the  imagination  "  as  the 
principal  faculty  at  work  in  poetry. 
For  when  in  poetical  criticism  imagi- 
nation rather  than  passion  is  regarded 
as  the  essential  thing,  the  reason 
seems  to  be  that  the  imagination, 
being  visual,  keeps  itself  in  contact 
with  external  nature,  while  passion, 
or  feeling,  remains  merely  internal. 
Imitation  of  nature  is  thought  to  give 
a  certain  superiority  to  the  kinds  of 
art  in  which  it  has  a  greater  place,  as 
making  them  somehow  less  purely 
personal,  more  disinterested.  Some 
such  view  as  this  seems  to  be  implied 
in  parts  of  the  article  on  "  Poetic 
Imagination,"  by  Mr.  Arthur  Tilley, 
in  the  January  number  of  this 
Magazine. 

It  is  not  sufficient  for  those  who 
disagree  with  this  view  to  point  to 
the  indefinable  personal  quality  pre- 
sent in  all  poetical  work,  and  indeed 
in  all  art,  whether  specifically  per- 
sonal or  impersonal  in  its  attitude 
towards  nature  and  man.  Those  who 
have  a  preference  for  the  objec- 
tive, imitative,  element  in  art,  would 
admit  the  presence  of  this  personal 
quality  just  as  much  as  any  one  else. 
And  they  could  defend  their  position 
in  this  way.  Taking  this  quality — 
which,  they  might  point  out,  is  exactly 
the  element  that  eludes  analysis — as 
"a  constant,"  as  something  always 
present  in  anything  that  can  be  called 
poetry,  they  might  insist  that  an 
impartially  objective  view  of  the 
world  is  that  which  characterises  the 
highest  poetry  ;  and  that  poets  are  to 


be  placed  higher  or  lower  according  to 
the  degree  in  which  they  succeed  in 
being  objective  and  impartial.  This 
objective  character,  they  might  say, 
is  best  described  as  a  character  of 
"  the  poetic  imagination." 

To  this  it  may  be  replied  that  insight 
into  the  reality  of  things  is  not  pre- 
cisely imagination  any  more  than  it 
is  passion  ;  that  this  insight  is  rather 
a  part  of  the  meaning  conveyed  by 
poetry  than  an  element  of  its  form, 
and  has  just  as  much  relation  to  one 
formal  quality  as  to  another.  In  fact, 
we  have  got  away  from  what  ought 
to  be  a  distinction  between  formal 
elements  to  a  distinction  of  content 
from  form.  But  the  first  question 
for  criticism  is,  in  which  of  the  formal 
elements  that  can  be  detected  by 
analysis  does  the  indefinable,  un- 
analysable quality  of  poetry  most  of 
all  express  itself. 

Imagination,  as  a  name  for  one 
of  the  formal  elements  in  poetry,  is 
too  wide.  It  always  suggests  more 
than  the  power  of  constructing  and 
picturing  shapes  of  external  things ; 
and  it  has  sometimes  been  used  to 
describe  the  formative  power  gene- 
rally, the  power  of  giving  shape  to 
the  feelings  within,  as  well  as  to  the 
images  of  the  world  without.  On  the 
other  hand,  passion  refers  properly 
to  the  material  or  basis  of  poetry,  and 
not  to  its  form  at  all. 

There  is,  however,  another  current 
distinction  of  poetical  criticism — that 
of  "  musical  "  and  '"  picturesque" 
qualities — by  which  the  difficulties  of 
clearly  distinguishing  passion  and 
imagination  are  avoided.  Both  these 
terms  refer  entirely  to  form  ;  and  they 
divide  between  them  all  the  formal 
qualities  of  poetical  work.  For  the 
term  "  picturesque,"  though  strictly 
it  ought  only  to  be  applied  to  those 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


429 


characters  of  the  imagery  of  a  poem 
that  recall  the  effects  of  a  picture,  has 
come  to  be  applied  in  practice  to  the 
whole  of  the  qualities  that  depend  on 
visual  imagination.  The  explanation 
of  this  extension  of  meaning  is  that, 
just  as  the  imaginative  characters  of 
ancient  poetry  are  most  related  to  the 
effects  of  sculpture,  so  the  imaginative 
characters  of  modern  poetry  are  most 
related  to  the  effects  of  painting. 
With  the  extension  that  has  been 
given  to  it,  the  term  "  picturesque " 
describes  half  the  formal  qualities  of 
a  poem.  The  other  term  of  the  anti- 
thesis, which  is  again  a  purely  formal 
one,  and  therefore  to  be  preferred  to 
"  passionate,"  describes  the  other  half 
of  all  the  formal  qualities  of  poetry  ; 
for  musical  quality  and  the  element  of 
passion  are  names  for  the  same  thing 
(considered  artistically).  Rhythmical 
movement  is  the  expression  of  emo- 
tional movement ;  and  in  poetry  the 
material  of  passion,  or  feeling,  assumes 
metrical,  that  is,  "  musical "  form. 
Thus  the  antithesis  of  "  musical  "  and 
"  picturesque "  is  at  once  clear  and 
perfectly  general. 

Are  the  two  elements  distinguished 
by  these  terms  of  equal  value  ?  Or  is 
one  of  them  the  essential  poetic 
quality,  and  the  other  a  subordinate 
element  to  be  taken  into  account  by 
criticism  in  an  estimate  of  the  total 
artistic  value  of  poetical  work,  but  not 
directly  affecting  its  value  merely  as 
poetry  ? 

Closer  consideration  of  the  two 
terms  will  make  it  clear  that  the 
essential  element  in  poetry  is  that 
which  is  described  by  the  first  of  them 
when  properly  interpreted.  The  true 
interpretation  of  both  may  be  arrived 
at  by  developing  the  consequences  of 
Lessing's  theory  of  the  limits  of  poetry 
and  painting. 

Lessing  proved  in  the  *  Laocoon ' 
that  the  method  of  the  poet  must  be 
different  from  that  of  the  painter  (or 
of  the  sculptor) ;  that  the  poet  cannot 
imitate  the  painter  in  his  treatment  of 
subjects  they  have  in  common,  and 
that  the  painter  cannot  imitate  the 


poet.  He  shows  by  examples  what 
difference  of  treatment  actually  exists, 
and  deduces  it  from  the  necessary 
conditions  of  the  arts  of  expression  in 
words  and  in  colours.  There  is  this 
difference  of  treatment,  because  in 
poetry  images  are  represented  in  their 
relations  in  time,  while  in  painting 
objects  are  represented  in  their  re- 
lations in  space.  In  detailed  descrip- 
tions of  beautiful  objects  the  poet 
cannot  equal  the  painter;  but  he  is 
not  confined,  like  the  painter,  to  a 
single  moment  of  time.  The  poet 
describes  the  effects  of  things,  not 
merely  the  things  themselves ;  and 
thus  he  can  convey  ideas  of  beautiful 
objects  by  methods  of  his  own  which 
the  painter  cannot  employ.  But  to 
produce  a  "  poetic  picture,"  that  is,  a 
picture  not  of  an  object  but  of  an 
action  or  event,  which  consists  of 
successive  phases  related  in  time,  not 
of  coexistent  parts  related  in  space,  is 
the  true  aim  of  the  poet. 

Now  Lessing's  conception  of  a  poetic 
picture — a  picture  in  words  of  a  series 
of  images  related  in  time — is  not  a 
perfectly  simple  conception.  We  may 
discover  in  it  by  analysis  those  sug- 
gestions of  distinct  pictures  which,  as 
Lessing  admits,  are  made  incidentally 
by  the  poet  without  attempting  any- 
thing beyond  the  limits  of  his  own  art. 
The  words  of  the  poet  call  up  images 
of  what  existed  at  those  particular 
moments  which  the  painter  might 
select  if  he  were  working  on  the  same 
subject.  Is  it,  then,  the  mere  relation 
of  these  images  in  time,  or  is  it  some 
remaining  thing,  that  makes  the 
picture  poetic?  That  it  is  some  re- 
maining thing,  and  that  this  is  the 
"  musical  element,"  will  become  clear 
from  an  example.  We  will  select  one 
from  Milton — 

"Down  a  while 

He  sat  and  round  about  him  saw  unseen. 
At  last,  as  from  a  cloud,  his  fulgent  head 
And  shape  star-bright  appeared  or  brighter,  clad 
With  what  permissive  glory  since  his  fall 
Was  left  him  or  false  glitter." 

This  passage  is  a  perfect  example  of 
a  "  poetic  picture  "  in  Lessing's  sense  ; 


430 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


and  there  is  no  difficulty  here  in 
detecting  the  presence  of  the  two 
elements.  The  poetic  effect  does  not 
proceed  merely  from  the  vivid  objec- 
tive representation  of  the  phases  of  an 
action  or  event  as  they  follow  one 
another  in  time.  A  particular  image 
out  of  the  series  —  that  which  is  con- 
tained in  the  italicised  lines  —  rises 
before  the  imagination.  The  move- 
ment in  which  the  mind  is  really 
absorbed  is  not  the  external  move- 
ment, but  the  musical  movement  of 
the  verse  ;  and  on  the  stream  of  this 
musical  movement  there  is  the  single 
image  appearing.  But  since  Milton 
is  especially  a  musical  poet,  we  will 
also  take  an  example  from  a  pictur- 
esque and  objective  poet  ;  let  us  take 
Homer's  description  of  the  march  of 
the  Grecian  army  :  — 


ovpeos  ep  Kopv(prjs,€Kad€f  5e  re  (paiveTqi  avy^], 
&s  To>v-epxofJ.€^(av  curb  ^aA/coS  Oeaireffioio 
atyXfj  Trafji.(pav6uaa  St'  aiOepos  ovpav})v  I/cev."  -1 

Do  we  not  here  perceive  as  separate 
images,  first,  the  blaze  of  the  forest, 
and  then  the  gleam  that  is  compared 
with  it,  of  the  armour?  We  are  at 
the  same  time  conscious  of  the  march 
of  the  army  ;  but  this  movement  is, 
as  it  were,  identified  with  the  rhyth- 
mical movement  of  the  verse.  Here, 
as  before,  a  particular  image  rather 
than  the  whole  objective  movement  is 
realised  in  imagination.  To  this  reali- 
sation of  definite  pictures  is  added  the 
rhythmical  movement,  in  other  words, 
the  musical  element,  of  the  verse. 
This  alone  is  the  element  in  poetry 
that  has  time  for  its  condition  ;  and 
time,  not  space,  is,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  fundamental  condition  of  poetic 
representations.  Of  the  two  formal 
elements  of  poetic  effects,  therefore  — 
musical  movement  and  separate 
suggestions  of  picturesque  imagery- 
it  is  clear  that  the  first,  since  that 

1  "Like  as  destroying  fire  kindles  some 
vast  forest  on  a  mountain's  peak,  and  the 
blaze  is  seen  from  afar  ;  so,  as  they  marched, 
the  dazzling  gleam  of  their  awful  armour 
reached  through  the  sky  even  unto  the 
heavens."—  II.  ii.  455-8. 


alone  depends  on  the  fundamental 
condition  of  poetic  representations, 
must  be  regarded  as  the  essential 
element. 

Thus,  by  considering  the  nature  of 
the  formal  conditions  of  poetic  expres- 
sion, we  find  that  the  effects  which 
recall  those  of  painting  (and  sculpture) 
are  subordinate  to  the  musical  ele- 
ment. But  in  order  to  meet  a  possi- 
ble objection,  it  is  necessary  to  point 
out  that  the  effects  of  music  itself 
and  of  poetry  are  not,  as  is  implied  in 
some  criticisms,  identical.  Sometimes 
the  remark  is  made  about  verse  that 
possesses  musical  quality  in  a  very 
high  degree  that  it  "  almost  succeeds 
in  producing  the  effect  of  music." 
Such  criticisms  convey  the  idea  that 
the  effort  after  intensity  of  musical 
effect  in  verse  is  an  attempt  to  pass 
beyond  the  limits  of  verbal  expression, 
and  therefore  that  it  does  not  properly 
belong  to  poetry.  But  the  musical 
effect  of  verse  is  of  its  own  kind,  and 
is  produced  by  methods  peculiar  to 
the  poet.  The  resemblance  that  there 
is  between  musical  verse  and  music 
is  due  to  resemblance  in  the  general 
conditions  of  their  production  ;  music, 
like  poetry,  has  time  for  its  formal 
condition,  and  in  music  as  in  poetry 
the  effect  depends  immediately  on 
sequences  of  sound;  but  there  need 
not  be  any  imitation  either  on  the 
part  of  the  poet  or  of  the  musician. 
This  becomes  evident  from  the  obser- 
vation that  many  people  who  are  very 
susceptible  to  music  care  little  for 
metrical  effects  in  poetry;  while  on 
the  other  hand  those  who  care  most 
for  lyric  poetry  have  often  no  peculiar 
susceptibility  to  music. 

For  those  who  can  accept  provision- 
ally the  conclusion  that  the  musical 
element  is  the  essential  element  in 
poetry,  an  examination  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  poets  in  whose  work 
musical  quality  becomes  most  mani- 
fest, as  a  quality  distinct  from  all 
others,  will  not  be  without  interest. 
In  the  first  place  it  may  be  asked,  is 
there  any  mode  of  dealing  with  life 
and  with  external  nature  that  is 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


431 


characteristic  of  those  poets  who  dis- 
play this  quality  pre-eminently  1  Ad- 
mitting that  all  material  is  of  equal 
value  to  the  artist,  we  may  still  find 
that  some  particular  mode  of  treat- 
ment of  that  which  is  the  material  of 
all  art  is  spontaneously  adopted  by 
poets  who  manifest  the  essential  poetic 
quality  both  in  its  highest  degree  and 
in  such  a  manner  that  it  is  perceived 
to  be  distinct  from  all  others. 

Artistic  qualities  generally  become 
most  distinct,  most  separable  in 
thought  from  other  qualities,  in  lyric 
poetry.  If,  then,  there  should  be  any 
discoverable  relation  between  mode  of 
treatment  of  material  and  mode  of 
manifestation  of  poetic  quality,  this 
will  be  found  most  easily  by  study- 
ing the  work  of  poets  whose  genius 
is  of  the  lyric  order.  It  is  even  possi- 
ble that  such  a  relation  may  exist  in 
lyric  poetry  only.  We  may  see  reason 
for  concluding  that  a  certain  mode  of 
treatment  of  life  is  characteristic  of 
the  greatest  lyric  poets,  but  this 
conclusion  may  have  no  further 
application. 

The  general  condition  of  the  mani- 
festation of  lyrical  power  may  be 
found  without  much  difficulty.  This 
condition  is  expressed  in  the  remark 
so  frequently  made  that  lyric  poetry 
is  "  subjective."  As  it  is  used  in 
criticism  the  term  is  sometimes  rather 
vague;  but  it  really  describes  very 
well  the  change  that  all  actual  ex- 
perience undergoes  in  becoming  mate- 
rial for  lyric  poetry.  The  lyric  poet 
resolves  all  human  emotion  and  all 
external  nature  into  their  elements, 
and  creates  new  worlds  out  of  these 
elements.  Now  this  process  has  a  cer- 
tain resemblance  to  the  resolution  of 
things  into  their  elements  by  philoso- 
phical analysis.  The  method  of  the 
poet  of  course  does  not  end  in  analy- 
sis; but  that  resolution  of  emotion 
into  a  few  typical  poetic  motives,  and 
of  nature  into  ideas  of  elementary 
forces  and  forms,  which  is  the  first 
condition  of  the  creation  of  the  new 
poetic  world  of  the  lyrist,  resembles 
the  analytical  process  of  the  philoso- 


pher taken  by  itself  in  that  it  is  sub- 
jective. The  term  has  therefore  not 
been  misapplied  in  this  case  in  being 
transferred  from  philosophy  to  literary 
criticism. 

The  subjective  character  of  lyric 
poetry  is  so  obvious  that  it  has  been 
noticed  as  a  fact  even  by  those  who 
have  not  seen  the  reason  that  deter- 
mines it.  The  reason  why  the  lyric 
poet  must  be  "  subjective  "  is  this  :  in 
order  to  produce  a  distinct  impression 
by  the  form  of  his  work,  he  must  have 
the  material  perfectly  under  his  con- 
trol. Now  the  material  cannot  be 
under  the  control  of  the  poet  unless 
he  selects  from  that  which  he  finds  in 
life,  accentuating  some  features  of 
experience,  and  suppressing  others. 
To  make  this  selection  possible  analy- 
sis is  necessary ;  and  then,  the  more 
complete  the  transformation  of  human 
emotion  with  all  its  circumstances  into 
a  new  "  subjective  "  world,  the  more 
complete  is  also  the  detachment  of 
form  from  matter,  the  more  intense 
is  the  impression  given  by  the  form 
alone. 

This  transformation  may  be  brought 
about  in  two  different  ways.  One  of 
these  consists  in  contemplating  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  peculiar  person- 
ality the  few  typical  emotions  and 
ideas  to-which  analysis  reduces  all  the 
rest.  A  new  world  is  created  in 
which  some  effect  of  strangeness  is 
given  to  everything.  After  the  treat- 
ment of  earlier  artists  has  been 
studied,  an  effort  is  made  to  express 
what  has  been  left  by  them  incom- 
pletely expressed — all  those  remoter 
effects  of  things  which  they  have  only 
suggested.  Baudelaire,  who  has  carried 
this  method  to  its  limits,  has  also 
given  the  theory  of  it.  He  called  it 
the  research  for  "the  artificial,"  and 
regarded  it  as  the  typical  method  of 
modern  art.  The  other  method  is  to 
give  to  the  mood  that  is  selected  as 
the  motive  of  a  poem  a  special 
imaginative  character  by  associating 
with  it  some  typical  episode  of  life, 
colouring  this  brilliantly,  and  isolating 
it  from  a  background  that  is  vaguely 


432 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


thought  of  as  made  up  of  common- 
place experience.  This  mode  of  treat- 
ment of  life  is  to  a  certain  extent 
that  of  all  poets  ;  but  some  lyrists — 
Heine,  for  example — have  carried  it  to 
greater  perfection  as  a  poetic  method 
than  the  rest.  Lyrics  such  as  Heine's 
have  for  their  distinctive  character  an 
intensity  of  emotional  expression 
which  has  led  some  critics  to  praise 
them  as  not  being  "  artificial."  But 
they  are  really  quite  as  artificial,  in 
a  sense,  as  those  with  which  they  are 
contrasted.  For  nothing  in  them  is 
taken  directly  from  life.  The  episode 
that  is  selected  has  a  certain  typical 
character  by  which  it  is  removed  from 
real  experience ;  in  being  emphasised 
by  intensity  of  expression  and  by  con- 
trast it  is  of  course  equally  removed 
from  the  world  of  abstractions.  Thus 
it  is  true  here,  as  everywhere  else,  that 
"art  is  art  because  it  is  not  nature." 

But  among  the  lyric  poets  them- 
selves there  are  some  in  whose  verse 
the  musical  quality  becomes  more  dis- 
tinct than  it  does  in  the  verse  of  those 
who  may  be  characterised  by  their 
use  of  one  of  the  two  methods  de- 
scribed. The  musical  quality  in  the 
verse  of  the  poets  referred  to  above  is 
of  course  unmistakable,  but  it  is  not 
the  quality  which  we  select  to  charac- 
terise them.  In  the  one  case  intensity 
in  the  expression  of  a  mood  is  most 
characteristic,  in  the  other  strange- 
ness in  the  colouring.  But  there 
are  some  poets  who  are  pre-eminently 
"  musical,"  whom  the  musical  quality 
of  their  verse  would  be  selected  to 
characterise.  Is  there  any  peculiarity 
in  their  mode  of  treating  the  material 
of  all  poetry,  by  which  this  still 
greater  detachment  of  form  from 
matter  can  be  explained  ? 

In  order  to  determine  this,  the 
best  way  of  proceeding  seems  to  be 
to  compare  the  poets  of  lyrical 
genius  of  some  one  literature,  and  to 
try  to  discover  what  those  poets  have 
in  common  who,  in  musical  quality 
of  verse,  are  distinguished  above  the 
rest.  For  this  purpose  we  may  be 
allowed  to  choose  English  literature. 


The  first  great  English  poet  who  is 
above  all  things  musical  is  Milton. 
The  distinction  of  musical  from  pic- 
turesque qualities  has  indeed  been 
used  as  a  means  of  defending  Milton's 
claim  to  be  placed  in  the  first  order  of 
poets  against  those  critics  who  have 
complained  that  he  does  not  suggest 
many  subjects  for  pictures.  And  we 
must  place  Milton  among  poets  whose 
genius  is  of  the  lyrical  kind,  though 
most  of  his  work  is  not  technically 
lyrical — especially  if  we  accept  as 
universal  among  the  greater  poets  the 
distinction  of  lyric  from  dramatic 
genius.  Spenser's  verse  is,  of  course, 
extremely  musical  ;  but  we  do  not 
think  of  the  music  of  his  verse  as  that 
which  is  most  characteristic  of  him. 
His  distinction  consists  rather  in  what 
Coleridge  described  as  the  dream-like 
character  of  his  imagery.  After  Mil- 
ton, the  next  great  poet  who  is 
eminently  musical  is  Shelley.  It  will 
be  said  that  Coleridge  and  Keats  are, 
equally  with  Shelley,  poets  whose  verse 
has  the  finest  qualities  of  rhythm. 
But  in  Keats,  what  Mr.  Arnold  has 
called  his  "natural  magic,"  and  in 
Coleridge  certain  other  imaginative 
qualities,  are  what  we  think  of  as 
characteristic  ;  for  these  qualities  are 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  me- 
dium of  expression ;  the  music  of  the 
verse  is  not  felt  as  something  that 
produces  an  effect  of  its  own  apart 
from  the  effect  of  other  artistic 
qualities.  Now  in  some  of  Shelley's 
lyrics  no  formal  quality  seems  to  exist 
except  the  music ;  a  clear  intellectual 
meaning  is  always  present,  but  often 
there  is  scarcely  any  suggestion  of 
distinct  imagery.  The  power  that  he 
shows  in  these  lyrics  of  giving  music 
of  verse  an  existence  apart  from  all 
other  formal  qualities  is  what  makes 
Shelley  more  of  a  musical  poet  than 
Coleridge  or  Keats  ;  and  no  other  poet 
of  the  same  period  can  be  compared 
with  these  in  this  quality  of  verse. 
From  the  period  of  Shelley  to  the  pre- 
sent time  the  poet  who  is  distinguished 
above  the  rest  by  the  musical  quality 
of  his  verse  is  Mr.  Swinburne.  And 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


433 


he  has,  in  common  with  Milton  and 
Shelley,  the  power,  which  Shelley  per- 
haps manifests  most  of  all,  of  detach- 
ing musical  quality  from  all  other 
formal  qualities.  If  the  same  poets 
have  also  something  in  common  in 
their  selection  of  material,  then  it  is 
probable  that  this  will  be  found  to 
have  some  relation  to  their  attaining 
the  last  limit  of  detachment  of  the 
essentially  poetic  quality  from  all 
others. 

A  ground  of  comparison  is  found  in 
the  power  these  poets  have  of  express- 
ing what  may  be  called  impersonal 
passion.  Like  all  other  poets  of 
lyrical  genius,  they  often  express  per- 
sonal emotions  ;  but  they  also  give 
peculiarly  distinct  expression  to  emo- 
tions that  have  an  impersonal  charac- 
ter— emotions  that  are  associated  with 
a  certain  class  of  abstract  ideas.  What, 
then,  is  the  nature  of  these  abstract 
ideas  ? 

They  are  ideas  that  may  be  found 
by  analysis  in  all  poetry.  By  some 
poets  they  are  distinctly  realised,  but 
of tener  they  make  their  influence  felt 
unconsciously  ;  and  when  they  are 
distinctly  realised  they  may  or  may 
not  be  the  objects  of  emotion.  They 
represent  the  different  ways  in  which 
the  contrast  is  conceived  between  the 
movement  of  external  things  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  desires  and  aspira- 
tions of  man  on  the  other.  The 
opposition  of  man  and  things  outside 
is  implicit  in  Greek  tragedy,  for 
example,  as  the  idea  of  fate.  And 
both  in  ancient  and  modern  lyric 
poetry  the  conception  of  the  dark 
background  of  necessity  gives  by  con- 
trast an  intenser  colouring  to  the 
expression  of  particular  moods.  There 
can  be  no  finer  example  of  this  than 
the  fifth  ode  of  Catullus,  where  the 
peculiar  intensity  of  effect  is  given  by 
the  reflection  that  is  interposed  : — 

"  Soles  occidere  et  redire  possunt ; 
Nobis,  cum  semel  occidit  brevis  lux, 
Nox  est  perpetua  una  dormienda."  J 

1  "  Suns  may  set  and  rise  again  ;  we,  when 
once  our  brief  light  has  set,  must  sleep  for 
ever  in  perpetual  night." 
No.  318. — VOL.  LIII. 


But  this  contrast  may  not  be  em- 
ployed merely  to  give  emphasis  to 
personal  moods  ;  it  may  become  inde- 
pendently the  object  of  an  emotion. 
Now  the  three  English  poets  whom  we 
have  seen  grounds  for  comparing,  all 
express  an  aspiration  towards  a  cer- 
tain ideal  of  freedom.  This  aspiration 
is,  on  the  emotional  side,  sympathy 
with  the  human  race,  or  with  the 
individual  soul  in  its  struggle  against 
necessity,  against  external  things 
whose  "  strength  detains  and  deforms," 
and  against  the  oppression  of  custom 
and  arbitrary  force  ;  on  the  intellec- 
tual side  it  is  belief  in  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  the  individual  soul  over 
the  circumstances  that  oppose  its 
development,  or  of  man  over  destiny. 
But  with  fundamental  identity,  both 
of  ideas  and  of  sentiments,  there  is 
difference  in  the  form  they  assume. 
The  exact  difference  can  only  be  made 
clear  by  a  comparison  of  particular 
poems. 

In    his    essay     on    Mr.    Matthew 
Arnold's    poems,  Mr.  Swinburne   has 
said  that  the  « Thyrsis '  of  Mr.  Arnold 
makes    a  third    with   '  Lycidas '   and 
'  Adonais,'    and   that    these    are   the 
three  greatest  elegiac  poems,  not  only 
in  the  English  language,  but  in  the 
whole  of  literature.    Some  readers  may 
be  inclined  to  add  Mr.   Swinburne's 
own  *  Ave  atque  Yale'  to  the  scanty 
list.     If  we   compare  his  elegy  with 
the  elegies  of  Milton  and  Shelley,  the 
difference  in  the  form  assumed  by  the 
idea  the  three  poets  have  in  common 
becomes    distinct.       For    Milton   the 
constraint  that  is  exercised  by  things, 
their  indifference  to  man,  is  embodied 
in  "  the  blind  fury  with  the  abhorred 
shears  ; "  with  Shelley  the  mutability 
of  all  the  forms  in  which  life  manifests 
itself  is  the  intellectual  motive  of  this 
as  of  many  other  poems  ;  while  Mr. 
Swinburne  brings  the  permanent  back- 
ground of  silence  and  unconsciousness 
into  contrast  with  the  individual  spirit, 
and    represents   it   as    absorbing    all 
things  into  itself.     Though  in  all  three 
poems  the  idea  of  future  fame  as  a 
compensation  for  the  temporary  vie- 

F  F 


434 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


tory  of  blind  forces  is  suggested,  there 
is  nevertheless  a  difference  in  the  form 
in  which  confidence  in  the  final  victory 
of  the  soul  over  destiny  expresses 
itself  ;  but  this  is  seen  more  clearly  in 
other  poems  than  in  these,  which  are 
partly  personal  in  motive.  The 
triumph  of  the  human  soul  is  con- 
ceived by  Milton  as  a  supremacy  of 
the  individual  will  over  circumstance. 
This  conception  is  above  all  that  of 
'  Samson  Agonist  es.'  Shelley  ex- 
presses the  belief  in  the  permanence 
of  certain  ideas,  such  as  that  of 
"  intellectual  beauty,"  under  all 
changes  of  superficial  appearance. 
And  with  Mr.  Swinburne,  just  as  the 
opposition  of  man  and  destiny  is  re- 
presented in  its  most  general  form — 

"  Fate  is  a  sea  without  shore,  and  the  soul  is 

a  rock  that  abides  ; 

But  her  ears  are  vexed  with  the  roar  and 
her  face  with  the  foam  of  the  tides  : " 

— so  the  triumph  of  man  over  destiny 
is  represented  in  its  most  general  form 
as  the  conquest  of  external  things  by 
"  the  spirit  of  man." 

It  is  through  this  power  they  have 
of  representing  an  ideal  as  triumphant 
that  poetic  form  becomes  more  sepa- 
rate in  the  work  of  these  than  of  other 
poets.  The  general  relation  between 
manifestation  of  lyrical  power  and 
mode  of  treatment  of  the  material 
presented  by  life  was  found  at  first 
to  be  that  the  more  completely  ex- 
perience has  been  resolved  into  its 
elements  and  transformed  into  a  new 
subjective  world,  the  more  distinct 
must  formal  poetic  qualities  become. 
It  was  said  that  this  transformation 
may  be  brought  about  either  by  the 
interpreting  power  of  a  peculiar  per- 
sonality, or  by  a  heightening  of  the 
colours  of  some  typical  episode  of 
human  experience.  But,  as  we  have 
seen,  there  is  a  further  stage  of  this 
transformation.  By  a  kind  of  insight 
that  belongs  to  the  highest  class  of 
poetic  minds  of  the  lyrical  order,  cer- 
tain tendencies  for  ideals  to  be  realised 
are  selected  from  among  all  actual  ten- 
dencies of  things,  and  then  become 


the  objects  of  emotion  which  embodies 
itself  in  poetic  form.  Now  to  associ- 
ate emotion  in  this  way  with  abstract 
ideas  is  a  means  of  making  the  "  criti- 
cism of  life"  that  is  contained  in 
poetry  still  more  remote  from  life 
itself.  The  power  of  expressing  im- 
personal passion  is,  therefore,  on  its 
intellectual  side  merely  the  most  com- 
plete development  of  the  way  of  look- 
ing at  life  that  was  found  to  be 
characteristic  of  the  lyrist. 

The  connection  that  actually  exists 
between  the  highest  qualities  of 
rhythmical  expression  and  a  certain 
way  of  viewing  the  world,  is  thus 
seen  to  have  grounds  in  the  nature  of 
things.  But  when  the  detachment  of 
poetic  form  as  a  thing  existing  by  itself 
is  said  to  be  the  effect  that  is  character- 
istic of  a  particular  group  of  poets,  it 
must  not  be  understood  that  these 
poets  are  limited  to  effects  of  one 
kind.  They  are  able  to  deal  with 
subjects  and  to  produce  effects  that 
are  outside  the  sphere  of  other  lyric 
poefcs  ;  but  this  does  not  prevent  them 
from  having  equal  powers  with  the 
rest  within  that  sphere.  Hence  there 
are  differences  in  the  effect  of  their 
work  as  a  whole,  depending  on  differ- 
ences in  the  combination  of  other 
artistic  qualities  with  the  essentially 
poetic  quality,  besides  the  differences 
already  discussed.  This  will  be  seen 
if  we  carry  the  parallel  a  little 
further. 

There  is,  for  example,  a  difference 
between  Milton's  treatment  of  external 
nature  under  its  imaginative  aspect 
and  that  of  the  two  later  poets.  In 
reading  Milton,  the  peculiar  imagi- 
native effect  experienced  is  that  which 
is  produced  by  the  contemplation  of 
enormous  spaces.  The  later  poets,  on 
the  other  hand,  give  a  characteristic 
quality  to  their  imaginative  representa- 
tions of  nature  by  endowing  the  ele- 
mentary forces  and  forms  of  the  world 
with  a  kind  of  life.  Objects  are  not 
described  as  portions  of  a  mechanism, 
but  are  identified  with  a  spirit  that 
gives  them  motion.  Two  equally  per- 
fect examples  of  this  are  the  descrip- 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


435 


tion  of  dawn  at  the  opening  of  the 
fourth  act  of  '  Prometheus  Unbound ' 
and  the  description  in  one  of  the 
choruses  of  '  Erechtheus '  (in  the  pas- 
sage beginning  "  But  what  light  is  it 
now  leaps  forth  on  the  land  "...),  of 
the  sudden  re-appearance  of  the  sun 
after  having  been  obscured.  There  is 
nothing  in  Milton  corresponding  to 
this  mode  of  conceiving  nature.  The 
spheres,  with  him,  are  guided  by 
spirits  that  act  on  them  from  out- 
side ;  they  are  themselves  lifeless. 

In  some  respects,  however,  Mr. 
Swinburne  resembles  Milton  and  is 
unlike  Shelley.  This  is  the  case  as 
regards  specially  picturesque  effects. 
Shelley  suggests  a  greater  number  of 
distinct  pictures  corresponding  to  par- 
ticular moments;  with  Milton  and 
with  Mr.  Swinburne  the  picturesque 
effect  is  not  so  easily  distinguished 
at  first  from  the  musical  effect,  but 
there  is  a  stronger  suggestion  of  a 
background  that  remains  permanent 
while  individual  objects  disappear.  As 
has  been  already  said,  Shelley  does 
not  always  attempt  picturesque  effects  ; 
the  imagery  in  some  of  his  lyrics  is  of 
the  faintest  possible  kind  ;  it  is  some- 
thing that  is  vaguely  suggested  by  the 
idea  that  gives  shape  to  the  poem  and 
the  emotion  that  animates  it,  rather 
than  something  that  exists  for  its  own 
sake.  But  when  he  does  attempt  pic- 
turesque effects  he  becomes  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  of  the  poets  who  can 
be  compared  with  him  as  regards 
music  of  verse.  It  is  the  peculiar 
character  of  the  effects  he  produces 
that  prevents  this  from  being  always 
recognised.  Many  of  Shelley's  de- 
scriptions are  exact  representations  of 
the  more  indistinct  impressions  that 
are  got  from  natural  things  ;  as  it  has 
been  put  by  some  critics,  he  describes 
temporary  forms  of  things  rather  than 
permanent  objects.  His  pictures  have 
the  effect  of  a  combination  of  form 
and  colour  that  has  only  existed  once 
and  will  never  exist  again  ;  of  a  phase 
in  a  series  of  transformations  in  the 
clouds,  for  example.  That  is,  in  de- 
scribing those  changes  that  are  the 


material  of  "poetic  pictures,"  he -does 
not  select  for  most  vivid  representa- 
tion the  moments  that  convey  the 
strongest  suggestion  of  permanence, 
but  rather  those  that  convey  an  idea 
of  fluctuation.  When  this  is  con- 
sidered, the  want  of  suggestions  of 
permanent  backgrounds,  of  solid  ob- 
jects, cannot  be  regarded  as  a  defect ; 
for  the  presence  of  these  would  be 
inconsistent  with  the  production  of 
a  picture  of  the  kind  described.  It 
is  possible,  however,  that  a  relation 
might  be  discovered  between  Shelley's 
power  of  producing  pictures  of  this 
kind  and  a  certain  want  of  artistic 
completeness  that  is  noticed  in  some 
of  his  work.  Whatever  may  be  the 
cause  of  it,  much  of  Shelley's  work  ap- 
pears to  have  been  less  elaborated  than 
that  of  Milton  or  of  Mr.  Swinburne. 
There  is  less  "form"  in  the  more 
restricted  sense — that  is,  less  purely 
literary  quality.  In  Milton  there  are 
always  present  certain  qualities  of 
style  that  could  not  be  imagined  by 
a  critic  to  be  the  result  of  anything 
but  the  most  complete  artistic  con- 
sciousness. A  similar  quality  of  style 
is  perceived  in  Mr.  Swinburne's  work. 
As  an  example  of  the  extent  to  which 
he  manifests  this  quality,  it  is  suf- 
ficient to  refer  again  to  'Ave  atque 
Yale.' 

The  difference  between  the  pictur- 
esque qualities  of  Shelley's  work  and 
of  Mr.  Swinburne's  may  be  illustrated 
by  comparing  their  mode  of  treatment 
of  such  a  conception  as  that  of  a  pro- 
cession of  divine  forms.  There  is  in 
one  of  the  best  known  lyrical  passages 
of  '  Hellas '  a  description  of  "  the 
Powers  of  earth  and  air"  disappear- 
ing from  the  eyes  of  their  worshippers — 

"  Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 
From  one  whose  dreams  are  Paradise." 

If  we  compare  this  with  the  passage 
in  '  The  Last  Oracle '  beginning 

"  Old  and  younger  gods  are  buried  and  be- 
gotten," .  .  . 

the  difference  that  has  been  pointed 
out  becomes  quite  clear.  Shelley's 
imagery  is  in  itself  more  consiptent : 

F  P  2 


436 


The  Musical  and  the  Picturesque  Elements  in  Poetry. 


although  the  images  that  are  sug- 
gested are  vague  and  fluctuating, 
yet  they  call  up  a  picture  that 
can  be  realised  as  a  whole  by  the 
imagination.  The  passage  in  Mr. 
Swinburne's  poem  does  not  suggest 
imagery  that  can  be  realised  so  dis- 
tinctly merely  as  imagery ;  but  the 
forms  that  "go  out  discrowned  and 
disanointed"  give  the  impression  of 
being  more  concrete  than  those  de- 
scribed by  Shelley :  a  more  vivid 
sense  is  also  conveyed  of  something 
that  remains  while  all  forms  perish 
one  after  the  other ;  the  "  divers 
births  of  godheads"  are  contrasted 
with  "  the  soul  that  gave  them 
shape  and  speech."  An  idea  similar 
to  this  is  indeed  suggested  in  the 
chorus  of  '  Hellas, '  but  it  is  not 
brought  out  so  distinctly.  Shelley 
makes  the  idea  of  the  changing  phases 
of  the  perpetual  flux  of  forms  most 
vivid ;  Mr.  Swinburne,  on  the  other 
hand,  makes  most  vivid  the  idea  of 
that  which  is  contrasted  with  all  tem- 
porary forms  of  things.  Thus  it  has 
been  remarked  that  he  often  employs 
conceptions  like  those  of  the  avatars 
in  Hindu  mythologies.  In  the  poems 
of  '  Dolores '  and  *  Faustine,'  for 
example,  there  are  conceptions  of 
this  kind.  The  ideal  figures  in  these 
poems  are  not  ghosts  like  Heine's 
"  gods  in  exile,"  but  embodiments  of 
a  spirit  that  is  conceived  as  having 
remained  always  the  same  while 
changing  its  superficial  attributes  in 
passing  from  one  age  to  another. 

Returning  from  this  attempt  to 
characterise  some  of  the  resemblances 
and  differences  in  the  work  of  those 
poets  who  have  more  in  common  than 
any  other  of  the  greater  English 
poets,  we  come  upon  the  question 
whether  the  general  idea  that  has 


been  partially  developed  can  be  ap- 
plied to  dramatic  as  well  as  to  lyric 
poetry.  In  its  application  to  dramatic 
poetry  (supposing  this  to  be  possible), 
it  could  not,  of  course,  receive  the  de- 
velopment of  which  it  is  capable  when 
applied  to  the  work  of  poets  whose 
genius  is  of  the  lyrical  order.  The 
dramatic  is  more  dependent  than  the 
lyric  genius  on  the  unanalysed  material 
that  life  presents  to  it  directly ;  and 
the  conditions  of  the  drama  prevent 
that  almost  complete  detachment  of 
the  essentially  poetic  element  which 
we  perceive  in  some  lyrics.  On  the 
other  hand,  this  element  is  intrinsic- 
ally the  same  in  the  drama  and  in  the 
lyric,  though  it  differs  in  its  mode  of 
manifestation.  While  it  seems  in  the 
lyric  to  assume  an  existence  apart,  in 
the  drama  it  emerges  at  particular 
moments  in  the  progress  of  the  action. 
From  the  poetic  point  of  view  all  other 
parts  of  the  drama  exist  for  the  sake 
of  these.  And  this  poetic  effect,  being 
produced,  like  the  effect  of  lyric  verse, 
by  the  rhythmical  expression  of  emo- 
tion, is  best  described  as  "musical." 
ISTo  difficulty  is  presented  by  dramatic 
poetry,  therefore,  as  to  the  central 
part  of  the  view  that  has  been  taken. 
And  if,  as  has  been  said,  the  particular 
conclusions  arrived  at  in  considering 
lyric  poetry  are  not  applicable  to  the 
drama,  it  must  at  the  same  time  be 
remembered  that  the  conditions  of 
success  in  dramatic  and  in  lyric  poetry 
cannot  be  (as  is  sometimes  thought) 
altogether  unlike.  For  a  lyric  element 
is  perceptible  in  most  dramatic  poets ; 
and  the  greatest  among  those  poets 
who  are  usually  thought  of  as  lyrists 
have  written  dramas  that  rank  next 
to  those  of  the  greatest  dramatists. 

THOMAS  WHITTAKEE. 


437 


AN  OLD  SCHOOL-BOOK. 


IN  these  latter  days,  when  the  civilised 
world  seems  to  be  completely  agreed 
upon  the  value  of  education,  and  as 
completely  divided  upon  educational 
methods,  it  is  no  matter  of  surprise 
that  we  should  see  an  *  Education 
Library ' — a  series  of  volumes  profess- 
ing to  cover  the  considerable  amount 
of  ground  that  lies  between  "  old 
Greek  .education"  and  "the  Kinder- 
garten system."  In  its  second  volume 
the  library  becomes  partly  biographi- 
cal. Professor  Laurie  presents  us  with 
an  interesting  account  of  the  life  and 
educational  works  of  Johannes  Amos 
Comenius  —  a  name  probably  not 
familiar  to  many.  In  his  own  day 
Comenius  may  be  said  to  have  repre- 
sented Dr.  William  Smith,  the  Rev. 
T.  Kerchever  Arnold,  Lindley  Murray, 
Mrs.  Marcet,  and  Mrs.  Trimmer  rolled 
into  one.  He  was  also  a  bishop  of 
the  Moravian  Church,  and  lived  an 
active  life  of  eighty  years  as  a 
pedagogue,  a  theologian,  and,  to  his 
misfortune,  a  prophet,  from  1592  to 
1671. 

I  propose  to  present  in  some  detail 
a  description  of  a  Latin  school-book  of 
his,  which  was  extremely  popular  some 
two  hundred  years  ago,  as  it  has  not 
come  within  the  scope  of  Professor 
Laurie's  book  to  show  us  any  of 
Comenius's  actual  productions,  and  I 
am  the  happy  possessor  of  a  copy  of 
the  '  Orbis  Pictus.' 

The  full  title  of  this  book  is  as 
follows  : — '  JOH.  AMOS  COMENII  Orbis 
Sensualium  Pictus :  hoc  est,  omnia 
Principalium  in  Mundo  Rerum,  et  in 
Vita  Actionum  PICTURA  et  NOMENCLA- 
TURA  " — a  title  thus  interpreted  in  the 
English  edition  of  1777,  '  JOH.  AMOS 
COMENIUS'S  Visible  "World  :  or  a 
Nomenclature,  and  Pictures,  of  All  the 
CHIEF  THINGS  that  are  in  the  WORLD, 
and  of  MEN'S  EMPLOYMENTS  therein ; 
in  above  150  CUTS.'  To  this  the  fol- 


lowing note  is  added  : — "  Written  by 
the  Author  in  Latin  and  High  Dutch, 
being  one  of  his  last  Essays  ;  and  the 
most  suitable  to  Children's  Capacities 
of  any  he  hath  hitherto  made." 

Comenius  lived  and  laboured  in  the 
days  of  the  last  of  three  educational 
reactions.  The  revival  of  letters  in 
Europe  naturally  took  effect  upon 
European  education.  By  the  Renas- 
cence in  this  aspect,  "  for  the  dry 
bones,"  says  Professor  Laurie,  "  of 
grammar,  logic,  and  rhetoric,  was 
substituted  the  living  substance  of 
thought,  and  the  gymnastics  of  the 
schools  gave  place  to  the  free  play  of 
mind  once  more  in  contact  with 
nature."  Such,  briefly,  was  the  first 
of  these  educational  reactions  —  a 
return  to  Realism. 

This  Realism  was  soon  replaced  by 
Humanism.  The  Greek  and  Latin 
classics  began  to  be  studied  with  de- 
light— first  for  themselves,  soon  for 
their  beauty  of  style  and  expression. 
Classical  matter  before  long  became 
less  engrossing  than  classical  manner. 
Again  to  quote  Professor  Laurie, 
"  Style  became  the  chief  object  of  the 
educated  class,  and  successful  imita- 
tion, and  thereafter  laborious  criticism, 
became  the  marks  of  the  highest 
culture."  Such,  in  brief,  was  pure 
Humanism,  or  pure  scholarship. 

Comenius  may  be  regarded  as  the 
chief  prophet  of  the  next  reaction — 
that  in  favour  of  Sense-Realism,  the 
essence  of  which  appears  to  have  con- 
sisted not  in  loving  Humanism  less, 
but  Realism  more.  The  Sense-Realists, 
as  represented  by  Comenius,  must  have 
loved  Humanism,  for  they  set  them- 
selves, in  their  educational  method,  to 
teach  Hebrew,  Latin,  and  Greek  both 
thoroughly  and  rapidly.  But  this  was 
only  a  means  to  an  end,  that  end 
being  to  propagate  a  knowledge  of  all 
arts  and  sciences  ;  and  to  show  how  in 


438 


An  Old  School-Book. 


the  whole  kingdom  one  and  the  same 
speech,  government,  and  religion 
might  be  maintained.  In  education, 
matter  was  to  come  before  form ; 
everything  was  to  come  through  ex- 
perience and  investigation.  These 
principles  are  evidently  kept  in  view 
throughout  the  '  Orbis  Pictus,'  to  a 
brief  description  of  which  I  now 
proceed. 

But    before    one    arrives    at    the 
ipsissima  verba  of  Comenius,  a  good 
deal  of   matter  is   presented   on   the 
threshold  by  "  able  editors  "  and   en- 
thusiastic  pedagogues  in  introducing 
the  book  in  its  twelfth  edition  to  the 
English  scholastic  public.      First  we 
have  a  letter  to  the  editor  from  W. 
Jones,  of  Pluckley,  expressing  a  belief 
that  "it  will  lead  to  a  copia  verborum 
by  the  shortest,  surest,  and  pleasantest 
road  ;  and  that  it  will  also   serve  to 
prevent  in  some    degree    that  Pagan 
)gnorance    to  which    many  boys  are 
unfortunately    left,    while    they    are 
acquiring  Latin  in  their  tender  years." 
Next  follows  "  an  Advertisement  con- 
cerning the  eleventh  edition,"  signed  by 
"J.H.,"    and     dated     from    London. 
"J.H."   in  rather  confused  language 
complains  that  without  the  Comenian 
method  "  the  generality  of  schools  go 
on  in  the  same  old  dull  road,  wherein 
a  great  part  of  children's  time  is  lost 
in  a  tiresome  heaping  up  a  Pack  of  dry 
and  unprofitable  or  pernicious  Notions 
(for  surely  little  better  can  be  said  of 
a  great  part  of  that  Heathenish  stuff 
they    are    tormented  with ;    like  the 
feeding  them  with  hard  Nuts,  which, 
when  they    have    almost  broke  their 
teeth  with  cracking,  they  find  either 
deaf  or  to  contain  but  very  rotten  and 
unwholesome  Kernels),  whilst  Things 
really  perspective  of  the  Understanding 
and  useful  in  every  state  of  Life  are 
left  unregarded,  to  the  reproach  of  our 
Nation,  where  all  other  Arts  are  im- 
proved   and    flourish  well,  only    this 
of  Education  of  Youth  is  at  a  stand." 
Then  comes  the  author's  preface  to  the 
reader,    starting    with    these    words, 
which    perhaps    read    better    in   the 
original   High  Dutch    than   in   their 


translated  form  :  "  Instruction  is  a 
means  to  expel  rudeness,  with  which 
young  wits  ought  to  be  well  furnished 
in  schools."  The  author  goes  on  to 
express  a  hope  that  his  book  "  may 
entice  witty  children  to  it,  that  they 
may  not  conceit  a  torment  to  be  in 
the  school,  but  dainty  fare."  It  will 
"  serve  to  stir  up  the  Attention  .... 
for  the  Senses  ....  evermore  seek 
their  own  objects,  and  if  they  be  away 
they  grow  dull  and  wry  themselves 
hither  and  thither  out  of  a  weariness 
of  themselves  ;  but  when  their  objects 
are  present,  they  grow  merry,  wax 
lively,  and  willingly  suffer  themselves 
to  be  fastened  upon  them."  More 
follows,  till  the  author  says,  "  But 
enough  ;  let  us  come  to  the  thing 
itself."  But  we  turn  the  page  only 
to  arrive  at  a  letter  from  the  trans- 
lator "  to  all  judicious  and  industrious 
Schoolmasters,"  signed  by  "Charles 
Hole,  from  my  school  in  Lothbury." 
To  this  is  added  "  The  Judgment  of 
Mr.  Hezekiah  Woodward,  some  time 
an  eminent  schoolmaster  in  London," 
in  support  of  teaching  by  pictures  ; 
and  on  the  next  page  we  find  ourselves 
in  another  world,  the  '  Orbis  Pictus.' 

On  a  dais  in  the  open  country  is 
seated  the  master  ;  before  him  stands 
a  chubby  boy.  Both  are  pointing  with 
the  forefinger  to  the  skies.  The  ad- 
joining plain  is  being  scoured  by  a 
very  large  wild  animal,  of  a  species 
probably  now  extinct.  In  the  nearer 
distance  we  have  the  usual  village 
church ;  in  the  extreme  distance  some 
of  those  pyramids,  with  their  sharp 
edges  worn  off,  which  in  this  wonderful 
book  always  do  duty  for  mountains. 
The  scene  represents  the  "  Invitation." 
The  master  invites  the  boy  to  "  learn 
to  be  wise."  After  a  short  dialogue, 
the  boy  says,  "  See,  here  I  am,  lead  me 
in  the  name  of  God,"  and  is  imme- 
diately introduced  to  "  a  lively  and 
vocal  alphabet."  Comenius's  motto 
seems  to  have  been,  in  a  slightly 
altered  sense,  "  Recte  si  possis  ;  si  non, 
quocumque  modo  rem ; "  and  he  calls 
upon  his  artist  to  illustrate  every  sub- 
ject he  touches  upon.  No  abstraction 


An  Old  School-Book. 


439 


is  allowed  to  escape ;  every  virtue  and 
every  vice  is  personified  to  enable  the 
artist  to  depict  it.  Anything  more 
grotesque  than  the  artist's  drawings  it 
is  hard  to  imagine.  He  generally 
makes  the  mistake  of  forgetting  that 
a  figure  represented  as  right-handed 
on  the  wood  will  turn  out  left-handed 
in  the  impression  on  paper — a  mistake 
T  remember  to  have  seen  in  a  Bible  of 
the  date  of  Charles  the  Second,  where 
the  Judges  are  given  in  a  series  of 
portraits,  and  the  only  right-handed 
man  among  them  is  Ehud.  When  it 
is  added  that  an  illustration  of  the 
human  soul  is  given  by  Comenius's 
artist,  it  will  be  seen  that  he  had  the 
courage  of  his  opinions.  With  regard 
to  animals,  (by  whose  sounds  Comenius 
helps  his  pupils  through  the  vocal 
alphabet),  recte  is  out  of  the  question 
with  the  artist.  He  is  obliged  to  fall 
back  upon  the  quocumque  modo  me- 
thod, and  adds  to  each  letter  a 
drawing  more  or  less  unlike  some 
creature  whose  sounds  are  taken  to 
represent  a  letter.  His  zoology  also 
is  continually  at  fault.  Thus  we  have 
in  the  alphabet  such  specimens  as  the 
following  : — 


The  Crow  crieth  

aa 

Aa 

Cicada  stridet  

The  Grasshopper  chirpeth 
Upupa  dicit  

Cl  Cl 

C  c 

The  Whooppoo  saith   
Anser  gingrit    

du  du 

D  d 

The  Goose  gagleth   . 

gaga 

^g 

M  us  mintrit  ... 

The  Mouse  chirpeth    
Ursus  murmurat    . 

11 

I  i 

The  Bear  grumbleth    

Felis  clamat  ... 

mummum 

Mm 

The  Cat  crieth  

naii  nau 

Nn 

Pullus  pippit  

The  Chicken  pippeth  
Tabanus  dicit 

pi  pi 

Pp 

The  Breeze  or  Horsefly  saith 

dsds 

Z  z 

The  <  Orbis  Pictus  '  is  divided  into 
one  hundred  and  fifty-three  sections, 
each  of  which  is  arranged  on  the  fol- 
lowing plan  : — The  subject  matter  is 
given  in  two  parallel  columns  of  Eng- 
lish and  Latin.  Above  these  stands 
an  illustration.  Realism  is  attained 
by  putting  the  same  number  to  each 
detail  in  the  verbal  description  and  to 


the  corresponding  part  of  the  pictorial 
treatment  of  the  subject.  In  section 
III.,  for  example,  which  treats  of  "the 
World,"  we  find  at  the  top  of  the 
page  a  wood -cut,  showing  an  ill- 
favoured  man  and  woman;  a  large 
sbone  for  the  former  to  sit  upon ;  a 
ditch  containing  a  whale  and  a  couple 
of  seals ;  a  mud-bank  affording  just 
room  enough  for  a  horse,  a  bear,  a 
human-faced  lion,  and  a  duck;  two 
mountains  and  a  ploughed  field ;  a 
dozen  or  so  of  birds ;  a  bank  of  clouds 
and  ten  stars  diversifying  a  black 
firmament ;  and  six  trees  of  the  Noah's 
Ark  type.  Beneath  we  read — 

The  Heaven,  1 — hath  Ccelum,  1 — hcibet  Ig- 

fire  and  stars  nem  et  Stellas. 

The  Clouds,  2 — hang  Nubes,  2— pendent  in 

in  the  air.  A  ere. 

Birds,  3 — fly  under  Aves,  3 — volant  sub 

the  clouds.  Nubibus. 

On  the  subject  of  the  air,  Comenius, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  surrenders  Realism 
to  Humanism,  or  at  least  modern 
science  to  classical  lore.  "A  wind 
underground,"  he  says,  "  causeth  an 
earthquake,"  evidently  with  a  re- 
ference to  ^Eschylus,  'Prometheus 
Bound,'  1068. 

There   are   several  sections  on  the 
fruits  of  the  earth,  trees,  and  flowers, 
which  the  artist  makes  very  fa  r  from 
"pleasant   to    the    eye."      A   Dutch 
taste   inclines    Comenius   to   end    his 
remarks  on   flowers    with   the  words 
"The  tulip  is  the  grace  of  flowers." 
In  the  department  devoted  to  living 
creatures  Realism  is  decidedly  inter- 
mittent.   "  A  living  creature,"  accord- 
ing to  the  definition  given,   "liveth, 
perceiveth,    moveth    itself;    is    born, 
dieth,    is    nourished,    and    groweth ; 
standeth,    or    sitteth,     or     lieth,     or 
goeth."     Comenius  is  hard  upon  cer- 
tain birds.  "  The  owl,"  he  says,  "  is  the 
most  despicable,  the  whoopoo  the  most 
nasty."     And  some  of  his  information 
seems  doubtful,  as  "The  bittern  putteth 
his  bill  into  the  water  and  belloweth 
like   an    ox ; "    some    superfluous,    as 
"The  water-wagtail  waggeth  the  tail." 
And  surely  he  is  behind  even  his  own 
times  in  his  section  on  "wild  cattle," 
where  he  tells  us  "  The  unicorn  hath 


440 


An  Old  School-Book. 


but  one  horn,  but  that  a  precious 
one."  And  again,  "  The  lizard  and  the 
salamander  (that  liveth  long  in  the 
fire)  have  feet ;  the  dragon,  a  winged 
serpent,  killeth  with  his  breath,  the 
basilisk  with  his  eyes,  and  the  scorpion 
with  his  poisonous  tail."  A  very 
doubtful  kind  of  Realism  is  gained  in 
the  section  on  fish  by  the  artist's 
determination  to  make  them  swim  on 
and  not  in  the  water,  in  order  to  pre- 
sent a  more  complete  view  of  them. 

Next  we  enter  upon  the  subject  of 
Man  ;  first  his  creation,  then  his  seven 
ages,  then  his  anatomy.  Nothing  is 
left  to  the  imagination  or  the  know- 
ledge of  the  pupil.  He  must  not  be 
allowed  to  learn  the  Latin  for  "a 
thumb  "  or  "  a  beard  "  without  having 
his  gaze  direcled  to  a  mis-representa- 
tion of  the  same.  Very  horrible  is 
Comenius  on  "  the  flesh  and  bowels  ;  " 
sometimes  amusing,  as  in  the  remark, 
"The  skin  being  pulled  off  the  flesh 
appeareth,  not  in  a  continuous  lump, 
but  being  distributed,  as  it  were  in 
stuft  puddings  (distributee  tanquam  in 
farcimina),  which  they  call  muscles." 
Soon  after  this  we  arrive  at  the  pic- 
torial illustration  of  "  the  soul  of 
man."  It  is  merely  the  outline  of  the 
bodily  figure  exhibited  on  the  back- 
ground of  a  sheet.  The  next  subject 
is  that  of  "  Deformed  and  Monstrous 
People."  In  order  to  exhibit  various 
kinds  of  deformity  our  artist  has 
taken  three  figures — one  of  a  giant, 
another  of  a  dwarf,  the  third  of  a 
two-bodied  monster;  and  between 
these  unhappy  persons  he  distributes 
those  deformities  to  which  flesh  is 
heir.  "  Amongst  the  monstrous," 
says  Comenius,  "are  reckoned  the 
jolt-headed,  the  great-nosed,  the  blub- 
ber-lipped, the  blub  -  cheeked,  the 
goggle-eyed,  the  wry -necked,  the 
great-throated,  the  crump-backed,  the 
crump-footed,  the  steeple-crowned  ; " 
and,  to  make  something  of  an  anti- 
climax, he  ends  with  "  add  to  these 
the  bald-pated." 

We  now  pass  on  to  men's  occupa- 
tions. The  picture  devoted  to  Hunt- 
ing shows  a  man  on  horseback  in  the 
act  of  piercing  with  a  great  spear  a 


boar,  which  is  already  held  by  the  ear 
by  a  beagle,  while  "the  tumbler,  or 
greyhound,"  for  some  unknown  reason, 
prances  along  two  yards  in  advance. 
In  another  place  an  extremely  feeble 
bear,  also  held  by  the  ear,  is  being 
belaboured  by  a  man  with  a  huge  club. 
In  the  background  is  a  wolf  looking 
out  of  a  hole  in  the  ground,  and  two 
nondescript  animals  cantering  over  a 
hill ;  of  which  animals  Comenius, 
anticipating  the  judicious  remarks  of 
Mrs.  Glass  says,  "  If  anything 
getteth  away  it  escapeth,  as  here 
a  hare  and  a  fox."  The  chapter 
on  Butchery  is  elaborate.  In  his 
anxiety  that  young  wits  should  have 
a  complete  copia  verborum  regarding 
things  concrete,  Comenius  supplies 
them  with  Latin  for,  (and,  of  course, 
illustrations  of,)  four  kinds  of  "  pud- 
dings," viz.,  chitterlings  (falisci), 
bloodings  (apexabones) ,  liverings  (toma- 
cula),  and  sausages  (botuli,  also  called 
lucanicce). 

A  very  dismal  idea  is  given  of  "  the 
Feast."  Four  guests  are  squeezed  in 
at  the  end  of  the  table  (which  is 
"covered  with  a  carpet"),  while  one 
solitary  gentleman,  "  the  master  of  the 
feast,"  is  accommodated  with  the  whole 
length  of  the  same.  Four  empty  plates, 
two  covered  vegetable-dishes,  an  open 
jam-tart,  a  salt-cellar,  a  loaf,  two 
knives,  one  fork,  one  spoon,  and  one 
napkin,  (most  of  these  things  far  out 
of  reach),  form  the  "  Persici  appa- 
ratus.' '  A  late  guest  is  washing  his 
hands  at  a  "  laver,  ewer,  hand-bason, 
or  bowl,"  ("  abluunt  manus  e  gut- 
turnio  vel  aquali,  super  malluvium  vel 
pelvim"). 

"  A  school,"  says  Comenius,  "  is  a 
shop  in  which  young  wits  are  fashioned 
to  virtue,  and  it  is  distinguished  into 
forms."  Some  of  these  young  wits 
are  depicted  as  devoting  themselves  to 
their  work.  But  there  are  others  who 
"talk  together  and  behave  themselves 
wantonly  and  carelessly;  these  are 
chastised  with  a  ferule  and  with  a 
rod."  Of  the  student  it  is  said,  "  he 
picketh  out  of  books  all  the  best 
things  into  his  own  manual,  or 
marketh  them  with  a  dash  or  a  little 


An  Old  School-Booh 


441 


star.  Being  to  sit  up  late,  he  setteth 
a  candle  on  a  candlestick.  Richer 
persons  use  a  taper,  for  a  tallow  candle 
stinketh  and  smoaketh."  On  the 
"  Arts  belonging  to  Speech  "  Comenius 
is  not  satisfactory.  "  Rhetorick  doth 
as  it  were  paint  a  rude  form  of  speech 
with  oratory  flourishes,  such  as  are 
figures,  elegancies,  adages,  apothegms, 
sentences,  similies,  hieroglyphicks, 
&c."  Rhetorick  is  treated  by  the 
artist  as  a  female  figure  adorned  with 
a  feather  erect  on  her  head,  and  draw- 
ing a  man's  head  with  chalk  on  a  slate. 
"  Poetry  gather eth  these  flowers  of 
speech,  and  tieth  them  as  it  were  into 
a  little  garland,  and  so  making  of 
prose  a  poem,  it  maketh  several  sorts 
of  verses  and  odes,  and  is  therefore 
crowned  with  laurel."  Amongst  musi- 
cal instruments  we  have  a  few  that 
are  now,  I  suppose,  obsolete,  the 
Jew's-trump,  for  example,  the  rattle, 
and  the  shepherd's-harp. 

The  section  on  Philosophy  is  graced 
with  a  very  curious  illustration.  The 
philosopher,  standing  in  front  of  a 
table  on  which  is  a  heap  of  counters 
and  on  a  slate  a  simple  addition  or 
subtraction  sum,  (it  is  impossible  to 
say  which,  for  in  either  case  the 
answer  is  wrong),  is  pointing  to 
nature  generally.  The  supernatural- 
ist,  who  "searcheth  out  the  causes 
and  effects  of  things,"  is  touching 
his  biretta  to  the  philosopher,  and 
preparing  to  examine  some  vegetables 
growing  at  his  feet. 

After  some  instruction  in  Geometry 
and  Astronomy,  we  come  to  a  subject 
which  one  would  have  expected 
Sense-Realism  to  treat  with  care  and 
exactness,  that  is,  Geography.  We  first 
find  a  map  in  outline  of  the  "Western 
Hemisphere,  and  Comenius  says  here, 
"  The  ocean  compasseth  it "  (the 
earth)  "  about,  and  five  seas  wash  it — 
the  Mediterranean  Sea,  the  Baltick 
Sea,  the  Red  Sea,  the  Persian  Sea, 
and  the  Caspian  Sea."  This  is  evi- 
dently meant  to  apply  loosely  to 
Europe,  which  we  shall  come  to 
directly.  Under  a  map  of  the  Eastern 
Hemisphere  occurs  this  remarkable 
passage  :  "  It"  (the  earth)  "  is  divided 


into  three  continents ;  this  of  ours,, 
which  is  divided  into  Europe,  Asia, 
Africa,  and  America  (whose  inhabit- 
ants are  antipodes  to  us),  and  the 
South  Land,  yet  unknown."  Not  less 
surprising  than  this  is  the  map  of 
Europe,  from  which  Sicily  is  entirely 
omitted,  while  the  word  Switzerland 
is  printed  in  capitals  across  the  Black 
Sea.  In  those  days  the  Crimea  was 
an  island.  Finland,  moreover,  lay 
between  Norway  and  Sweden. 

From  this  unrealistic  view  of  geo- 
graphy we  pass  somewhat  abruptly  to 
the  subject  of  Moral  Philosophy,  on 
which  Comenius  thus  discourses  :  "This 
life  is  a  way  or  a  place  divided  into 
two  ways,  like  Pythagoras' s  letter  Y, 
broad  on  the  left-hand  track,  narrow 
on  the  right  :  that  belongs  to  vice,, 
this  to  virtue.  Mind,  young  man, 
imitate  Hercules  ;  leave  the  left-hand 
way,  turn  from  vice  ;  the  entrance  is 
fair,  but  the  end  is  ugly,  and  steep 
down.  Go  on  the  right  hand,  though 
it  be  thorny  ;  no  way  is  unpassable 
to  virtue  :  follow  whither  virtue  lead- 
eth,  through  narrow  places,  to  stately 
palaces,  to  the  tower  of  honour.  Bridle 
in  the  wild  horse  of  affection,  lest 
thou  fall  down  headlong.  See  thou 
dost  not  go  amiss  on  the  left  hand  in 
an  ass-like  sluggishness,  but  go  on- 
wards constantly  j  persevere  to  the 
end,  and  thou  shalt  be  crowned." 

"  Prudence  "  is  represented  as  hold- 
ing in  her  right  hand  a  mirror,  which 
reflects  a  man's  face,  and  so  "  repre- 
sents things  past;"  in  her  left  a 
"  prospective  glass  "  (telescopium), 
through  which  "  she  watcheth  oppor- 
tunity (which,  having  a  bushy  fore- 
head, and  being  bald-pated,  and,, 
moreover,  having  wings,  doth  quickly 
slip  away)  and  catcheth  it."  "  Dili- 
gence "  appears  as  a  female  reaper. 
"  She  putteth  nothing  off  till  the 
morrow  ;  nor  doth  she  sing  the  crow's 
song,  which  saith  over  and  over 
Cras,  Cras."  "  Temperance,"  rather 
strangely,  is  a  muscular  female,  left- 
handed,  as  is  so  often  the  case,  pouring 
liquor  very  freely  into  a  bowl.  On 
one  arm  is  suspended  a  bridle.  In 
the  background  are  several  intern- 


442 


An  Old  School-Book. 


perate  persons,  of  whom  one  is  being 
very  ill  indeed,  and  is  attended  by  a 
swine;  another  "brabbles";  another 
sits  on  a  three-legged  stool,  presumably 
that  of  repentance,  but  nothing  is  said 
about  him.  "  Fortitude  "  is  a  woman 
got  up  as  a  warrior,  and  attended  by  a 
heraldic  lion.  The  section  on  Patience 
is  very  remarkable.  A  kneeling  female 
figure,  with  a  lamb  on  one  side,  and 
an  anchor  on  the  other,  is  holding 
up  her  hands  to  heaven.  Supported 
on  a  sword,  a  blazing  torch,  and  a 
chain  is  a  book,  open  at  the  word 
"  Injurias."  In  the  background  is  a 
ship  in  a  thunderstorm,  a  birch-rod 
flying  in  the  air,  and  a  bright  sun. 
Thus  are  depicted  her  trials  and  her 
hopes.  "  On  the  contrary,  the  impa- 
tient person  waileth,  lamenteth,  rageth 
against  himself,  grumbleth  like  a  dog, 
despaireth,  and  becometh  his  own 
murderer."  He  is  shown  as  falling 
on  a  sword  and  tearing  his  hair,  while 
his  grumbling  mood  is  alluded  to  in  a 
picture  of  a  barking  dog. 

Humanity  is  personified  in  the 
figures  of  two  stout  women  waltzing 
together.  Their  faces  are,  as  is  usual 
with  the  artist,  repulsive;  but  the 
more  ill-favoured  one  is  used  to  point 
the  moral,  more  easily  announced  than 
acted  upon,  "  Be  thou  sweet  and 
lovely  in  thy  countenance."  In  the 
background  are  seen  two  pairs  of 
"  froward  men,"  one  pair  fencing,  (left- 
handed  again),  the  other  pair  wrest- 
ling. In  front  a  pair  of  turtle-doves 
are  billing  and  cooing :  in  the  extreme 
distance  in  a  cave  Envy,  a  miserable 
object,  "  pineth  herself  away." 

"  Justice  "  is  equally  repulsive.  She 
sits  "  on  a  square  stone — for  she  ought 
to  be  immovable — with  hood-winked 
«yes,  that  she  may  not  respect  persons, 
stopping  the  left  ear  to  be  reserved 
for  the  other  party."  "Liberality" 
is  shown  as  throwing  three  coins  into 
a  poor  man's  hat.  Her  right  foot  is 
placed  on  a  strong  box,  for  "  she  sub- 
mitteth  her  wealth  to  herself,  not 
herself  to  it."  Behind  her  is  the 
covetous  man  on  his  knees  scraping 
up  the  ground  with  his  nails,  and  by 
his  side  two  bags,  one  marked  with 


"  1000  "  ;  and  on  a  hill  behind  him  is 
the  prodigal,  standing  on  one  leg, 
tossing  coins  into  the  air  with  one 
hand,  and  holding  a  bird  with  the 
other.  What  this  last  symbol  means 
is  not  explained. 

Comenius  being  desirous  of  teaching 
young  wits  the  Latin  for  such  distant 
relations  as  "the  great  great  grand- 
mother's grandmother,"  "  the  nephew's 
nephew's  nephew,"  and  "  the  niece's 
niece's  niece,"  dispenses  with  personi- 
fication, and  allows  the  artist  to  treat 
Consanguinity  as  a  tree  :  after  which 
we  are  introduced  to  a  family  circle, 
where  the  father  "  maintaineth  his 
children  by  taking  pains,"  (in  this  case 
he  is  painting),  and  the  mother  nurses 
an  infant,  who  appears  next  in  a 
cradle ;  then,  as  learning  to  go  by  a 
standing  stool ;  again,  as  a  lad  "  accus- 
tomed to  piety,"  and  with  a  painful 
expression  of  face  reading  a  good  book  ; 
lastly,  sitting  at  a  table  learning  to 
labour.  A  birch-rod  on  a  cushion 
illustrates  the  remark,  "  It  is  chastised 
if  it  be  not  dutiful." 

"The  tormenting  of  Malefactors" 
is  treated  in  a  truly  horrible  picture. 
Malefactors  therein  are  suffering  vari- 
ous torments.  One  wretch,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  wearing  a  night- 
cap, is  being  dragged  by  a  horse  to 
the  place  of  execution ;  another  is 
having  his  tongue  removed ;  a  woman, 
held  by  the  ear,  has  just  lost  a  hand ; 
two  men  are  astride  a  wooden  horse ; 
others  are  being  roasted,  hanged,  be- 
headed, or  broken  on  a  wheel. 

In  his  section  on  "  Merchandising," 
Comenius  is  rather  hard  on  retail 
dealers.  "  Shop-keepers,  pedlers,  and 
brokers  would  also  be  called  merchants. 
The  seller  braggeth  of  a  thing  that  is 
to  be  sold."  When  we  come  to  the 
subject  of  "  Physic,"  we  are  intro- 
duced to  a  sick  man's  room,  where 
a  large  table  is  set  out  with  potions, 
troches,  and  electuaries,  in  which, 
however,  Comenius  seems  to  have 
little  faith,  for  the  good  bishop  says, 
"Diet  and  prayer  is  the  best  physic." 
"  Burial  "  is  somewhat  strangely  fol- 
lowed by  "  a  Stage-play,"  the  subject 
being  the  Prodigal  Son;  though  the 


An  Old  School-Book. 


443 


boards  are  in  possession  of  the  fool 
making  jests.  Of  "  Tennis-play"  Come- 
nius  says,  "That  is  the  sport  of  noble- 
rnen  to  stir  their  body."  Boys'  sports 
are  mainly  restricted  to  running  upon 
the  ice  in  "  scrick  shoes,"  running 
races,  nine-pins,  striking  a  ball  through 
a  ring  "  with  a  bandy,"  "  scourging  a 
top,"  "  shooting  with  a  trunk,"  and 
swinging  upon  a  "  merry  trotter." 
Some  chapters  on  Warfare,  fearfully 
and  wonderfully  illustrated,  are  fol- 
lowed by  "Religion,"  which  Comenius 
divides  into  Gentilism,  Judaism,  Chris- 
tianity, and  Mohammedanism.  Godli- 
ness is  figured  in,  apparently,  a  kneeling 
pew-opener  of  the  female  sex,  "  tread- 
ing Reason  under  foot,  that  barking 
dog."  "The  Indians,"  says  Comenius, 
"  even  at  this  day  worship  the  devil 
( vener antur  cacodcemona)."  It  will  not 
tend  to  edification  to  follow  him  into 
Judaism  and  Christianity,  but  we 
must  not  pass  over  the  section  on 
Providence.  It  is  amusing  to  see  how 
the  Moravian  bishop  himself,  despising 
the  superstitions  of  his  time,  had  not 
quite  escaped  from  the  land  of  bond- 
age. "  Men's  states,"  he  says,  "  are 
not  to  be  attributed  to  fortune  or 
chance,  or  to  the  influence  of  the 
stars  (comets  indeed  are  wont  to  por- 
tend no  good)."  The  illustration  shows 
a  man  giving  his  right  hand  to  a  good 
angel,  and  with  his  left  repelling  the 
advances  of  a  demon,  who  is  attempting 
to  put  a  noose  round  his  neck.  Be- 
hind is  a  left-handed  witch,  drawing 
a  circle  round  herself,  and  calling 
on  the  devil  with  charms,  on  whom 
Comenius  pronounces  woe.  A  section 
on  the  Last  Judgment,  with  a  most 
shocking  illustration,  is  the  last.  But 
before  we  end  we  are  again  shown  the 
master  and  the  boy,  as  in  the  first  illus- 
tration. '  *  Thus,"  say s  the  former, ' '  thou 
hast  seen  in  short  all  things  that  can 
be  showed,  and  hast  learned  the  chief 
words  in  the  Latin  tongue.  Go  on 
now  and  read  other  good  books,  and 
thou  shalt  become  learned,  wise,  and 
godly.  Farewell." 

It  is  hard  to  join  with  the  editor  in 
his  "  lament  that  the  '  Orbis  Pictus  '  is 
now  fallen  totally  into  disuse."  Even 


where  the  execution  of  the  idea  is  not 
so  absurdly  faulty  as  in  this  edition 
of  the  '  Orbis  Pictus,'  both  in  Come- 
nius's  own  Latin  and  in  the  translator's 
English,  the  advantage  of  such  object- 
lessons  is  not  very  obvious.  Probably 
a  Latin  vocabulary  is  best  acquired 
indirectly  in  the  learner's  general 
reading.  But  if  it  is  to  be  taught  by 
the  direct  method,  it  must  surely  be 
equally  useless  to  present  him  with  a 
picture  of  that  with  which  he  is  already 
familiar,  or  to  think  by  such  means 
to  familiarise  him  with  that  which  is 
new  to  him.  In  the  plan  of  the 
'  Orbis  Pictus,'  Comenius  seems  to  for- 
get that  Sense-Realism,  like  everything 
else,  may  be  overdone. 

In  our  present  systems  of  classical 
teaching  the  overdoing  is  generally 
believed  to  be  on  the  side  of  Human- 
ism, or,  as  we  should  now  call  it,  pure 
scholarship.  The  outside  world,  from 
time  to  time  making  its  voice  heard  in 
denunciation  of  "a  parcel  of  Latin 
and  Greek  and  stuff,"  and  complain- 
ing of  the  Universities  as  "  lining  the 
heads "  of  their  students  with  a 
quantity  of  unpractical  classical  lore, 
if  it  at  all  recognised  the  distinction  be- 
tween Sense-Realism  and  Humanism, 
would,  no  doubt,  make  its  sever- 
est attacks  upon  the  latter.  The  com- 
mon sense  view  of  the  subject  is  that 
we  should  read  the  classics  for  their 
matter  rather  than  for  their  manner. 
Yet,  in  adjusting  the  balance  between 
these  two,  the  pedagogue  must  beware 
lest  his  pupils  mistake  the  exact 
nature  of  the  matter  through  not 
completely  grasping  and  understand- 
ing the  manner  in  which  it  is  ex- 
pressed. If  he  is  a  man  of  doubts 
and  scruples,  he  is  pretty  sure  to  find 
himself  continually  oscillating  between 
Sense-Realism  and  Humanism:  ask- 
ing himself  at  one  time  whether 
his  classes  are  really  entering  into 
and  grasping  the  subject  on  which 
they  are  professedly  engaged;  at 
another,  whether  they  are  not  getting 
loose  and  vague  views  of  the  same, 
through  an  insufficient  acquaintance 
with  the  verbal  forms  in  which  it  is 
expressed.  One  day  he  is  shocked  to 


444 


An  Old  School-Book. 


find  that  his  boys,  who  have  succeeded 
in  turning  a  speech  in  Livy  correctly 
from  the  oratio  recta  into  the  oratio 
obliqua,  are  not  aware  whose  speech 
it  is.  The  next  day  he  sets  himself  to 
inform  them  on  the  subject  and  its 
context,  and  the  day  after  he  is 
equally  shocked  to  detect  them  in 
incorrect  uses  of  moods  and  tenses. 

Comenius  is  by  no  means  the  only 
author  of  Latin  school  books  who  has 
over-done  Sense-Realism.  It  is  still 
carried  beyond  the  limits  of  common 
sense  by  editors,  who,  starting  with 
the  laudable  desire  to  impress  a 
learner  with  the  importance  of  the 
matter  he  is  to  read,  proceed  to 
obstruct  his  sense-realisation  of  the 
same  by  inviting  his  attention  to 
a  criticism  of  a  classic  before  he 
has  read  a  word  of  the  classic  it- 
self ;  and  call  on  the  student  not 
at  once  to  read  the  book  itself,  but 
first  of  all  what  they  have  to  say 
about  it.  The  wits  of  boys,  ever 
ready  to  wander,  often  suffer  from  the 
eccentricities  of  editors,  who,  if  they 
bear  in  mind  Comenius's  maxim, 
"  Matter  before  form,"  forget  the 
maxim  of  common  sense,  "  Illustration 
must  not  precede."  How  different 
these  arts  from  those  of  a  great  phil- 
osopher who  carried  Sense-Realism 
into  practice !  "  We  go,"  said  that 
great  man,  "  upon  the  practical  mode 
of  teaching ;  the  regular  educational 
system.  C-1-e-a-n,  clean,  verb  active, 
to  make  bright,  to  scour.  W-i-n,  win, 
d-e-r,  der,  winder,  a  casement.  When 
the  boy  knows  this  out  of  a  book,  he 
goes  and  does  it."  Corruptio  optimi 
pessima :  the  Comenian  method  mis- 
applied has  produced  a  Squeers. 

The  outside  world  will,  at  any  rate, 
readily  agree  that  Humanism  has  been 
greatly  overdone.  Except  by  scholars, 
pure  scholarship  is  commonly  con- 
demned as  unreal  and  unpractical. 
But  there  is  one  light  in  which  exact 
scholarship  may  be  regarded  as  a 
thing  most  practical  and  useful.  The 
classics  still  remain  a  most  important 
factor  in  our  competitive  examina- 
tions ;  and  examiners,  whose  aim  it  is 
to  find  out,  not  how  much  a  man  has 


read  and  remembers,  but  what  sort  of 
brains  he  possesses,  are  well  aware 
that  subject-matter  may  be  crammed, 
that  scholarship  may  not.  It  is  vovs, 
not  cramming,  that  enables  a  man  to 
extract  something  like  the  exact 
meaning  from  a  passage  of  Thucydides 
or  Tacitus,  and  to  express  in  idiomatic 
Latin  or  Greek  the  thoughts  conveyed 
in  an  idiomatic  piece  of  English. 

But  human  nature  is  not  sooner 
nauseated  with  cramming  than  with 
that  "  successful  imitation  and  labori- 
ous criticism,"  into  which  Humanism, 
when  overdone,  is  liable  to  degene- 
rate. In  these  days  the  elegant  uses 
of  quippe  qui  and  admodum  and  esse 
videtur,  &c.,  will  not  carry  a  man  very 
far  in  the  estimation  of  a  classical 
examiner.  Most  people  will  sympa- 
thise with  the  Cambridge  poll  man,  to 
whom  varice  lectiones  and  sagacious 
emendations  and  conjectures  were  a 
weariness  not  to  be  endured ;  and 
who  betook  himself  from  such  as 
told  him  that  the  right  reading  or 
rendering  might  be  this  or  might  be 
that,  to  his  faithful  "  poll -coach," 
who  told  him  what  it  was.  And 
there  is  something  almost  melan- 
choly in  certain  authentic  stories  told 
of  a  distinguished  classical  scholar  of 
our  own  days.  Let  us  hope  that  the 
spirit  of  Comenius  hovered  near,  when 
this  scholarly  man  for  the  first  time 
saw  in  a  hedgerow  the  flower  for 
which  he  had  been  accustomed  for 
years  to  give  a  conventional  English 
translation  when  coming  across  it  in 
the  classics,  and  stood  spell-bound  as 
Sense-Realism  revealed  to  him  as  a 
vegetable  what  Humanism  had  con- 
cealed from  him  under  the  veil  of  a 
word.  And  let  us  hope  that  the  spirit 
of  Comenius  was  far  away  in  the 
Elysian  fields,  when  that  same  distin- 
guished scholar  met  a  friend  who  told 
him  that  he  had  been  lately  reading 
the  '  Wasps  '  of  Aristophanes.  "  Oh, 
then,"  said  the  Humanist,  "  perhaps 
you  can  tell  me  what  conclusion  you 
have  arrived  at  with  regard  to  the 
distinction  between  rot  ye  and  ye  rot." 

J.  H.  RAVEN. 


445 


PRESENT-DAY  IDEALISM. 


THE  worthy  citizen,  who  sobbed  his 
heart  away  as  he  read  *  The  Sorrows 
of  Werther,'  but  heaved  not  one  sym- 
pathetic sigh  as  he  worked  "  the 
national  razor,"  was  an  unmistak- 
able type  of  the  era  to  which  he 
was  useful,  if  not  ornamental.  Any 
maudlin  sentiment,  suitable  to  his 
own  situation,  would  touch  the  passive 
chords  of  his  hopelessly  crushed-down 
nature;  it  would  wake  him  into  the 
reality  of  the  things  about  him ;  it 
would  rouse  him  to  penetrate  the  fan- 
tastic show  of  destruction  around  him, 
till  the  whole  energy  of  his  existence 
was  directed  by  the  inspiration  that  at 
least,  if  pain  had  to  be  endured,  he 
might  do  what  he  could  to  cure  it. 
He  was  the  unconscious  reflex  of  the 
things  of  his  own  world.  He  was  the 
mirror  of  the  mob. 

And  so  the  fable  of  Proteus  may 
give  its  moral  to  our  tale.  One 
example,  taken  out  of  a  variety  of 
forms,  may  be  used  as  a  microcosm, 
and  therein  may  be  seen  a  wondrous 
affinity  to  all  the  others.  The  hang- 
man of  Strasbourg  is,  for  our  purpose, 
an  embodiment  of  the  upheaval  of  the 
thought  and  passion  of  his  time.  He 
knew  what  the  sublime  was,  in  a  very 
low  degree.  The  wine  of  life  that  he 
spilt  every  day  on  behalf  of  an  indi- 
visible brotherhood  was  a  spectacle 
and  a  puppet-show.  That  which  was 
the  man  is  no  enigma.  He  stood  (and 
he  still  stands)  on  the  blood-stained 
summit  of  his  century,  the  monument 
of  defiant  sentiment. 

Such  an  inheritance  was  not  to 
be  despised  by  an  age  of  machinery 
and  politics.  It  willingly  snatched 
such  an  ideal  from  the  hand  of  strife, 
to  fashion  it  without  hindrance  into 
an  emblem  of  utilitarian  practicability. 
"  In  these  days,"  said  a  present-day 
seer,  "  man  can  do  almost  all  things, 


only  not  obey."  Yerily  and  indeed  the 
italics  contain  the  gist  of  all  modern 
prophecy  and  preaching.  And  now 
the  fond  dreamer  of  reverence  and 
sanctity  must  content  himself  with  a 
nightmare  of  his  own  creation,  in  that 
a  phantom  will  ever  unlock  the  lids  of 
his  weary  eyes,  and  he  will  see  in 
"the  dim  and  distant"  future  some- 
thing standing  on  the  summit  of  this 
nineteenth  century  of  Christendom. 
This  statue  does  not  embody  his  ideal. 
This  something  is  the  type  of  every- 
thing, except  what  he  would  like  to 
see.  This  ideal  has  lost  its  sentiment. 
It  is  still  defiant,  but  happily  defiant, 
for  it  bears  on  its  brows  a  wreath  of 
freedom's  conquest.  And  yet  for  all 
that,  the  psychologist  will  mark  that 
its  forehead  is  rather  low  and  narrow  ; 
all  things  look  natural  to  its  undis- 
turbed reflections ;  its  title-deeds  of 
acres  are  the  only  literary  encum- 
brance about  it,  and  it  has  quite  for- 
gotten to  lift  its  stolid  eyes  upwards. 
Fond  dreamer  of  reverence  and  sanc- 
tity, how  dost  thou  like  this  vision  of 
democratic  idealism  ? 

And  yet,  will  it  not  be  so?  The 
ideal  can  fulfil  no  mission  in  the  world 
until  it  become  the  practical. 

"Art  is  the  application  of  know- 
ledge to  a  practical  end  " — that  is,  art, 
the  expression  of  the  ideal,  can  have 
no  fulfilment  thereof  until  it  become 
an  applied  science.  Therefore  we 
must  conclude  that  even  the  whole- 
sale destruction  of  plate-glass  and  other 
private  commodities  by  a  humorous 
crowd  of  East-end  roughs  may  appear 
sublime.  It  is  the  practical  expression 
of  an  utilised  ideal. 

When  Brutus  joined  hands  with 
murderers  and  put  his  steel  into  the 
heart  of  his  friend,  he  at  least  had 
some  thought  of  an  Utopian  Republic. 
When  Charlotte  Corday  mixed  the 


446 


Present-Day  Idealism. 


blood  of  Marat  with  the  water  of 
his  bath,  her  hand  was  worthy 
to  hold  a  martyr's  crown,  even  though 
she  knew  but  vaguely  for  what  her 
own  life  was  being  spent.  But  when 
Marat  put  his  signature  to  his  daily 
list  for  <(the  evening  paper"  of  La 
Force,  and  when  the  supposed-to-be- 
starving,  out-of-work  labourer  of 
London  shook  his  brawny  fist  at  the 
inhabitants  of  club  land,  Democracy 
lost  its  dignity. 

The  value  of  such  expressions  may 
be  considered  of  no  effect  in  the  scales 
of  cause  and  effect  of  ideas  and  facts. 
The  optimist  will  fill  our  ears  with 
cotton- wool.  These  expressions,  he 
will  tell  us,  are  unfaithful  to  the  best 
conceptions  of  the  people  in  general, 
and  thereby  an  obstruction  to  the 
progress  of  practical  utility  as  an 
universal  expression  of  the  present 
phases  of  leading  thought  and  action. 
But  the  dreamer  of  sanctity  will  re- 
move the  cotton- wool,  and  insert  in 
its  place  the  tongue  of  an  ear-trumpet. 
This  will  in  all  probability  be  con- 
nected with  a  magnifying  phone  of 
some  sort  or  other.  The  feathery 
footstep  of  a  domestic  tormentor  will 
sound  like  the  thunder  of  a  prairie 
buffalo.  When  the  hearing  is  strained 
for  the  sound  of  the  coming  age,  there 
will  steal  over  the  senses  an  indis- 
tinct murmur  of  the  tread  of  a  million 
footsteps  on  the  hollow  vaults  of  buried 
creeds,  and  the  crash  and  clatter  of 
shattered  glass,  which  might  have  been 
once  the  glory  of  old-world  institu- 
tions. As  a  modern  apostle  of  criti- 
cism heard  the  key  of  the  Puritans  of 
old  turn  on  the  freedom  of  true  know- 
ledge, so  now  will  the  ear  of  the  listener 
hear  the  dungeon-door  of  time  for  ever 
close  with  a  world-reverberation  on  the 
shackled  skeleton  of  platonic  idealism. 

Voices  in  market-place,  voices  in 
lecture-room,  voices  in  workshop,  voices 
in  music- scales,  voices  in  brush  and 
pen,  wilderness  and  waste-land,  fer- 
tility and  production— all  crying  aloud : 
but  the  "  Great  Franchisee! "  will  not 
listen.  They  are  not  sufficiently  siren- 
like  to  woo  his  greatness  to  the  old- 


fashioned  pursuit  of  peace  and  plenty 
along  the  so-called  path  of  content- 
ment. That  old  word  of  magic — • 
vo//,6s — has  been  eliminated  from  his 
amended  lexicon.  He  has  an  ear  only 
for  those  who  will  plant  him  a  pretty 
garden  for  the  summer  months.  He 
cares  not  for  the  winter  : 

"  It  will  be  rain  to-night. 
Let  it  come  down." 

He  has  self-love,  and  he  has  fingers 
to  count  his  money  on.  One  may  say, 
he  will  stand  for  ever  with  his  stolid 
eyes  downwards. 

Picture  of  futurity  !  limned  with 
the  prophet's  pencil  !  Surely  the 
prophet  must  ever  paint  his  canvas 
(if  it  be  a  work  of  life)  with  the 
pigments  which  the  present  lends  to 
hand.  When  the  gods  of  old  had 
become  a  laughing-stock,  their  temples 
were  still  the  abode  of  all  the  holiness 
and  reverence  of  the  democratic  Hel- 
lenes. The  outlines  of  Greek  philosophy 
may  assist  us — Gorgias,  Prodicus,  and 
friends,  Aristotle,  Plato,  and  enemies, 
may  light  up  the  answer  when  we 
ask  why  this  was  so.  But  these  are 
suns  and  planets  of  the  first  magni- 
tude by  the  side  of  the  sulphur  match- 
lights  of  this  modern  universe.  The 
Greek  never  lost  his  dignity.  This 
was  not  the  result  of  some  Oriental 
birthright.  It  was  the  result  of  cen- 
turies of  calm  absorption.  Frieze  and 
statue  had  burnt  their  glory  into  his 
soul.  The  Rosicrucian  had  a  motto  ; 
so  had  the  Greek.  So  has  not  the 
modern  Socialist.  He  appeals  to  the 
volatile  in  mankind.  There  can  be  no 
true  ideal  in  that  which  is  subject  to 
the  caprice  of  a  sudden  storm,  the 
thunders  of  an  ever-shifting  torrent, 
or  the  turbid  vortex  of  a  revolutionary 
maelstrom.  The  ideal  will  have  a 
calm  surface  ;  then  there  may  be  some 
reflection,  some  embodiment  worth  the 
possession. 

All  this  may  be  true — as  far  as  it 
goes ;  but  how  far  may  that  be  ? 
Phidias  carved  bis  name  upon  the 
world  in  the  embodiment  of  his  ideal- 
isation on  the  plasters  of  the  Parthe- 


Present-Day  Idealism. 


447 


non.  Meanwhile  his  brother  artist 
of  the  Nile  found  expression  for  any- 
thing of  sublime  he  might  have  had  in 
him  by  the  erection  of  monstrous 
tombstones,  which  have  been  the  won- 
der even  of  a  more  boastful  civilisation 
than  it  was  his  lot  to  enjoy.  Thus, 
we  must  confess,  there  are  conceptions 
and  conceptions.  The  American  Re- 
publican has  an  ideal;  so  has  the 
English  Democrat.  That  of  the  former 
is  a  child  of  the  day ;  it  was  born  in 
the  back  parts  of  California ;  it  always 
keeps  its  hands  in  its  trouser  pocket, 
so  that  it  may  never  be  without  the 
delight  of  hearing  the  jingle  of  the 
delicious  dollar.  That  of  the  latter 
has  felt  a  tinge  of  shame  for  watching 
Jonathan  and  trying  to  mimic  him ; 
but  it  is  a  child  of  precedent  and  the 
past,  and  on  the  whole  it  must  work 
its  way  to  a  higher  level.  England 
has  had  an  education;  America  has 
not.  The  phases  of  passing  sensation 
may  at  times  appear  to  be  synonymous ; 
but  the  causes  underneath  are  flowing 
in  different  directions. 

The  dreamer  of  sanctity  may  indeed 
see  a  vision  of  the  statue  with  eyes 
ever  downwards.  But  that  is  a  statue, 
not  a  man.  Even  if  it  were,  the  eyes 
are  also  endowed  with  the  faculty  of 
looking  upwards.  And  in  so  far  as 
it  must  be  a  man — as  much  a  man  as 
he  who  worked  the  axe  of  the  indi- 
visible brotherhood — we  must  be  pre- 
pared to  find  in  the  folds  of  his  history 
some  stains  of  misguided  attempts  and 
irretrievable  failures.  There  is  no- 
thing that  succeeds  in  this  world  like 
failure.  It  is  in  this  "philosophy  of 
iron"  that  the  remedy  lies  for  the 
withdrawal  of  man's  best  hopes  from 
the  present  slough  and  stagnation. 
If  "  the  lofty-scheming  son  of  Themis  " 
had  not  been  riveted  "  in  indissoluble 
shackles  on  a  lonely  crag,"  then  thiev- 
ing in  heavenly  places  would  have 
become  a  petty  larceny.  To  face  the 
unveiled  glory  of  the  dawn,  to  hear 
the  song  of  the  morning  stars,  Pro- 
metheus had  to  bear  the  keen  arrows 
of  the  offended  sun-god  without, 
and  the  keener  stings  of  the  con- 


sciousness of  unjust  suffering  within, 
He  paid  the  price  for  his  exaltation, 
even  though  it  dragged  his  soul 
through  the  muddiest  sewers  of  pain. 

Down,  down,  down  the  stolid  eyes 
look.  Thou  speakest,  O  fantasy - 
dreamer,  with  the  sad  conviction  of 
truth,  and  sad  is  the  tone  of  thy 
voice  as  of  those  who  hung  their 
harps  on  the  willows  of  Babylon. 
But  even  this  captivity  has  an  end- 
ing, has  an  exodus,  has  a  dedication 
of  rebuilt  temples,  and  feasts  of  the 
worshippers  therein  ! 

Meanwhile,  sit  down  and  weep  and 
listen  to  the  conflict  on  all  sides  of 
thee,  for  such  a  thing  is  going  on ; 
not  a  windmill  assault-at-arms,  in 
which  machinery  must  beat  romance 
and  whirl  it  round  in  its  ruthless  em- 
brace, but  a  bloodless  war  of  "  isms," 
than  which  has  been  no  greater  since 
the  world  began.  It  hath  its  trou- 
badours. William  Blake  hath  left  us 
rhymes  of  this  war  within  the  soul. 
Realism  against  Idealism — which  will 
win?  Down,  down,  down  the  stolid 
eyes  look. 

Fiction  will  have  no  reading  save 
she  be  clad  in  highwayman's  clothes, 
with  a  pistol  at  every  corner  and  a 
sword  blood-wet  to  the  hilt.  Nor 
does  her  sister  of  the  histrionic  house 
fare  much  better  unless  she  be  clad 
likewise,  or  not  clad  at  all.  Crotchets 
and  quavers  must  dance  at  caricature 
ballet- shows,  or  even  the  street  organ- 
grinder  would  fail  to  get  his  pennies. 
The  canvas  must  have  "  Nature  "  de- 
picted to  the  utmost  nicety  of  detail, 
else  it  scarce  will  have  a  moment's 
show.  As  for  the  poet !  he  has  left 
a  card  at  the  house  of  the  Muses 
with  a  P.P.C.  scrawled  at  the  cor- 
ner. The  next  laureate  must  gather 
starch  from  the  wash-tubs  of  Pope — 
else  his  rhymes  will  not  even  secure 
a  subsidised  publisher. 

Down,  down,  down  the  stolid  eyes 
look ;  but  the  battle  still  goes  on — a 
deadly  game  of  "  French  and  English," 
with  the  ^Esthetic  of  Aceldama  at  one 
extremity  of  the  rope,  the  Philistine 
of  Billingsgate  at  the  other,  and  the 


448 


Present-Day  Idealism. 


men  of  mind  in  the  centre.  Induction 
and  deduction  have  travelled  "  through 
the  looking-glass;"  and,  in  full  ar- 
mour, are  belabouring  one  another  in 
good  earnest  with  echoing  blows  of 
age-wrought  steel.  And  yet  it  is  a 
terrible  jest.  For  Ormuzd  fought  it 
out  long  ago  with  Ahriman,  and  Adam 
had  his  skirmish  with  Satan;  and 
while  the  former  won  his  spurs,  the 
latter  lost  his  Paradise  : — 

"  —eternal  tale 
Repeated  in  the  lives  of  all  his  sons." 

It  is  the  everlasting  gladiatorial  show 
in  the  arena  of  the  soul  of  man  \  all 
the  principalities  and  powers  of  the 
material  and  the  brutish  and  the 
things  which  are  seen,  in  undying 
conflict  with  the  senses  of  power  and 
aspiration  and  the  evidence  of  things 
not  seen.  It  is  the  hand-to-hand  death- 
tussle  of  the  Beast  with  the  Angel. 
Down,  down,  down  the  stolid  eyes 
look  :  surely  the  Beast  is  winning  the 
day. 

Then  must  the  divine  idealists — 
the  poet,  the  painter,  the  tone-maker, 
the  artist  of  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  work — cease  to  be  the  children  of 
their  age  1 

Not  yet :  not  yet  hath  the  Beast 
chanted  his  paean,  nor  ever  will  he. 
Not  yet  are  we  on  our  knees :  the 
saints  of  old  have  not  yet  heard  our 
passing  cry,  "  Save  us,  or  we  perish," 
Israel  must  ere  long  leave  Pharaoh  in 
the  Red  Sea,  and  Miriam  sing  her 
paean  in  safety  on  the  shore.  "  The 
vain  curling  of  the  watery  maze" 
forsooth  gives  no  calm  surface  for  an 
ideal  reflection  ;  but  it  must  not  escape 
attention  that  a  circle  in  the  water 

"  Never  ceases  to  enlarge  itself, 
Till  by  broad  spreading  it  disperse  to  nought ! " 

Then  after  storm  cometh  great  calm. 
Petty  princes  of  a  day  may  keep  the 
little  nationalities  of  the  East  in  a 
perpetual  imbroglio  for  a  time  ;  but 
some  day  a  mutual  federation  may 
prove  a  stern  barrier  to  the  inter- 
ference of  meddlesome  powers.  Glory, 
as  of  old,  mounts  by  a  ladder  of 


wretchedness.  The  pride  of  Venice, 
and  her  freedom  of  thirteen  hundred 
years,  rose  "  from  dirt  and  seaweed." 
Proper tius  was  justly  proud  of  the 
humble  origin  of  mightiest  Rome,  "  a 
mere  grassy  hillock  before  the  coming 
of  Phrygian  ^Eneas." 

Even  for  eighteen  centuries  did  the 
world  of  science  lie  eclipsed,  from  the 
days  of  Archimedes,  who  was  disturbed 
as  he  was  calculating  in  the  dust  of 
his  own  back  garden,  to  the  days  of 
Galileo,  who  stung  the  angel  of  his 
ideal  by  a  democratic  recantation; 
yet  for  all  that  the  protoplasm  of 
growth  was  there.  It  needed  but  the 
peculiar  environment,  it  needed  but 
the  -application  of  art  to  the  inquiries 
of  science,  and  the  eclipse  was  to  die 
away,  has  died  away,  and  left  such 
a  blaze  of  light  as  almost  to  over- 
whelm the  ideal  scientists  of  the 
present  by  the  fulness  of  the  reali- 
sation of  their  wishes  in  the  past. 

Therefore,  all  Job's  comforters,  and 
any  pessimists  akin  thereto,  may 
go  to  the  wall.  "  All  healthy  things 
are  sweet-tempered."  Gay  castles  in 
the  air  are  more  enervating  than 
the  dungeons  conjured  up  by  de- 
spair. After  all,  the  rain  may  come 
down,  but  it  shall  not  damp  our  re- 
solution. We  believe  there  is  a  divi- 
nity to  shape  the  end  of  all  that  is 
divine.  The  tabernacle  of  the  godlike 
is  with  men.  Nature  uses  her  crucible 
as  well  as  her  building  mortar,  and  she 
is  faithful  even  in  destruction.  She 
keeps  a  rag-shop  of  the  torn  shreds  of 
human  possibilities,  as  well  as  a  ward- 
robe of  the  silks  and  satins  of  human 
accomplishments.  The  playwright  of 
one  age  will  dress  his  Macbeth  in  the 
distant  grandeur  of  an  ^Eschylus ; 
another  will  grace  his  heroine  with 
the  poetry  of  a  Sophocles ;  and  yet 
another  will  put  his  Electra  into  every- 
day attire,  and  marry  her  to  a  farm- 
labourer.  "Eyes  down  "  may  be  the 
word  of  command  from  a  sergeant- 
major,  but  for  all  that  he  is  not  a 
commissioned  officer ;  his  company  may 
take  his  orders,  not  so  the  whole 
battalion.  So  the  creed  of  a  Yoltaire, 


Present-Day  Idealism. 


449 


or  rather  want  of  a  creed,  being  an 
utter  want  of  light,  may  by  its  very 
darkness  lead  "  in  the  direction  of  the 
day." 

"  There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things 
evil ; " 

and  "  Whoso  can  look  on  death  will 
start  at  no  shadows,"  saith  the  wisdom 
of  the  Greek,  long  before  Shakespeare's 
name  was  spelt. 

The  idealist  may  still  be  the  child  of 
his  age,  and  may  take  into  his  horoscope 
all  that  is  necessary.  But  let  him  not 
forget  all  that  is  possible.  Let  him 
look  upwards.  Let  him  forget  his 
own  wants,  ay,  and  his  own  happiness. 
Let  him  despise  the  littleness  of  pass- 
ing corruptions.  Like  an  seolian 


harp,  he  may  take  the  impression  of 
the  accidental  breeze  ;  but  he  must  not 
give  it  back,  save  in  the  harmony  of  a 
nobler  age.  Let  him  remember  he 
must  ever  be  in  the  van,  in  the  front 
rank,  and  even  in  front  of  that ;  let 
him  not  shrink  to  lead  the  forlorn 
hope,  even  though  he  bear  the  standard 
alone. 

Then  will  he  teach  men  to  know,  to 
endure,  to  act,  by  his  own  knowledge, 
his  own  endurance,  his  own  action. 
Then  will  he  teach  men  to  strive, 
to  suffer,  to  be  content,  by  his  own 
toil,  his  own  failure,  his  own  success. 
Then  will  labour  and  duty  bring  a 
newer  light  and  a  newer  freedom. 
The  eyes  of  the  people  will  look  up, 
and  their  voice  will  call  him  blessed. 


No.  318. — VOL.  LIII. 


G  G 


450 


GENERAL  READERS;  BY  ONE  OF  THEM. 


I    HAVE   written   in  my  time  a  good 
deal   for   the   magazines :    perhaps   it 
would  be  more  truthful  to  say  I  have 
written  a  good  deal  to  them.     Litera 
scripta   manet :   much   of  my  writing 
has  remained  with  me,  or  vanished  in 
the  form  of   pipe-lights — no   doubt  a 
more    illuminating    form    than    that 
originally  designed  for  it.  My  vanity — 
the  patron  saint  of  Grub  Street — will 
not  suffer  me  to  suppose  there  are  no 
others  who  have  known  the  same  mis- 
chance.   Their  experiences  may   very 
possibly  march  with  mine.      Different 
editors  have  different  modes  of  gild- 
ing   the   nauseous   pill   of    rejection  : 
some  I  have  known  to  thrust  it  on 
you  undisguised ;  and  doubtless  there 
are   acute    stages    of    the   scribbling 
malady   which    require    such    drastic 
treatment,  though  the  instant  cruelty 
which  is  to  bear  the  fruit  of  kindness 
is  perhaps  rarely  appreciated  by  the 
patient.    But  by  far  the  most  common 
form  the  bitter   message   takes — and 
for    all  its  politeness   the   most   irri- 
tating,   as    the    most    impossible    to 
gainsay — is   that  which   assumes   the 
poor  offering,  though,  like  Rose  Ayl- 
mer,    adorned  with  every  virtue  and 
every  grace,  to  lack  the  one  essential 
quality  of  being  "  likely  to  interest  the 
general  reader." 

Who  is  a  General  Reader?  What 
is  he  ?  Does  he  disburse  shillings  and 
half-crowns  at  the  Right  Honourable 
Mr.  Smith's  book-stalls,  and  other 
places  where  the  magazines  are  ga- 
thered together  ?  Or  is  he,  perchance, 
some  nebulous  monster,  a  phantom 
(not  of  delight)  born  of  the  weary 
patience  of  an  editor,  still  striving 
in  his  utmost  need  to  be  courteous — 

" ....  an  invisible  thing, 
A  voice,  a  mystery  "  ? 

"Some  read  to  think — these  are 
rare ;  some  to  write — these  are  com- 


mon  ;  and  some  read  to  talk — and 
these  form  the  great  majority.  The 
first  page  of  an  author  not  unfre- 
quently  suffices  for  all  the  purposes 
of  this  latter  class,  of  whom  it  has 
been  said  that  they  treat  books  as 
some  do  lords,  they  inform  themselves 
of  their  titles  and  then  boast  of  an 
intimate  acquaintance."  So  says  the 
author  of  '  Lacon.'  Is  any  one  of  these 
a  General  Reader?  Are  they  all 
General  Readers  ?  I  have  heard  of  a 
man  who  every  morning  of  his  life 
reads  carefully  through  the  'Times,' 
the  '  Standard,'  the  *  Daily  News,'  the 
'  Morning  Post,'  and  the  '  Daily  Tele- 
graph,' supplementing  this  generous 
diet  in  the  afternoon  with  the  *  Globe ' 
and  the  two  '  Gazettes,'  and  then 
making  a  light  supper  off  the  '  Even- 
ing Standard.'  What  is  he,  or, 
what  was  he  ?  For  it  is  three  or  four 
years  since  I  first  heard  of  him,  and 
can  hardly  imagine  him  to  be  alive 
now. 

In  a  most  agreeable  and  instructive 
little  book  just  lately  published x  this 
voracious  bibliophagist  rears  his  un- 
blushing front  again,  naked  and  not  a 
whit  ashamed.  "  Your '  general  reader,' 
like  the  gravedigger  in  '  Hamlet,'  is 
hail-fellow  with  all  the  mighty  dead  ; 
he  pats  the  skull  of  the  jester ;  batters 
the  cheek  of  lord,  lady,  or  courtier; 
and  uses  'imperious  Caesar'  to  teach 
boys  the  Latin  declensions."  Mr. 
Harrison  does  not,  as  might  be 
thought  from  this  passage,  intend  the 
term  for  a  reproach.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  says  elsewhere  that,  "  whether 
our  reading  be  great  or  small,  so  far 
as  it  goes,  it  should  be  general." 
And  again,  "  If  our  lives  admit  of 
but  a  short  space  for  reading,  all 
the  more  reason  that,  so  far  as  may 

1  '  The  Choice  of  Books  and  other  Literary 
Pieces.'  By  Frederic  Harrison.  London,  1886. 


General  Readers;    by  One  of  Them. 


45] 


be,  it  should  remind  us  of  the  vast 
expanse  of  human  thought,  and  the 
wonderful  variety  of  human  nature." 
And  yet  again  : — "  Our  reading  will 
be  sadly  one-sided,  however  volu- 
minous it  be,  if  it  entirely  close  to  us 
any  of  the  great  types  and  ideals 
which  the  creative  instinct  of  man 
has  produced,  if  it  shut  out  from  us 
either  the  ancient  world,  or  other 
European  poetry,  as  important  almost 
as  our  own.  When  our  reading,  how- 
ever deep,  runs  wholly  into  'pockets,' 
and  exhausts  itself  in  the  literature  of 
one  age,  one  country,  one  type,  then 
we  may  be  sure  that  it  is  tending  to 
narrow  or  deform  our  minds."  Yet 
he  talks  also  of  the  "  systematic 
reader,"  the  "student  of  literature," 
and  so  forth.  It  is  a  little  perplexing. 

In  the  essay,  or  series  of  essays, 
which  gives  its  title  to  the  volume, 
and  with  which  I  am  for  the  pre- 
sent mainly  concerned,  for  the  rest 
contenting  myself  with  a  humble 
but  sincere  welcome  to  one  book 
which,  amid  all  this  busy  garnering 
of  barren  sheaves,  was  really  worth 
the  making — in  that  leading  essay 
Mr.  Harrison  suggests  a  course  of 
reading  for  one  whom  he  himself 
decides  to  call  a  General  Header.  It 
is  large  and  generous  enough  to 
have  satisfied  both  Gibbon  and  Ma- 
caulay,  those  great  pre-eminent  read- 
ers who  have  recorded  that  they  would 
not  exchange  their  love  of  books  for 
all  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  and 
the  riches  thereof.  In  brief  it  may 
be  said  to  comprise,  to  use  the  old 
familiar  phrase,  the  best  of  all  that 
has  been  thought  and  said  in  the 
world,  the  best  in  poetry,  philosophy, 
history,  fiction — and  the  best  only. 

"To  put  out  of  the  question  that 
writing  which  is  positively  bad,  are  we 
not,  amidst  the  multiplicity  of  books 
and  of  writers,  in  continual  danger  of 
being  drawn  off  by  what  is  stimulating 
rather  than  solid,  by  curiosity  after 
something  accidentally  notorious,  by 
what  has  no  intelligible  thing  to  re- 
commend it  except  that  it  is  new  ? 
Now,  to  stuff  our  minds  with  what  is 


simply  trivial,  simply  curious,  or  that 
which  at  best  has  but  a  low  nutritive 
power,  this  is  to  close  our  minds  to 
what  is  solid  and  enlarging,  and 
spiritually  'sustaining.  Whether  our 
neglect  of  the  great  books  comes  from 
our  not  reading  at  all,  or  from  an 
incorrigible  habit  of  reading  the  little 
books,  it  ends  in  just  the  same  thing. 
And  that  thing  is  ignorance  of  all  the 
greater  literature  of  the  world.  To 
neglect  all  the  abiding  parts  of  know- 
ledge for  the  sake  of  the  evanescent 
parts  is  really  to  know  nothing  worth 
knowing.  It  is  in  the  end  the  same, 
whether  we  do  not  use  our  minds  for 
serious  study  at  all,  or  whether  we 
exhaust  them  by  an  impotent  voracity 
for  desultory  '  information ' — a  thing 
as  fruitful  as  whistling.  Of  the  two 
evils,  I  prefer  the  former.  At  least, 
in  that  case,  the  mind  is  healthy  and 
open.  It  is  not  gorged  and  enfeebled 
by  excess  in  that  which  cannot  nourish 
much  less  enlarge  and  beautify  our 
nature." 

Now  if  the  General  Reader  be  one 
habitually  trained  on  such  nourishing 
diet,  so  stimulating  surely  as  well  as 
solid,  an  editor  would  certainly  be 
right  to  reject  my  chapter  from  the 
lives  of  the  washerwomen  of  England, 
or  my  essay  on  Milton's  three  mothers- 
in-law,  deduced  from  his  behaviour  to 
his  three  wives  (Mr.  Harrison  has  sug- 
gested these  subjects  to  me),  as  un- 
likely to  interest  an  intelligence  so 
formed.  But  how  about  my  thought- 
ful and  scholarly  article  (one  of  the 
editors  who  rejected  it  gave  it  this 
praise)  on  the  literature  of  the  Ojib- 
beways,  or  that  other  one  on  the  lost 
Decades  of  Livy  1 

We  may  take  Macaulay,  I  suppose, 
as  a  pretty  good  type  of  a  general 
reader.  Byron,  to  be  sure,  must 
have  been  no  bad  one,  if  the  list  of 
books  he  had  read  when  he  was  nine- 
teen (including,  to  his  regret,  so  he 
says,  four  thousand  novels! — one  would 
hardly  have  thought  so  many  had 
been  written  in  the  year  1807)  be  a 
true  one — which,  as  it  rests  only  or 
his  own  word,  it  possibly  was  not.  For. 
G  G  2 


452 


General  Readers;    by  One  of  Them. 


though  Mr.  Ruskin  has  praised  him 
for  the  "  measured  and  living  truth  " 
of  his  poetry,  it  is  pretty  certain  that 
he  had  a  knack  of  economising  that 
valuable  gift  in  his  more  personal 
moments.  I  do  not  know  that  any 
one  has  yet  included  this  economy  in 
the  enormous  catalogue  of  crimes  the 
present  age  has  discovered  in  Macau- 
lay.  He  may  (or  he  may  not)  have 
strayed  beyond  the  strict  bounds  of 
fact  in  his  public  writings ;  but  in  the 
outpourings  of  his  private  pen  it  must 
be  clear,  even  to  the  most  jaundiced 
eye,  that  he  did  not.  "  I  am  always 
glad  to  make  my  little  girl  happy,"  he 
writes  to  his  niece  Margaret,  "  and 
nothing  pleases  me  so  much  as  to  see 
that  she  likes  books.  For  when  she 
is  as  old  as  I  am  she  will  find  that 
they  are  better  than  all  the  tarts,  and 
cakes,  and  toys,  and  plays,  and  sights 
in  the  world.  If  anybody  would  make 
me  the  greatest  king  that  ever  lived, 
with  palaces,  and  gardens,  and  fine 
dinners,  and  wine,  and  coaches,  and 
beautiful  clothes,  and  hundreds  of 
servants,  on  condition  that  I  would 
not  read  books,  I  would  not  be  a  king. 
I  would  rather  be  a  poor  man  in  a 
garret  with  plenty  of  books  than  a 
king  who  did  not  love  reading."  Who 
can  doubt  him  ? 

Now,  Mr.  Harrison's  theory  is  that 
every  time  one  reads  a  bad  book — a 
book,  that  is  to  say,  not  truly  instruc- 
tive, not  formative — so  much  is  taken 
from  our  power  of  recognizing  and 
appreciating  a  good  one.  His  list  is, 
let  me  say  again,  sufficiently  catholic, 
and  should  one  fancies  be  found  not 
altogether  wanting  even  by  those 
steadily  inclined  not  to  be  serious. 
Shakespeare  and  Moliere,  'Don 
Quixote'  and  'The  Yicar  of  Wake- 
field/  '  The  Arabian  Nights  '  (not  the 
new  Revalenta  Arabica  of  Captain 
Burton),  '  Tom  Jones '  and  *  Clarissa 
Harlowe,'  'Vanity  Fair'  and  'Pick- 
wick,' and  all  Sir  Walter  Scott— 
for  which  last  Mr.  Harrison  may 
be  forgiven  for  suggesting  im- 
mortality to  'The  Last  Days  of 
Pompeii '  and  '  Middlemarch  '  —  in 


such  a  list  some  comfort  may  surely 
be  found  by  those  who  shake  their 
heads  at  Homer  and  Virgil,  Dante 
and  Milton,  or,  like  Mr.  James 
Smiley's  friend,  can  see  no  point  in 
the  '  Frogs '  of  Aristophanes. 

Macaulay  read  these  books,  not  once 
but  many  times.  An  insatiable  reader 
he  was,  if  man  ever  was,  but  he  was 
not  one  of  those  justly  banned  by  Mr. 
Harrison  who  "  have  read  all  these 
household  books  many  years  ago,  read 
them,  and  judged  them,  and  put  them 
away  for  ever."  He  had  soaked  him- 
self in  them;  their  happy  thoughts 
and  golden  phrases  came  flowing  in 
unfailing  streams  to  his  lips  as  he 
talked,  to  his  pen  as  he  wrote.  His 
memory,  some  have  said  who  heard  him 
talk,  was  prodigious,  but  a  prodigious 
nuisance.  How  that  may  have  been 
we,  who  never  heard  him  talk,  cannofr 
tell ;  but  Charles  Greville,  who  spoke 
well  of  few  men,  at  least  did  not  think 
so.  His  memory,  to  us  who  can  only 
read  him,  is  certainly  no  nuisance. 
What  General  Reader  does  not  remem- 
ber that  '  Roundabout  Paper  '  in  which 
Thackeray  did  ample  and  gracious  pen- 
ance for  what  was  after  all  but  a  jest 
of  his  frolic  time  ?  Who  knows  not 
his  picture  of  Macaulay  pacing  up 
and  down  the  library  of  the  Athe- 
nseum,  glorifying  with  his  splashes 
of  imperial  purple  the  milk-white 
virtues  of  '  Clarissa  '  ?  "I  daresay," 
writes  his  amused  admiring  hearer, 
"  he  could  have  spoken  pages  of  the 
book — of  that  book,  and  of  what 
countless  piles  of  others !  " 

Countless,  indeed  ! — and  of  others 
Mr.  Harrison  certainly  would  not 
suffer  in  his  list.  "  His  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  a  work,"  writes  Mr. 
Trevelyan,  "was  no  proof  of  its 
merit."  And  then  he  goes  on  to  tell 
us,  on  his  mother's  authority,  some  of 
the  works  his  uncle  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  ;  the  romances  of  Mrs. 
Meeke  and  of  Mrs.  Kitty  Cuthbert- 
son,  '  Santo  Sebastiano,  or  the  Young 
Protector,'  '  Adelaide,  or  the  Counter- 
charm,'  '  The  Romance  of  the  Pyre- 
nees,' and  so  forth.  The  first  of  these 


General  Readers;  ~by  One  of  Them. 


453 


literary  treasures  was  once  sold  at  an 
auction,  and  Macaulay,  bidding  against 
Miss  Eden,  became  its  happy  possessor 
at  a  fabulous   price.     How  carefully 
he   had    studied    it   is   proved  by  an 
elaborate  computation  on  the  last  page 
of   the    number   of   fainting-fits   that 
occur  in  the  course  of  the  five  volumes 
— for  those  were  the  days  when  men 
liked    their    little     long.      Of    these 
aberrations   of    the    soul   there   were 
twenty- seven     in    all,    no     less     than 
eleven  well-defined  and  separate  swoons 
falling  to  the  share  of    the  heroine. 
"  The  day  on  which  he  detected,  in  the 
darkest  recesses   of   a  Holborn  book- 
stall, some  trumpery  romance  that  had 
been   in    the     Cambridge    circulating 
libraries  of  the  year  1820,  was  a  date 
marked   with   a   white    stone   in   his 
calendar.     He  exults  in  his  diary  over 
the  discovery  of  a  wretched  novel  called 
'  Conscience,'    which   he   himself  con- 
fesses .to    be     ' execrable   trash/    as 
triumphantly  as  if  it  had  been  a  first 
folio  edition  of  Shakespeare  with  an 
inch  and  a  half  of  margin."    He  spent 
part  of  the  summer  of  1853  at  Tun- 
bridge   Wells,   a    place   familiar   and 
well-loved  in  his  youth,  and  he  notes 
with  delight  how  he  discovered  in  a 
corner  of  Nash's  reading-room,  "  Sally 
More's   novel,    unseen    since    1816." 
After  a  debauch  on  the  '  Republic  '  in 
the  same  summer,  he  could  turn  to  the 
'  Mysteres  de  Paris,'  and  vow  that  Sue 
had  "  quite  put  poor  Plato's  nose  out 
of  joint."     In  1851  he  wrote  to  Ellis 
from   Malvern    that    he   missed   him 
much,  but  consoled  himself  as  well  as 
he  could   with  Demosthenes,  Goethe, 
Lord  Campbell,  and  Miss  Ferrier. 

But  this  omnivorous  appetite  did 
not  destroy  Macaulay 's  appreciation 
of  the  finer  and  more  nourishing  kinds 
of  intellectual  food.  He  got  no  plea- 
sure from  books,  he  confesses,  equal 
to  that  of  "  reading  over  for  the 
hundredth  time  great  productions 
which  I  know  almost  by  heart." 
When  at  Malvern  he  tells  Ellis  that 
he  read  at  one  stretch  fourteen  books 
of  the  '  Odyssey,'  walking  to  Worcester 
and  back.  And  again,  in  his  diary  : — 


"  I  walked  far  into  Herefordshire,  and 
read,  while  walking,  the  last  five  books 
of  the  '  Iliad,'  with  deep  interest  and 
many  tears.     I  was  afraid  to  be  seen 
crying  by  the  parties  of  walkers  that 
met  me  as  I  came  back,  crying    for 
Achilles  cutting  off    his  hair,  crying 
for  Priam  rolling  on  the  ground  in  the 
courtyard  of  his  house;  mere  imagi- 
nary beings,  creatures  of  an  old  ballad- 
maker  who  died  near  three  thousand 
years  ago."     He  had  Herodotus's  ac- 
count of  the  battle  of  Marathon   by 
heart,  and  Thucydides's  account  of  the 
siege  of  Syracuse  :  Cicero,  we  are  told, 
was  as  real  to  him.  as  Peel,  and  Curio 
as  Stanley  :  he  could  not  read  the  *  De 
Corona '  even  for  the  twentieth  time- 
' '  without  striking  his  clenched  fist  at 
least  once  a  minute   on  the  arm  of  his 
easy-chair."     With  the   literature  of 
modern  languages,  too,  he  was  no  less 
familiar ;  and  lest  those  who  may  hold 
with    Ensign.  Northerton    concerning 
the  masters  of  the  old  world  should 
turn   in  disgust  from   the   specimens 
here  given  of  Macaulay's  reading,  let 
it  be  added  that  he   was  as  familiar 
with    his    'Pickwick'    as    with     his 
'  Clarissa.' 

But  this,  some  one  will  say,  was 
an  exceptional  man :  what  was  sport 
to  his,  would  have  been  death  to  the 
brain  of  any  other  man.  Well,  cer- 
tainly the  brains  of  Macaulay  are  not 
found  in  every  skull.  But,  one  can- 
not but  ask,  must  not  Mr.  Harrison's 
General  Reader  be  something  also  of 
an  exception  1  will  not  he,  too,  have  a 
strain  of  the  black  swan  in  him  ? 

To  read  the  best  in  literature;  to 
read  it  always,  and  to  read  it  only. 
Wise  counsel ;  but  who  shall  fulfil  it  1 
Does  not  such  an  education  pre-sup- 
pose  a  condition  of  mind  and  fortune 
— one  might  almost  say,  too,  of  body — 
rare  indeed  in  this  much-harassed 
age,  if  possible  at  all  1  A  monk  of  the 
Thebaid,  Saint  Simeon  on  his  pillar, 
that  sage,  "  hoar-headed,  wrinkled, 
clad  in  white,"  who  for  ever,  ID 
Mr.  Arnold's  beautiful  lines,  ponders 
God's  mysteries  amid  the  eternal  snows 
of  the  Himalayas — for  such  happy 


454 


General  Readers;   ~by  One  of  Them. 


beings  conditions  such  as  Mr.  Harrison 
presupposes  for  his  ideal  reader 
might  have  been  possible ;  or  possible 
in  nearer,  but  yet  as  vanished  times 
they  might  have  been,  when  our  uni- 
versities were  truly  homes  of  learning, 
cities  of  refuge,  unvexed  by  the  storms 
that  raged  outside  their  happy  grounds, 
before  they  set  themselves  to  catch 
and  reproduce  some  feeble  echoes  of 
those  empty  tempests.  But  where, 
for  whom,  is  such  a  life  possible 
now  ?  We  must  all  be  up  and  doing  : 
with  heavy  hearts  or  light  we  must 
all 

"  into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart." 

Even  the  most  futile  can  get  seats 
in  Parliament — and  do.  The  scanty 
moments  most  of  us  can  spare  to 
literature  must  be  given  to  the  news- 
paper, or  to  the  last  popular  novel 
or  treatise  on  irreligion,  taken  as  an 
anodyne  before  bed-time.  With  our 
nerves  always  at  high  pressure,  and 
our  brains  distraught  with  the  multi- 
plicity of  trifles  which  make  up  the 
sum  of  most  lives  how  can  we  set 
ourselves  in  order  to  listen  to  the 
great  voices  echoing  from 

"the  mountain-tops  where  is  the  home  of 
truth  "  ? 

Mr.  Harrison  admits  that  to  seek 
the  company  of  these  immortals  as 
one  would  chat  with  a  pleasant  friend 
over  a  cigar  is  a  vain  thing.  "  When," 
he  asks,  "  when  will  men  understand 
that  the  reading  of  great  books  is  a 
faculty  to  be  acquired,  not  a  natural 
gift,  at  least  not  to  those  who  are 
spoiled  by  our  current  education  and 
habits  of  life  1 "  They  need  a  certain 
freedom  of  mind,  a  clearness  of  brain, 
and  perhaps  a  certain  austerity  of 
mood,  to  be  properly  read.  The  palate 
must  be  clean  to  taste  them  truly,  as 
they  were  wines  of  some  rare  vintage. 
Charles  Lamb  declared  that  Milton 
almost  required  "  a  solemn  service  of 
music  to  be  played  before  you  enter 
upon  him.  But  he  brings  his  music, 
to  which  who  listens  had  need  bring 
ocile  thoughts  and  purged  ears." 
He  also  vowed  that  he  had  once 


soothed  a  melancholy  night  with  a 
pipe  of  tobacco,  a  bottle  of  port,  and 
*  King  Lear ; '  at  least,  he  told  Coleridge 
he  had  done  so :  but  one  cannot  help 
speculating  on  the  share  each  of  these 
anodynes  contributed  to  the  net  result. 
In  any  frame  of  mind  I  doubt  whether 
port- wine  and  tobacco  could  be  the  most 
convenient  adornments  for  '  King 
Lear,'  though  they  might  serve  as  a 
pretty  relish  for  the  humours  of 
Falstaff.  Even  those  who  can,  and 
do,  give  more  time  to  literature — 
especially  those  who  must,  as  the 
author  of  '  Lacon  '  says,  read  a  little 
to  write  —  cannot  be  always  in 
trim  for  the  best,  and  the  best  only. 
To  force  oneself  to  read  this  great 
solid  best  when  one  really  craves 
something  a  little  less  good,  a  little 
lighter,  more  easy  of  digestion,  as  it 
were,  is  a  far  worse  thing  than  to 
keep  always  from  it.  The  brain,  I 
take  it,  is  much  as  the  stomach.  When 
a  man  has  come  to  the  years  of  dis- 
cretion—the phrase  is  perhaps  more 
current  than  certain,  but  let  it  pass — 
if  he  does  not  know  what  to  eat, 
drink,  and  avoid  according  to  his  con- 
dition and  habit,  not  all  the  doctors 
in  the  world  will  help  him.  There  is 
not  one  universal  stomach ;  nay,  has 
not  one  man  many  stomachs  ?  What 
is  good  for  him  to-day  may  not  be 
good  for  him  to-morrow.  That  is 
why  these  rules  for  diet  so  much 
in  vogue  just  at  present  are  really 
such  supreme  nonsense,  as  none,  let 
us  fervently  hope  for  the  credit  of 
the  Faculty,  know  better  than  the 
doctors  themselves.  And  it  is  much 
the  same,  I  take  it,  with  books  and 
reading.  The  real  secret  is  to  know 
what  fare  the  intellectual  stomach 
needs  at  the  moment.  "  A  man," 
said  Samuel  Johnson,  "  ought  to  read 
just  as  inclination  leads  him ;  for 
what  he  reads  as  a  task  will  do  him 
little  good."  "  I  read,"  wrote  Macaulay 
in  his  journal,  "  Henderson's  '  Iceland ' 
at  breakfast ;  a  favourite  breakfast 
book  with  me.  Why  ?  How  oddly 
we  are  made  !  Some  books  which  I 
never  should  dream  of  opening  at 


General  Readers;    ly  One  of  Them. 


455 


dinner  please  me  at  breakfast,  and 
vice  versd."  "Much,"  said  Lamb, 
"depends  upon  when  and  where  you 
read  a  book.  In  the  five  or  six 
impatient  minutes  before  the  dinner 
is  quite  ready,  who  would  think  of 
taking  up  the  '  Fairy  Queen  '  for  a 
stop-gap,  or  a  volume  of  Bishop 
Andre wes's  sermons  1 "  Why  put  all 
your  poor  intellects  out  of  joint 
striving  to  keep  pace  with  Plato 
through  the  realms  of  thought,  when 
what  would  really  soothe  your  tired 
brain,  and  send  you  to  bed  at  peace 
with  yourself  and  the  world,  would 
be — and  you  know  it — Mr.  Burnand's 
*  Happy  Thoughts '  1  Why  break  your 
brains  over  '  Paradise  Lost,'  when  you 
are  yearning,  more  fervently  than  ever 
Mrs.  Blimber  yearned  to  see  Cicero 
in  the  flesh,  for  the  'Ingoldsby 
Legends '  1  Neither  Milton  nor  Plato 
will  do  you  any  good  in  those  con- 
ditions, any  more  than  cold  water 
will  do  you  good  if  you  are  sick  of 
a  fever,  or  the  pantomime  at  the 
Lyceum  give  you  any  idea  of  Goethe's 
'Faust.' 

In  a  little  book,  most  useful  to  all 
readers,  whether  they  read  to  think,  to 
write,  or  to  talk,  in  the  '  Book-lover's 
Enchiridion,'  is  a  passage  so  much 
to  the  purpose  that  I  cannot  but 
quote  it,  at  the  risk  of  incurring  De 
Quincey's  malison  on  those  who 
"benefit  too  much  by  quotations;" 
and  I  do  so  with  the  more  confidence 
as  it  is  from  a  writer  unfamiliar,  I 
suspect,  to  most  of  us  :  the  most 
general  reader  has  not  impossibly 
excluded  Dr.  Channing  from  his  course 
of  "chewing" — so  Mr.  Harrison  calls 
it ;  but  you  must  chew  to  digest.  He 
says — Dr.  Channing,  I  mean  : — 

"  The  best  books  for  a  man  are  not 
always  those  which  the  wise  recom- 
mend, but  oftener  those  which  meet 
the  peculiar  wants,  the  natural  thirst 
of  his  mind,  and  therefore  awaken 
interest  and  rivet  thought.  And  here 
it  may  be  well  to  observe,  not  only  in 
regard  to  books,  but  in  other  respects, 
that  self-culture  must  vary  with  the 
individual.  All  means  do  not  equally 


suit  us  all.  A  man  must  unfold  him- 
self freely,  and  should  respect  the 
peculiar  gifts  or  biasses  by  which 
nature  has  distinguished  him  from 
others.  Self-culture  does  not  demand 
the  sacrifice  of  individuality,  it  does 
not  regularly  apply  an  established 
machinery,  for  the  sake  of  torturing 
every  man  into  one  rigid  shape,  called 
perfection.  As  the  human  counten- 
ance, with  the  same  features  in  us  all, 
is  diversified  without  end  in  the  race, 
and  is  never  the  same  in  any  two  in- 
dividuals, so  the  human  soul,  with 
the  same  grand  powers  and  law,  ex- 
pands into  an  infinite  variety  of  forms, 
and  would  be  wofully  stinted  by  modes 
of  culture  requiring  all  men  to  learn 
the  same  lesson,  or  to  bend  to  the 
same  rules." 

I  confess  I  think  Mr.  Harrison  is  a 
little  too  austere.  Certainly  a  man 
who  habitually  passes  his  leisure  in 
reading  the  police  reports  in  the  news- 
papers, or  the  speeches  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  or  dirty  French  novels, 
will  not  be  likely  to  have  much 
stomach  for  Homer,  or  Dante,  or 
Milton,  or  "Walter  Scott.  But  I  do 
think  that  there  is  a  deal  of  literature 
— of  reading,  at  any  rate — beyond  Mr. 
Harrison's  circle  that  could  do  a  man 
no  harm,  and  as  soothing,  lightening, 
gilding  the  dark  and  heavy  hours  may 
even  be  said  to  do  good.  Mr.  Ruskin 
said  many  years  ago  that  he  admitted 
no  poetry  but  the  very  best,  and  then 
tells  us  that  we  had  better  read 
Gary's  translation  from  Dante  than 
'  Paradise  Lost.'  Mr.  Harrison,  at  any 
rate,  writes  no  nonsense ;  and  on  one 
side  he  warns  us  against  expecting 
too  much  from  his  system  of  education. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  he  says,  "  when 
we  speak  about  books,  let  us  avoid 
the  extravagance  of  expecting  too 
much  from  books,  the  pedant's  habit 
of  extolling  books  as  synonymous  with 
education.  Books  are  no  more  educa- 
tion than  laws  are  virtue  ;  and  just  as 
profligacy  is  easy  within  the  strict 
limits  of  law,  a  boundless  knowledge 
of  books  may  be  found  with  a  narrow 
education.  A  man  may  be,  as  the 


456 


General  Readers;  ~by   One  of  Them. 


poet  says,  '  deep  versed  in  books,  and 
shallow  in  himself.'  We  need  to  know 
in  order  that  we  may  feel  rightly  and 
act  wisely.  The  thirst  after  truth 
itself  may  be  pushed  to  a  degree  where 
indulgence  enfeebles  our  sympathies 
and  unnerves  us  in  action.  Of  all 
men  perhaps  the  book-lover  needs 
most  to  be  reminded  that  man's  busi- 
ness here  is  to  know  for  the  sake  of 
living,  not  to  live  for  the  sake  of 
knowing." 

No  one,  I  think,  has  ever  written 
more  wisely  or  more  temperately  on 
this  subject  than  Mr.  Harrison ;  and 
it  is  a  subject  on  which  so  much 
intemperate  foolishness  has  been 
written.  To  that  foolishness  I  have  no 
desire  voluntarily  to  contribute.  What 
shall  be  taken,  and  what  left,  I  make 
no  pretence  to  decide.  Whether  a  man, 
or  a  woman,  prefer  Sir  Arthur  Helps 
to  Marcus  Aurelius,  or  Buddha  to 
both,  matters  nothing  to  me.  Let 
this  man,  if  he  chooses,  place  George 
Eliot  by  the  side  of  Shakespeare;  I 
am  sure  Shakespeare,  in  his  infinite 
courtesy,  will  gladly  go  up  higher  to 
make  room  for  her.  The  "  windy 
suspirations  of  forced  breath "  Mr. 
Swinburne  delights  to  blow  against 
Byron  do  not  irritate  me  as  they  seem 
to  irritate  so  many  pious  souls.  One 
supposes  them  to  please  Mr.  Swin- 
burne, and  certainly  they  do  no 
manner  of  harm  to  Byron.  But  I 
cannot  see  why  we  should  not  read 
everything  that  is  good  after  its  kind, 
and  enjoy  them  all,  each  according  to 
its  kind.  Lord  Steyne  was  famous 
among  epicures  for  his  French  cook 
and  his  cellar ;  yet  he  could  dine  off 
a  boiled  leg  of  mutton  and  turnips, 
and  find  that  it  was  good.  That,  I 
submit,  is  the  proper  spirit  for  your 
true  reader. 

And  so,  it  seems  to  me,  I  say  again, 
that  Mr.  Harrison  has  written  a  little 
too  austerely.  He  has,  I  think,  fenced 
and  bounded  his  subject  round  a  little 
too  rigidly;  he  has  made  the  way 
more  perilous  still  to  those 

"  dragon- warded  fountains 
Where  the  springs  of  knowledge  are." 


Must  a  man  enjoy  his  Homer  and 
his  Virgil  one  whit  the  less  because 
he  can  read  with  pleasure  for  the 
hundredth  time  his  '  Lays  of  Ancient 
Rome '  or  his  '  Lays  of  the  Scottish 
Cavaliers '  ?  Can  he  not  love  Keats 
without  loathing  Pope  ?  Must  he  be 
incapable  of  appreciating  the  fun  of 
Socrates  discoursing  philosophy  from 
his  basket,  or  Bacchus  tugging  at 
Charon's  oar,  because  he  can  laugh 
consumedly  at  Lord  Scamperdale  or 
Mr.  Yerdant  Green  ?  I  have  read 
'  Don  Quixote '  and  '  Robinson  Crusoe ' 
and  '  The  Pilgrim's  Progress '  many 
times  and  hope  to  read  them  many 
times  again :  whether  I  truly  appre- 
ciate them  I  cannot  say,  but  I  can 
honestly  say  that  I  like  to  read 
them.  But  I  also  read  again  the  other 
day,  after  some  lapse  of  time,  Mr. 
Wilkie  Collins's  'Woman  in  White' 
and  '  Moonstone,'  and  I  must  honestly 
say  I  enjoyed  them  both  immensely. 
There  are  hours  when  I  would  sooner 
read  certain  chapters  of  'Westward 
Ho  ! '  than  any  other  book  that  ever 
came  from  a  printing-press.  The  other 
day  I  read  a  list  of  books  drawn  up 
by  a  lady  for  the  edification  of  Sir 
John  Lubbock's  ideal  working  man  ; 
this  list  included  Epictetus  and  Boe- 
thius  and  St.  Francois  de  Sales's 
'Traite  de  1'Amour  de  Dieu,'  and 
Rousseau's  '  Confessions '  —  the  last 
perhaps  a  rather  queer  sort  of  book 
for  a  gentlewoman  to  recommend  to  a 
working  man.  But  surely  no  one  will 
say  that  this  erudite  lady  is  less  able 
to  appreciate  her  Boethius  because  she 
has  thumbed  her  Rousseau  ? 

So  long  as  our  whims  be  not  dan- 
gerous, do  not  lead  us  to  the  books 
which  promote  "  filthiness  and  foolish 
talking,"  we  may  be  content  to  read, 
I  do  think,  as  the  whim  seizes  us ; 
browsing  at  will,  snatching  a  mouthful 
here  and  a  mouthful  there  of  such  food 
as  we  have  a  mind  for,  and  then,  when 
the  spirit  is  on  us,  sitting  down  to  a 
real  banquet  with  the  immortals. 
There  have  been  men,  wise  men,  full 
men,  who  have  learned  much  by  this 
intermittent  grazing,  these  half-hours 


General  Readers;    by  One  of  Them. 


457 


not  always  with  the  best  authors,  and 
have  counselled  others  to  go  and  do  so 
likewise.  Come  what  come  may,  at 
least  these  odd  half-hours  will  be  better 
spent  dipping  into  the  books  them- 
selves than  in  taking  the  edge  off 
such  little  appetites  as  nature  may 
have  granted  us  by  cramming  our- 
selves with  a  thousand  different 
opinions  about  them.  Against  that 
vile  practice,  indeed,  the  face  of  Mr. 
Harrison  is  set  most  sternly.  "  We 
read  a  perfect  library  about  the  '  Para- 
dise Lost,'  but  the  '  Paradise  Lost ' 
itself  we  do  not  read.  .  .  A  perpetual 
chatter  about  books  chokes  the  seed 
which  is  sown  in  the  greatest  books  of 
the  world."  It  is,  to  be  sure,  no  new 
practice,  not  particular  to  this  age. 
More  than  a  century  ago  the  author  of 
'  The  Library '  had  something  to  say 
on  it. 

' '  Our  nicer  palates  higher  labours  seek, 
Cloy'd  with  a  folio-Number  once  a  week  ; 
Bibles,  with  cuts  and  comments,  thus  go 

down  : 
E'en  light  Voltaire  is  number'd  through  the 

town  : 

Thus  physic  flies  abroad,  and  thus  the  law, 
From  men  of  study  and  from  men  of  straw  ; 
Abstracts,  abridgments,  please  the  fickle 

times, 
Pamphlets   and    plays,    and    politics    and 

rhymes." 

And  Pope,  as  one  or  two  may  still 
remember,  shot  an  arrow  at  the  same 
mark  before  Crabbe. 

Mr.  Harrison  says  : — "  The  true  use 
of  books  is  of  such  sacred  value  to  us 
that  to  be  simply  entertained  is  to 


cease  to  be  taught,  elevated,  inspired  by 
books  ;  merely  to  gather  information 
of  a  chance  kind  is  to  close  the  mind 
to  knowledge  of  the  urgent  kind." 
Surely  not :  surely  a  wholesome  and 
cleanly  entertainment  is  in  certain 
moods,  and  to  certain  spirits,  itself  a 
teaching,  an  elevation  ;  surely  infor- 
mation, even  of  a  chance  kind,  if  it  be 
good  information,  is  no  bad  thing. 
Even  if  not  fruit-bearing,  to  use 
Bacon's  phrase,  it  may  be  light- 
bringing.  I  own  I  rather  hold  with 
another  bit  of  counsel  from  Crabbe 
than  with  such  stern  prescriptions. 

"Go  on !  and,  while  the  sons  of  care  com- 
plain, 

Be  wisely  gay  and  innocently  vain  ; 

While  serious  souls  are  by  their  fears  un- 
done, 

Blow  sportive  bladders  in  the  beamy  sun. " 

We  cannot  all,  at  all  hours,  breathe 
the  finer  air  of  the  highest  heaven : 
happy  he  who  can,  but  he  who  cannot 
need  surely  not  despair.  The  lower 
earth  has  its  seasons  of  fruitfulness, 
which  are  not  always  seasons  of  mist. 
A  change  of  diet  is  wholesome  for  us 
who  are  compact  of  commoner  clay. 
"It  is  not  for  kings,  0  Lemuel,  it  is 
not  for  kings  to  drink  wine,  nor  for 
princes  strong  drink ;  lest  they  drink 
and  forget  the  law,  and  pervert  the 
judgment  of  any  of  the  afflicted.  Give 
strong  drink  unto  him  that  is  ready 
to  perish,  and  wine  unto  those  that  be 
of  heavy  hearts.  Let  him  drink  and 
forget  his  poverty,  and  remember  his 
misery  no  more." 


458 


A  COSSACK  POET. 


I  PROPOSE  in  the  following  pages  to 
introduce  to  the  notice  of  my  readers 
a  poet  whose  name  has  hardly  been 
heard  in  the  western  parts  of  Europe. 
This  is  the  Cossack  Taras  Shevchenko, 
whose  funeral  in  1861  was  followed  by 
so  many  thousands  of  his  country- 
men, and  whose  grave — a  tumulus 
surmounted  by  a  large  iron  cross, 
near  Kaniov  on  the  Dnieper — has 
been  called  the  Mecca  of  the  South 
Russian  revolutionists.  Schevchenko 
has  become  the  national  poet  of  the 
Malo-Russians,  a  large  division  of  the 
Slavonic  family  amounting  to  ten 
millions,  and  speaking  what  has 
been  called  a  Russian  dialect,  but  is 
more  justly  styled  by  Micklosich  and 
other  eminent  Slavists  an  independent 
language.  The  object  of  my  little 
sketch  is  not  philological,  so  that  I  shall 
only  dwell  upon  such  points  so  far  as 
to  enable  my  readers  to  form  a  cor- 
rect idea  what  the  Malo-Russian 
language  is,  and  where  it  is  spoken. 
I  shall  give  a  notion  of  its  area  if  I 
say  that  drawing  a  straight  line  from 
Sandech,  near  Cracow,  to  the  Asiatic 
frontier  of  Russia,  we  shall  find  this 
language  the  dominant  tongue  of 
Galicia  and  all  the  southern  parts  of 
Russia,  till  we  come  to  the  Caucasus. 
It  is  even  spoken  in  a  thin  strip  of 
territory  in  the  north  of  Hungary.  It 
has  a  rich  collection  of  legendary 
poems,  tales  and  folk-songs,  but  its 
written  and  artificial  literature  only 
dates  from  the  end  of  last  century. 
When  we  look  at  the  part  of  Europe 
where  the  language  is  spoken,  we 
might  reasonably  expect  to  find  in 
the  surroundings  a  great  deal  to 
stimulate  a  national  poet.  These 
broad  steppes  form  one  of  the  cock- 
pits of  Europe.  Here  Turk,  Russian, 
Pole,  Tartar,  and  Rouman  have  met  in 
many  a  deadly  contest.  On  the  islands 
of  the  Dnieper  were  the  settlements 


of  the  strange  Cossack  Republic,  the 
Setch,  which  cost  Peter  the  Great 
and  Catherine  the  Second  so  much 
trouble  to  break  up  ;  here  were  the 
battle-grounds  of  the  celebrated  Bog- 
dan  Khmelnitzki  in  his  long  strug- 
gles against  the  Polish  pans.  Over 
these  steppes  the  Tartars  used  to 
drive  their  numerous  herds  of  priso- 
ners of  all  ages  and  both  sexes  to 
the  slave-markets.  Such  a  country  is 
sure  not  to  want  its  vates  sacer  ; 
but  if  he  will  sing  of  it  as  a  real 
son  of  his  country,  he  will  not  tell 
of  delicate-handed  dealings ;  he  will 
talk  more  of  the  shedding  of  blood 
than  the  sprinkling  of  rose-water. 
Schevchenko  has  left  us  an  auto- 
biography, though  but  a  meagre  one  ; 
and  it  is  from  this,  which  is  included 
in  the  editions  of  his  works  pub- 
lished at  Lemberg  and  Prague,  that  I 
shall  chiefly  take  my  sketch.  To  the 
two  handsome  volumes  which  appeared 
at  Prague  in  1876  is  prefixed  the  por- 
trait of  the  poet,  with  his  Cossack  cap. 
It  is  a  manly,  expressive  face,  though 
somewhat  rough,  and  with  care  deeply 
stamped  upon  it ;  but  we  shall  not  be 
surprised  at  this  when  we  make  a 
closer  acquaintance  with  his  fortunes. 
Tourgueniev  tells  us  that  he  had  a 
heavy  look  till  he  became  animated; 
and  one  of  his  friends  humorously 
styled  him  "  a  wild  boar  with  a  lark 
in  his  throat." 

Shevchenko  was  born  on  the  ninth 
of  March,  1814,  in  the  village  of  Mor- 
nitza,  near  Kerelivka,  in  the  govern- 
ment of  Kiev.  His  parents  were  serfs 
on  the  estate  of  a  Russian  nobleman 
of  German  extraction  named  Engel- 
hardt.  His  troubles  began  in  earliest 
childhood.  In  1823  he  lost  his  mother, 
and  on  his  father's  marrying  again  he 
was  doomed  to  experience  the  cruelties 
of  a  stepmother.  Tarras  wandered 
about  the  village,  a  neglected  bare- 


A   Cossack  Poet. 


459 


footed  urchin,  with  his  little  sister 
Irene  for  his  sole  companion.  The 
elder  Shevchenko  only  survived  his 
second  marriage  two  years,  and  then 
the  orphan  was  sent  to  be  instructed 
by  a  drunken  priest  named  Buhorski, 
who  treated  him  with  great  brutality. 
"  This  was  the  first  despot  I  ever  had 
to  deal  with,"  says  Tar  as  in  his  auto- 
biography, "  and  he  instilled  in  me  for 
the  rest  of  my  life  a  loathing  for  every 
act  of  oppression  which  one  man  can 
commit  against  another."  He  has  tales 
to  tell  us  about  two  other  preceptors 
of  the  same  sort,  from  whom  he  also 
learned  something  of  the  art  of  paint- 
ing ;  for,  in  addition  to  the  instruction 
of  children  both  of  his  masters  were  en- 
gaged in  the  trade  of  preparing  sacred 
icons,  or  representations  of  saints  for 
churches.  Thus  an  inclination  for  art 
was  produced  in  him  besides  his  in- 
born propensity  for  poetry. 

In  this  way  Shevchenko  spent  a  con- 
siderable part  of  his  early  youth ;  but 
in  1829  his  master  Engelhardt  died, 
and  his  son-and-heir  took  the  youngster 
as  a  page.  This  new  post,  although  it 
seemed  at  first  to  abridge  his  liberty, 
was  in  the  end  advantageous  to  him. 
His  duty  was  to  remain  in  his  master's 
ante-chamber  and  answer  his  call.  He 
began  to  amuse  himself  by  copying 
the  pictures  hanging  on  the  walls, 
a  practice,  however,  which  on  one  oc- 
casion led  to  very  unpleasant  results. 
He  had  accompanied  his  master  to 
Vilna,  on  the  occasion  of  a  festival  in 
honour  of  the  Tzar.  A  grand  ball  was 
given  at  which  most  of  the  Engelhardt 
family  were  present.  While  the  rest 
of  the  household  slept,  the  young 
artist  rose  secretly,  lit  a  candle,  and 
began  copying  a  portrait  of  Platov,  the 
well-known  hetman  of  the  Cossacks, 
who  visited  England  with  the  Allied 
Sovereigns  in  1814.  Shevchenko  be- 
came so  engrossed  in  this  occupation 
that  he  did  not  perceive  the  return  of 
his  master,  till  he  was  rudely  awakened 
from  his  artistic  studies  by  having  his 
ears  pulled  by  the  angry  nobleman, 
who  reminded  his  careless  serf  that 
by  sitting  with  a  candle  among  the 


papers  he  had  almost  set  the  house  on 
fire.  He  received  a  beating  at  the 
time,  and  on  the  following  day  a  se- 
verer castigation  by  his  masters' 
orders. 

Better  days,  however,  were  in  store 
for  him.  M.  Engelhardt,  seeing  in 
what  direction  his  talents  lay,  resolved 
to  send  him  to  a  house-painter  and 
decorator,  with  a  view  to  employing 
him  in  those  capacities  on  his  own  es- 
tate. To  a  painter  of  this  sort  he  was 
accordingly  sent,  and  luckily  found  a 
kind-hearted  man,  who,  seeing  how 
superior  his  apprentice  was  to  such 
work,  recommended  his  master  to  put 
him  under  a  certain  Lampi,  at  that 
time  a  portrait-painter  of  some  repu- 
tation at  Warsaw.  Consent  was  given 
to  this  step,  but  the  youth  remained 
unhappy  and  restless,  and,  according 
to  one  of  his  biographers,  was  on  the 
point  of  committing  suicide.  In  the 
year  1832  the  Engelhardts  removed 
permanently  to  St.  Petersburg,  and 
the  poet  followed  with  the  rest  of  the 
servants.  He  was  now  eighteen  years 
of  age,  and  at  his  earnest  request  was 
put  under  the  care  of  another  painter, 
who  was,  however,  little  better  than  a 
house-decorator.  But  his  mind  de- 
veloped in  the  capital.  On  holidays 
he  used  to  visit  the  picture  galleries, 
and  a  longing  seized  him  to  imitate  the 
great  masters  whose  works  he  saw 
exhibited  there.  By  good  luck  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  artist 
Soshenko,  who  felt  especial  sympathy 
with  him,  as  being  a  native  of 
the  same  part  of  Russia.  By  the 
advice  of  his  new  friend  he  began 
to  work  in  water-colours.  His  suc- 
cess in  this  branch  of  art  was  so 
great  that  his  master  used  to  employ 
him  to  paint  the  portraits  of  his 
friends,  and  rewarded  him  for  so  doing. 
Soshenko  assisted  him  in  his  work, 
and  laboured  also  for  his  moral  and 
intellectual  progress,  introducing  him 
to  the  Malo-Russian  novelist  Grebenka. 
These  worthy  men  between  them 
succeeded  in  purchasing  the  freedom 
of  the  poor  artist.  The  celebrated 
Broulov  painted  a  portrait  of  +he  poet 


460 


A   Cossack  Poet. 


Zhoukovski,  then  one  of  the  most 
popular  men  in  Russia.  The  picture 
was  sold  for  twenty -five  hundred 
roubles  at  a  lottery  and  for  this  sum 
his  master  Engelhardt  gave  him  his 
freedom. 

This  was  in  April,  1838,  and  Shev- 
chenko at  once  became  a  member  of 
the  Academy  of  Arts.  A  successful 
career  seemed  now  to  lie  open  before 
him.  A  fondness  for  poetry  had 
developed  itself  in  him  as  early  as  his 
love  of  art.  His  surviving  friends  still 
speak  of  his  enthusiasm  for  the  songs 
of  his  country,  and  the  tenderness  and 
pathos  with  which  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  singing  them.  In  1840  ap- 
peared his  'Kobzar,' 1  containing  a  col- 
lection ''  of  lyrical  pieces  in  the  Little 
or  Malo-Russian  language.  In  the 
following  year  were  published  the 
'  Haidamaks '  and  '  Hamalia.'  These 
poems  were  received  with  great  en- 
thusiasm by  the  South  Russians,  and 
made  the  name  of  the  poet  deservedly 
celebrated  among  his  countrymen. 
The  Ukraine  and  the  surrounding 
lands  have  always  been  the  most 
poetic  region  of  Russia,  and  have 
been  celebrated  not  only  by  the 
authors  who  have  used  the  national 
language,  but  also  by  the  so-called 
Ukraine  school  of  Polish  poets, 
including  Zaleski,  Malczewski,  Gosz- 
crynski,  Padura,  Slowacki,  and 
others.  Soon  after  the  poet  visited 
his  native  province,  and  there  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Koulish  and 
Kostomarov.  The  former  of  these 
writers  was  well  known  throughout 
Russia  for  his  sympathies  with  the 
language  and  literature  of  the 
Ukraine.  He  is  the  author  of  some 
excellent  works  on  the  subject,  but 
from  a  recent  publication  his  opinions 
seem  to  have  undergone  a  great 
change.  Kostomarov  died  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  present  year,  having 
left  a  considerable  reputation  as  a 
worker  in  the  field  of  history  and  the 
author  of  many  valuable  monographs 

1  The  Tcobzar  is  a  wandering  minstrel  among 
the  Malo-Russians,  who  accompanies  his  song 
with  a  kind  of  guitar,  called  kobza. 


on  Russian  celebrities.  But  these 
friendships  led  to  some  serious  troubles. 
The  three  men  were  of  advanced  poli- 
tical opinions,  and  were  so  indiscreet  as 
to  give  utterance  to  them.  At  some 
meetings  in  the  house  of  Artemovski 
Goulak,  a  Malo-Russian  author,  their 
unguarded  utterances  were  heard  by  a 
student  of  the  University  of  Kiev,  who 
undertook  the  degrading  office  of  an 
informer.2  This,  we  must  remember, 
occurred  under  the  iron  rule  of  the 
Emperor  Nicholas  ;  but  there  is  also  a 
story  that  the  poet  composed  some 
biting  epigrams  on  members  of  the 
Imperial  family. 

The  companions  of  his  indiscretion 
were  hurried  off  to  imprisonment  and 
exile  in  separate  places.  Shevchenko 
was  sentenced  to  serve  as  a  common 
soldier,  at  Orenburg  on  the  Asiatic 
frontier  of  the  empire.  This  banishment 
he  endured  for  ten  years,  from  1847  to 
1857.  He  has  told  us  of  his  sufferings 
in  many  of  his  lyrical  pieces.  From 
Orenburg  he  was  removed  to  Siberia, 
and  afterwards  to  the  Fort  of  Novo- 
petrovsk  on  the  Asiatic  coast  of  the 
Caspian  Sea.  His  punishment  was 
rendered  more  severe  because  he  was 
forbidden  to  draw  or  paint.  He  con- 
tinued, however,  to  secrete  materials 
for  the  exercise  of  his  favourite  art, 
even  carrying  a  pencil  in  his  shoe  ;  and 
the  good-natured  officer  in  command 
winked  at  these  breaches  of  dis- 
cipline. The  following  story  is  told 
by  Tourgueniev  in  the  interesting  re- 
collections which  he  has  furnished  to 
the  Prague  edition  of  the  poet's 
works  : — 

"  One  general,  an  out-an-out  marti- 
net, having  heard  that  Shevchenko,  in 
spite  of  the  prohibition,  had  made  two 
or  three  sketches,  thought  it  his  duty 
to  report  the  matter  to  Perovski  (the 
commander-in-chief  of  the  district)  on 
one  of  his  days  of  reception ;  but  the 
latter,  looking  sternly  on  the  over- 
zealous  informer,  said  in  a  marked 

2  So  Professor  Partitzki,  of  Lemberg,  tells 
us  in  his  suggestive  little  work  in  the  Malo- 
Russian  language,  'The  Leading  Ideas  in 
the  Writings  of  Taras  Shevchenko,'  p.  18. 


A   Cossack  Poet. 


461 


tone,  '  Genera],  I  am  deaf  in  this  ear ; 
be  so  good  as  to  repeat  to  me  on  the 
other  side  what  you  have  said.'  The 
general  took  the  hint,  and  going  to 
the  other  ear  told  him  something 
which  in  no  way  concerned  Shev- 
chenko." 

The  poor  poet  lamented  his  capti- 
vity in  many  pathetic  poems.  In  one, 
addressed  to  his  friend  Kozachovski, 
he  speaks  of  "often  bedewing  his  couch 
with  tears  of  blood."  But  a  day  of 
deliverance  was  at  hand.  In  1855 
the  Emperor  Nicholas  died.  Up  to 
that  time  the  only  alleviation  of  Shev- 
chenko's  treatment  had  been  when  he 
was  allowed  to  Accompany  as  drafts- 
man through  part  of  Siberia  the  ex- 
pedition under  Lieutenant  Boutakov. 
A  year  or  so  before  the  end  of 
his  captivity  his  treatment  became 
more  gentle ;  and  at  last  came  his 
release,  owing  to  the  efforts  of 
Count  Feodore  Tolstoi  and  his  wife, 
whom  Shevchenko  ever  afterwards 
reckoned  among  his  greatest  bene- 
factors. There  was  some  delay,  how- 
ever, before  he  received  his  freedom. 
He  was  detained  several  months  at 
Nizhni-Novgorod,  and  sold  a  few 
drawings  there  for  his  maintenance. 
He  did  not  return  to  St.  Petersburg 
till  April,  1858.  In  the  summer  of 

1859  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  Ukraine, 
and  saw  his  sister  Irene  in  his  native 
village ;  but  he  was  so  poor  that  he 
was  only  able  to  give  her   a  rouble. 
At  that  time  all  the  surviving  mem- 
bers of  his  family  were  serfs;  but  in 

1860  they  received  their  freedom  to 
the  number  of  eleven  souls,  owing  to 
the  efforts  of  a  society  established  to 
assist  poor  authors  and  their  families. 
The  emancipation  of  the  serfs  through- 
out Russia  by  the  oukaze  of  Alexan- 
der the  Second  was  to  follow  in  the 
next  year.      The     poverty    of     Shev- 
chenko,   indeed,     continued    till    the 
end  of  his  days,  but  in  truth  he  was, 
as  is  popularly   supposed   to   be    the 
way    of    poets,    remarkably    careless 
of   his    money.       We    are    told  that 
when   he   had    taken    lodgings    with 
a    friend    he  would   frequently   hand 


over  his  purse  to  him,  leaving  him 
to  make  all  arrangements  for 
their  common  wants.  Taras  had 
now  a  fixed  plan  of  settling  in  the 
Ukraine.  He  wished  to  purchase  a 
cottage  and  a  little  piece  of  land  within 
sight  of  the  Dnieper,  but  he  was  not 
destined  to  have  his  wishes  fulfilled. 
Towards  the  middle  of  July  he  again 
made  his  appearance  at  St.  Petersburg, 
and  a  new  edition  of  his  '  Kobzar '  was 
published,  which  was  very  favourably 
received.  At  this  time  he  had  cham- 
bers in  the  Academy  buildings,  and 
occupied  himself  with  engraving.  He 
now  resolved  to  marry,  and  his  choice 
fell  upon  a  peasant  girl,  in  spite  of 
the  remonstrances  of  his  friends,  who 
reminded  him  that  he  was  a  man  of 
talent  and  culture.  His  answer  was 
characteristic  :  "In  body  and  in  soul  I 
am  a  son  and  brother  of  our  despised 
common  people.  How,  then,  can  I 
unite  myself  to  one  of  aristocratic 
blood  ]  And  what  would  a  proud, 
luxurious  lady  do  in  my  humble  cot- 
tage 1 "  In  pursuance  of  this  plan  he 
successively  endeavoured  to  gain  the 
affections  of  two  women  in  humble 
life,  named  Charita  and  Glukeria,  but 
in  neither  case  was  he  successful  : 
preparations  were  indeed  made  for 
his  marriage  with  the  latter,  but  the 
girl  herself  broke  off  the  engagement. 
According  to  the  testimony  of  his 
friends,  Shevchenko  rarely  visited  the 
houses  of  those  who  were  in  a  social 
station  superior  to  his  own.  He  had 
a  natural  dread  of  being  patronised, 
and  conducted  himself  in  a  reserved 
and  haughty  manner.  In  the  ap- 
preciative circles  of  a  few  private 
friends  he  appeared  in  his  native 
strength,  told  amusing  anecdotes,  and 
sang  some  of  the  songs  of  the  Ukraine 
in  a  pathetic  and  impressive  manner. 
After  the  failure  of  his  second 
attempt  at  marriage,  he  became  more 
than  ever  anxious  to  get  away  from 
his  lonely  life  in  St.  Petersburg,  and 
purchased  a  piece  of  land  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Dnieper  near  Kaniov. 
His  health,  once  so  vigorous,  now 
began  to  show  signs  of  breaking  up, 


462 


A  Cossack  Poet. 


owing  to  his  long  sufferings  both  in 
early  youth  and  in  his  Siberian  exile, 
and,  it  must  also  be  added,  to  an  unfor- 
tunate habit  of  drinking  But  even  in 
the  last  days  of  his  life  he  was  labouring 
for  his  country,  being  busy  in  writing 
books  to  assist  popular  education  in 
the  Little-Russian  language  ;  of  these, 
one,  a  grammar,  was  published  during 
his  life;  the  others,  works  on  arith- 
metic, geography,  and  history,  were 
never  finished.  In  January,  1861, 
Shevchenko  wrote  to  his  brother 
Bartholomew :  "I  have  begun  this 
year  very  badly  ;  for  two  weeks  I  have 
not  stirred  out  of  the  house.  I  feel 
debilitated  and  cough  continually." 
A  fortnight  afterwards  he  said  :  "  I 
feel  so  ill  that  I  can  hardly  hold 
the  pen  in  my  hand."  On  his  birth- 
day, although  very  weak,  he  was 
cheered  by  telegrams  from  his  country- 
men in  the  Ukraine,  who  regarded 
him  with  enthusiastic  affection.  He 
received  their  messages  on  the  ninth 
of  March,  and  encouraged  by  their 
warm  expressions  of  sympathy  he 
talked  cheerfully  with  his  com- 
panions, and  expressed  a  hope  that 
he  might  get  to  the  south,  where  he 
felt  sure  that  his  health  would  be 
restored.  On  the  following  day,  March 
the  tenth,  he  rose  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  went  to  his  studio, 
but  suddenly  fell  down  and  in  about 
an  hour  breathed  his  last.  Two  days 
afterwards  he  was  buried  in  the 
Smolensk  cemetery  at  St.  Petersburg, 
where  every  Sunday  his  grave  was 
visited  by  the  Southern  Russians  re- 
siding in  that  city.  But  this  was  only 
to  be  the  temporary  resting-place  of 
the  poet.  In  one  of  his  poems  he  had 
expressed  a  wish  to  be  buried  in  the 
Ukraine — 

"  "When  I  am  dead 
Bury  me  in  a  grave, 
Amidst  the  broad  steppe 
In  my  beloved  Ukraine  ! 
That  I  may  see  the  wide-extending  meadows 
And  the  Dnieper  and  its  bank, 
And  hear  the  roaring  river 
As  it  eddies  onward." 

This   wish   was   to  be  granted.     His 
body    was   disinterred   and  conveyed 


south.  It  was  received  everywhere 
with  all  possible  honour  and,  carried 
through  the  city  of  Kiev  by  the 
students  of  the  university,  was  laid  at 
last  in  a  picturesque  spot  on  the  banks 
of  the  Dnieper  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
concourse  of  people.  A  vast  mound  of 
earth  was  piled  on  the  grave,  sur- 
mounted by  an  iron  cross.  In  a 
recent  number  of  the  Russian  maga- 
zine, 'Historical  Messenger,'  an  ac- 
count is  given  of  the  present  con- 
dition of  the  "Hill  of  Taras " 
(Tarasova  Cfora)  as  it  is  called.  The 
grave  has  been  inclosed  with  iron 
railings  ;  at  the  basement  of  the  cross 
is  a  medallion  of  the  poet,  with  his 
name  and  the  date  of  his  birth  and 
death. 

Shevchenko  is  pre-eminently  the 
national  poet  of  the  Southern  Russians, 
a  title  he  has  well  earned  by  his  intense 
national  feeling.  I  can  only  hope  in 
a  short  sketch  like  the  present  to  give 
a  general  idea  of  the  characteristics  of 
his  genius.  His  verse  loses  much  of 
its  native  simplicity  in  translation, 
and  if  a  version  be  attempted  it  ought 
to  be  made  in  Lowland  Scotch.  He 
loves  to  describe  the  wild  lives  of 
the  Cossacks  in  their  old  inde- 
pendent days,  before  the  setch  had 
been  gradually  reduced  to  insignifi- 
cance by  Peter  the  Great  and  Cather- 
ine ;  and  in  the  stirring  poem  known 
as  '  The  Haidamaks,'  l  their  revolt 
in  1768  under  Gonta  and  Zelezniak 
against  their  Polish  masters  is  de- 
scribed at  length. 

Another  fine  poem,  too,  is  that  de- 
voted to  the  celebrated  hetman 2 
Ivan  Podkova,  or  in  the  Malo-Rus- 
sian  form  pidkova,  lit.,  a  horseshoe 
— a  name  which  this  redoubtable  chief 

1  This   word  is    explained  by   Miklosich, 
'  Die  Tiirkischen  Elemente  in  den  Siidost-und 
Osteuropaischen    Sprachen,'  as,    originally   a 
cattle-driver,  bat  it  has  come  to  mean  little 
more  than  a  wandering  Cossack ;  sometimes, 
however,  it  is  used  with  a  bad  signification, 
as  a  robber,  or  the  Scotch  land-louper. 

2  The  word  hetman  is  none  other  than  the 
German  hauptmann,  which  has  got  through 
Polish  into  Little-Eussian.     It  has  become  in 
Eussian  ataman. 


A  Cossack  Poet. 


463 


is  said  to  have  gained  from  his 
skill  in  crumpling  up  a  horseshoe  by 
a  mere  twist  of  the  hand.  Having 
broken  out  into  rebellion  he  was  exe- 
cuted by  order  of  Stephen  Batory. 
But  it  is  not  only  in  these  longer 
pieces,  devoted  to  deeds  of  the  Cossack 
heroes,  that  Shevchenko  shines.  He 
has  many  short  lyrical  pieces  of  great 
pathos  and  elegance  which  almost  defy 
translation.  It  would  be  merely  du 
clair  du  lune  empaille,  as,  quoting  the 
words  of  Gerald  de  Nerval,  M.  Durand 
says  in  his  valuable  article  on  the 
poet  contributed  to  the  'Revue  des 
deux  Mondes'  (1876,  vol.  iii.  p.  919). 
This,  by  the  way,  and  a  longer  sketch 
in  German  published  by  Obrist  at 
Czernowitz,  are  the  only  attempts 
which  have  been  hitherto  made  to 
introduce  this  interesting  poet  to 
Western  readers. 

Shevchenko  has,  in  a  clever  way, 
interwoven  with  his  poems  the  popular 
superstitions  and  customs  of  his 
countrymen;  and  this  probably  ex- 
plains the  great  charm  which  they 
have  for  all  Southern  Russians,  by 
whom  his  memory  is  regarded  with 
idolatry.  Moreover  no  poet  was  ever 
more  autobiographical ;  he  is  always 
giving  us  details  of  his  sad  but 
interesting  life.  He  writes  for 
the  most  part  in  short  unrhymed 
metres  ;  the  well-marked  accent  of  the 
Little-Russian  language  amply  sup- 
plying the  place  of  rhyme,  which,  how- 
ever, he  sometimes  employs,  though 
more  frequently  contenting  himself 
with  a  mere  assonance.  There  is  a 
wonderful  spontaneity  in  his  verse ; 
and  despite  his  careless,  unfettered 
style,  there  is  always  the  truest  agree- 
ment between  the  language  and 
meaning,  while  in  the  most  graphic 
passages  the  lines  seem  to  rush  on 
headlong.  Sometimes  we  have  the 
strangest  and  most  powerful  onoma- 
topoeia, as  in  the  poem  '  Outoplena ' 
(the  drowned  woman),  where  we  seem 
to  hear  the  wind  howling  among  the 
reeds,  and  asking,  as  it  were,  what 
melancholy  figure  sits  upon  the  bank. 
In  the  'Night  of  Taras '  (Tarasova 


Nich)  the  poet  sings  a  fine  elegy  on 
the  past  glories  of  his  country. 

He  has  perfectly  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  little  Russian  folk-songs,  and 
reproduces  them  as  faithfully  as  Burns 
did  the  Scottish.  Their  superstitions 
about  birds,  water-nymphs,  magic 
herbs,  and  other  weird  beliefs,  are 
freely  introduced.  Thus  ravens,  as 
in  Serbian  poetry,  bring  intelligence 
of  a,  disaster  ;  the  falcon  is  the  favourite 
bird  with  which  a  young  man  is  com- 
pared ;  and  the  cuckoo  is  a  prophet. 
It  is  not  a  little  curious  to  find  tales 
of  magic  handkerchiefs,  such  as  that 
which  Othello  gave  to  Desdemona — 

" there's  magic  in  the  web  of  it ; 

A  sibyl,  that  had  numbered  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  course  two  hundred  compasses, 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work." 

It  has  sometimes  occurred  to  me  that 
the  superstition  might  have  got  into 
the  Italian  story  upon  which  Shake- 
speare based  his  noble  play  from 
Slavonic  sources.  Close  to  Venice  is  the 
Dalmatian  littoral,  with  its  -Slavonic 
population  and  traditions  of  Ragusa 
and  the  Ragusan  school,  which  pro- 
duced some  of  the  most  celebrated 
poets  of  the  South  Slavonic  peoples. 

The  belief  also  is  widely  spread  that 
human  beings  are  changed  into  trees. 
In  one  lay  the  poet  tells  us  a  tale  of 
two  poplars,  which  were  once  sisters 
and  enchantresses  (sestri-charivnitzi), 
who  both  fell  in  love  with  the  same 
.person,  a  certain  Ivan.  There  is  also  a 
belief  in  the  existence  of  the  evil  eyes 
and  of  love  potions.  The  favourite 
plant  of  the  Little-Russians  is  the 
elder  tree,  which  has  a  thousand  magic 
virtues.  The  following  little  poem  is  so 
pathetic  that,  even  in  a  prose  version, 
it  may  perhaps  give  some  idea  of 
Shevchenko's  manner  in  the  minor 
pieces  : — 

"Here  three  broad  ways  cross,  and  here 
three  brothers  of  the  Ukraine  parted  on  their 
several  journeys.  They  left  their  aged  mother. 
This  one  quitted  a  wife,  the  other  a  sister,  and 
the  third,  the  youngest,  a  sweetheart.  The 
aged  mother  planted  three  ashes  in  a  field,  and 
the  wife  planted  a  tall  poplar  ;  the  sister  three 
maples  in  the  dell,  and  the  betrothed  maiden 
a  red  elder  tree.  The  three  ashes  throve  not, 


464 


A   Cossack  Poet. 


the  poplar  withered  ;  withered  also  the  maples, 
and  the  elder  faded.  Never  more  came  the 
brothers.  The  old  mother  is  weeping,  and  the 
wife,  with  the  children,  wails  in  the  cheerless 
cottage.  The  sister  mourns  and  goes  to  seek 
her  brothers  in  the  far-away  lands  ;  the  young 
maiden  is  laid  in  her  grave.  The  brothers 
come  not  back :  they  are  wandering  over  the 
world  ;  and  the  three  pathways,  they  are  over- 
grown with  thorns." 

Or  let  us  take  this  pretty  little  idyl, 
which  loses,  perhaps,  even  more  by 
translation  : — 

"  There  is  a  garden  of  cherry-trees  round 
the  cottage,  and  the  insects  are  humming  near 
them.  It  is  the  time  when  the  labourers  are 
coming  in  with  their  ploughs,  the  maidens 
sing  as  they  enter,  and  the  mothers  await 
them  all  for  supper.  The  family  take  their 
meal  about  the  cottage,  the  evening  glow 
arises  in  the  sky,  the  daughter  gives  the  meal 
to  each,  and  the  mother  would  fain  be  advis- 
ing her,  but  the  nightingale  hinders  it  by  her 
singing.  The  mother  has  laid  her  little  chil- 
dren to  sleep  in  the  cottage,  and  herself  rests 
by  them.  All  is  hushed — only  the  maiden 
and  the  nightingale  do  not  sleep." 

And  these  opening  stanzas  of  the 
lament  of  a  lonely  girl  have  not  a 
little  of  the  manner  of  Burns  in 
them : — 

"  Alas  I  am  solitary,  solitary  like  a  patch 
of  weeds  in  a  field  :  God  has  given  me  neither 
happiness  nor  good  fortune.  He  has  only  given 
me  beauty  and  brown  eyes,  and  these  I  have 
nearly  wept  out  in  my  desolate  maidenhood." 


National  poetry,  such  as  proceeds 
from  the  hearts  of  the  people  and  lives 
in  their  mouths,  is  now,  thanks  to  the 
spread  of  civilisation  and  cosmopoli- 
tanism, fast  disappearing.  The  con- 
ditions of  its  existence  are  every  day 
becoming  more  impossible.  Had  Shev- 
chenko  lived  a  hundred  years  ago 
his  lyrics  would  not  have  been  com- 
mitted to  the  printer,  but  would 
have  been  handed  on  from  singer  to 
singer,  as  was  the  case  with  the 
Scottish  ballads  'Sir  Patrick  Spens,' 
4  Lord  Randal,'  and  many  others, 
which  are  now  read  with  astonishment 
and  delight,  but  whose  authors  are 
unknown.  In  these  days  of  excessive 
curiosity  the  popular  minstrel  is 
dragged  from  his  rural  solitudes,  where 
he  sang  only  to  an  audience  of  the 
surrounding  villages,  is  brought  to 
the  great  capitals  and  becomes  an 
object  of  wonderment.  The  people 
of  the  Ukraine,  like  the  modern  Serbs, 
are  not  sufficiently  near  the  great 
centres  of  Western  culture  to  have 
exchanged  their  f olK-songs  for  operatic 
airs  and  the  conventional  lyrics  of  the 
music-hall.  One  of  the  last  genuine 
minstrels  of  that  interesting  part  of 
Russia  was  Taras  Shevchenko. 

W.  R  MOKFILL. 


465 


FYVIE  CASTLE,  AND  ITS  LAIRDS. 


SITUATED  in  the  lowlands  of  Aber- 
deenshire,  which  can  hardly  be  called 
pretty  even  by  the  most  enthusiastic 
Scotchman,  the  noble  old  castle  of 
Fyvie  has  yet  some  beautiful  and  pic- 
turesque surroundings.  Standing  on 
a  broad  natural  esplanade  or  plateau, 
its  towers  and  turrets,  many  of  which 
are  crowned  with  quaint  figures  and 
busts  carved  in  the  red  sandstone  of 
the  district,  rise  above  the  fine  trees 
of  the  park ;  and  the  whole  mass  fully 
deserves  Billing's  enthusiastic  praise 
in  his  '  Baronial  Antiquities,'  where  he 
calls  Fyvie  "  one  of  the  noblest  and 
most  beautiful  specimens  of  the  rich 
architecture  which  the  Scottish  barons 
in  the  days  of  James  the  Sixth  obtained 
from  France."  The  small  river  Ythan 
flowing  round  two  sides  of  the  castle, 
its  steep  hanging  banks  fringed  with 
wide-spreading  trees,  must  have  added 
considerably  to  the  strength  of  the 
place  in  the  fierce  old  fighting  days, 
when  the  low-lying  meadows  all  round 
could  be  flooded  at  short  notice. 

*'  The  jealous  trout,  that  low  do  lie," 

abound  in  the  Ythan,  which  is  famed 
also  for  its  pearl  fisheries  ;  the  Scotch 
pearl  in  the  royal  crown  came  out  of 
its  clear  waters. 

Intimately  associated  with  Scottish 
history,  Fyvie  in  ancient  times  was  a 
royal  hunting  seat.  It  has  had  many 
illustrious  inmates,  and  stood  several 
sieges.  It  has  its  "  murder-room," 
like  the  palace  of  Holyrood  ;  its  secret 
chamber,  like  Glamis ;  and  a  weird 
Green  Ladye  who  haunts  the  great 
staircase,  trailing  her  satin  dress  and 
jingling  her  pearl  necklace,  when  she 
appears  to  announce  death  or  disaster 
to  the  laird  of  Fyvie.  The  mysterious 
"  weeping  stone  "  is  still  without  its 
two  companions,  which  must  be  found 
ere  the  curse  which  rests  on  Fyvie  will 
be  broken. 

No.  318 — VOL.  LIU. 


At  an  early  period  of  Scotch  history 
Fermartyn  was  a  thanage l  lying  on 
the  eastern  seaboard  between  the 
rivers  Ythan  and  Don,  and  formerly 
part  of  the  demesne  lands  of  the 
Crown,  of  which  the  castle  of  Fyvie 
was  the  chief  messuage.  It  is  now, 
under  the  name  of  Formartine,  one  of 
the  districts  of  the  county  of  Aber- 
deen. Alexander  the  Second  of  Scot- 
land dates  a  charter,  confirming  the 
church  of  Buthelny  (Meldrum)  to  the 
monks  of  St.  Thomas  of  Arbroath, 
from  Fyvyn  on  the  twenty-second  of 
February,  1221.  The  annual  value  of 
the  estate  in  the  reign  of  his  successor 
Alexander  the  Third  (1249—1286)  was 
one  hundred  and  twenty  marks,  and 
the  eels  taken  in  the  stanks  and 
waters  of  Fyvie  were  evidently  matter 
of  account  in  the  king's  exchequer. 

King  Edward  the  First  of  England 
made  the  "  chastel  of  Fyuin  "  a  halt- 
ing-place in  his  hasty  ride  through 
Aberdeenshire  in  1296,  as  Reginald 
le  Cheyne,  Great  Chamberlain  of  Scot- 
land from  1267  to  1269,  whose  name 
we  find  in  the  Ragman  Roll,  was 
then  in  possession,  and  had  vowed 
allegiance  to  him.  The  room  in  which 
tradition  says  the  king  slept  is  still 
shown  in  the  basement  of  the  oldest 
part  of  the  castle,  the  Preston  Tower. 

King  Robert  the  Bruce,  in  a  brieve 
dated  1325,  fixes  the  marches  between 
"  the  king's  park  of  Fyvyne  and  our 
burghs  of  Fyvyne  and  the  lands  and 
peat  moss  of  Ardlogy,  belonging  to  the 
abbey  of  Arbroath."  In  the  park,  on 
the  crest  of  a  hill,  is  the  spot  still 

1  A  thanage  consisted  of  two  parts,  demesne, 
and  that  given  off  as  freeholds  or  tenantries. 
The  demesne  was  held  by  the  thane  of  the 
king  in  feu-farm,  and  cultivated  by  the  servile 
class,  the  bondmen  and  native  men  ;  and  the 
tenandries  were  either  held  of  him  in  fee  and 
heritage  by  the  sub- vassals,  called  freeholders, 
or  occupied  by  the  kindlie  tenants  of  free 
farmers. 

H    H 


466 


Fyvie  Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


called  "  the  king's  seat,"  where  King 
Robert  and  his  successors  held  "  beds 
of  justice "  under  the  thick  shade  of 
the  old  beech  trees.  It  is  a  stiff  climb 
up  through  fern  and  underwood,  but 
the  view  thence  is  beautiful,  looking 
down  on  the  valley  of  the  Ythan,  with 
the  ruin  of  Towie  Castle  in  the  distance, 
and  the  hills  of  Foudlan  beyond. 

David  the  Second  in  1368  granted 
one-half  of  his  thanage  of  Fermartyn 
to  William,  Earl  of  Sutherland,  for 
his  life,  with  its  tenandries  and  ser- 
vices of  the  freeholders,  with  its 
bondmen  and  their  bondage  services, 
native  men  and  their  followers,  to  be 
held  in  free  barony,  and  his  heirs  to 
hold  it  in  ward  and  relief.  The  other 
half  was  held,  as  appears  by  the 
Chamberlain  Rolls,  by  Thomas  Isaak  ; 
but  it  seems  to  have  again  fallen  to  the 
Crown,  as  the  grandson  of  Robert  the 
Bruce  conferred  it  upon  his  son  John, 
then  Steward  of  Scotland,  who  after- 
wards ascended  the  throne  as  Robert 
the  Third,  and  is  the  King  Robert  of 
1  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth.'  He  re- 
signed the  estate  and  castle  to  his 
cousin,  Sir  James  de  Lindesay,  men- 
tioned in  history  as  "  Dominus  de 
Crawford  et  Buchan,"  whose  mother 
was  Egidia,  sister  of  Robert  the 
Second. 

Sir  James  de  Lindesay  married 
Margaret  Keith,  daughter  of  the  Earl 
Marischal,  and  in  1395  her  nephew, 
Robert  de  Keith,  attacked  the  castle  ; 
but  the  Lady  de  Lindesay  defended  it 
gallantly  until  her  husband  came  to 
the  rescue,  and,  pursuing  the  besiegers, 
defeated  them  in  the  parish  of  Bourtie. 

Upon  the  death  of  Sir  James  in 
1397,  Fyvie  came  into  the  possession 
of  his  brother-in-law,  Sir  Henry 
Preston,  a  brave  knight,  who  had 
fought  under  the  Douglas  at  Otter- 
burn,  where  he  took  Sir  Ralph  Percy 
prisoner;  and  from  the  charters  in 
Fyvie  Castle  it  appears  that  the 
barony  of  Fermartyne  was  granted  to 
him  by  the  king  for  the  ransom  of  his 
prisoner.  The  old  Preston  tower  was 
named  after  this  Sir  Henry,  who 
died  about  1433,  leaving  two  daugh- 


ters, co-heiresses,  of  whom  one  married 
a  Forbes,  taking  into  that  family  the 
property  of  Tolquhon.  The  other 
married  a  Meldrum,  and  her  descend- 
ants held  Fyvie  for  a  century  and  a 
half,  and  built  the  south-west  tower 
of  the  castle,  still  called  by  their 
name.  The  adjacent  borough  of  Old 
Meldrum  must  have  given  its  name,  or 
taken  it,  from  this  family,  who  were 
insignificant  compared  both  to  their 
predecessors  and  their  successors.  The 
only  man  of  any  note  appears  to  have 
been  Sir  George  Meldrum,  who  is 
mentioned  by  Lesly  as  "  ane  vailyeant 
and  wyse  gentleman."  He  was  sent 
in  1544  as  ambassador  to  Henry  the 
Fifth  of  England,  who  was  then 
engaged  in  laying  siege  to  Boulogne. 

In  1596  the  Meldrums  sold  the 
castle  and  estate  to  Alexander  Seton, 
godson  of  Queen  Mary  and  third  son 
of  George,  sixth  Lord  Seton.  Alexan- 
der had  been  sent  to  Rome,  and  studied 
in  the  Jesuits'  College  for  the  Church, 
having  received,  while  still  a  youth, 
as  "  ane  godbairne  gift "  from  Mary, 
the  reversion  of  the  Priory  of  Plus- 
carden;  but  the  dawn  of  the  Re- 
formation induced  him  to  abandon  his 
ecclesiastical  studies,  and  turn  his 
attention  to  the  law.  In  1583  he 
accompanied  his  father  on  an  embassy 
to  Henry  the  Third  of  France  ;  and  on 
the  twenty-seventh  of  January,  1586, 
he  was  admitted  an  extraordinary 
lord  of  session  by  the  style  of  Prior 
of  Pluscarden.  Two  years  later  he 
was  promoted  to  the  position  of  an 
ordinary  lord,  under  the  title  of  Lord 
Urquhart,  and  five  years  after  that, 
at  the  early  age  of  thirty- eight,  was 
elected  to  the  president's  chair.  Soon 
afterwards  he  bought  the  estate  of 
Fyvie,  and  henceforward  we  find  him 
in  the  '  Seder unt '  as  "  Fyvie  Preses." 

Exceptionally  able  and  intelligent, 
Lord  Fyvie  was  a  favourite  confidant 
of  James  the  Sixth,  who  entrusted 
first  his  eldest  son  Prince  Henry  to  his 
care,  and  afterwards  "Due  Charlis." 
The  latter  in  1604  travelled  to  Lon- 
don with  Lord  Fyvie,  who  in  that 
same  year  was  made  Lord  High  Chan- 


Ft/ vie  Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


467 


cellor  of  Scotland.  The  following 
year  he  was  created  Earl  of  Dunferm- 
line,  and  his  correspondence  with  the 
king,  the  Cecils,  and  all  the  foremost 
statesmen  of  England  was  uninter- 
rupted ;  everything  that  took  place  in 
Scotland  being  minutely  and  faithfully 
reported  by  him.  He  was  named 
"  keeper  of  the  palice,  park,  and 
yairds  of  Halyroodhouse "  in  1611, 
and  a  year  later  Commissioner  to  the 
famous  Parliament  which  rescinded 
the  Acts  establishing  Presbytery. 

The  great  Chancellor  found  full 
scope  for  his  love  of  building  in  his 
new  possession  of  Fyvie,  and  the 
Set  on  Tower  proves  that  his  reputation 
for  "greate  skill  in  architecture  and 
herauldie  "  was  not  undeserved.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  he  engaged  the 
services  of "  one  of  the  French  archi- 
tects who  came  over  to  Scotland  with 
Mary  of  Guise,  or  with  her  unfor- 
tunate daughter.  On  the  Loire  there 
is  the  Chateau  de  Montsabert,  which 
might  be  built  by  the  same  man,  so 
like  Fyvie  is  it. 

Billings' s  description  of  Fyvie  Castle 
in  his  '  Antiquities  of  Scotland  '  is  as 
follows : — 

"  Its  princely  towers,  with  their  luxuriant 
coronet  of  coned  turrets,  sharp  gables,  tall 
roofs  and  chimneys,  canopied  dormer  windows, 
and  rude  statuary,  present  a  sky  outline  at 
once  graceful,  rich,  and  massive,  and  in  these 
qualities  exceeding  even  the  far-famed 
Glammis.  The  form  of  the  central  tower  is 
peculiar  and  striking.  It  consists,  in  appear- 
ance, of  two  semi-round  towers,  with  a  deep 
curtain  between  them,  retired  within  a  round- 
arched  recess  of  peculiar  height  and  depth. 
The  minor  departments  of  the  building  are 
profusely  decorated  with  mouldings,  crockets, 
canopies,  and  statuary.  The  interior  is  in  the 
same  fine  keeping  with  the  exterior.  The 
great  stair  is  an  architectural  triumph  such  as 
few  Scottish  mansions  can  exhibit ;  and  it  is 
so  broad  and  so  gently  graduated  as  to  justify 
a  traditional  boast,  that  the  laird's  horse  used 
to  ascend  it." 

The  "  two  semi-round  towers," 
which  are  connected  by  an  arch  above 
the  fourth  story,  ending  in  a  gable 
flanked  by  two  round  turrets,  are  bold 
and  graceful,  and  built  in  the  purest 
style  of  the  time.  They  bear  the 
Seton  arms  impaled  with  those  of  the 


wives  of  Lord  Dunfermline  on  various 
stones  let  into  the  massive  walls. 
The  arched  doorway,  which  in  former 
times  was  the  grand  entrance,  and 
over  which  is  the  "  murder  hole," 
whence  missiles  or  molten  lead  could 
be  poured  down  upon  assailants,  is  in 
a  deep  recess  between  the  twin  towers, 
and  forms  the  centre  of  the  south 
front  of  the  castle,  which  now  consists 
of  only  two  sides  of  a  square,  each  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  length.  The 
remainder  of  the  quadrangle,  by  far 
the  oldest  part,  was  in  a  bad  state  of 
repair,  and  General  Gordon  took  it 
down  when  in  1777  he  erected  the 
Gordon  Tower  on  part  of  the  site  of 
the  old  chapel.  This  tower,  of  im- 
mense strength  and  solidity,  forms  the 
northern  angle  of  the  west  front  of 
the  castle.  The  walls  of  Fyvie  are 
generally  from  seven  to  eleven  feet 
thick,  and  when  I  say  that  one  of  the 
towers  is  seven  stories  in  height  from 
base  to  battlement,  my  readers  may 
imagine  how  imposing  the  castle  is. 
Inside  the  doorway  of  the  Seton 
Tower  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  the 
place,  the  ancient  iron  "  yett,"  or  gate, 
which  is  thus  described  in  a  publica- 
tion by  the  Society  of  Antiquaries  of 
Scotland  : — 

"This  elegant  gate  is  arched  at  the  top, 
and  measures  nine  feet  in  height  by  five  feet 
four  and  a  half  inches  in  breadth.  It  con- 
sists of  seven  perpendicular  and  twelve  hori- 
zontal bars,  besides  the  frame.  The  perpen- 
diculars are  much  wasted  between  the  lowest 
horizontal  bar  and  the  frame.  The  bars,  like 
those  of  Glamis,  alter  their  dimensions  in  the 
two  divisions  of  their  length  ;  where  pierced, 
they  are  about  one  and  a  half  inches  square, 
expanding  at  the  eyes  to  two  and  five-eighth 
inches,  but  in  the  penetrating  division  they 
are  one  and  a  half  inches  by  one  inch.  In  the 
frame  the  bars  are  rather  larger.  The  three 
hinges  are  contained  in  recesses  in  the  wall. 
The  three  bolts  are  squared  in  the  middle, 
and  are  the  most  massive  I  have  met  with. 
They  differ  in  size,  the  upper  one  being 
twenty-five  inches  in  length,  and  the  two  lower 
ones  twenty-nine  inches,  and  each  has  a 
different  maker's  mark  upon  it.  The  position 
of  the  iron  gate  is  quite  peculiar,  being  six 
feet  eight  inches  behind  the  outer  wooden  door 
of  the  castle.  It  is  the  largest  in  Scotland 
save  the  one  at  Drumlanrig  Castle,  in  Dum- 
friesshire. " 

H    H    2 


468 


Fyvie  Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


Considering  the  enormous  mass  of 
the  metal,  it  swings  lightly  on  its 
hinges,  and  the  heavy  bolts  that 
secure  it  can  be  drawn  with  a  couple 
of  fingers.  It  is  an  exceptional  speci- 
men of  the  "  yett "  of  the  old  Scottish 
fortalice  described  in  the  '  Monastery,' 
when  the  reiving  rider  of  the  Clint- 
hill  extricated  the  imprisoned  inmates 
of  Glendearg. 

The  present  entrance  faces  the  east, 
and  is  a  modern  addition ;  out  of  it 
opens  the  magnificent  staircase  built  by 
Alexander  Seton,  Lord  Dunfermline, 
as  far  as  I  know,  unique  in  its  style. 
It  is  twenty-four  feet  in  breadth,  and 
revolves  in  corkscrew  fashion  round  a 
massive  newel,  or  pillar.  The  turns 
and  windings  of  the  ribbed  and  vaulted 
roof,  the  arches  springing  out  of 
carved  capitals  in  the  walls,  the  coats 
of  arms  repeated  at  every  turn,  give 
an  impression  of  strength  and  light- 
ness quite  unrivalled.  What  gallant 
lords  and  ladies  have  trod  those  long, 
low  steps  since  the  Chancellor  put  up 
the  large  oaken  board  near  the  top  of 
the  staircase,  to  commemorate  the 
finishing  of  this  triumph  of  architec- 
tural skill!— 

' '  Alexander  Seton,  Lord  Fyvie — Dame  Gressel 
Leslie,  Lady  of  Fyvie— 1603." 

The  first  four  words  are  alternately 
separated  by  crescents  and  cinquefoils 
(Seton  and  Hamilton),  and  the  others 
by  buckles,  the  bearings  of  the  Leslie 
family. 

At  the  top  of  the  great  staircase  is 
a  tiny  room,  panelled  in  dark  oak, 
whose  floor  is  stained  with  indelible 
traces  of  blood.  You  may  scrub, 
scrape,  or  plane ;  those  ghastly  spots 
can  never  be  erased.  Whether  they  are 
connected  with  the  famous  Green  Ladye 
I  know  not.  She  only  shows  herself 
to  members  of  the  family  on  the 
winding  staircase.  Green  is  considered 
a  colour  of  bad  omen  in  the  High- 
lands— I  suppose  because  the  fairies 
are  fond  of  it ;  and  it  is  fatal  to  various 
families,  among  others  to  the  "  gallant 
Grahams." 

The  Chancellor  was  thrice  married ; 


first  to  Lilias  Drummond,  whose  name 
is  carved  deeply  into  the  outer  sill  of 
a  bedroom  window  on  the  second  floor, 
looking  into  the  courtyard  of  the 
castle.  Tradition  says  that  she  met 
with  a  violent  death  there  by  order  of 
her  husband  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  Dame  Lilias  died  at  Dalgety  in 
Fife,  in  May,  1601.  Gressel  Leslie 
was  the  second,  and  the  Honourable 
Margaret  Hay  the  third  wife,  by 
whom  Lord  Dunfermline  had  a  son, 
Charles,  the  second  earl. 

The  great  Chancellor  died  after  an 
illness  of  fourteen  days  at  Pinkie,  on  the 
sixteenth  of  June,  1622,  in  the  sixty- 
seventh  year  of  his  age,  "  with  the 
regreat  of  all  that  knew  him  and  the 
love  of  his  count  rie."  He  was  buried 
at  Dalgety,  between  his  first  two 
wives. 

Charles,  Lord  Dunfermline,  took  an 
active  part  in  public  affairs  during  the 
reigns  of  Charles  the  First  and  Second. 
After  the  execution  of  the  former  he 
went  to  Holland,  to  wait  on  Charles 
the  Second,  with  whom  he  returned  to 
Scotland.  He  was  sworn  a  privy 
councillor  in  1660,  and  nine  years 
later  was  appointed  an  extraordinary 
lord  of  session.  By  his  wife,  Lady 
Mary  Douglas,  he  had  three  sons  ;  the 
eldest,  Lord  Fyvie,  was  killed  in  a  sea 
fight  against  Holland,  just  before  the 
death  of  his  father  in  1672,  when 
Alexander,  the  second  son,  became 
Earl  of  Dunfermline,  but  died  two 
years  afterwards  at  Edinburgh. 

There  exists  at  Fyvie  Castle  a 
charter  granting  to  this,  the  third 
earl,  the  privilege  of  keeping  a  weekly 
market  and  three  annual  fairs  on  the 
lands  of  the  manor  place  of  Fyvie. 
Two  of  these  are  still  held,  on  Shrove 
Tuesday  and  on  the  first  Tuesday  of 
July.  It  also  grants  power  to  nomi- 
nate and  choose  baillies  and  magis- 
trates for  the  government  of  "the 
burgh  of  barony  of  Fyvie,"  and  "to 
possess  and  use  ane  mercat  cross,"  and 
to  have  and  make  a  "  tolbuith,"  and 
to  "  call,  accuse,  and  execute  justice  on 
all  committers  of  murder,  theft  and 
other  crimes."  Alexander  was  sue- 


Fyvie   Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


469 


ceeded  by  his  youngest  brother  James, 
who,  after  having  served  under  the 
Prince  of  Orange  as  a  young  man, 
commanded  a  troop  of  horse  under 
Dundee  at  Killiecrankie.  Outlawed, 
and  his  estates  forfeited  by  Parliament 
in  1690,  Lord  Dunfermline  died  at  St. 
Germains  four  years  later,  aged  fifty, 
leaving  no  children  by  his  wife  Lady 
Jean,  third  daughter  of  Lewis,  Mar- 
quis of  Huntly,  and  sister  of  the  first 
Duke  of  Gordon. 

While  Fyvie  was  in  the  possession 
of  the  Setons,  it  was  occupied  for 
several  days  by  Montrose,  when  re- 
treating before  the  superior  forces 
of  Argyle  in  1644.  On  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  where  is  the  king's  seat 
before  mentioned,  one  can  distinctly 
trace  the  entrenchments  of  the  camp 
of  the  great  marquis ;  and  here  balls 
and  pieces  of  armour  are  frequently 
found.  Patrick  Gordon,  in  '  Britanes 
Distemper,'  describes  the  site  most 
graphically  : — 

"  Haueing  made  a  generall  mouster,  hee 
raisses  his  campe  after  the  sunne  was  set,  and 
marches  from  Huntly  to  Auchterlesse,  and 
from  thence  to  Fyuie.  This  he  did  both  to 
save  the  lands  of  Huntly,  which  was  his 
surest  retreat  from  the  raweaige  of  a  destroye- 
ing  enemie,  as  also  because  the  countrary 
there  was  weill  prouided  of  victuall  for  his 
armie  ;  and  if  his  armie  should  intend  ane 
surpryce,  or  force  him  to  feght,  the  ground  was 
more  advantageous  for  the  defendant  than 
the  assailzeant,  haueing  the  river  I  then  on 
his  right  hand,  a  woode  on  his  left,  and  a 
deepe  hollow  bruike  that  ran  befor  him,  which 
serued  as  a  ditch  or  trinch  to  brake  the  furre 
of  an  vnited  charge  of  horsemen." 

Montrose  was  so  ill  supplied  with 
ammunition  as  to  be  obliged  to  melt 
down  into  bullets  every  pewter  dish, 
flagon,  and  vessel  in  and  about  Fyvie, 
which  caused  one  of  the  Royalists  to 
exclaim,  when  a  Covenanter  fell, 
"  There  goes  another  traitor's  face 
spoiled  by  a  pewter  pot." 

Hardly  could  the  good  people  of 
Fyvie  have  had  time  to  make  good  the 
loss  of  their  pewter  pots  and  dishes, 
when  the  castle  was  again  fortified,  in 
1646,  by  the  Earl  of  Aboyne,  who  left 
a  strong  garrison  in  it  under  "  Captane 
Jhone  Gordonne,"  by  whom  the  Cove- 


nanters were  defeated  on  two 
occasions,  with  the  loss  of  all  their 
baggage,  horses,  arms,  "  stufe  and 
prouision." 

The  estate  was  purchased  from  the 
Crown  by  William,  second  Earl  of 
Aberdeen,  in  1726,  and  settled  on  th<a 
children  of  his  third  wife  Anne, 
youngest  daughter  of  the  second  Duke 
of  Gordon.  The  "Cock  of  the  JSTorth," 
as  her  brother,  Lord  Lewis,  was  called, 
and  who  is  the  hero  of  the  well-known 
ballad  beginning, 

"  Oh,  send  Lewie  Gordon  hame, 
And  the  lad  I  daurna  name," 

was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Fyvie,  and 
some  of  his  letters  are  dated  thence. 
In  Scotch  song  the  Gordons  are 
frequently  mentioned,  and  the  lith- 
someness,  which  is  still  a  characteris- 
tic of  the  family,  is  often  alluded  to  : — 

"  He  turned  him  round  sae  lichtly, 
As  do  the  Gordon's  a'." 

The  "  gay  Gordons,"  the  "  gentle 
Gordons,"  the  "  stately  Gordons,"  and, 
in  less  flattering  guise,  "the  fause 
Gordons,"  figure  in  many  an  old  bal- 
lad. Lady  Jean,  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Kintore,  who  married  Forbes,  laird 
of  Monymusk,  to  the  inquiry  of  — 

"  How  dee  ye  like  Pitfichie  ? " 
answers  : — 

"  Oh,  I  had  wine  an'  wa'nuts, 
An'  servants  aye  at  my  call, 
An'  the  bonny  Laird  of  Fyvie 
To  see  me  at  Keithhall." 

When  the  Duke  of  Cumberland 
marched  through  the  Den  of  Rothier 
part  of  the  estate  of  Fyvie,  on  his  way 
north,  just  before  the  battle  of  Cullo- 
den,  the  Countess  of  Aberdeen,  then  a 
widow,  took  her  eldest  son  to  see  the 
passage  of  the  army.  As  one  looks 
at  her  portrait  in  the  dining-room  at 
the  castle,  refined,  fair  and  pretty, 
aristocratic  and  essentially  grande 
dame,  sitting  in  a  blue  silk  robe, 
with  a  dainty  hand  on  her  child's 
shoulder,  one  can  realise  the  answer 
she  made  to  the  duke  on  his  asking 
her  name  :  "I  am  the  sister  of  Lewie 
Gordon,"  said  she,  drawing  herself  up 


470 


Fyvic  Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


to  her  full  height.  The  duke  bowed 
low,  and  answered,  "  I  hope  your  boy 
may  become  as  strong  and  valued  a 
supporter  of  the  House  of  Hanover 
as  your  brother  is  of  the  House  of 
Stuart." 

The  road  followed  by  the  duke  can 
yet  be  traced  through  the  woods  of 
the  Den,  which  extend  from  the  Lewes 
of  Fyvie  southward  for  several  miles, 
and  is  as  beautiful  a  stretch  of  sylvan 
scenery  as  can  be  found  anywhere. 
Roedeer  are  often  seen,  and  the  steep 
hill  sides,  carpeted  with  purple 
heather,  ferns,  and  the  dark  glossy 
green  leaves  of  the  bilberry,  glisten 
in  the  sun's  rays  which  glint  through, 
lighting  up  the  red  brown  stems  of  the 
noble  Scotch  firs,  or  quivering  on  the 
silver  trunks  of  the  birch  and  the 
shimmering  leaves  of  the  aspen.  The 
purling  brook  of  Rothie  rushes  down 
the  Den,  giving  itself  the  airs  of 
quite  a  large  stream,  now  forming 
miniature  cascades,  then  dawdling 
under  a  rowan-tree,  making  a  deep 
brown  pool,  as  though  to  reflect  the 
wealth  of  scarlet  berries,  and  to  har- 
bour 

"The  silly  fish,  which  (worldling  like)  still 

look 
Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook." 

A  solemn  heron  stands  watching  for 
his  prey  on  a  jutting  crag,  but  flaps 
slowly  up  into  the  air  with  his  long 
legs  stretching  behind  him,  as  our 
shelties  pick  their  way  down  the  steep 
hill  side,  startling  a  hare  from  her 
form  and  disturbing  a  pair  of  king- 
fishers, who  dart  up  stream,  looking 
like  large  turquoises  or  topazes  sud- 
denly endowed  with  life. 

The  boy  who  watched  the  army 
defile  past  fulfilled  the  wish  of  the 
duke  by  becoming  a  general  and  an 
aide-de-camp  and  groom  of  the  bed- 
chamber to  George  the  Third.  General 
Gordon  was  member  for  Woodstock  in 
1768,  and  for  Heytesbury  six  years 
later.  He,  like  former  lairds  of  Fyvie, 
left  his  name  indelibly  connected  with 
the  castle  by  building  the  Gordon 
Tower ;  he  also  planted  extensively  on 


the  estate,  and  made  the  beautiful 
lake,  reclaiming  all  the  boggy  land 
and  turning  it  into  fine  meadows. 

The  Scotch  shepherds  have  always 
had  a  reputation  for  "wut,"  and 
Donald,  who  had  a  large  flock  of 
sheep  under  his  care  in  the  park  of 
Fyvie,  proved  no  exception.  Our  con- 
versation used  to  be  brief,  as  I  could 
not  understand  half  he  said,  and  he 
fully  returned  the  compliment.  I  was 
fascinated  by  the  sagacity  and  the 
lovely  eyes  of  his  colley  dog,  and  tried 
hard  to  wile  his  love  away  from  the 
harsh-voiced  Donald,  who  resented  my 
"  spoiling  the  wee  bit  doggie."  One 
day,  passing  through  the  park  on  a 
very  windy  day,  I  said  to  the  shepherd, 
"  How  silly  of  your  sheep  to  go  on  the 
top  of  the  hill  there.  Why  don't  they 
keep  down  by  the  Ythan  1  I  should, 
if  I  were  a  sheep."  Donald  looked  at 
me  with  profound  contempt.  "Ech, 
leddy,  if  ye  were  a  ship  ye'd  hae  some 
sense,"  was  his  answer. 

The  fine  library  in  the  castle  owes 
its  existence  to  William,  the  only  son 
of  General  the  Hon.  William  Gordon, 
who  died  in  1816.  It  would  have 
delighted  the  recluse  of  Monkbarns, 
with  its  portraits  of  the  House  of 
Stuart,  and  the  two  little  side  cabinets, 
crammed  with  rare  old  books,  situated 
in  the  round  gate  towers,  so  suggestive 
of  witchcraft  and  magic.  William  Gor- 
don was  an  accomplished  man,  a  great 
astronomer,  and  devoted  to  scientific 
pursuits;  he  died  unmarried  in  1847, 
when  Fyvie  went  to  his  cousin  Charles, 
the  eldest  son  of  Lord  Aberdeen's 
third  son,  Alexander,  better  known 
as  Lord  Kockville,  one  of  the  lights 
of  the  Scotch  bar.  Singularly  agree- 
able and  well  informed,  and  one  of 
the  handsomest  men  of  his  day,  Lord 
Kockville  won  the  heart  of  the  young 
widow  of  the  Earl  of  Dumfries  and 
Stair,  about  whose  beauty  there  was 
a  popular  rhyme — 

"  The  girls  of  Ayr  are  all  but  stuff 
Compared  with  beauteous  Annie  Duff. " 

She  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Duff,  of 
Crombie,  and  of  Elizabeth  Dalrymple, 


Fyvie   Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


471 


one  of  the  wittiest  and  cleverest  women 
of  her  time.  Mr.  Duff  would  not 
allow  his  daughters  to  learn  to  write, 
as  he  said  it  was  of  no  use  to  women, 
save  to  write  love  -  letters ;  Anne 
learnt,  however,  in  secret,  from  the 
old  butler.  Dean  Ramsay  tells  an 
anecdote  about  Lord  Rockville  which 
is  eminently  characteristic  of  the  man- 
ners and  habits  of  those  days.  Ap- 
pearing one  evening  late  at  a  convivial 
club  with  a  rueful  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, and  being  asked  what  was 
the  matter,  the  great  lawyer  exclaimed 
solemnly,  "  Gentlemen,  I  have  met 
with  the  most  extraordinary  adven- 
ture that  ever  occurred  to  a  human 
being;  as  I  was  walking  along  the 
Grassmarket,  all  of  a  sudden  the  street 
rose  up  and  struck  me  on  the  face." 

Poor  man,  the  street  was  destined 
to  be  his  worst  enemy,  for  in  1792  he 
slipped,  one  frosty  night,  close  to  his 
own  door  in  Queen  Street,  and  broke 
his  arm,  which  was  set,  and  he  was 
supposed  to  be  doing  well,  when  con- 
cussion of  the  brain  came  on,  and 
in  three  days  he  was  dead,  leaving 
four  sons  and  four  daughters.  The 
eldest  son,  Charles,  only  possessed 
Fyvie  for  four  years,  and  on  his  death 
in  1851  his  son,  Colonel  William  Cosmo 
Gordon,  came  into  the  property,  who, 
dying  without  children,  was  succeeded 
in  1879  by  his  brother,  Captain  Alex- 
ander Henry  Gordon.  He  died  in 
1884  without  issue,  when  Fyvie  re- 
verted to  the  grandson  of  Lord  Rock- 
ville's  second  son,  Sir  "William  Duff 
Gordon,  whose  maternal  uncle.  Sir 
James  Duff,  left  him  the  baronetcy  on 
condition  of  coupling  the  name  of  Duff 
with  that  of  Gordon.  Sir  Maurice 
Duff  Gordon,  the  present  laird  of 
Fyvie,  is  the  only  son  of  Sir  Alexander 
Cornewall  Duff  Gordon  by  Lucie 
Austin,  only  child  of  the  great  lawyer, 
John  Austin,  and  of  his  wife,  Sarah 
Taylor,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished 
woman.  Lady  Duff  Gordon's  'Letters 
from  Egypt '  are  well  known,  and  her 
death  at  the  early  age  of  forty-six,  at 
Cairo,  was  mourned  by  all  who  knew 
her. 


Such  an  unbroken  series  of  charters 
as  that  preserved  at  Fyvie  Castle  must 
be  very  rare ;  and  the  charter  cham- 
ber, all  panelled  in  old  quaintly 
carved  oak,  showing  the  monogram  of 
Chancellor  Dunfermline  in  two  places, 
and  the  arms  of  the  Gordons  on  the 
vaulted  stone  ceiling,  is  a  most  attrac- 
tive room.  It  is  on  the  first  floor  of  the 
Meldrum  Tower,  just  above  the  secret 
chamber,  and  the  huge  fire-proof  cup- 
board or  safe,  with  a  door  like  the 
plate  of  an  ironclad,  goes  deep  into 
the  wall  and  opens  into  two  large 
recesses;  in  the  ceiling  of  the  right- 
hand  one  I  saw  what  appears  to  be  the 
remains  of  steps  broken  away.  This 
I  believe  to  have  been  the  ancient 
mode  of  access  to  the  famous  secret 
room,  which  superstition  has  hitherto 
shielded  from  inquisitive  eyes.  There 
is  no  doubt  about  the  exact  locality ; 
and  it  probably  either  consists  of  two 
stories,  or  -goes  deep  into  the  founda- 
tions and  beyond  the  actual  walls,  as 
the  sward  outside  is  of  a  different 
colour,  and  the  ground  sounds  hollow 
under  the  foot  for  some  distance 
beyond  the  base  of  the  tower,  par- 
ticularly on  the  south  side. 

Tradition  says  that  much  treasure 
lies  buried  there,  but  that  the  first 
person  who  enters  forfeits  his  life  as 
the  price  of  his  temerity.  Another 
version  asserts  that  the  wife  of  the 
laird  will  go  blind  when  the  first  ray 
of  light  penetrates  the  darkness  that 
has  reigned  for  many  hundreds  of 
years  inside  those  massive  walls.  The 
popular  belief  is  that  the  "  black 
vomit,"  or  plague,  is  shut  up  in  the 
dungeon,  and  I  do  not  think  a  Fyvie 
man  would  willingly  use  a  crowbar  or 
a  chisel  to  solve  the  mystery.  Matter- 
of-fact  people  suggest  that  it  may 
have  been  in  communication  with  an 
underground  passage  to  the  Ythan,  as 
a  means  of  exit  from  the  castle  in 
times  of  danger,  or  that  it  was  really 
only  a  prison.  The  immense  depth  of 
wall  in  which,  as  before  said,  the 
fireproof  safe  in  the  charter-room 
is  situated,  exists  also  on  the  second 
floor,  where  the  Gordon  room  and 


472 


Fyvie  Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


dressing-room  are ;  the  latter  is  im- 
mediately above  the  charter  chamber, 
and  the  passage  between  it  and  the 
bedroom  is  about  eight  or  ten  feet 
long,  and  sounds  quite  hollow  behind 
the  panelling  on  the  western  side. 
The  same  thing  is  repeated  on  the 
story  above,  where  the  panel-room,  a 
most  ghostly  abode,  and  its  dressing- 
room,  have  the  same  space  between 
them,  which  would  be  more  than 
sufficient  for  a  secret  staircase  to 
the  basement;  in  the  panel -room 
tradition  says  that  there  exists  a 
sliding  panel  which  leads  to  a  secret 
passage.  The  dressing-room  to  the 
Gordon  room  has  a  bad  name  for  queer 
noises,  and  nervous  people  have  ere 
now  assured  me  that  they  felt  a  hand 
at  dead  of  night  pressing  their  pillow, 
or  heard  stifled  shrieks  and  swift  foot- 
steps in  the  distance.  I  myself  have 
never  heard  anything  more  ghostly 
than  the  vanes  on  a  windy  night, 
which  sadly  wanted  oiling. 

With  regard  to  the  "weeping  stone," 
which  certainly  does  get  very  damp  at 
times  and  glistens  as  though  with 
tears,  the  prophecy  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer  runs  as  follows : — 

"  Fyvyn's  riggs  and  towers, 
Hapless  shall  ye  mesdames  be, 
When  ye  shall  hae  within  your  methes,1 
Frae  harryit  kirks  lands,  stanes  three  ; 
Ane  in  the  oldest  tower 
Ane  in  my  ladie's  bower 
And  ane  below  the  water-yett, 
And  it  ye  shall  never  get." 

It  is  supposed  to  refer  to  some  curse 
on  the  Fyvie  estate,  which  originally 
belonged  in  great  measure  to  the 
Church ;  in  which  case  the  "  weeping 
stone,"  which  looks  like  a  lump  of 
dirty  rock-salt,  might  be  a  fragment 
of  some  boundary-mark  off  ravished 
Church  property. 

It  is  a  curious  coincidence  that  no 
heir  has  been  born  in  the  castle  for 
more  than  five  hundred  years,  though 
Fyvie  has  been  transmitted  through 
three  families  for  many  generations. 

One  of  the  red  sandstone  figures  on 

1  "Methes,"  stones  or  lines,  indicating  a 
boundary. 


the  top  of  a  turret  of  the  Preston 
Tower  represents  the  well-known 
"Andrew  Lammie,  the  trumpeter  of 
Fyvie,"  who  still  points  his  trumpet 
towards  the  Mill-o'-Tifty,  where  his 
love,  "  bonnie  Annie,"  lived.  The 
pathetic  and  popular  ballad  of  "Andrew 
Lammie"  will  be  found  in  every 
collection  of  Scotch  poetry  ;  it  used,  in 
former  times,  to  be  represented  in  a 
dramatic  form  at  rustic  meetings  in 
Aberdeenshire.  The  grave  of  Tifty's 
Annie  is  in  "  the  green  kirkyard  of 
Fyvie,"  with  the  date,  nineteenth  of 
January,  1673.  Part  of  the  original 
Mill-o'-Tifty  is  still  standing 

"in  Tifty's  den 
Where  the  burn  runs  clear  and  bonnie," 

by  the  side  of  a  more  modern  struc- 
ture. The  drive  or  ride  there,  through 
the  woods  of  Fyvie,  where  Andrew 
Lammie 

"  Had  had  the  art  to  gain  the  heart 
Of  Tifty's  bonnie  Annie," 

is  very  lovely. 

In  Fyvie  churchyard  there  is  also 
the  tombstone  of  the  Gordons  of 
Gight,  the  last  of  whom,  Catherine,  a 
descendant  of  Sir  William  Gordon, 
third  son  of  the  Earl  of  Huntly,  by 
the  daughter  of  James  the  Second, 
married  in  1785  the  Honourable  John 
Byron,  and  was  the  mother  of  the 
great  poet.  Lord  Byron  never  pos- 
sessed the  estate,  which  was  sold  to 
the  Earl  of  Aberdeen  two  years  after 
the  marriage  of  his  mother,  to  pay 
Mr.  Byron's  debts. 

The  castle  and  estate  of  Gight  be- 
came the  property,  about  1479,  of 
William  Gordon,  third  son  of  the  Earl 
of  Huntly,  who  was  killed  at  Flodden 
in  1513.  In  1644  the  castle  of  Gight 
was  taken  by  the  Covenanters,  and 
garrisoned  by  them.  The  place  was 
plundered,  the  furniture  removed  or 
destroyed,  and  the  interior  of  the 
house,  even  to  the  wainscoting,  torn 
to  pieces.  It  was,  however,  restored 
and  inhabited. 

Thomas  the  Ehymer  has  various 
rhymes  and  prophecies  about  Gight, 
one  of  which  was  fulfilled  on  the 


Fyvie  Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


473 


marriage  of  the  heiress,  Catherine, 
with  Mr.  Byron  : — 

' '  When  the  heron  leaves  the  tree, 
The  Laird  o'  Gight  shall  landless  be," 

for  all  the  denizens  of  a  heronry,  who 
lived  in  the  branches  of  a  magnificent 
tree  near  the  castle,  left  their  abode, 
and  migrated  to  the  woods  of  Kelly 
(Haddo  House),  where  a  tribe  of  them 
are  now  domiciled. 

In  1791,  Lord  Haddo,  eldest  son  of 
the  Earl  of  Aberdeen,  was  killed  on 
the  "  green  o'  Gight  "  by  a  fall  from  his 
horse,  when  the  castle  was  abandoned 
to  ruin.  Some  years  after  this  a 
servant  met  a  similar  death  on  the 
Mains,  or  home  farm ;  and  a  few 
years  since,  part  of  the  house  being 
pulled  down,  preparatory  to  the  home 
farm  being  turned  into  "  lea,"  a  wall 
fell  and  crushed  a  workman  to  death, 
thus  accomplishing  another  saying  of 
Thomas  the  Rhymer  : — 

"At  Gight  three  men  a  violent  death  shall 

dee, 
An'  after  that  the  land  shall  lie  in  lea." 

The  Ythan  flows  through  the  braes 
of  Gight,  and  just  under  the  ruined 
castle,  at  the  bottom  of  a  steep  pre- 
cipitous ravine,  forms  a  pool,  the 
"Hagberry  Pot,"  believed  to  be  of 
unfathomable  depth,  where  tradition 
says  still  lies  the  huge  iron  chest, 
containing  all  the  family  plate,  sunk 
there  in  1644. 

The  whole  of  the  braes  of  Gight 
are  most  beautiful,  and  within  an 
easy  drive  of  Fyvie,  towards  the  east ; 
on  the  way  one  passes  over  the  well- 
named  "  Windy  Hills  "  and  through 
the  hamlet  of  Woodhead,  which  con- 
tains a  memorial  of  better  days  in  its 
market  cross,  rebuilt  on  the  site  of  an 
old  one,  which,  with  the  tolbooth  and 
gallows,  marked  the  place  as  the 
burghs  of  barony  of  the  Gordons  of 
Gight. 

The  ecclesiastical  history  of  Fyvie 
can  be  traced  back  for  more  than 
seven  hundred  years;  outside  the 
south  lodge  of  Fyvie  park,  in  the  cen- 
tre of  a  field,  stands  a  cross,  marking 
the  site  of  the  priory  of  St.  Mary's, 


founded  1179.  This  priory,  and  the 
religious  houses  of  Fyvie  and  Ardlogie, 
were  connected  with  the  Abbey  of 
Arbroath  (or  Aberbrothoc),  which 
was  founded  and  endowed  by  William 
the  Lion,  King  of  Scotland,  in  1178, 
and  dedicated  to  his  friend  Thomas  a 
Becket,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

In  1323  a  certain  Albertinus  was 
appointed  to  "  the  care  of  keeping  of 
the  house  of  Fyvin  ;  "  I  cannot  refrain 
from  quoting  the  letter  written  to  him 
by  his  spiritual  superior,  the  Abbot  of 
Arbroath : — 

"Brother  Bernard,  by  Divine  permission, 
Abbot  of  Aberbrothoc,  sends  greeting  with 
paternal  blessing  to  his  brother,  Lord  Alber- 
tinus, keeper  of  the  house  of  Fyvin.  In 
order  that  the  maintenance  of  regular  dis- 
cipline under  you  and  among  your  fellows 
may  not  be  relaxed  or  done  away  with,  we 
enjoin  and  command  you,  in  virtue  of  your 
holy  obedience,  that  on  three  days  of  each 
week — Monday,  "Wednesday,  and  Friday — you 
shall  regularly  hold  a  chapter  within  the 
chancel  of  your  chapel,  and  rebuke  and  correct 
all  the  excesses  of  the  fellows  ;  that  you  shall 
see  to  the  due  performance  of  public  worship 
on  the  Lord's  Day  and  on  Feast  Days  ;  that  you 
will  cause  regular  fastings  to  be  observed, 
unless  where  bodily  weakness  renders  this 
undesirable ;  and  if  any  of  the  young  men 
have  been  drunken,  clamorous,  obstreperous, 
or  disobedient  and  rebellious  to  you,  you  shall 
try  first  by  a  word  of  kindly  admonition  to 
influence  them  ;  if  this  is  ineffectual,  then 
you  shall  subject  them  to  a  course  of  silence, 
and  a  spare  diet  of  bread  and  water,  and  in  a 
secret  place  remote  from  the  hearing  of  the 
seculars  shall  cause  them  to  be  thoroughly 
flogged  ;  and  if  this  fails  of  the  desired  effect 
then  you  shall  send  them,  with  a  note  of 
their  offence,  to  our  aforesaid  abbey,  there  to 
be  dealt  with. 

"Given  at  Aberbrothoc  on  Martinmas 
Monday,  1325." 

In  the  chartulary  of  Arbroath 
there  are  ..various  notices  regarding 
successive  priors  of  Fyvie,  and  in  the 
Rolls  of  the  Scottish  Parliament  there 
is  frequent  mention  of  them.  The 
old  Catholic  names  are  still  borne  by 
several  of  the  springs  of  water  in 
Fyvie  parish,  among  them  St.  Peter's 
well,  not  far  from  the  church  of  the 
same  name  ;  St.  John's  well,  near  a 
cairn,  called  Cairnchedley  (a  corrup- 
tion of  the  Gaelic  carn-che-le,  signify- 
ing a  monumental  cairn  where  the 


474 


Fyvie  Castle,  and  its  Lairds. 


worship  of  the  Deity  was  held),  now 
much  reduced  in  size,  as  most  of  the 
cottages  near  have  been  built  out  of 
it ;  and  St.  Mary's  well. 

There  have  been  found  also  in  the 
parish  of  Fyvie  three  curious  stones, 
two  of  which  are  figured  in  Dr.  J. 
Stuart's  fine  work  on  *  The  Sculptured 
Stones  of  Scotland.'  On  the  one  built 
into  the  wall  of  the  schoolhouse  is 
rudely  but  unmistakably  traced  an 
elephant,  with  the  symbol  of  a  mirror 
in  front,  and  above  the  sceptre  and 
crescent.  The  second  stone,  now  in 
the  garden  of  Rothie  Brisbane,  is 
merely  a  fragment,  bearing  apparently 
the  mirror  with  three  discs  and  a 
figure,  in  shape  like  an  arch,  called  the 
horseshoe  ornament.  There  is  a  third 
stone  built  into  the  wall  of  Fyvie 
Church,  with  the  rough  figure  of  an 
eagle  upon  it,  and  either  a  mirror 
above  or  a  portion  of  what  is  called 
the  spectacle  ornament. 

Dr.  Stuart  says  : — 

"  In  all  these  symbolical  monuments  there 
appears  a  mixture  of  real  representation  and 
mere  ornament,  generally  of  a  grotesque 
character.  .  .  .  "With  regard  to  the  symbols 
on  the  Scotch  monuments,  it  will  be  remarked 
that  the  figure  of  the  elephant  is  found  both 
on  the  rude  pillar-stones  and  the  cross-slabs 


in  all  parts  of  the  country,  from  Fife  to 
Caithness.  .  .  .  "We  learn  from  Poly- 
nsenus,  a  writer  of  the  second  century,  that 
Caesar,  attempting  to  pass  a  large  river  in 
Britain,  was  resisted  by  Cassolanlus,  King  of 
the  Britons,  with  many  horsemen  and  chariots. 
C?esar  had  in  his  train  a  very  large  elephant, 
an  animal  hitherto  unseen  by  the  Britons. 
Having  armed  him  with  scales  of  iron,  and 
put  a  large  tower  upon  him,  and  placed 
therein  archers  and  slingers,  he  ordered 
them  to  enter  the  stream,  on  which  the 
Britons  in  consternation  fled  with  their  horses 
and  chariots.  Our  ignorance  of  the  amount 
of  intercourse  between  people  of  different 
countries  in  early  times  hinders  us  from 
tracing  the  source'  from  which  the  idea  of  an 
elephant  might  naturally  have  been  intro- 
duced into  Pictland. " 

In  the  yard  of  the  home  farm  is  a 
relic  of  the  old  corvees,  in  the  shape 
of  a  peat-gauge.  The  tenants  were 
bound  to  deliver  a  certain  quantity  of 
turf,  which  was  measured  by  stacking 
the  peats  against  an  arched  wall  of 
stone,  and  then  checking  off  the  cubic 
contents  of  the  cartloads  by  measuring 
from  the  wall  along  the  stack. 

The  legends  and  superstitions  in 
which  Fyvie  is  so  rich  do  not  disturb 
the  slumber  of  its  inmates,  and  the 
odd  mixture  of  modern  luxury  and 
grim  antiquity  make  it  a  most  roman- 
tic place. 

JANET  Ross. 


475 


HENRY  BKADSHAW. 


THOSE  who  through  the  pitiless  east 
winds  of  that  grey  February  day,  stag- 
gered sadly  away  from  the  shadow  of 
the  great  chapel  where  they  had  laid  all 
that  was  mortal  of  their  friend,  must 
have  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  the 
familiar  figure  would  never  again  be 
seen  pacing  down  that  very  walk.  Day 
by  day  it  used  to  pass  close  along  the 
huge  front  of  the  Fellows'  buildings, 
with  steps  short  but  never  hurried,  the 
broad  shoulders  swaying  almost  im- 
perceptibly yet  unmistakably,  the 
great  head  set  back,  and  the  kindly 
humorous  eye  glancing  over  the  great 
buttresses  that  fronted  him,  as  he 
clasped  the  well-worn  note-book  to  his 
side.  And  they  felt  the  blank  still 
more,  because  it  was  just  on  such 
occasions  as  that  which  they  had  been 
attending  that  he  knew  how  to  ren- 
der sympathy  and  comfort  as  no 
one  else  alive.  They  could  some  of 
them  remember  how  in  such  moments 
of  unutterable  regret  he  would  come 
close  to  them  with  no  easy  words  of 
healing  for  a  grief  that  words  could 
not  touch,  but  with  love  and  mute 
inquiry  and  sadness  in  his  eyes,  would 
in  tender  demonstration  take  and  re- 
tain a  hand — and  nothing  more — only 
saying  perhaps,  "  I  understand ;  "  and 
so  pass  on,  knowing  that  by  showing 
human  fellowship,  by  suffering  with 
you — for  he  made  no  pretence  to  suffer 
— he  had  done  far  more  than  if  he  had 
pointed  you  to  a  help  of  which  you 
knew  already,  and  to  a  strength  to 
which  you  could  not  yet  aspire. 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  grey- 
headed contemporaries  of  his  under- 
graduate days  wept  at  that  vault  with 
men  young  enough  to  have  been  his 
sons;  all  feeling  that  the  earth  was 
poorer,  not  only  for  all  the  learning 
that  had  descended  almost  unrecorded 
into  the  grave,  not  because  of  the 


works  unfinished  that  no  one  else  could 
dare  to  do,  but  because  they  had  lost 
so  much  love,  and  not  love  of  an 
ordinary  kind.  He  loved  both  well 
and  wisely ;  of  the  words  and  events 
of  intercourse  with  him  you  never 
wished  a  single  thing  done  or  said 
otherwise.  He  was  one  of  those  on 
whom  had  fallen  the  true  priestly 
nature.  It  came  so  naturally  to  him 
to  bear  others'  burdens  that  it  at  last 
became  natural  for  others  to  lay  them 
on  him.  He  knew  that  repentant  re- 
cital of  failures  to  one  whom  you 
revere  is  in  itself  a  potent  absolution  ; 
and  he  had  the  true  priest's  tact ;  he 
did  not  want  to  set  right,  to  give 
advice,  but  to  hear  what  you  had  to 
say.  How  it  was  said  was  nearly  as 
important  to  him  as  what  was  said. 
The  more  detailed  was  the  difficulty 
or  the  struggle  or  the  misadventure, 
the  better  he  was  pleased.  "  Go  on," 
he  would  say,  if  the  inquirer  feared  he 
wearied  him,  "  tell  me  everything  you 
can;  it  is  so  interesting"  In  that 
word  lay  the  secret  of  his  influence 
over  the  young  men  who  talked  so 
naturally  to  him  of  all  their  doings — 
the  young  men  that  so  many  complain 
it  is  so  hard  to  influence.  The  fact  is, 
they  do  not  want  merely  sympathy ; 
that  they  can  get,  and  more  than  they 
want,  in  their  home  circle — where  it  is 
apt  to  be  (they  think)  unintelligent 
sympathy,  which  floods  but  does  not 
fill.  No  !  what  they  want  is  to  feel 
that  their  trials  are  interesting.  It  is 
the  season  of  egotism  ;  they  are 
supremely  interested  in  themselves — 
self-conscious  ;  any  one  who  finds  them 
interesting,  too,  will  influence  them. 

No  one  is  ever  widely  loved  who 
has  not  mannerisms ;  those  little  ways 
and  methods  that  stir  such  smiling 
affection  that  are  so  eagerly  consulted 
during  life,  and  that  wring  the  heart 


476 


Henry  Bradshaw. 


with  pathos  and  brim  the  eyes  to 
recall  when  all  is  over.  Who  that 
knew  them  well  will  ever  forget  those 
1  broad  high  rooms  ?  They  were  on  the 
first  floor,  by  the  hall,  looking  into  the 
college  court  in  front,  with  all  its  trim 
stillness,  broken  only  at  times  by  the 
drip  of  the  falling  fountain.  The 
windows  that  looked  that  way  were 
always  bright  with  flowers — geranium 
and  lobelia,  as  I  remember  them. 

The  room   behind  looked  across  a 
little    grassy    court,  on   the   huddled 
high-roofed  buildings,  almost  Flemish 
in  outline,  of  St.  Catharine's  on  the 
left,  with  the  huge  glossy  walnut  in 
the  inner  court;  straight  in  front  it 
commanded  Queen's  Lane  from  end  to 
end,  and  on  the  right  there  rose  the 
battlemented    brick  towers    and  the 
quaint  oaken  fleche  of  the  latter  col- 
lege, seen  over  apple-trees  and  orchard 
walls  ;  and  the  whole  view  rounded 
off  by  the  high  garden-elms  across  the 
river.      In  the  window-boxes  in  that 
room — for  many  years   his  favourite 
sitting-room  —  grew    stubbly    smoke- 
dried  evergreens,  cypress  and  lignum 
vitse  ;  on  the  left,  as  you  entered,  stood 
a   huge    serviceable   deal  press   with 
innumerable  drawers,  on  one  side  of 
which  were  pinned  notices  and  invita- 
tions ;  to  the  left  of  the  room,  books, 
the  larger  at  the  top,  passing  over  the 
door  and  embedding  it ;  a  family  pic- 
ture or  two  and  some  dusty  oil-paint- 
ings ;    in    one   corner  an  untenanted 
frame,  with  the  glass  in  it,  showing 
the    wall-paper    through,    which    he 
would    neither    take    down    nor    get 
refilled.      A  large  telescope  on  a  stand 
by  one  of  the  windows,  and  a  broad 
table,  with  its  rough  red  cloth  strewn 
with  books  and  papers  in  orderly  con- 
fusion, at  which  his  visitor  would  find 
him  sitting,  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
writing  in  that  broad,  blunt,  readable 
hand,  or  handling  affectionately  some 
yellow   manuscript   or   brown-clasped 
quarto.     "  How  nice  of  you,"  he  would 
say  as  you  entered  and  stepped  on  to 
the  square-bordered  carpet  laid  on  the 
bare-boarded  floor.      "I  suppose  you 
mean  that  I  ought  to  get  it  stained," 


he  would  add  with  a  smile,  interpret- 
ing a  hardly  momentary  glance  that 
you  gave  as  you  crossed  the  threshold. 

In  the  outer  room,  rarely  used  ex- 
cept in  the  summer,  were  many  books 
and  a  few  pictures — an  original  sketch 
by  Thackeray,  a  bold  pen-and-ink 
drawing  of  the  view  from  the  back 
window  of  his  rooms,  six  postcards 
illustrated  and  sent  him  by  some 
artistic  friend  on  a  tour ;  a  grand 
piano,  on  which  I  never  heard  him  or 
any  one  but  Dr.  Stanford  presume  to 
play.  In  this  room  used  to  be  the 
delightful  Sunday  evening  assemblies, 
to  which  friends  used  to  drop  in  unin- 
vited for  tea  and  talk,  and  he  used  to 
sit  caressing  the  hand  of  some  more 
favoured  intimate  and  dropping  those 
wonderfully  humorous  sentences  — 
sometimes  caustic,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  glance  with  which  they  were 
accompanied  ;  shooting  through  with 
little  shafts  of  criticism  any  affecta- 
tion or  prejudice,  any  little  idiosyn- 
crasy and  personal  peculiarity  that 
displayed  itself  in  those  round  him, 
and  laughing  every  now  and  then 
with  that  delightful  intimate  laugh 
that  irradiated  his  face.  "  Oh,  I  for- 
got," he  would  say  (after  mentioning 
the  name  of  some  other  undergraduate) 
to  the  young  friend  sitting  by  him, 
reputed  to  be  exclusive  in  his  social 
estimate,  "not  b.s.,"  (best  set);  or  by 
a  little  gesture  with  his  finger,  he 
would  indicate  the  nasus  aduncus. 
Or,  on  the  entrance  of  another,  he  would 
playfully  hide  a  little  gold  charm 
which  he  wore  on  his  watch  chain, 
because  the  new-comer  was  supposed 
to  have  an  aversion  to  it,  and  if 
the  delinquent  pleaded  that  such  an 
aversion  had  never  been  hinted  or 
expressed,  "  Oh,  I  like  you  to  dislike 
it,"  he  would  say,  "it's  so  charac- 
teristic." 

And  one  special  gift  he  had,  which 
is  so  rare — he  could  rebuke  and  yet 
not  give  offence,  for  he  was  never 
instant  out  of  season.  He  could  with 
a  little  barbed  speech  run  right  to  the 
heart  of  some  weakness,  probe  some 
secret  fault  that,  unconsciously  to  its 


Henry  Bradshaw. 


477 


possessor,  was  betraying  it  self  toothers; 
stab  a  pretence  or  an  arrogance  through 
and  through  at  the  right  moment,  and 
yet  never  make  you  dislike  him.  The 
critic,  as  a  rule,  the  censor,  is  obeyed 
and  hated.  You  recognise  that  you 
are  the  better  for  the  stroke,  but  you 
hate  the  hand  that  directed  it.  Bat 
with  Henry  Bradshaw  it  was  never  so ; 
you  could  not  feel  personal  resentment, 
though  the  little  wound  rankled  long. 
Even  those  whom  he  emphatically  did 
not  like,  with  whom  he  was  most  un- 
sparing of  criticism  and  quiet  derision, 
did  not  resent  it ;  they  were  uneasy 
under  it,  but  anxious  for  his  good 
opinion,  anxious  to  redeem  themselves 
in  his  eyes. 

The  conversation  with  him,  as  I  re- 
member it,  was  never  sustained  or 
argumentative.  He  did  not  care  to 
sift  the  problems  of  life  and  being,  or 
to  hear  them  sifted  before  him.  That 
was  not  the  way  in  which  life  pre- 
sented itself  to  him ;  he  was  here- 
ditarily endowed  with  much  of  the 
Quietist  instinct.  He  had  not  (on  the 
surface,  at  least)  questionings  of  heart 
and  searchings  of  spirit ;  he  was  what 
can  be  called  a  life-philosopher — that 
is  to  say,  he  was  not  even  deducing  a 
system  from  faith  or  experience  like 
some  restless  spirits,  and  modifying  it 
from  day  to  day ;  he  was  simply  acting, 
when  it  became  him  to  act,  in  the  way 
that  his  pure  high  instincts  led  him, 
and  growing  wiser  so.  And  thus 
voluble  and  flashy  talkers,  keen  dis- 
putative  absorbed  spirits,  conversa- 
tional dogmatists,  found  little  to 
satisfy  them  in  him.  They  were  even 
apt  to  despise  him  in  his  greatness; 
and  he,  too,  was  uneasy  in  such  society ; 
he  sported  his  door  against  them  ;  he 
gave  them  no  encouragement,  unless, 
indeed,  he  had  been  their  father's 
friend — then  everything  was  forgiven. 
In  his  bedroom,  which  latterly  be- 
came his  sitting-room,  he  kept  all  the 
Irish  pamphlets  which  he  and  his 
father  had  amassed ; — his  father  was 
an  Irishman.  It  was  a  very  charac- 
teristic room.  The  walls  were  covered 
to  the  top  with  bookcases,  painted 


white,  and  gradually  sloping  away  in- 
wards as  they  descended,  so  that  he 
could  have  the  larger  books  at  the 
top  and  the  smaller  at  the  bottom. 
These  were  filled  with  grey  and  white 
and  blue  paper  volumes,  many  unbound 
and  dusty,  tied  up  in  masses  with 
strings  and  tapes  of  all  colours  ;  in  one 
corner  an  immense  heap  standing  high 
up  on  the  floor.  "  I  know  they 
oughtn't  to  be  here  ;  they  ought  to  be 
in  the  library,"  he  would  say  ;  "  but 
of  course  that  has  never  been  done." 

It  was  in  this  room,  so  he  told  us, 
that  he  used  to  be  so  ceaselessly 
annoyed  by  a  mouse,  which  began  to 
perambulate  about  two  A.M.  night  after 
night  for  many  weeks.  Night  after 
night  he  would  resolve,  he  said,  to 
"humour  it  no  longer  ; "  but  night  after 
.  night  he  would  at  last  get  up  and  open 
the  door  for  it  to  go  into  his  other 
room,  which  it  instantly  did,  returning 
by  some  secret  way  to  renew  its  wan- 
derings the  next  night.  "  There  never 
was  such  a  pampered  mouse,"  he  used 
to  say. 

And  the  rooms  all  through  were 
filled  with  memorials,  of  which  he 
would  sometimes  give  you  the  his- 
tory, from  the  little  pictures  and 
ornaments  on  the  ledges  and  chimney- 
pieces  to  the  incongruous-looking  tea- 
set  that  he  used,  and  that  formed  so 
integral  a  part  of  the  picture  in  quiet 
talks  with  him — every  single  piece 
of  which  was  a  memory  of  some  one. 
In  former  times  he  had  a  little  toy,  a 
model  of  the  old  Eton  long-chamber 
bedsteads,  that  stood  on  his  table. 
One  evening  a  fantastic,  wild  friend, 
that  had  been  at  Eton  with  him, 
coming  in  to  sit  with  him — a  man 
who  had  been  miserable,  hounded  and 
persecuted  through  the  whole  of  his 
school-life  there — stung  by  a  sudden 
•  thought,  perhaps  some  barbarous  as- 
sociation, seized  this  with  the  tongs 
and  crushed  it  into  the  fire.  The 
owner  sat  immovable  till  the  holo- 
caust was  over,  and  then  said  gently, 
"  Was  that  necessary  ? " 

Nothing  was  more  remarkable  than 
the  kind  of  men  you  met  in  his  rooms. 


478 


Henry  Bradsliaw. 


Any  one  engaged  in  arduous  literary 
work  of  a  kind  involving  special  re- 
search you  were  sure  to  see  there 
sooner  or  later ;  many  of  the  rising 
men  in  the  university,  who  knew 
greatness  when  they  saw  it ;  and  not 
only  these,  but  scapegraces,  to  whom 
he  accorded  an  almost  fatherly  pro- 
tection, "  outsiders,"  so  called,  whom 
for  some  venial  social  defect,  some  un- 
graciousness of  manner  or  want  of 
refining  influences,  society  in  general 
had  rigorously  excluded,  these  were 
to  be  found  expanding  in  his  presence. 
And  the  strangest  thing  about  these 
intimacies  was  a  point  to  which  many 
will  bear  testimony, — that  if  they  grew 
at  all,  they  grew  to  include  all  the 
home  circle  of  which  you  were  a  part ; 
— "all  my  brothers  and  sisters,"  said 
one  who  was  his  friend,  "  unknown  to 
him  before — he  came  to  realise  and 
love  them  all  for  themselves." 

He  was  a  wonderful  instance  of  a 
man,  unmethodical  and  dreamy  by 
nature,  made  businesslike  by  con- 
sideration for  other  people.  His  lib- 
rary-work was  always  exactly  done ; 
his  own  work  suffered  by  the  rigor- 
ous self-sacrifice  with  which  he  devoted 
his  time  to  the  details  of  business. 
Invitations  and  other  social  require- 
ments did  not  come  off  so  well.  He 
was  known  frequently  to  neglect  these. 
"  I  hardly  ever  go  out,"  he  used  to 
say.  It  was  not  for  want  of  being 
asked ;  and  it  so  soon  got  to  be  under- 
stood that  such  was  his  habit,  and  he 
was  so  welcome  when  he  did  come, 
though  he  had  not  announced  his  in- 
tention of  so  doing,  that  the  delin- 
quencies were  accepted  in  the  spirit 
in  which  they  had  been  committed. 
Indeed,  so  great  was  his  dislike  of 
being  forced  to  a  decision,  that  it  is 
related  of  him  that  a  friend  who  had 
written  to  ask  him  to  dinner,  on  re- 
ceiving no  answer,  sent  him  two  post- 
cards, with  "Yes"  written  on  one  and 
"No"  on  the  other,  and  by  return  of 
post  received  them  both  again. 

When  one  speaks  of  his  "work,"  it 
is  hard  to  make  ordinary  people  quite 
understand  either  its  extent,  its  im- 


portance, or  its  perfection.  He  knew 
more  about  printed  books  than  any 
man  living ;  he  could  tell  at  a  glance 
the  date  and  country,  generally  the 
town  at  which  a  book  was  published. 
And  the  enormous  range  of  this  }  sub- 
ject cannot  be  explained  without  a 
technical  knowledge  of  the  same. 
He  was  one  of  the  foremost  Chaucer 
scholars ;  a  very  efficient  linguist  in 
range  (though  for  reading,  not  speak- 
ing purposes),  as,  for  instance,  in  the 
case  of  the  old  Breton  language,  which 
he  evolved  from  notes  and  glosses 
scribbled  between  the  lines  and  on 
margins  of  mass-books ;  and  his  joy  at 
the  discovery  of  a  word  that  he  had 
suspected  but  never  encountered  was 
wonderful  to  see.  He  could  acquire 
a  language  for  practical  purposes 
with  great  rapidity ;  Armenian,  for 
instance,  which  he  began  on  a 
Thursday  morning  at  Venice,  and 
could  read  so  as  to  decipher  titles 
for  the  purpose  of  cataloguing  on 
Saturday  night.  He  had  a  close  and 
unrivalled  knowledge  of  cathedral 
statutes  and  constitutions.  He  was 
an  advanced  student  in 'the  origin  of 
liturgies,  especially  Irish,  and  indeed 
in  the  whole  of  Irish  literature  and 
printing  he  was  supreme  ',  and  finally, 
he  was  by  common  consent  the  best 
paleographist,  or  critic  of  the  date 
of  manuscripts,  in  the  world. 

The  story  of  his  adventure  in  the 
Parisian  Library  is  worth  recording 
here.  A  book  had  been  lost  for  nearly 
a  century ;  he  went  over  to  see  if  he 
could  discover  it.  Search  was  fruit- 
less, though  there  was  a  strong  pre- 
sumption as  to  the  part  of  the  library 
where  it  would  be  found.  He  stood 
in  one  of  the  classes  describing  its 
probable  appearance  to  the  librarian, 
and  to  illustrate  it  said,  "  About  the 
height,  thickness,  and  of  similar  bind- 
ing to  this,"  taking  a  book  out  of  the 
shelves  as  he  did  so.  It  was  the 
missing  volume. 

So,  too,  he  would  refer  Oxford  men 
by  memory  to  the  case  and  shelf  of  the 
Bodleian  where  they  would  find  the 
book  for  which  they  had  looked  in 


Henry  Bradshaw. 


479 


vain.  And  most  characteristic  of  him 
was  the  explanation  which  he  once 
gave  me  of  his  enormous  knowledge. 
"  You  know,"  he  said,  "I  have  never 
worked  at  anything  for  myself,  except 
perhaps  at  Chaucer,  all  my  life  long ; 
all  the  things  that  I  do  know  I  have 
stumbled  across  in  investigating  ques- 
tions for  other  people."  How  much  of 
this  knowledge  was  merely  held  in  so- 
lution in  that  amazing  brain,  how  much 
was  committed  to  paper,  I  do  not  know ; 
of  the  latter  I  fear  very  little.  He 
had  a  long  series  of  miscellaneous 
note-books,  but  most  of  them  so  tech- 
nical as  to  be  unintelligible  except  to 
one  as  far  advanced  in  such  know- 
ledge as  himself.  His  published  works 
are  but  a  few  pamphlets. 

The  way  in  which  all  this  work  was 
done,  all  this  knowledge  was  accumu- 
lated, was,  among  the  other  peculiari- 
ties of  his  genius,  the  most  amazing. 
No  man  ever  seemed  to  have  more 
leisure.  He  would  talk  with  perfect 
readiness,  not  only  on  any  special 
matters  that  you  wished  to  consult 
him  on,  but  trivial,  leisurely  gossip, 
and  never  show  impatience  to  con- 
tinue his  work,  or  the  least  desire  to 
return  to  it.  The  secret  was  that  he 
never  left  off.  Except  for  rare  holi- 
days, visits  to  relations,  or  foreign 
tours,  he  never  left  Cambridge  for 
years.  His  hours  were  most  perplex- 
ing. He  would  generally  work  very 
late  at  night,  sometimes  till  four  or 
five  in  the  morning,  if  there  was  much 
work  on  hand  ;  go  to  the  library  about 
eleven,  return  for  lunch,  then  back 
to  the  library  again,  with  perhaps  a 
visit  to  a  Board  or  Syndicate  till  tea- 
time,  for  he  took  no  exercise  except 
spasmodically  ;  then  he  would  go  into 
hall  or  not  as  the  fancy  took  him,  on 
the  majority  of  days  not  doing  so, 
and  eating  nothing  but  tea  and  bread 
and  butter  in  his  rooms ;  and  then 
from  eight  o'clock  he  would  sit 
there,  working  if  uninterrupted,  but 
with  his  doors  generally  open  to 
welcome  all  intruders  —  ceaselessly, 
patiently  acquiring,  amassing,  dis- 
integrating the  enormous  mass  of 


delicate  and  subtle  information  which 
not  only  did  he  never  forget,  but  all 
of  which  he  seemed  to  carry  on  the 
surface,  and  carry  so  lightly  and 
easily  too,  for  he  did  not  appear  to 
be  erudite ;  he  never  played  the  part 
of  the  learned  man,  though  with  ac- 
quirements as  ponderous,  as  detailed, 
and  to  the  generality  of  people  as 
uninteresting,  as  the  real  or  the  fic- 
titious Casaubon. 

Yet  this  knowledge  was  not  only  of 
things  that  lay  inside  his  own  subjects, 
but  extended  to  all  kinds  of  paths  that 
could  never  have  been  suspected.  I 
have  never  met  a  person  so  nearly  om- 
niscient. If  you  wanted  to  hear  private 
and  personal  details  about  a  man  with, 
whom  you  became  connected  in  a  busi- 
ness or  official  capacity,  he  could  give 
them.  He  knew  the  man,  or  the 
family,  or  the  place  he  lived  in.  I 
once  travelled  up  to  London  with  him, 
and  pointed  out  a  great  house  that 
was  gradually  getting  absorbed  into 
the  creeping  metropolis,  but  which 
still  preserved  its  country  character- 
istics stately  and  smoke-dried.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  "  it  used  to  be  much  fresher. 
I  used  often  to  go  there  when  I  was  a 

boy  :   it   belonged   to   the  "  and 

there  came  out  a  little  string  of  old- 
world  anecdotes  and  tales.  Presently 
we  passed  a  church  (near  Barnet)  with 
an  ivied  tower,  which  had  been  hope- 
lessly engulfed  in  the  town.  This  I 
also  showed  him.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I 
was  christened  there."  The  story  is 
almost  too  well  known  to  require  re- 
petition of  Mommsen,  who  said,  after 
half  an  hour's  conversation  with  him 
on  some  particular  point  of  history,  "If 
I  had  had  a  short-hand  writer  with  me, 
I  could  have  got  in  half  an  hour's  talk 
enough  materials  to  have  made  an 
interesting  volume."  And  this  fabric 
had  been  ceaselessly  growing  and  ex- 
panding, fitting  itself  into  order,  and 
connecting  itself  together,  ever  since 
the  early  days,  when  in  the  school- 
yard at  Eton  a  boy  who  was  possessed 
of  some  curious  volumes,  saw  Henry 
Bradshaw  issue  out  of  college  carrying 
two  antique  folios  under  his  arm, 


480 


Henry  Bradshaw. 


stealing  off  to  some  secret  haunt  to 
study  them,  and  greeted  him  with 
"  Hullo,  Bradshaw,  whose  books  have 
you  got  there  ? "  The  only  answer,  de- 
livered, without  a  sign  of  confusion,  in 
the  tones  which  even  then  were  more 
expressive  in  their  imperturbability 
than  most  men's,  was  "Yours."  It  was 
the  same  man  who  received  the  cele- 
brated forger  of  manuscripts  when 
he  paid  his  visit  to  Cambridge  carry- 
ing with  him,  among  some  genuine 
parchments,  his  own  forgeries,  which 

/Coxe    only    detected    by    the    smell. 

/  These  Henry  Bradshaw  turned  quietly 
over,  referring  them  one  by  one  to 

,  their  respective  eras — "  end  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  early  fourteenth 
century,  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,"  as  he  came  to  the  inter- 
polated false  document,  without  a  single 
reproachful  gesture  or  the  slightest 
inflexion  or  change  of  tone.  And  we 

v  may  here  add  the  delightful  touch 
with  which  he  dismissed  the  claims  of 
the  same  forger  to  have  been  the 
writer  of  the  '  Codex  Sinaiticus.'  "  I 
am  sure,  if  he  had  ever  seen  it,  he 
could  never  have  pretended  to  have 
written  it,"  he  said. 

And  in  an  instant  the  whole  struc- 
ture breaks  and  melts  before  our  eyes  : 
the  knowledge  gone,  God  knows 
whither  ;  the  centre  of  so  many  quiet 
activities,  of  so  many  dependent  lives 
slipped  from  its  place.  The  blank  is 
there,  however  often  we  say  to  our- 
selves that  nothing  runs  to  waste  ;  that 
hoarded  experience,  gathered  painfully 
in  life,  and  seemingly  to  be  applied 
only  in  life,  thus  vanishing  in  an 
instant,  is  hidden,  not  gone.  •  As  he 
himself  said  to  a  friend  after  a  great 
trial  that  he  had  told  him  of,  which 
seemed  to  have  in  it  no  wholesome 
flavour,  to  be  nothing  either  in  pros- 
pect or  in  retrospect,  but  the  very  root 
of  bitterness  itself  :  "  Everything  is 
the  result  of  something  ;  whether  it 


is  our  own  fault  or  not,  it  means 
something.  What  we  have  to  do  is 
to  try  and  interpret  it." 

And  we  feel  that  when  such  a  life, 
acting  as  it  did  so  directly  on  others, 
and  affecting  them  so  visibly,  is  cut 
short,  there  is  not  a  sheer  waste  of 
love. 

The  very  shock  causes  a  radiation 
that  no  serene  possession  can  give.  It 
seems  as  if  it  drew  out  the  love  of  many 
natures,  crushed  it  out  from  all  the 
fibres  that  were  intertwined  with  his, 
in  a  way  that  even  his  life  did  not 
call  it  forth.  All  at  once  there  flows 
into  the  gap  the  love  from  so  many  a 
wounded  soul,  arid  we  see  that  such 
influence  cannot  die.  And  though  we 
may  be  called  fanciful,  we  seem  to 
trace  a  hopeful  analogy  in  the  ease 
with  which  he  renewed  old  intimacies, 
silent  for  a  long  interval.  He  took 
up  the  friendship  where  he  had  laid 
it  down;  there  was  no  adjustment 
necessary;  you  became  part  of  his 
life  again  at  once,  because  you  had 
never  ceased  to  be  so.  Such  an  affec- 
tion, when  it  has  passed  the  veil,  seems 
to  be  waiting  for  us  still ;  it  seems 
emphatically  to  have  but  gone  before. 

It  is  said  that  for  some  years  he 
had  faced  the  strange  visitant ;  he 
certainly  breathed  no  word  of  it  to 
his  friends ;  he  would  not  wreck  their 
peace  by  any  selfish  fears ;  that  pre- 
sence in  a  life  is  a  swift  teacher.  In 
the  long  night-watches,  when  you  sit 
alone  with  your  work  and  that,  great 
truths  come  home,  till  even  the  very 
burden  of  the  thought  itself  is  borne 
peacefully,  nay,  even  gratefully.  At 
any  rate,  death  seems  to  have 
beckoned  him  away  with  a  strange 
unwonted  gentleness,  with  wonderful 
adaptation  to  the  character  he  called. 
"  It  was  like  him,"  wrote  one  who 
knew  and  loved  him  for  nearly  forty 
years,  "  to  go  so  quietly  to  such  great 
things." 

ARTHUR  BENSON. 


END    OF    VOL.    LIII. 


LONDON  :   RICHARD   CLAY  AND   SONS,    BREAD   STREET   HILL. 


AP 

4 

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