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diff --git a/17065-h/17065-h.htm b/17065-h/17065-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3fceef4 --- /dev/null +++ b/17065-h/17065-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4434 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Interludes</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Interludes, by Horace Smith</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Interludes, by Horace Smith + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Interludes + being Two Essays, a Story, and Some Verses + + +Author: Horace Smith + + + +Release Date: November 14, 2005 [eBook #17065] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INTERLUDES*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1892 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>INTERLUDES<br /> +being<br /> +TWO ESSAYS, A STORY, AND SOME VERSES</h1> +<p>BY<br /> +HORACE SMITH</p> +<p>London<br /> +MACMILLAN AND CO<br /> +AND NEW YORK<br /> +1892</p> +<h2><!-- page 1--><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>ESSAYS.</h2> +<h3>I. ON CRITICISM.</h3> +<p>Criticism is the art of judging. As reasonable persons we are +called upon to be constantly pronouncing judgment, and either acting +upon such judgment ourselves or inviting others to do so. I do +not know how anything can be more important with respect to any matter +than the forming a right judgment about it. We pray that we may +have “a right judgment in all things.” I am aware +that it is an old saying that “people are better than their opinions,” +and it is a mercy that it is so, for very many persons not only are +full of false opinions upon almost every subject, but even think that +it is of no consequence what opinions they hold. Whether a particular +action is morally right or wrong, or whether a book or a picture is +really good or bad, is a matter upon which they form either no judgment +or a wrong one with perfect equanimity. The secret of this state +of mind is, I think, that it is on the whole too much bother to form +a correct judgment; and it is so much easier to let things slide, and +to take the good the gods provide you, than to carefully hold the scales +until the balance is steady. But <!-- page 2--><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>can +anybody doubt that this abdication of the seat of judgment by large +numbers of people is most hurtful to mankind? Does anyone believe +that there would be so many bad books, bad pictures, and bad buildings +in the world if people were more justly critical? Bad things continue +to be produced in profusion, and worse things are born of them, because +a vast number of people do not know that the things are bad, and do +not care, even if they do know. What sells the endless trash published +every day? Not the <i>few</i> purchasers who buy what is vile +because they like it, but the <i>many</i> purchasers who do not know +that the things are bad, and when they are told so, think there is not +much harm in it after all. In short, they think that judging rightly +is of no consequence and only a bore.</p> +<p>But I think I shall carry you all with me when I say that this society, +almost by its very <i>raison d’être</i>, desires to form +just and proper judgments; and that one of the principal objects which +we have in view in meeting together from time to time is to learn what +should be thought, and what ought to be known; and by comparing our +own judgments of things with those of our neighbours, to arrive at a +just modification of our rough and imperfect ideas.</p> +<p>Although criticism is the act of judging in general, and although +I shall not strictly limit my subject to any particular branch of criticism, +yet naturally I shall be led to speak principally of that branch of +which we—probably all of us—think at once when the word +is mentioned, viz., literary and artistic criticism. I think if +criticism were juster and fairer persons criticized would submit more +readily to criticism. It is certain <!-- page 3--><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>that +criticism is generally resented. We—none of us—like +to be told our faults.</p> +<p>“Tell Blackwood,” said Sir Walter Scott, “that +I am one of the Black Hussars of Literature who neither give nor take +criticism.” Tennyson resented any interference with his +muse by writing the now nearly forgotten line about “Musty, crusty +Christopher.” Byron flew into a rhapsodical passion and +wrote <i>English Bards and Scotch Reviewers</i>—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He says—</p> +<blockquote><p>“A man must serve his time to every trade<br /> +Save censure. Critics all are ready made.<br /> +Take hackney’d jokes from Miller, got by rote,<br /> +With just enough of learning to misquote;<br /> +A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault;<br /> +A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;<br /> +To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,—<br /> +His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet;<br /> +Fear not to lie, ’twill seem a sharper hit;<br /> +Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;<br /> +Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,—<br /> +And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Lowell retorted upon his enemies in the famous <i>Fable for Critics</i>. +Swift, in his <i>Battle of the Books</i>, revenges himself upon Criticism +by describing her. “She dwelt on the top of a snowy mountain +in Nova Zembla. There Momus found her extended in her den upon +the spoils of numberless volumes, half devoured. At her right +hand sat Ignorance, her father and husband, blind with age; at her left +Pride, her mother, dressing her up in the scraps of paper herself had +torn. About her played her children Noise and Impudence, Dulness +and <!-- page 4--><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>Vanity, Pedantry +and Ill-manners. The goddess herself had claws like a cat. +Her head, ears, and voice resembled those of an ass.” Bulwer +(Lord Lytton) flew out against his critics, and was well laughed at +by Thackeray for his pains. Poets are known as the <i>genus irritabile</i>, +and I do not know that prose writers, artists, or musicians are less +susceptible. Most of us will remember Sheridan’s <i>Critic</i>—</p> +<p>Sneer: “I think it wants incident.”</p> +<p>Sir Fretful: “Good Heavens, you surprise me! Wants incident! +I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded.”</p> +<p>Dangle: “If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that +the interest rather falls off in the fifth act.”</p> +<p>Sir Fretful: “Rises, I believe you mean, sir.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Dangle: “I did not see a fault in any part of the play +from the beginning to the end.”</p> +<p>Sir Fretful: “Upon my soul the women are the best judges after +all.”</p> +<p>In short, no one objects to a favourable criticism, and almost every +one objects to an unfavourable one. All men ought, no doubt, to +be thankful for a just criticism; but I am afraid they are not. +As a result, to criticize is to be unpopular. Nevertheless, it +is better to be unpopular than to be untruthful.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The truth once out,—and wherefore should +we lie?—<br /> +The Queen of Midas slept, and so can I.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I am going to do a rather dreadful thing. I am going to divide +criticism into six heads. By the bye, I am not sure that sermons +now-a-days are any better than they used to be in the good old times, +when there were <!-- page 5--><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>always +three heads at least to every sermon. Criticism should be—1. +Appreciative. 2. Proportionate. 3. Appropriate. 4. +Strong. 5. Natural. 6. <i>Bonâ fide</i>.</p> +<p>1. <i>Criticism should be appreciative</i>.</p> +<p>By this I mean, not that critics should always praise, but that they +should understand. They should see the thing as it is and comprehend +it. This is the rock upon which most criticisms fail—want +of knowledge. In reading the lives of great men, how often are +we struck with the want of appreciation of their fellows. Who +admired Turner’s pictures until Turner’s death? Who +praised Tennyson’s poems until Tennyson was quite an old man? +Nay, I am afraid some of us have laughed at those who endeavoured to +ask our attention to what we called the daubs of the one or the doggerel +of the other. <a name="citation5"></a><a href="#footnote5">{5}</a>This, +I think, should teach us not even to attempt to criticize until we are +sure that we appreciate. Yet what a vast amount of criticism there +is in the world which errs (like Dr. Johnson) from sheer ignorance. +When Sir Lucius O’Trigger found fault with Mrs. Malaprop’s +language she naturally resented such ignorant criticism. “If +there is one thing more than another upon which I pride myself, it is +the use of my oracular tongue and a nice derangement of epitaphs.” +It was absurd to have one’s English criticized by any Irishman. +It is said that “it’s a pity when lovely women talk of things +that they don’t understand”; but I am afraid that men are +equally given to the same vice. I have <!-- page 6--><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>heard +men give the most confident opinions upon subjects which they don’t +in the least understand, which nobody expects them to understand, nor +have they had any opportunity for acquiring the requisite knowledge. +But I suppose an Englishman is nothing if he is not dictatorial, and +has a right to say that the pictures in the Louvre are “orrid” +or that the Colosseum is a “himposition.” “I +don’t know what they mean by Lucerne being the Queen of the Lakes,” +said a Yankee to me, “but I calc’late Lake St. George is +a doocid deal bigger.” The criticism was true as far as +it went, but the man had no conception of beauty.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Each might his several province well command<br /> +Would all but stoop to what they understand.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The receipt given for an essay on Chinese Metaphysics was, look out +China under the letter C and metaphysics under the letter M, and combine +your information. “Would you mind telling me, sir, if the +Cambridge boat keeps time or not to-day?” said a man on the banks +of the Thames to me. He explained that he was a political-meeting +reporter on the staff of a penny paper, and the sporting reporter was +ill. Sometimes the want of appreciation appears in a somewhat +remarkable manner, as where a really good performance is praised for +its blemishes and not for its merits. This may be done from a +desire to appear singular or from ignorance. The popular estimate +is generally wrong from want of appreciation. The majority of +people praise what is not worthy of praise and dislike what is. +So that it is almost a test of worthlessness that the multitudes approve. +Baron Bramwell, in discharging a prisoner at the Old <!-- page 7--><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>Bailey, +made what he thought some appropriate observations, which were followed +by a storm of applause in the crowded court. The learned judge, +with that caustic humour which distinguishes him, looked up and said, +“Bless me! I’m afraid I must have said something very +foolish.” An amusing scene occurred outside a barrister’s +lodgings during the Northampton Assizes. Two painters decorating +the exterior of the lodgings were overheard as follows:—“Seen +the judge, Bill?” “Ah, I see him. Cheery old +swine!” “See the sheriff too?” “Yes, +I see him too. I reckon he got that place through interest. +Been to church; they tell me the judge preached ’em a long sarmon. +Pomp and ’umbug I call that!” This was no doubt genuine +criticism, but it was without knowledge. These men were probably +voters for Bradlaugh, and the judge and the sheriff were to them the +embodiment of a hateful aristocracy. These painters little knew +how much the judge would like to be let off even listening to the sermon, +and how the sheriff had resorted to every dodge to escape from his onerous +and thankless office.</p> +<p>It is recorded in the Life of Lord Houghton that Prince Leopold, +being recommended to read Plutarch for Grecian lore, got the British +Plutarch by mistake, and laid down the Life of Sir Christopher Wren +in great indignation, exclaiming there was hardly anything about Greece +in it.</p> +<p>I am sure, too, that in order to understand the work of another we +must have something more than knowledge; we must have some sympathy +with the work. I do not mean that we must necessarily praise the +execution of it; but we must be in such a frame of mind <!-- page 8--><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>that +the success of the work would give us pleasure. I am sure someone +says somewhere that a man whose first emotion upon seeing anything good +is to undervalue it will never do anything good of his own. It +argues a want of genius in ourselves if we fail to see it in others; +unless, indeed, we do really see it, and only <i>say</i> we don’t +out of envy. This is very shameful. I had rather do like +some amiable people I have known, disparage the work of a friend in +order to set others praising it.</p> +<p>Criticism should therefore be appreciative in two ways. The +critic should bring the requisite amount and kind of knowledge and the +proper frame of mind and temper.</p> +<p>2. <i>Criticism should be proportionate</i>.</p> +<p>By this I mean that the language in which we speak of anything should +be proportioned to the thing spoken of. If you speak of St. Paul’s +Church, Beckenham, as vast, grand, magnificent, you have no language +left wherewith to describe St. Paul’s, London. If you call +Millais’ Huguenots sublime or divine, what becomes of the Madonná +St. Sisto of Raphael? If you describe Longfellow’s poetry +as the feeblest possible trash, the coarsest and most unparliamentary +language could alone express your contempt of Martin Tupper.</p> +<p>“What’s the good of calling a woman a Wenus, Samivel?” +asked the elder Weller. What indeed! The elder Weller probably +perceived that the language would be out of all proportion to the object +of Samivel’s affections. Of course, something may be allowed +to a generous enthusiasm, and, with regard to this fault in criticism, +it should perhaps be said that exaggerated <!-- page 9--><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>praise +is not so base in its beginning or so harmful in the end as exaggerated +blame. From the use of the former Dr. Johnson defended himself +with his usual vigour. Boswell presumed to find fault with him +for saying that the death of Garrick had eclipsed the gaiety of nations. +Johnson: “I could not have said more, nor less. It is the +truth. His death did eclipse, it was like a storm.” +Boswell: “But why nations? Did his gaiety extend further +than his own nation?” Johnson: “Why, sir, some exaggeration +must be allowed. Besides, ‘nations’ may be said—if +we allow the Scotch to be a nation, and to have gaiety,—which +they have not.”</p> +<p>But there is more in this matter of proportion than at first meets +the eye. How often do we converse with a man whose language we +wonder at and cannot quite make out. It is somehow unsatisfactory. +We do not quite like it, yet there is nothing particular to dislike. +Suddenly we perceive that there is a want of perspective, or perhaps +a want of what artists call value. His mountains are mole-hills, +and his mole-hills are mountains. His colouring is so badly managed +that the effect of distance, light, and shade are lost. Thus a +man will so insist upon the use of difficult words by George Elliot +that a person unacquainted with her writings would think that the whole +merit or demerit of that author lay in her vocabulary. A man will +so exalt the pathos of Dickens or Thackeray that he will throw their +wit and humour into the background. Some person’s only remark +on seeing Turner’s Modern Italy will be that the colours are cracked, +or, upon reading Sterne, that he always wrote “you was” +instead of “you were.” “Did it ever strike you,” +said a friend of mine, “that whenever you hear of <!-- page 10--><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>a +young woman found drowned she always is described as having worn elastic +boots?” Such persons look at all things through a distorting +medium. Important things become unimportant and <i>vice versâ</i>. +The foreground is thrust back, the distance brought forward, and the +middle distance is nowhere. The effect of an exaggerated praise +generally is that an unfair reaction sets in. Mr. Justin M’Carthy, +in his <i>History of Our Own Times</i>, points out how much the character +of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe has suffered from the absurd devotion +of Kinglake. Kinglake writes (he says) of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe +“as if he were describing the all-compelling movements of some +divinity or providence.” What nonsense has been talked about +Millais’ landscapes, Whistler’s nocturnes, Swinburne poetry—all +excellent enough in their way, and requiring to be praised according +to their merits, with a reserve as to their faults. The practice +of puffing tends to destroy all sort of proportion in criticism. +When single sentences or portions of sentences of apparently unqualified +praise are detached from context, and heaped together so as to induce +the public to think that all praise and no blame has been awarded, of +course all proportion is lost. Macaulay lashed this vice in his +celebrated essay on Robert Montgomery’s poems. “We +expect some reserve,” he says, “some decent pride in our +hatter and our bootmaker. But no artifice by which notoriety can +be obtained is thought too abject for a man of letters. Extreme +poverty may indeed in some degree be an excuse for employing these shifts +as it may be an excuse for stealing a leg of mutton.”</p> +<p>Upon the other hand, how unfair is exaggerated <!-- page 11--><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>blame. +I am not speaking here of that which is intentionally unfair, but of +blame fairly meant and in some degree deserved, but where the language +is out of all proportion to the offence.</p> +<p>Ruskin so belaboured the poor ancients about their landscapes that +when I was a youth he had taught me to believe that Claude and Ruisdael +were mere duffers. So when he speaks of Whistler, as we shall +presently see, his blame is so exaggerated that it produces a revulsion +in the mind of the reader. He said Whistler’s painting consisted +in throwing a pot of paint in the public’s face. Well! we +may say Whistler is somewhat sketchy and careless or wanting in colour, +but it is quite possible to keep our tempers over it.</p> +<p>“This salad is very gritty,” said a gentleman to Douglas +Jerrold at a dinner party. “Gritty,” said Jerrold, +“it’s a mere gravel path with a few weeds in it.” +That was very unfair on the salad.</p> +<p>3. <i>Criticism should be appropriate</i>.</p> +<p>I mean by this something different from proportionate. Sometimes +the language of criticism is not that of exaggeration, but yet it is +quite as inappropriate. The critic may have taken his seat too +high or too low for a proper survey, or he may, by want of education +or by carelessness, use quite the wrong words to express his meaning. +You will hear a man say, “I was enchanted with the Biglow Papers,” +or “I was charmed with the hyenas at the Zoological Gardens.” +I think one of the distinguishing characteristics of a gentleman, and +what makes the society of educated gentlemen so pleasant, is that their +language is appropriate without effort. “‘What a delicious +shiver is creeping over those limes!’ said <!-- page 12--><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>Lancelot, +half to himself. The expression struck Argemone; it was the right +one.” This is what makes some people’s conversation +so interesting. It is full of appropriate language. This +is perhaps even more the case with educated ladies. I think it +is Macaulay who says that the ordinary letter of an English lady is +the best English style to be found anywhere.</p> +<p>“It would be bad <i>grammar</i>,” said Cobbett, “to +say of the House of Commons, ‘It is a sink of iniquity, and they +are a set of rascally swindlers.’” Of course, the +bad grammar is almost immaterial. The expression is either a gross +libel or a lamentable fact. “If a man,” said Sydney +Smith, “were to kill the minister and churchwardens of his parish +nobody would accuse him of want of taste. The Scythians always +ate their grandfathers; they behaved very respectfully to them for a +long time, but as soon as their grandfathers became old and troublesome, +and began to tell long stories, they immediately ate them; nothing could +be more <i>improper</i> and even <i>disrespectful</i> than dining off +such near and venerable relations, yet we could not with any propriety +accuse them of bad taste.” This is very humorous. +To say that it is improper or disrespectful is as absurd as to say that +it is bad taste. It is properly described as cruel, revolting, +and abominable.</p> +<p>Not being at all a French scholar, and coming suddenly in view of +Mont Blanc, I ventured to say to my guide, “<i>C’est très +joli</i>.” “<i>Non</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>,” said +he, “<i>ce n’est pas joli</i>, <i>mais c’est curieux +à voir</i>.” I think we were both of us rather out +of it that time.</p> +<p>I remember an old lady of my acquaintance pointing to her new chintz +of peonies and sunflowers, and asking <!-- page 13--><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>me +if I did not think it was very “chaste.” I should +like to have said, “Oh, yes, very, quite rococo,” but I +daren’t.</p> +<p>The wife of a clergyman, writing to the papers about the “Penge +Mystery,” said that certain of the parties (whom most right-minded +people thought had committed most atrocious crimes, if not actual murder) +had been guilty of a breach of “les convenances de société.” +This is almost equal to De Quincey’s friend, who committed a murder, +which at the time he thought little about. Keble said to Froude, +“Froude, you said you thought Law’s <i>Serious Call</i> +was a clever book; it seemed to me as if you had said the Day of Judgment +will be a pretty sight.”</p> +<p>I ought here to mention the use, or rather misuse, of words which +are often called “slang,” such as “awfully jolly,” +“fearfully tedious,” “horribly dull,” or the +expression “quite alarming,” which young ladies, I think, +have now happily forgotten, and the equally silly use of the word “howling” +by young men. Such expressions mean absolutely nothing, and are +destructive of intelligent conversation. A man was being tried +for a serious assault, and had used a violent and coarse expression +towards the prosecutor. “You must be careful not to be misled +by the bad language reported to have been used by the prisoner,” +said the judge. “You will find from the evidence that he +has applied the same expression to his best friend, to a glass of beer, +to his grandmother, his boots, and his own eyes.”</p> +<p>4. <i>Criticism should be strong</i>.</p> +<p>I hope from the remarks I have previously made it will not be supposed +that I think all criticism should be of a flat, neutral tint, or what +may be called the washy <!-- page 14--><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>order. +On the contrary, if criticism is not strong it cannot lift a young genius +out of the struggling crowd, and it cannot beat down some bumptious +impostor. If the critic really believes that a new poet writes +like Milton, or a new artist paints like Sir Joshua, let him say so; +or if he thinks any work vile or contemptible, let him say so; but let +him say so well. Mere exaggerated language, as we have seen, is +not strength; but if there is real strength in the criticism, and it +is proportionate and appropriate, it will effect its purpose. +It will free the genius, or it will crush the humbug. A good critic +should be feared:</p> +<blockquote><p>“Good Lord, I wouldn’t have that man<br /> + Attack me in the <i>Times</i>,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>was said of Jacob Omnium.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Yes, I am proud, I own it, when I see<br /> +Men not afraid of God afraid of me,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Pope said, and I can fancy with what a stern joy an honest critic +would arise and slay what he believed to be false and vicious. +In no time was the need of strong criticism greater than it is at present. +The press is teeming with rubbish and something worse. Everybody +reads anything that is published with sufficient flourish and advertisement, +and those who read have mostly no power of judging for themselves, nor +would they be turned from the garbage which seems to delight them by +any gentle persuasion. It is therefore most necessary that the +critic should speak out plainly and boldly, though with temper and discretion. +I suppose we have all of us read Lord Macaulay’s criticism upon +Robert Montgomery’s poems. The poems are, of course, forgotten; +but the <!-- page 15--><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>essay still +lives as a specimen of the terribly slashing style. This is the +way one couplet is dealt with—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The soul aspiring pants its source to mount,<br /> +As streams meander level with their fount.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“We take this on the whole to be the worst similitude in the +world. In the first place, no stream meanders, or can possibly +meander, level with its fount. In the next place, if streams did +meander level with their founts, no two motions can be less like each +other than that of meandering level and that of mounting upwards. +After saying that lightning is designless and self-created, he says, +a few lines further on, that it is the Deity who bids</p> +<blockquote><p>‘the thunder rattle from the skiey deep.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>His theory is therefore this, that God made the thunder but the lightning +made itself.” Of course, poor Robert Montgomery was crushed +flat, and rightly. Yet before this essay was written his poems +had a larger circulation than Southey or Coleridge, just as in our own +time Martin Tupper had a larger sale than Tennyson or Browning. +Fancy if Tupper had been treated in the same vein how the following +lines would have fared:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Weep, relentless eye of Nature,<br /> + Drop some pity on the soil,<br /> +Every plant and every creature<br /> + Droops and faints in dusty toil.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What do the plants toil at? I thought we knew they toil not, +neither do they spin. It goes on—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Then the cattle and the flowers<br /> + Yet shall raise their drooping heads,<br /> +And, refreshed by plenteous showers,<br /> + Lie down joyful in their beds.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 16--><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>Whether the flowers +are to lie down in the cattle beds or the cattle are to lie down in +the flower beds does not perhaps distinctly appear, but I venture to +think that either catastrophe is not so much to be desired as the poet +seems to imagine.</p> +<p>In the Diary of Jeames yellowplush a couplet of Lord Lytton’s +<i>Sea Captain</i> is thus dealt with—</p> +<blockquote><p> “Girl, beware,<br /> +The love that trifles round the charms it gilds<br /> +Oft ruins while it shines.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Igsplane this men and angels! I’ve tried everyway, +back’ards, for’ards, and in all sorts of tranceposishons +as thus—</p> +<blockquote><p>The love that ruins round the charms it shines<br /> +Gilds while it trifles oft,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>or</p> +<blockquote><p>The charm that gilds around the love it ruins<br /> +Oft trifles while it shines,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>or</p> +<blockquote><p>The ruin that love gilds and shines around<br /> +Oft trifles while it charms,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>or</p> +<blockquote><p>Love while it charms, shines round and ruins oft<br /> +The trifles that it gilds,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>or</p> +<blockquote><p>The love that trifles, gilds, and ruins oft<br /> +While round the charms it shines.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>All which are as sensable as the fust passidge.”</p> +<p>Dryden added coarseness to strength in his remarks when he wrote +of one of Settle’s plays:—“To conclude this act with +the most rumbling piece of nonsense spoken yet—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘To flattering lightning our feigned smiles conform,<br /> +Which, backed with thunder, do but gild a storm.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 17--><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>Conform a smile +to lightning, make a smile imitate lightning; lightning sure is a threatening +thing. And this lightning must gild a storm; and gild a storm +by being backed by thunder. So that here is gilding by conforming, +smiling lightning, backing and thundering. I am mistaken if nonsense +is not here pretty thick sown. Sure the poet writ these two lines +aboard some smack in a storm, and, being sea-sick, spewed up a good +lump of clotted nonsense at once.” Dryden wrote in a fit +of rage and spite, and it is not necessary to be vulgar in order to +be strong; but it is really a good thing to expose in plain language +the meandering nonsense which, unless detected, is apt to impose upon +careless readers, and so to encourage writers in their bad habits.</p> +<p>A young friend of mine imagined that he could make his fame as a +painter. Holding one of his pictures before his father, and his +father saying it was roughly and carelessly done, he said, “No, +but, father, look; it looks better if I hold it further off.” +“Yes, Charlie, the further you hold it off the better it looks.” +That was severe, but strong and just. The young man had no real +genius for painting, and his father knew it.</p> +<p>It must be remembered that criticism cannot be strong unless it be +the real opinion of the writer. If the critic is hampered by endeavouring +to make his own views square with those of the writer, or the publisher, +or the public, he cannot speak out his mind, but is half-hearted in +his work.</p> +<p>5. <i>Natural</i>.</p> +<p>Criticism should be natural, that is, not too artificial. This +is a somewhat difficult matter upon which to lay down any rules; but +one often feels what a terrible thing <!-- page 18--><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>it +is when one wants to admire something to be told, “Oh, but the +unities are not preserved,” or this or that is quite inadmissible +by all the rules of art.</p> +<p>“Hallo! you chairman, here’s sixpence; do step into that +bookseller’s shop, and call me a day-tall critic. I am very +willing to give any of them a crown to help me with his tackling to +get my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and to put them to bed.”</p> +<p>“And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night?” +“Oh, against all rule, my lord, most ungrammatically! Betwixt +the substantive and the adjective, which should agree together in number, +case, and gender, he made a breach thus—stopping as if the point +wanted settling; and betwixt the nominative case, which your lordship +knows should govern the verb, he suspended his voice a dozen times, +three seconds, and three fifths, by a stop watch, my lord, each time.” +Admirable grammarian! “But, in suspending his voice, was +the sense suspended likewise? Did no expression of attitude or +countenance fill up the chasm? Was the eye silent? Did you +narrowly look?” “I looked only at the stop watch, +my lord.” Excellent observer!” And what about +this new book that the whole world makes such a rout about?” +“Oh, it is out of all plumb, my lord, quite an irregular thing! +Not one of the angles at the four corners was a right angle. I +had my rule and compasses, my lord, in my pocket.” Excellent +critic! “And for the epic poem your lordship bid me look +at; upon taking the length, breadth, height, and depth of it, and trying +them at home upon an exact scale of Bossu’s, ’tis out, my +lord, in every one of its dimensions.” Admirable connoisseur! +“And did you step in to take a look at <!-- page 19--><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>the +grand picture on your way back.” “It is a melancholy +daub! my lord, not one principle of the pyramid in any one group; there +is nothing of the colouring of Titian, the expression of Rubens, the +grace of Raphael, the purity of Domenichino, the corregiescity of Corregio, +the learning of Poussin, the airs of Guido, the taste of the Caraccis, +or the grand contour of Angelo.” “Grant me patience, +just heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in this canting +world, though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst—the cant +of criticism is the most tormenting! I would go fifty miles on +foot, for I have not a horse worth riding on, to kiss the hand of that +man whose generous heart will give up the reins of his imaginations +into his author’s hands; be pleased, he knows not why, and cares +not wherefore. Great Apollo! if thou art in a giving humour, give +me—I ask no more—but one stroke of native humour with a +single spark of thy own fire along with it, and send Mercury with the +rules and compasses if he can be spared, with my compliments, to—no +matter.”</p> +<p>This is all very amusing, and I don’t know that the case upon +that side could be better stated, except that it is overstated; for, +if this be true, there ought to be no such thing as criticism at all, +and all rules are worse than useless. Everybody may do as he pleases. +And yet we know that not only is there a right way and a wrong of painting +a picture, writing a book, making a building, or composing a symphony, +but there are rules which, if disobeyed, will destroy the work. +These rules, apparently artificial, have their foundation in nature, +and were first dictated by her. Only we must be careful still +to appeal constantly to her as the source and fountain of our rules.</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 20--><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>“First +follow nature, and your judgment frame<br /> +By her just standard, which is still the same,<br /> +Unerring nature, still divinely blight,<br /> +One clear, unchanged, and universal light,<br /> +Life, force, and beauty must to all impart,<br /> +At once the source, and end, and test of art.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>By too much attention to theory, by too close a study of books, we +may become narrow-minded and pedantic, and gradually may become unable +to appreciate natural beauties, our whole attention being concentrated +on the defects in art. We want to listen to the call of the poet,</p> +<blockquote><p>“Come forth into the light of things,<br /> +Let nature be your teacher.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is nature that mellows and softens the distance, and brings out +sharply the lights and shadows of the foreground, and the artist must +follow her if he would succeed. It is nature who warbles softly +in the love notes of the bird, and who elevates the soul by the roar +of the cataract and the pealing of the thunder. To her the musician +and the poet listen, and imitate the great teacher. It is nature +who, in the structure of the leaf or in the avenue of the lofty limes, +teaches the architect how to adorn his designs with the most graceful +of embellishments, to rear the lofty column or display the lengthening +vista of the cathedral aisle. It is nature who is teaching us +all to be tender, loving, and true, and to love and worship God, and +to admire all His works. Let us then in our criticism refer everything +first of all to nature. Is the work natural? Does it follow +nature? Secondly, does it follow the rules of art? If it +passes the first test, it is well worth the courteous attention of <!-- page 21--><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>the +critic. If it passes both tests, it is perfect. But if only +the second test is passed, it may please a few pedants, but it is worthless, +and cannot live.</p> +<p>6. <i>Criticisms should be bonâ fide</i>.</p> +<p>You will be rather alarmed at a lawyer beginning this topic, and +will expect to hear pages of “Starkie on Libel,” or to have +all the perorations of Erskine’s speeches recited to you. +For one terrible moment I feel I have you in my power; but I scorn to +take advantage of the position. I don’t mean to talk about +libel at all, or, at least, not more than I can help. I have been +endeavouring to show what good criticism should be like. If criticism +is so base that there is a question to be left to a jury as to what +damages ought to be paid for the speaking or writing of it, one may +say at once that it is unworthy of the name of criticism at all. +Slander is not criticism. But there is a great deal of criticism +which may be called not <i>bonâ fide</i>, which is yet not malicious. +It is biassed perhaps, even from some charitable motive, perhaps from +some sordid motive, perhaps from indolence, from a desire to be thought +learned or clever, or what not—in fact, from one or other of those +thousand things which prevent persons from speaking fairly and straightforwardly. +When you take up the <i>Athenæum</i> or the <i>Spectator</i>, +and read from those very able reviews an account of the last new novel, +do you think the writer has written simply what he truly thinks and +feels about the matter? No! he has been told he has been dull +of late. He feels he must write a spicy review. He has a +cold in his head, he is savage accordingly. A friend of his tells +him he knows the author, or he recognizes the <!-- page 22--><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>name +of a college friend—he will be lenient. The book is on a +subject which he meant to take up himself; and, without knowing it, +he is jealous. I need not multiply further these suggestions which +will occur to anyone. We all remember the dinner in Paternoster +Row given by Mrs. Bungay, the publisher’s wife. Bungay and +Bacon are at daggers drawn; each married the sister of the other, and +they were for some time the closest friends and partners. Since +they have separated it is a furious war between the two publishers, +and no sooner does one bring out a book of travels or poems, but the +rival is in the field with something similar. We all remember +the delight of Mrs. Bungay when the Hon. Percy Popjoy drives up in a +private hansom with an enormous grey cab horse and a tiger behind, and +Mrs. Bacon is looking out grimly from the window on the opposite side +of the street. “In the name of commonsense, Mr. Pendennis,” +Shandon asked, “what have you been doing—praising one of +Mr. Bacon’s books? Bungay has been with me in a fury this +morning at seeing a laudatory article upon one of the works of the odious +firm over the way.” Pen’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. +“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that we are to praise +no books that Bacon publishes; or that if the books are good we are +to say that they are bad?” Pen says, “I would rather +starve, by Jove, and never earn another penny by my pen, than strike +an opponent an unfair blow, or if called upon to place him, rank him +below his honest desert.”</p> +<p>There was a trial in London in December, 1878, which illustrates +the subject I am upon. It was an <!-- page 23--><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>action +for libel by the well-known artist, Mr. Whistler, against Mr. Ruskin, +the most distinguished art critic of the age. The passage in the +writing of Mr. Ruskin, of which Mr. Whistler complained, contains, I +think, almost every fault which, according to my divisions, a criticism +can contain. The passage is as follows:—“For Mr. Whistler’s +own sake no less than for the protection of the purchaser, Sir Coutts +Lindsey ought not to have admitted works into the gallery in which the +ill-educated conceit of the artist so nearly approached the aspect of +wilful imposture. I have seen and heard much of cockney impudence +before now, but never expected to hear a coxcomb ask 200 guineas for +flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face.”</p> +<p>The Attorney-General of the day, as counsel for Mr. Ruskin, said +that this was a severe and slashing criticism, but perfectly fair and +<i>bonâ fide</i>.</p> +<p>Now, let us see. First, there is the expression, “the +ill-educated conceit of the artist nearly approached the aspect of wilful +imposture.” That may be severe and slashing, but is it fair? +If there <i>was</i> a wilful imposition, why not say so; but, of course, +there was not, and could not be; but it is most unfair to insinuate +that there nearly was. The truth is, the words “wilful imposture” +are a gross exaggeration. The jury, after retiring, came into +court and asked the judge what was the meaning of wilful imposture, +and, being told that it meant nothing in particular, they returned a +verdict of damages one farthing, which meant to say that they thought +equally little of Whistler’s picture and of Ruskin’s criticism. +Next we come to “Cockney impudence” and “coxcomb.” +Surely these terms must be grossly inappropriate <!-- page 24--><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>to +the subject in hand, which is Whistler’s painting, and not his +personal qualities. Next, it seems that Mr. Ruskin thinks it is +an offence to ask 200 guineas for a picture, but where the offence lies +we are not told. It might be folly to <i>give</i> 200 guineas +for one of Whistler’s pictures, but why should he be abused for +asking it? The insinuation is that it is a false pretence, and +such an insinuation is not <i>bonâ fide</i>. Lastly, we +are told that Mr. Whistler has been flinging a pot of paint in the public’s +face. In the first place, this is vulgar. In the next place, +it is absurd. When Sydney Smith said that someone’s writing +was like a spider having escaped from the inkstand and wandered over +the paper, it was an exaggerated criticism, but it was appropriate. +But if Mr. Whistler flung a pot of paint anywhere, it was upon his own +canvas, and not into the face of the public. Now, let anybody +think what is the effect of such criticism. Is one enabled by +the light of it to see the merits or faults of Whistler’s painting? +And yet this was written by the greatest art critic in this country, +by the man who has done more to reveal the secrets of Nature and of +Art to us all than any man living, and, I had almost said, than any +living or dead. But passion and arrogance are not criticism; and, +in the sense in which I have used the term, such criticism is not <i>bonâ +fide</i>. Well may Mr. Matthew Arnold say, speaking of Mr. Ruskin’s +criticism upon another subject, that he forgets all moderation and proportion, +and loses the balance of his mind. This, he says, “is to +show in one’s criticism to the highest excess the note of provinciality.”</p> +<p>There was, once upon a time, a very strong Court of <!-- page 25--><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>Appeal. +It was universally acknowledged to be so, and the memory of it still +remains, and very old lawyers still love to recall its glories. +It was composed of Lord Chancellor Campbell and the Lords Justices Knight-Bruce +and Turner. Bethell (afterwards Lord Westbury) was an ambitious +and aspiring man, and was always most caustic in his criticisms. +He had been arguing before the above Court one day, and upon his turning +round after finishing his argument, some counsel in the row behind him +asked, “Well, Bethell, how will their judgment go?” +Bethell replied, in his softest but most cutting tones, “I do +not know. Knight-Bruce is a jack-pudding. Turner is an old +woman. And no human being can by any possibility predict what +will fall from the lips of that inexpressibly fatuous individual who +sits in the middle.” This is funny, but it is vulgar, and +it is not given in good faith. It is the offspring of anger and +spite mixed with a desire to be clever and antithetical.</p> +<p>I gather from Mr. Matthew Arnold’s essays on criticism that +the endeavour of the critic should be to see the object criticized “as +in itself it really is,” or as in another passage he says, “Real +criticism obeys an instinct prompting it to know the best that is known +and thought in the world.” “In order to do or to be +this, criticism,” he says, in italics, “ought to be <i>disinterested</i>.” +He points out how much English criticism is not disinterested. +He says, “We have the <i>Edinburgh Review</i>, existing as an +organ of the old Whigs, and for as much play of mind as may suit its +being <i>that</i>; we have the <i>Quarterly Review</i>, existing as +an organ of the Tories, and for as much play of mind as may suit its +being that; we have the <i>British Quarterly Review</i>, existing as +an <!-- page 26--><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>organ of the political +Dissenters, and for as much play of mind as may suit its being that; +we have the <i>Times</i> existing as an organ of the common satisfied +well-to-do Englishman, and for as much play of mind as may suit its +being that. . . . Directly this play of mind wants to have more +scope, and to forget the pressure of practical considerations a little, +it is checked, it is made to feel the chain. We saw this the other +day in the extinction so much to be regretted of the <i>Home and Foreign +Review</i>; perhaps in no organ of criticism was there so much knowledge, +so much play of mind; but these could not save it. It must needs +be that men should act in sects and parties, that each of these sects +and parties should have its organ, and should make this organ subserve +the interest of its action; but it would be well too that there should +be a criticism, not the minister of those interests, nor their enemy, +but absolutely and entirely independent of them. No other criticism +will ever attain any real authority, or make any real way towards its +end,—the creating a current of true and fresh ideas.”</p> +<p>This, it must be remembered, was written in 1865. Would Mr. +Matthew Arnold be happier now with the <i>Fortnightly</i> and the <i>Nineteenth +Century</i> and others? There is, I think, a good deal of truth +in the passage I have just quoted. I think he might have allowed +that, among so many writers, each advocating his own view or the view +of his party or sect, we ought to have some chance of forming a judgment. +A question seems to get a fair chance of being</p> +<blockquote><p>“Set in all lights by many minds<br /> +To close the interests of all.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 27--><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>But, as I said, +there is a good deal in what the writer says. The <i>Daily News</i> +says the Government is all wrong, and the <i>Daily Telegraph</i> says +it is all right; and if any paper ventured to be moderate it would go +to the wall in a week. I think what he says is true, but there +is no occasion to be so angry about it. We really are very thankful +for such men as Carlyle, Ruskin, and Matthew Arnold, and I can’t +help thinking they have had their proper share of praise, and have had +their share of influence upon their age. The air of neglected +superiority, which they assume, detracts not a little from the pleasure +with which one always reads them.</p> +<p>Perhaps some of my conservative friends will regret the good old +times in which criticism was really criticism, when a book had to run +the gauntlet of a few well established critics of <i>the</i> club, or +a play was applauded or damned by a select few in the front row of the +pit. I agree to lament a past which can never return, but, on +the whole, I think we are the gainers. Also, I very much incline +to think that the standard of criticism is higher now than in the very +palmy days when Addison wrote; or when the <i>Edinburgh</i> or <i>Quarterly</i> +were first started. I incline to agree with Leslie Stephen in +his <i>Hours in a Library</i>, that, if most of the critical articles +of even Jeffrey and Mackintosh were submitted to a modern editor, he +would reject them as inadequate; but I think that perhaps they excel +our modern efforts in a certain reserve and dignity, and in a more matured +thoughtfulness.</p> +<p>If criticism is an art, such as I have described it, and is subject +to certain rules and conditions; if good criticism is appreciative, +proportionate, appropriate, strong, natural, and <i>bonâ fide</i>, +and bad criticism is the <!-- page 28--><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>reverse +of all this, why, you will ask, cannot the art be taught by some School +or Academy; and if criticism is so important a matter as you say, surely +the State might see to it? I must own I am against it. Mr. +Matthew Arnold, who is much in favour of founding an academy, which +is not only to judge of original works but of the criticisms of others +upon them, states the matter very fairly. He says, “So far +as routine and authority tend to embarrass energy and inventive genius, +academies may be said to be obstructive to energy and inventive genius; +and, to this extent, to the human spirit’s general advance. +But then this evil is so much compensated by the propagation on a large +scale of the mental aptitudes and demands, which an open mind and a +flexible intelligence naturally engender; genius itself in the long +run so greatly finds its account in this propagation, and bodies like +the French Academy have such power for promoting it, that the general +advance of the human spirit is perhaps, on the whole, rather furthered +than impeded by their existence.”</p> +<p>But I do not accede to this opinion. It is under the free open +air of heaven, in the wild woods and the meadows that the loveliest +and sweetest flowers bloom, and not in the trim gardens or the hot-houses, +and even in our gardens in England we strive to preserve some lingering +traits of the open country. I believe that just as the gift of +freedom to the masses of our countrymen teaches them to use that freedom +with care and intelligence, just as the abolition of tests and oaths +makes men loyal and trustworthy, so it is well to have freedom in literature +and criticism. Mistakes will be made and mischief done, but in +the <!-- page 29--><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>long run the effect +of a keen competition, and an advancing public taste will tell. +I don’t hesitate to assert, without fear of contradiction, that +critical art has improved rapidly during the last twenty years in this +country, where a man is free to start a critical review, and to write +about anybody, or anything, and in any manner, provided he keeps within +the law. He is only restrained by the competition of others, and +by the public taste, which are both constantly increasing. No +doubt an author will write with greater spirit, and with greater decorum, +if he knows that his merits are sure to be fairly acknowledged, and +his faults certain to be accurately noted. But this object may +be attained, I believe, without an academy. On the other hand, +what danger there is in an academy becoming cliquey, nay even corrupt. +We have an academy here in the painting art, but except that it collects +within its walls every year a vaster number of daubs than it is possible +for any one ever to see with any degree of comfort, I don’t know +what particular use it is of. As a school or college it may be +of use, but as a critical academy it does very little.</p> +<p>I have thus endeavoured to show what I mean by my six divisions of +criticism, and I have no doubt you will all of you have divined that +my six divisions are capable of being expressed in one word, Criticism +must be <i>true</i>. To be true, it must be appreciative, or understanding, +it must be in due proportion, it must be appropriate, it must be strong, +it must be natural, it must be <i>bonâ fide</i>. There is +nothing which an Englishman hates so much as being false. Our +great modern poet, in one of his strongest lines, says—</p> +<blockquote><p>“This is a shameful thing for men to lie.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 30--><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>And he speaks of +Wellington—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Truth teller was our England’s Alfred named,<br /> +Truth lover was our English Duke.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Emerson notices that many of our phrases turn upon this love of truth, +such as “The English of this is,” “Honour bright,” +“His word is as good as his bond.”</p> +<blockquote><p>“’Tis not enough taste, learning, judgment +join;<br /> +In all you speak let truth, and candour shine.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I am certain that if men and women would believe that it is important +that they should form a true judgment upon things, and that they should +speak or write it when required, we should get rid of a great deal of +bad art, bad books, bad pictures, bad buildings, bad music, and bad +morals. I am further certain that by constantly uttering false +criticisms we perpetuate such things. And what harm we are doing +to our own selves in the meantime! How habitually warped, how +unsteady, how feeble, the judgment becomes, which is not kept bright +and vigorous through right use. How insensibly we become callous +or indolent about forming a correct judgment. “It is a pleasure +to stand upon the shore and see the ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure +to stand in the window of a castle and to see a battle and the adventures +thereof below: but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the +vantage ground of truth (a hill not to be commanded and where the air +is always clear and serene) and to see the errors and wanderings and +mists and tempests in the vale below, so always that this prospect be +with pity and not with swelling or pride. Certainly it is heaven +upon earth to have a man’s mind move in charity, rest in Providence, +and turn upon the poles of truth.”</p> +<p><!-- page 31--><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>In conclusion, I +am aware that I have treated the subject most inadequately, and that +others have treated the same subject with much more power; but I am +satisfied of the great importance of a right use of the critical faculty, +and I think it may be that my mode of treatment may arrest the attention +of some minds which are apt to be frightened at a learned method, and +may induce them to take more heed of the judgments which they are hourly +passing on a great variety of subjects. If we still persist in +saying when some one jingles some jig upon the piano that it is “charming,” +if we say of every daub in the Academy that it is “lovely,” +if every new building or statue is pronounced “awfully jolly,” +if the fastidious rubbish of the last volume of poetry is “grand,” +if the slip-shod grammar of the last new novel is “quite sweet,” +when shall we see an end of these bad things? And observe further, +these bad things live on and affect the human mind for ever. Bad +things are born of bad. Who can tell what may be the effect of +seeing day by day an hideous building, of hearing day by day indifferent +music, of constantly reading a lot of feeble twaddle? Surely one +effect will be that we shall gradually lose our appreciation of what +is good and beautiful. “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.” +Ah! but we must have eyes to see it. This springtime is lovely, +if we have the eyes to see it; but, if we have not, its loveliness is +nothing to us, and if we miss seeing it we shall have dimmer eyes to +see it next year and the next; and if we cannot now see beauty and truth +through the glass darkly, we shall be unable to gaze on them when we +come to see them face to face.</p> +<h3><!-- page 32--><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>II. ON LUXURY.</h3> +<p>An eminent lawyer of my acquaintance had a Socratic habit of interrupting +the conversation by saying, “Let us understand one another: when +you say so-and-so, do you mean so-and-so, or something quite different?” +Now, although it is intolerable that the natural flow of social intercourse +should be thus impeded, yet in writing a paper to be laid before a learned +and fastidious society one is bound to let one’s hearers a little +into the secret, and to state fairly what the subject of the essay really +is. I suppose we shall all admit that bad luxury is bad, and good +luxury is good, unless the phrase good luxury is a contradiction in +terms. We must try to avoid disputing about words. The word +luxury, according to its derivation, signifies an extravagant and outrageous +indulgence of the appetites or desires. If we take this as the +meaning of the word, we shall agree that luxury is bad; but if we take +luxury to be only another name for the refinements of civilization, +we shall all approve of it. But the real and substantial question +is not what the word means, but, what is that thing which we all agree +is bad or good; where does the bad begin and the good end; how are we +to discern the difference; and how are we to avoid the one and embrace +the other. In this essay, therefore, I intend to use the word +luxury to denote that indulgence <!-- page 33--><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>which +interferes with the full and proper exercise of all the faculties, powers, +tastes, and whatever is good and worthy in a man. Enjoyments, +relaxations, delights, indulgences which are beneficial, I do not denominate +“luxury.” All indulgences which fit us for our duties +are good; all which tend to unfit us for them are bad; and these latter +I call luxuries. Some one will say, perhaps, that some indulgences +are merely indifferent, and produce no appreciable effect upon body +or mind; and it might be enough to dismiss such things with the maxim, +“<i>de minimis non curat lex</i>.” But the doctrine +is dangerous, and I doubt if anything in this world is absolutely immaterial. +De Quincey mentions the case of a man who committed a murder, which +at the time he thought little about, but he was led on from that to +gambling and Sabbath breaking. Probably in this weary world any +indulgence or pleasure which is not bad is not indifferent, but absolutely +good. The world is not so bright, so comfortable, so pleasant, +that we can afford to scorn the good the gods provide us. In Mr. +Reade’s book on <i>Study and Stimulants</i>, Matthew Arnold says, +a moderate use of wine adds to the agreeableness of life, and whatever +adds to the agreeableness of life, adds to its resources and powers. +There cannot be a doubt that the bodily frame is capable of being wearied, +and that it needs repose and refreshment, and this is a law which a +man trifles with at his peril. The same is true of the intellectual +and moral faculties. They claim rest and refreshment; they must +have comfort and pleasure or they will begin to flag. It must +also be always remembered that in the every-day work of this world the +body and the mind have to go through a great deal which is <!-- page 34--><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>depressing +and taxing to the energy, and a certain amount of “set off” +is required to keep the balance even. We must remember this especially +with respect to the poor. Pipes and cigars may be a luxury to +the idle and rich, but we ought not to grudge a pipe to a poor man who +is overworked and miserable. Some degree of comfort we all feel +to be at times essential when we have a comfortless task to perform. +With good food and sleep, for instance, we can get through the roughest +work; with the relaxation of pleasant society we can do the most tedious +daily work. If, on the other hand, we are worried and uncomfortable, +we become unfitted for our business. We all have our troubles +to contend against, and we require comfort, relaxation, stimulation +of some sort to help us in the battle. There are certain duties +which most of us have to perform, and which, to use a common expression, +“take it out of us.” Thus most of us are compelled +to travel more or less. An old gentleman travelling by coach on +a long journey wished to sleep off the tediousness of the night, but +his travelling companion woke him up every ten minutes with the inquiry, +“Well, sir, how are you by this.” At last the old +gentleman’s patience was fairly tired out. “I was +very well when I got into the coach, and I’m very well now, and +if any change takes place I’ll let you know.” I was +coming from London to Beckenham, and in the carriage with me was a gentleman +quietly and attentively reading the newspaper. A lady opposite +to him, whenever we came to a station, cried out, “Oh, what station’s +this, what station’s this?” Being told, she subsided, +more or less, till the next station. The gentleman’s patience +was at last exhausted. “If there is any <!-- page 35--><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span><i>particular</i> +station at which you wish to alight I will inform you when we arrive.”</p> +<p>Such are some of the annoying circumstances of travel. Then, +at the end of the journey, are we sure of a comfortable night’s +rest? It was a rule upon circuit that the barristers arriving +at an inn had the choice of bedrooms according to seniority, and woe +betide the junior who dared to infringe the rule and endeavour to secure +by force or fraud the best bedroom. The leaders, who had the hardest +work to do, required the best night’s rest. A party of barristers +arrived late one night at their accustomed inn, a half-way house to +the next assize town, and found one of the best bedrooms already occupied. +They were told by some wag that it was occupied by a young man just +joined the circuit. There was a rush to the bedroom. The +culprit was dragged out of bed and deposited on the floor. A venerable +old gentleman in a nightcap and gown addressed the ringleader of his +assailants, Serjeant Golbourne, “Brother Golbourne, brother Golbourne, +is this the way to treat a Christian judge?” I should not +have liked to have been one of those who had to conduct a cause before +him next day. Who can be generous, benevolent, kindly, and even-tempered +if one is to be subjected to such harassing details as I have above +narrated? and I have no doubt that a fair amount of comfort is necessary +to the exercise of the Christian virtues. I am not at all sure +that pilgrims prayed any better because they had peas in their shoes, +and it is well known that soldiers fight best when they are well fed. +A certain amount of comfort and pleasure is good for us, and is refreshing +to body and spirit. Such things, for instance, as the bath <!-- page 36--><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>in +the morning; the cup of warm tea or coffee for breakfast; the glass +of beer or wine and variety of food at dinner; the rest or nap in the +arm-chair or sofa; an occasional novel; the pipe before going to bed; +the change of dress; music or light reading in the evening; even the +night-cap recommended by Mr. Banting; games of chance or skill; dancing;—surely +such things may renovate, soothe, and render more elastic and vigorous +both body and mind.</p> +<p>While, therefore, I have admitted fully that we all require “sweetness +and light,” that some indulgence is necessary for the renovation +of our wearied souls and bodies; yet it very often will happen that +the thing in which we desire to indulge does not tend at all in this +direction, or it may be that, although a moderate indulgence does so +tend, an immoderate use has precisely the reverse effect. My subject, +therefore, divides itself, firstly, into a consideration of those luxuries +which are <i>per se</i> deleterious, and those which are so only by +excessive use.</p> +<p>I suppose you will not be surprised to hear that I think we are in +danger, in the upper and middle classes at all events, of going far +beyond the point where pleasures and indulgences tend to the improvement +of body and mind. Surely there are many of us who can remember +when the habits of our fathers were less luxurious than they are now. +In a leading article in a newspaper not long ago the writer said, “All +classes without exception spend too much on what may be called luxuries. +A very marked change in this respect has been noticed by every one who +studies the movements of society. Among people <!-- page 37--><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>whose +fathers regarded champagne as a devout Aryan might have regarded the +Soma juice—viz., as a beverage reserved for the gods and for millionaires—the +foaming grape of Eastern France is now habitually consumed. . . .” +He goes on, “The luxuries of the poor are few, and chiefly consist +of too much beer, and of little occasional dainties. What pleasures +but the grossest does the State provide for the artisan’s leisure?” +“It does not do,” says the writer, “to be hard upon +them, but it is undeniable that this excess of expenditure on what in +no sense profits them is enormous in the mass.”</p> +<p>Not long ago a great outcry was heard about the extravagance and +luxury of the working man. It was stated often, and certainly +not without foundation, that the best of everything in the markets in +the way of food was bought at the highest prices by workmen or their +wives; and although the champagne was not perhaps so very freely indulged +in, nor so pure as might be wished, yet, that the working men indulged +themselves in more drink than was good for their stomachs, and in more +expensive drinks than was good for their purses, no man can doubt.</p> +<p>If this increase of luxury is observable in the lower classes, how +much more easily can it be discerned in the middle classes. Take +for instance the pleasures of the table. I do not speak of great +entertainments or life in palaces or great houses, which do not so much +vary from one age to another, but of the ordinary life of people like +ourselves. Spenser says:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The antique world excess and pryde did hate,<br /> +Such proud luxurious pomp is swollen up of late.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>How many more dishes and how many more wines do <!-- page 38--><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>we +put on the table than our ancestors afforded. Pope writes of Balaam’s +housekeeping:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“A single dish the week day meal affords,<br /> +An added pudding solemnized the Lord’s.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then when he became rich:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Live like yourself was soon my lady’s word,<br /> +And lo, two puddings smoked upon the board!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then his description of his own table is worth noting:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Content with little, I can manage here<br /> +On brocoli and mutton round the year,<br /> +’Tis true no turbots dignify my boards,<br /> +But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.</p> +<p>To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down;<br /> +Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own,<br /> +From yon old walnut tree a show’r shall fall,<br /> +And grapes, long lingering on my only wall,<br /> +And figs from standard and espalier join—<br /> +The deuce is in you if you cannot dine.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Now, however, the whole world is put under contribution to supply +our daily meals, and the palate is being constantly stimulated, and +in some degree impaired by a variety of food and wine. And I am +sure that the effect of this is to produce a distaste for wholesome +food. I daresay we have all heard of the Scotchman who had drunk +too much whisky. He said, “I can’t drink water; it +turns sae acid on the stomach.” This increase of the luxuries +of the table, beyond what was the habit of our fathers, is shown chiefly, +I think, when we are at home and alone; but if one is visiting or entertaining +others, how often is one perfectly bored by the quantity of food and +drink which is handed round. Things in season and out of season, +perhaps ill <!-- page 39--><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>assorted, +ill cooked, cold, and calculated to make one extremely ill, but no doubt +costing a great deal of money, time, and anxiety to the givers of the +feast. Then we fall to grumbling, and are discontented with having +too much, but having acquired a habit of expecting it we grumble still +more if there is not as much as usual provided.</p> +<blockquote><p>“He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,<br /> +And neither leans on this side or on that;<br /> +Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler’s pay;<br /> +Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;<br /> +Nor lets, like Nevius, every error pass—<br /> +The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But what is the modern idea of a dinner?—</p> +<blockquote><p>“After oysters Sauterne; then sherry, champagne,<br /> +E’er one bottle goes comes another again;<br /> +Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above,<br /> +And tell to our ears in the sounds that they love,<br /> + How pleasant it is to have money,<br /> + Heigh ho;<br /> + How pleasant it is to have money!</p> +<p>Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock;<br /> +Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc;<br /> +St. Peray is exquisite; but, if you please,<br /> +Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese.<br /> + So pleasant it is to have money,<br /> + Heigh ho;<br /> + So pleasant it is to have money!</p> +<p>Fish and soup and omelette and all that—but the deuce—<br /> +There were to be woodcocks and not Charlotte Russe,<br /> +And so suppose now, while the things go away,<br /> +By way of a grace, we all stand up and say—<br /> + How pleasant it is to have money,<br /> + Heigh ho;<br /> + How pleasant it is to have money!</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 40--><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>This, of course, +is meant to be satirical; but no doubt many persons regard the question +of “good living” as much more important than “high +thinking.” “My dear fellow,” said Thackeray, +when a dish was served at the Rocher de Cancalle, “don’t +let us speak a word till we have finished this dish.”</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘Mercy!’ cries Helluo. ‘Mercy +on my soul!<br /> +Is there no hope? Alas!—then bring the jowl.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A great peer, who had expended a large fortune, summoned his heir +to his death-bed, and told him that he had a secret of great importance +to impart to him, which might be some compensation for the injury he +had done him. The secret was that crab sauce was better than lobster +sauce.</p> +<p>“Persicos odi,” “I hate all your Frenchified fuss.”</p> +<blockquote><p>“But a nice leg of mutton, my Lucy,<br /> + I prithee get ready by three;<br /> +Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy,<br /> + And, what better meat can there be?<br /> +And when it has served for the master,<br /> + ’Twill amply suffice for the maid;<br /> +Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,<br /> + And tipple my ale in the shade.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Can anything be more awful than a public dinner—the waste, +the extravagance, the outrageous superfluity of everything, the enormous +waste of time, the solemn gorging, as if the whole end and aim of life +were turtle and venison. I do not know whether to dignify such +proceedings by the name of luxury. But what shall I say of gentlemen’s +clubs. They are the very hotbed of luxury. By merely asking +for it you obtain almost anything you require in the way of luxury. +I am aware that <!-- page 41--><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>many +men at clubs live more carefully and frugally, but I am aware also that +a great many acquire habits of self-indulgence which produce idleness +and selfish indifference to the wants of others. In a still more +pernicious fashion, I think that refreshment bars at railway stations +minister to luxury; at least I am sure they foster a habit of drinking +more than is necessary, or desirable; and that is one form of luxury, +and a very bad one. The fellows of a Camford college are reported +to have met on one occasion and voted that we do sell our chapel organ; +and the next motion, carried <i>nem. con</i>., was that we do have a +dinner. As to ornaments for the dinner table what affectation +and expense do we see. But in the days of Walpole it was not amiss. +“The last branch of our fashion into which the close observation +of nature has been introduced is our desserts. Jellies, biscuits, +sugar plums, and creams have long since given way to harlequins, gondoliers, +Turks, Chinese, and shepherdesses of Saxon china. Meadows of cattle +spread themselves over the table. Cottages in sugar, and temples +in barley sugar, pigmy Neptunes in cars of cockle shells trampling over +oceans of looking glass or seas of silver tissue. Gigantic figures +succeed to pigmies; and it is known that a celebrated confectioner complained +that, after having prepared a middle dish of gods and goddesses eighteen +feet high, his lord would not cause the ceiling of his parlour to be +demolished to facilitate their entrée. “<i>Imaginez-vous</i>,” +said he, “<i>que milord n’a pas vouler faire ôter +le plafond</i>!”</p> +<p>To show how much luxurious living has increased during the present +century I propose to quote a portion of that wonderfully brilliant third +chapter of Macaulay’s <!-- page 42--><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span><i>England</i> +which we all know. Speaking of the squire of former days, he says, +“His chief serious employment was the care of his property. +He examined samples of grain, handled pigs, and, on market days, made +bargains over a tankard with drovers and hop merchants. His chief +pleasures were commonly derived from field sports and from an unrefined +sensuality. His language and pronunciation were such as we should +now expect to hear only from the most ignorant clowns. His oaths, +coarse jests, and scurrilous terms of abuse were uttered with the broadest +accent of his province. It was easy to discern from the first +words which he spoke whether he came from Somersetshire or Yorkshire. +He troubled himself little about decorating his abode, and, if he attempted +decoration, seldom produced anything but deformity. The litter +of a farm-yard gathered under the windows of his bed-chamber, and the +cabbages and gooseberry bushes grew close to his hall door. His +table was loaded with coarse plenty; and guests were cordially welcomed +to it. But as the habit of drinking to excess was general in the +class to which he belonged, and as his fortune did not enable him to +intoxicate large assemblies daily with claret or canary, strong beer +was the ordinary beverage. The quantity of beer consumed in those +days was indeed enormous. For beer was then to the middle and +lower classes not only what beer is now, but all that wine, tea, and +ardent spirits now are. It was only at great houses or on great +occasions that foreign drink was placed on the board. The ladies +of the house, whose business it had commonly been to cook the repast, +retired as soon as the dishes were devoured, and left the gentlemen +to their ale and tobacco. The <!-- page 43--><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>coarse +jollity of the afternoon was often prolonged till the revellers were +laid under the table.”</p> +<p>I quote again from another portion of the same chapter in Macaulay:—“Slate +has succeeded to thatch, and brick to timber. The pavements and +the lamps, the display of wealth in the principal shops, and the luxurious +neatness of the dwellings occupied by the gentry, would, in the seventeenth +century, have seemed miraculous.” Speaking of watering-places +he says:—“The gentry of Derbyshire and of the neighbouring +counties repaired to Buxton, where they were crowded into low wooden +sheds and regaled with oatcake, and with a viand which the hosts called +mutton, but which the guests strongly suspected to be dog.” +Of Tunbridge Wells he says—“At present we see there a town +which would, a hundred and sixty years ago, have ranked in population +fourth or fifth among the towns in England. The brilliancy of +the shops and the luxury of the private dwellings far surpasses anything +that England could then show.” At Bath “the poor patients +to whom the waters had been recommended, lay on straw in a place which, +to use the language of a contemporary physician, was a covert rather +than a lodging. As to the comforts and luxuries to be found in +the interior of the houses at Bath by the fashionable visitors who resorted +thither in search of health and amusement, we possess information more +complete and minute than generally can be obtained on such subjects. +A writer assures us that in his younger days the gentlemen who visited +the springs slept in rooms hardly as good as the garrets which he lived +to see occupied by footmen. The floors of the dining-room were +uncarpeted, and were coloured brown with a wash made of soot and small +beer <!-- page 44--><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>in order to hide +the dirt. Not a wainscot was painted. Not a hearth or chimney +piece was of marble. A slab of common freestone, and fire-irons +which had cost from three to four shillings, were thought sufficient +for any fireplace. The best apartments were hung with coarse woollen +stuff, and were furnished with rush-bottomed chairs.”</p> +<p>Of London Macaulay says:—“The town did not, as now, fade +by imperceptible degrees into the country. No long avenues of +villas, embowered in lilacs and laburnum, extended from the great source +of wealth and civilization almost to the boundaries of Middlesex, and +far into the heart of Kent and Surrey.” In short, there +was nothing like the Avenue and the Fox Grove, Beckenham, in old times, +and we who live there ought to be immensely grateful for our undeserved +blessings. “At present,” he says, “the bankers, +the merchants, and the chief shopkeepers repair to the city on six mornings +of every week for the transaction of business; but they reside in other +quarters of the metropolis or suburban country seats, surrounded by +shrubberies and flower gardens.” Again, “If the most +fashionable parts of the capital could be placed before us, such as +they then were, we should be disgusted by their squalid appearance, +and poisoned by their noisome atmosphere. In Covent Garden a filthy +and noisy market was held close to the dwellings of the great. +Fruit women screamed, carters fought, cabbage stalks and rotten apples +accumulated in heaps at the thresholds of the Countess of Berkshire +and of the Bishop of Durham.”</p> +<p>Well, you will say, all this proves what a vast improvement we have +achieved. Yes; but we must remember <!-- page 45--><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>that +Macaulay was writing on that side of the question. Are we not +more self-indulgent, more fond of our flowers, villas, carriages, etc., +than we need be; less hard working and industrious; more desirous of +getting the means of indulgence by some short and ready way—by +speculation, gambling, and shady, if not dishonest dealing—than +our fathers were? I need not follow at further length Macaulay’s +description of these earlier times—of the black rivulets roaring +down Ludgate Hill, filled with the animal and vegetable filth from the +stalls of butchers and greengrocers, profusely thrown to right and left +upon the foot-passengers upon the narrow pavements; the garret windows +opened and pails emptied upon the heads below; thieves prowling about +the dark streets at night, amid constant rioting and drunkenness; the +difficulties and discomforts of travelling, when the carriages stuck +fast in the quagmires; the travellers attacked by highwaymen. +He narrates how it took Prince George of Denmark, who visited Petworth +in wet weather, six hours to go nine miles. Compare this to a +journey in a first-class carriage or Pullman car upon the Midland Railway, +and think of the luxuries demanded by the traveller on his journey if +he is going to travel for more than two or three hours: the dinner, +the coffee, the cigar, the newspaper and magazine, etc., etc.</p> +<p>There is a passage in the beginning of <i>Tom Brown’s School +Days</i> in which the author ridicules the quantity of great coats, +wrappers, and rugs which a modern schoolboy takes with him, though he +is going to travel first class, with foot-warmers. Then, in our +houses, what stoves and hot-water pipes and baths do we not require! +How many soaps and powders, rough towels and soft <!-- page 46--><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>towels! +Sir Charles Napier, I think, said that all an officer wanted to take +with him on a campaign was a towel, a tooth-brush, and a piece of yellow +soap. The great excuse for the bath is that if it is warm it is +cleansing; if it is cold, it is invigorating; but what shall we say +to Turkish Baths? Surely there is more time wasted than enough, +and, unless as a medical cure, it may become an idle habit. I +have seen private Turkish Baths in private houses. What are we +coming to? We used to be proud of our ordinary wash-hand basins, +and make fun of the little saucers that we found provided for our ablutions +upon the Continent. At the time of the great Exhibition of 1851 +<i>Punch</i> had a picture of two very grimy Frenchmen regarding with +wonder an ordinary English wash-stand. “<i>Comment appelle-t’on +cette machine là</i>,” says one; to which the other replies, +“<i>Je ne sais pas</i>, <i>mais c’est drôle</i>.” +A great advance has been made in the furniture of our houses. +We fill our rooms, especially our drawing-rooms or boudoirs, with endless +arm-chairs and sofas of various shapes—all designed to give repose +to the limbs; but I am sure they tend towards lazy habits, and very +often interfere with work. Surely there has lately risen a custom +of overdoing the embellishment and ornamentation of our houses. +We fill our rooms too full of all sorts of knick-knacks, so much so +that we can hardly move about for fear of upsetting something. +“I have a fire [in my bedroom] all day,” writes Carlyle. +“The bed seems to be about eight feet wide. Of my paces +the room measures fifteen from end to end, forty-five feet long, height +and width proportionate, with ancient, dead-looking portraits of queens, +kings, Straffords and principalities, etc., really the uncomfortablest +<!-- page 47--><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>acme of luxurious comfort +that any Diogenes was set into in these late years.” Thoreau’s +furniture at Walden consisted of a bed, a table, a desk, three chairs, +a looking-glass three inches in diameter, a pair of tongs, a kettle, +a frying-pan, a wash-bowl, two knives and forks, three plates, one cup, +one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug for molasses, and a japanned lamp. +There were no ornaments. He writes, “I had three pieces +of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required +to be dusted daily, and I threw them out of the window in disgust.”</p> +<p>“Our cottage is quite large enough for us, though very small,” +wrote Miss Wordsworth, “and we have made it neat and comfortable +within doors; and it looks very nice on the outside, for though the +roses and honeysuckle which we have planted against it are only of this +year’s growth, yet it is covered all over with green leaves and +scarlet flowers, for we have trained scarlet beans upon threads, which +are not only exceedingly beautiful, but very useful, as their produce +is immense. We have made a lodging room of the parlour below stairs, +which has a stone floor, therefore we have covered it all over with +matting. We sit in a room above stairs, and we have one lodging +room with two single beds, a sort of lumber room, and a small, low, +unceiled room, which I have papered with newspapers, and in which we +have put a small bed. Our servant is an old woman of 60 years +of age, whom we took partly out of charity.” Here Miss Wordsworth +and her brother, the great poet, lived on the simplest fare and drank +cold water, and hence issued those noble poems which more than any others +teach us the higher life.</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 48--><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>“Blush, +grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw your blaze;<br /> +Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“I turned schoolmaster,” says Sydney Smith, “to +educate my son, as I could not afford to send him to school. Mrs. +Sydney turned schoolmistress to educate my girls as I could not afford +a governess. I turned farmer as I could not let my land. +A man servant was too expensive, so I caught up a little garden girl, +made like a milestone, christened her Bunch, put a napkin in her hand, +and made her my butler. The girls taught her to read, Mrs. Sydney +to wait, and I undertook her morals. Bunch became the best butler +in the country. I had little furniture, so I bought a cartload +of deals; took a carpenter (who came to me for parish relief) called +Jack Robinson, with a face like a full moon, into my service, established +him in a barn, and said, ‘Jack, furnish my house.’ +You see the result.”</p> +<p>Then what shall I say of the luxury of endless daily papers, leading +articles, short paragraphs, reviews, illustrated papers,—are not +these luxuries? Are they not inventions for making thought easy, +or rather for the purpose of relieving us from the trouble of thinking +for ourselves. May I also, without raising a religious controversy, +observe that in religious worship we are prone to relieve ourselves +from the trouble of deep and consecutive thought by surrounding our +minds with a sort of mist of feeling and sentiment; by providing beautiful +music, pictures, and ornaments, and so resting satisfied in a somewhat +indolent feeling of goodness, and not troubling ourselves with too much +effort of reason. A love of the beautiful undoubtedly tends to +elevate and refine the mind, but the follies of the false <!-- page 49--><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>love +and the dangers of an inordinate love are numerous and deadly. +It is absurd that a man should either be or pretend to be absolutely +absorbed in the worship of a dado or a China tea cup so as to care for +nothing else, and to be unable to do anything else but stare at it with +his head on one side. With most people the whole thing is the +mere affectation of affected people, who, if they were not affected +in one way, would be so in another. Boswell was a very affected +man. He says, “I remember it distressed me to think of going +into another world where Shakespeare’s poetry did not exist; but +a lady relieved me by saying, ‘The first thing you will meet in +the other world will be an elegant copy of Shakespeare’s works +presented to you.’” Boswell says he felt much comforted, +but I suspect the lady was laughing at him. I like the “elegant +copy” very much. It is certain that in this world there +is a deal of rough work to be done, and I feel that, attractive and +beautiful as so many things are, too much absorption of them has a weakening +and enervating effect.</p> +<p>I have spoken of the luxuries of the table, of the house, of travel, +and of a love of ease and beautiful surroundings. There are, however, +some people who are very luxurious without caring much for any of these +things. Their main desire appears to be to live a long time, and +to preserve their youth and beauty to the last. For this purpose +they surround themselves with comfort, they decline to see or hear of +anything which they don’t like for fear it should make their hair +grey and their faces wrinkled, and their whole talk is of ailments and +German waters. Swift somewhere or other expresses his contempt +for this sort of person. “A well preserved man <!-- page 50--><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>is,” +he says, “a man with no heart and who has done nothing all his +life.” Old ruins look beautiful by reason of the rain and +the wind, the heat of August and the frost of January, and I am sure +I have often seen in men—aye, and in women too—far more +beauty where the tempests have passed over the face and brow, than where +the life has been more sheltered and less interesting.</p> +<p>But I must notice before I conclude this part of my subject one of +the principal causes of a fatal indulgence in luxury, and that is a +despairing sense of the futility of attempting to do anything worth +doing, and of inability to strive against what is going on wrong. +This is the meaning of that rather vulgar phrase, “Anything for +a quiet life”; and this is the reason why with many people everything +and everybody is always a “bore.” Here, too, is the +secret of that suave, polished, soft-voiced manner so much affected +nowadays by highly-educated young men, and that somewhat chilly reserve +in which they wrap themselves up. “Pray don’t ask +us to give an opinion, or show an interest, or discuss any serious view +of things.”</p> +<blockquote><p>“For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn +it, were more<br /> +Than to walk all day, like the Sultan of old, in a garden of spice.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Let us surround ourselves with every luxury; let us cease +to strive or fret; let us be elegant, refined, gentle, harmless, and, +above all, undisturbed in mind and body.” “We have +had enough of motion and of action we.” “Surely, surely, +slumber is more sweet than toil.” “Let us get through +life the best way we can, and though there is not much that can delight +us, let us achieve as much amelioration of our lot as is possible for +us.”</p> +<p><!-- page 51--><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>These, then, are +some of the forms which luxury takes in the present century, and these +are some of the outcomes of an advanced, and still rapidly advancing, +civilization. These, too, seem to be the invariable accompaniments +of such an advance. A very similar picture of Rome in the days +of Cicero and Cæsar is drawn by Mr. Froude in his <i>Cæsar</i>. +He says: “With such vividness, with such transparent clearness, +the age stands before us of Cato and Pompey, of Cicero and Julius Cæsar; +the more distinctly because it was an age in so many ways the counterpart +of our own, the blossoming period of the old civilization. It +was an age of material progress and material civilization; an age of +civil liberty and intellectual culture; an age of pamphlets and epigrams, +of salons and of dinner parties, of sensational majorities and electoral +corruption. The rich were extravagant, for life had ceased to +have practical interest, except for its material pleasures; the occupation +of the higher classes was to obtain money without labour, and to spend +it in idle enjoyment. Patriotism survived on the lips, but patriotism +meant the ascendancy of the party which would maintain the existing +order of things, or would overthrow it for a more equal distribution +of the good things, which alone were valued. Religion, once the +foundation of the laws and rule of personal conduct, had subsided into +opinion. The educated, in their hearts, disbelieved it. +Temples were still built with increasing splendour; the established +forms were scrupulously observed. Public men spoke conventionally +of Providence, that they might throw on their opponents the odium of +impiety; but of genuine belief that life had any serious meaning, there +was none remaining beyond <!-- page 52--><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>the +circle of the silent, patient, ignorant multitude. The whole spiritual +atmosphere was saturated with cant—cant moral, cant political, +cant religious; an affectation of high principle which had ceased to +touch the conduct and flowed on in an increasing volume of insincere +and unreal speech. The truest thinkers were those who, like Lucretius, +spoke frankly out their real convictions, declared that Providence was +a dream, and that man and the world he lived in were material phenomena, +generated by natural forces out of cosmic atoms, and into atoms to be +again resolved.”</p> +<p>Next I am going, as I promised, to consider those indulgences which +become luxuries by excessive use, and in this I shall be led also to +consider the effects of luxury. It has become a very trite saying +that riches do not bring happiness; and certainly luxury, which riches +can command, does not bring content, which is the greatest of all pleasures. +On the contrary, the moment the body or mind is over-indulged in any +way, it immediately demands more of the same indulgence, and even in +stronger doses. Who does not know that too much wine makes one +desire more? Who, after reading a novel, does not feel a longing +for another?</p> +<p>The rich and poor dog, as we all know, meet and discourse of these +things in Burns’s poem—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Frae morn to e’en it’s naught but +toiling<br /> +At baking, roasting, frying, boiling,<br /> +An’, tho’ the gentry first are stechin,<br /> +Yet e’en the hall folk fill their pechan<br /> +With sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,<br /> +That’s little short of downright wastrie.<br /> +An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in<br /> +I own it’s past my comprehension.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 53--><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>To which Luath replies—</p> +<blockquote><p>“They’re maistly wonderful contented.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Cæsar afterwards describes the weariness and ennui which pursue +the luxurious—</p> +<blockquote><p>“But human bodies are sic fools,<br /> +For all their colleges and schools,<br /> +That, when nae real ills perplex ’em,<br /> +They make enow themselves to vex ’em.<br /> +They loiter, lounging lank and lazy,<br /> +Though nothing ails them, yet uneasy.<br /> +Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless;<br /> +Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless,<br /> +An’ e’en their sports, their balls and races,<br /> +Their gallopin’ through public places,<br /> +There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,<br /> +The joy can scarcely reach the heart.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>After this description the two friends</p> +<blockquote><p>“Rejoiced they were not men, but dogs.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>An Italian wit has defined man to be “an animal which troubles +himself with things which don’t concern him”; and, when +one thinks of the indefatigable way in which people pursue pleasure, +all the while deriving no pleasure from it, one is filled with amazement. +“Life would be very tolerable if it were not for its pleasures,” +said Sir Cornewall Lewis, and I am satisfied that half the weariness +of life comes from the vain attempts which are made to satisfy a jaded +appetite.</p> +<p>There are many things which are not luxuries <i>per se</i>, but become +so if indulged in to excess. Take, for instance, smoking and drinking. +One pipe a day and one glass of wine a day are not luxuries, but a great +many <!-- page 54--><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>a day are luxuries. +So lying in bed five minutes after you wake is not a luxury, but so +lying for an hour is. The man who is fond precociously of stirring +may be a spoon, but the man who lies in bed half the day is something +worse. Then it must be remembered that a single indulgence in +one luxury produces scarcely any effect on the mind or body, but a habit +of indulging in that luxury has a great effect.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The sins which practice burns into the blood,<br /> +And not the one dark hour which brings remorse<br /> +Will brand us after of whose fold we be.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I am surely right in noticing that the rich man is said to have fared +sumptuously <i>every</i> day, as though faring sumptuously might have +no significance, but the constantly faring sumptuously was what had +degraded and debased the man below the level of the beggar at his gate. +I feel that to be luxurious occasionally is no bad thing, if we can +keep our self-control, and return constantly to simple habits. +There is something very natural in the prayer which a little child was +overheard to make—“God, make me a good little girl, but”—after +a pause—“naughty sometimes.” It is the habit +of being naughty which is pernicious. Can anyone doubt that the +man who, on the whole, leads a hardy and not over-indulgent life will +be more capable of performing any duty which may devolve upon him than +a man who “had but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of +life.”</p> +<p>Sydney Smith, in his sketches of Moral Philosophy, notices that habits +of indulgence grow on us so much that we go through the act of indulgence +without noticing it or feeling the pleasure of it; yet, if some <!-- page 55--><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>accident +occurs to rob us of our accustomed pleasure, we feel the want of it +most keenly. Speaking of Hobbes, the philosopher, he says that +he had twelve pipes of tobacco laid by him every night before he began +to write. Without this luxury “he could have done nothing; +all his speculations would have been at an end, and without his twelve +pipes he might have been a friend to devotion or to freedom, which in +the customary tenour of his thoughts he certainly was not.”</p> +<p>In Fielding’s <i>Life of Jonathan Wild</i> Mr. Wild plays at +cards with the Count. “Such was the power of habit over +the minds of these illustrious persons that Mr. Wild could not keep +his hands out of the Count’s pockets though he knew they were +empty, nor could the Count abstain from palming a card though he was +well aware Mr. Wild had no money to pay him.”</p> +<p>If we are curious to know who is the most degraded and most wretched +of human beings, look for the man who has practised a vice so long that +he curses it and clings to it. Say everything for vice which you +can say, magnify any pleasure as much as you please; but don’t +believe you can keep it, don’t believe you have any secret for +sending on quicker the sluggish blood and for refreshing the faded nerve.</p> +<p>There is no doubt that habits of luxury produce discontent, the more +we have the more we want. The sin of covetousness is not (curiously +enough) the sin of the poor, but of the rich. It is the rich man +who covets Naboth’s vineyard. I knew an old lady who had +a beautiful house facing Hyde Park, and lived by herself with a companion, +and certainly had room enough and to spare. Her house was one +of a row, and the next <!-- page 56--><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>house +being an end house projected, so that all the front rooms were about +a foot longer than those of the old lady. “Ah,” she +used to sigh, “he’s a dear good man, the old colonel, but +I should like to have his house—please God to take him!” +This showed a submission to the will of Providence, and a desire for +the everlasting welfare of her neighbour which was truly edifying; but +covetousness was at the root of it, and a longing to indulge herself.</p> +<p>The effect of habits of luxury upon the brute creation is easily +seen. How dreadfully the harmless necessary cat deteriorates when +it is over-fed and over-warmed. It may, for all I know, become +more humane, but it becomes absolutely unfit to get its own living. +What is more despicable than a lady’s lap-dog, grown fat and good +for nothing, and only able to eat macaroons! Even worms, according +to Darwin, when constantly fed on delicacies, become indolent and lose +all their cunning.</p> +<p>I will note next that habits of self-indulgence render us careless +of the misfortunes of others. Nero was fiddling when Rome was +burning. And upon the other hand privations make us regardful +of others. In Bulwer’s <i>Parisians</i> two luxurious bachelors +in the siege of Paris, one of whom has just missed his favourite dog, +sit down to a meagre repast, on what might be fowl or rabbit; and the +master of the lost dog, after finishing his meal, says with a sigh, +“Ah, poor Dido, how she would have enjoyed those bones!” +Probably she would have done so, in case they had not been her own. +Of course we all know Goldsmith’s <i>Deserted Village</i>, and +that it is all about luxury. It is, however, very poetical poetry +(if I may say so), and I don’t know that it gives much assistance +to a sober, prosaic view of the subject like the <!-- page 57--><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>present. +“O Luxury, thou curst by heaven’s decree,” sounds +very grand; but I have not the least idea what it means. The pictures +drawn in the poem of simple rural pleasures, and of gaudy city delights, +are very pleasing; and the moral drawn from it all, viz., that nations +sunk in luxury are hastening to decay, may be true enough; but what +strikes one most is that, if Goldsmith thought that England was hastening +to decay when he wrote, what would he think if he were alive now.</p> +<p>Well then, if the pleasures of luxury bring nothing but pain and +trouble in the pursuit of them, to what end do they lead?</p> +<blockquote><p>“Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend,<br /> +And see what comfort it affords our end.<br /> +In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half hung,<br /> +The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung;<br /> +On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw,<br /> +With tape-ty’d curtains never meant to draw;<br /> +The George and Garter dangling from that bed,<br /> +Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red;—<br /> +Great Villers lies—alas, how changed from him,<br /> +That life of pleasure and that soul of whim.<br /> +Gallant and gay in Clieveden’s proud alcove,<br /> +The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;<br /> +No wit to flatter, left of all his store;<br /> +No fool to laugh at, which he valued more;<br /> +There victor of his health, of fortune, friends,<br /> +And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If these be the effects of luxuries, why is it that we continue to +strive to increase them with all our might? I have already insisted +that I am not speaking of such things as are beneficial to body and +soul, but such as are detrimental. But it will be said, you <!-- page 58--><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>are +spending money, and to gratify your longings labourers of different +sorts have been employed, and the wealth of the world is thereby increased. +But we must consider the loss to the man who is indulging himself, and +therefore the loss to the community; and further, that his money might +have gone in producing something necessary, and not noxious, something +in its turn reproductive. In Boswell’s <i>Life of Johnson</i> +is this passage, “Johnson as usual defended luxury. You +cannot spend money in luxury without doing good to the poor. Nay, +you do more good to them by spending it in luxury; you make them exert +industry, whereas by giving it you keep them idle. I own indeed +there may be more virtue in giving it immediately in charity, than in +spending it in luxury.” He was then asked if this was not +Mandeville’s doctrine of “private vices are public benefits.” +Of course this did not suit him, and he demolished it. He said, +“Mandeville puts the case of a man who gets drunk at an alehouse, +and says it is a public benefit, because so much money is got by it +to the public. But it must be considered that all the good gained +by this through the gradation of alehouse-keeper, brewer, maltster, +and farmer, is overbalanced by the evil caused to the man and his family +by his getting drunk.”</p> +<p>Perhaps you will say, what is a man to do with his money, if he may +not spend it in luxury? If, as Dr. Johnson says, and as we all +of us find out occasionally, it is worse spent if given in charity, +are we to hoard it? No, surely this is more contemptible still. +“What is the use of all your money,” said one distinguished +barrister to another, “you can’t live many more years, and +you can’t take it with you when you go? Besides, if <!-- page 59--><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>you +could, it would all melt where you’re going.” This +hoarding of wealth, this craving for it, is only another form of luxury, +the luxury of growing rich. Some like to be thought rich, and +called rich, and treated with a fawning respect on account of their +riches; others love to hide their riches, but to hug their money in +secret, and seem to enjoy the prospect of dying rich. I was engaged +in a singular case some time ago, in which an old lady who had starved +herself to death, and lived in the greatest squalor, had secreted £250 +in a stocking under the mattress of her bed. It was stolen by +one nephew, who was sued for it by another, and all the money went in +law expenses. If then we are not to spend our money upon luxuries, +and if we are not to hoard it, what are we to do with it if we have +more than we can lay out in what is useful. I have not time (nor +is the question a part of my subject) to discuss what should be done +with the money hitherto spent in idle luxury. We know, however, +that we have the poor always with us, and that we can always learn the +luxury of doing good. In one way or another we ought to see that +our superfluous wealth should drain from the high lands into the valleys; +not indeed to make the poor luxurious, but to provide them with comfort, +to give them health, strength, and enjoyment. I think then that +if we are wise men, seeing that we are placed in a world of care, trouble, +and hard work, from which no man can escape; and seeing that, upon the +other hand, we are living in a country and in an age when we are surrounded +with all that makes life pleasant and enjoyable, we shall endeavour +to find out some mode of harmonizing these different chords. It +need hardly be said how far removed luxury is from the <!-- page 60--><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>spirit +of Christianity, and from the life of its Founder; yet it may reverently +be remembered that on more than one occasion He showed His tender regard +for the weakness of human nature by stamping with His approval the pleasures +of convivial festivity.</p> +<p>What then is the remedy against luxury? I would say shortly,—in +work. A busy man has no time for luxury, and there is no reason +why every man should not have enough to do, if he will only do it. +And I am sure the same rule applies to the ladies, although a very busy +man once wrote of his wife—</p> +<blockquote><p>“In work, work, work, in work alway<br /> + My every day is past;<br /> +I very slowly make the coin—<br /> + She spends it very fast.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But speaking seriously, I am sure that in some sort of work lies +the antidote to luxury. When Orpheus sailed past the beautiful +islands “lying in dark purple spheres of sea,” and heard +the songs of the idle and luxurious syrens floating languidly over the +waters, he drowned their singing in a pæan to the gods. +Religion often affords a great incentive to work for the good of others; +and, in working for others, we have neither the time, nor the inclination, +to be over indulgent of ourselves. So, the desire to obtain fame +and renown has often produced men of the austere and non-indulgent type, +as the Duke of Wellington and many others:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Fame is the spur which the clear spirit doth raise,<br /> +That last infirmity of noble mind,<br /> +To scorn delights and live laborious days.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Nay, even the desire to obtain riches, and the strife after <!-- page 61--><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>them, +will leave a man little room for luxury. To be honest, to be brave, +to be kind and generous, to seek to know what is right, and to do it; +to be loving and tender to others, and to care little for our comfort +and ease, and even for our very lives, is perhaps to be somewhat old-fashioned +and behind the age; but these are, after all, the things which distinguish +us from the brute beasts which perish, and which justify our aspirations +towards eternity.</p> +<h2><!-- page 62--><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>A STORY.<br /> +THE READING PARTY.</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I.—THE COACH.</h3> +<p>Charles Porkington, M.A., sometime fellow of St. Swithin, was born +of humble parents. He was educated, with a due regard for economy, +in the mathematics by his father, and in the prevailing theology of +the district by his mother. The village schoolmaster had also +assisted in the completion of his education by teaching him a little +bad Latin. He was ultimately sent to college, his parents inferring +that he would make a success of the study of books, because he had always +shown a singular inaptitude for anything else. At college he had +read hard. The common sights and sounds of University life had +been unheeded by him. They passed before his eyes, and they entered +into his ears, but his mind refused to receive any impression from them. +After taking a high degree, and being elected a fellow, he had written +a novel of a strongly melodramatic cast, describing college life, and +showing such an intimate acquaintance with the obscurer parts of it, +that a great many ladies declared that “they always thought so;—it +was just as they supposed.” The novel, however, did not +meet with much success, and he then turned to the more lucrative <!-- page 63--><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>but +far less noble occupation of “coaching.” He could +not be said to be absolutely unintellectual. As he had not profited +by the experience of life, so he had not been contaminated by it. +He was moral, chiefly in a negative sense, and was not inclined to irreligion. +The faith of his parents sat, perhaps, uncomfortably upon him; and he +had not sufficient strength of mind to adopt a new pattern. He +was in short an amiable mathematician, and a feeble classic; and I think +that is all that could be said of him with any certainty. There +seemed to be an absence of character which might be called characteristic, +and a feebleness of will so absolute as to disarm contempt.</p> +<p>A portion of Porkington’s hard earned gains was transmitted +regularly to his two aged parents, while he himself, partly from habit +and partly from indifference, lived as frugally as possible.</p> +<p>“Bless me!” cried Mrs. Porkington, within six months +of her marriage, “To think that you should have squandered such +large sums of money upon people who seem to have got on very well without +them.”</p> +<p>“My dear,” replied he, “they are very poor, and +in want of many comforts.”</p> +<p>“Of course I am sorry they cannot have them now,” retorted +she, “and it is therefore a pity they ever should have had them.”</p> +<p>Porkington sighed slightly, but had already learned not to contend, +if he could remember not to do so. Mrs. Porkington was of large +stature and majestic carriage; and had moreover a voice sufficiently +powerful to keep order in an Irish brigade, or to command a vessel in +a storm without the assistance of a trumpet. <!-- page 64--><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>Mr. +Porkington, on the other hand, was a little, dry, pale, plain man, with +an abstracted and nervous manner, and a voice that had never grown up +so as to match even the little body from which it came, but was a sort +of cracked treble whisper. Moreover, when Mrs. Porkington wished +to speak her mind to her husband, she would recline upon a sofa in an +impressive manner, and fix her eyes upon the ceiling. Mr. Porkington, +on these occasions, would sit on the very edge of the most uncomfortable +chair, his toes turned out, his hands embracing his knees, and his eyes +tracing the patterns upon the carpet, as though with a view of studying +some abstruse theory of curves. On which side the victory lay +under these circumstances it is easy to guess.</p> +<p>Mrs. Porkington felt the advantage of her position and followed it +up.</p> +<p>“I never, my dear, mention any subject to you, but you immediately +fling your parents at me.”</p> +<p>Mr. Porkington would as soon have thought of throwing St. Paul’s +Cathedral.</p> +<p>After a honeymoon spent in the Lake district the happy pair went +to pay a visit to the parents of the bridegroom, and Porkington had +so brightened and revived during his stay there, and had expressed himself +so happy in their society, that Mrs. Porkington could not forgive him. +In the company of his wife’s father, on the contrary, he relapsed +into a state bordering upon coma; and no wonder, for that worthy retired +tallow merchant was a perfect specimen of ponderous pomposity, and had +absolutely nothing in common with the shy scholar who had become his +son-in-law. Mr. Candlish had lost the great part of the money +he had made by tallow, and by <!-- page 65--><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>consequence +had nothing to give his daughter; but she behaved herself as a woman +should whose father might at one time have given her ten thousand pounds. +“My papa, my dear, was worth at least £40,000 when he retired,” +was the form in which Mrs. Porkington flung her surviving parent at +the head of her husband, and crushed him flat with the missile. +To the world at large she spoke of her father as “being at present +a gentleman of moderate means.” Now, as a gentleman of moderate +means cannot be expected to provide for a sister of no means at all; +and as Mrs. Porkington, not having been blessed with children by her +marriage, required a companion, her aunt tacked herself on to Mr. Porkington’s +establishment, and became a permanent and substantial fixture. +Fat, ugly, and spiteful when she dared, she became a thorn in the side +of the poor tutor, and supported on all occasions the whims and squabbles +of her niece. Whenever the “coach” evinced any tendency +to travel too fast, Mrs. Porkington put the “drag” on, and +the vehicle stopped.</p> +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Porkington had now been married three years; and, as +the long vacation was at hand, it became necessary to arrange their +plans for a “Reading Party.”</p> +<p>“If I might be allowed to suggest,” said Mrs. Porkington, +reclining on her sofa, with her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, “I +think a continental reading party would be the most beneficial to the +young men. The air of the continent, I have always found (Mrs. +Porkington had crossed the channel upon one occasion) is very invigorating; +and, though I know you don’t speak French, my dear, yet you should +avail yourself of every opportunity of acquiring it.”</p> +<p><!-- page 66--><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>“But, my love,” +he replied, “we must consider. Many parents have an objection +to the expense, and—”</p> +<p>“Oh, of course!” she interrupted, “if ever I venture, +which I seldom do, to propose anything, there are fifty objections raised +at once. Pray, may I ask to what uncomfortable quarter of the +globe you propose to take me? Perhaps to the Gold Coast—or +some other deadly spot—quite likely!”</p> +<p>“Well, my love,” said the Coach, “I thought of +the Lakes.”</p> +<p>“Thought of the Lakes!” slowly repeated his wife. +“Since I have had the honour of being allied with you in marriage, +I believe you have never thought of anything else!”</p> +<p>There was some truth in this, and the tutor felt it. “Then, +my dear,” said he mildly, “I really do not know where we +should go.”</p> +<p>Thereupon his wife ran through the names of several likely places, +to each of which she stated some clear and decided objection. +Ultimately she mentioned Babbicombe as being a place she might be induced +to regard with favour; the truth being that she had made up her mind +from the first not to be taken anywhere else. “Babbicombe +by all means let it be,” said he, “since you wish it.”</p> +<p>“I do not wish it at all,” she cried, “as you know +quite well, my dear; and it is very hard that you should always try +to make it appear that I wish to do a thing, when I have no desire at +all upon the subject. Have you noticed, aunt, how invariably Charles +endeavours to take an unfair advantage of anything I say, and tries +to make out I wish a thing which he has himself proposed?”</p> +<p><!-- page 67--><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>The Drag said she +had noticed it very often, and wondered at it very much. She thought +it was very unfair indeed, and showed a domineering spirit very far +from Christian in her opinion, though, of course, opinions might differ.</p> +<p>Porkington took a turn in his little back garden, and smoked a pipe, +which seemed to console him somewhat; and, after a few more skirmishes, +the coach, harness, drag, team and all arrived at Babbicombe.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II.—THE TEAM.</h3> +<p>Let the man who disapproves of reading parties suggest something +better. “Let the lads stop at home,” says one. +Have you ever tried it? They soon become a bore to themselves +and all around them. “Let them go by themselves, then, to +some quiet seaside lodging or small farmhouse.” Suicide +or the d---1. “Let them stop at the University for the Long.” +The Dons won’t let them stop up, unless they are likely to take +high degrees; and, even if the Dons would permit it, it would be too +oppressively dull for the young men. “At all events, let +reading parties be really <i>reading</i> parties.” Whoever +said they should be anything else? For my part I know nothing +in this life equal to reading parties. Do Jones and Brown, who +are perched upon high stools in the city, ever dream of starting for +the Lakes with a ledger each, to enter their accounts and add up the +items by the margin of Derwentwater. Do Bagshaw and Tomkins, emerging +from their dismal chambers in Pump Court, take their Smith’s <i>Leading +Cases</i>, or their <i>Archbold</i>, to Shanklyn or Cowes? Do +Sawyer and Allen <!-- page 68--><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>study +medicine in a villa on the Lake of Geneva? I take it, it is an +invincible sign of the universality of the classics and mathematics +that they will adapt themselves with equal ease to the dreariest of +college rooms or to the most romantic scenery.</p> +<p>Harry Barton, Richard Glenville, Thomas Thornton, and I, made up +Porkington’s Reading Party.</p> +<p>Harry Barton’s father was a Manchester cotton spinner of great +wealth. Himself a man of no education, beyond such knowledge as +he had picked up in the course of an arduous life, the cotton spinner +was not oblivious to those advantages which ought to accrue to a liberal +education; and he resolved that his son, a fine handsome lad, should +not fail in life for want of them. Young Barton had, therefore, +in due course been sent to Eton and Camford with a full purse, a vigorous +constitution, a light heart, and a fair amount of cramming. At +Camford he found himself in the midst of his old Eton chums, and plunged +eagerly into all the animated life and excitement of the University. +Boating, cricket, rackets, billiards, wine parties, betting—these +formed the chief occupation of the two years which he had already passed +at college. Reading, upon some days, formed an agreeable diversion +from the monotony of the above-named more interesting studies. +Porkington, however, who seldom placed a man wrong, still promised him +a second class. Hearty, generous, a lover of ease and pleasure, +good-natured and easily led, he was a general favourite; and in some +respects deserved to be so.</p> +<p>Richard Glenville was the son of an orthodox low church parson, a +fat vicar and canon, a man who, if he was not conformed to the world +at large, was a mere <!-- page 69--><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>reflection +of the little world to which he belonged. His son Richard was +a quick-sighted youth, clear and vigorous in intellect, not deep but +acute. He was high church, because he had lived among the low +church party. He was a Tory, because his surroundings were mostly +Liberal. He was inclined to be profane, because his father’s +friends bored him by their solemnity. He was flippant, because +they were dull; careless, because they were cautious; and fast, because +they were slow. He had an eye for the weak points of things. +He delighted in what is called “chaff.” He affected +to regard all things with indifference, and was tolerant of everything +except what he was pleased to denounce as shams. Upon this point +he would occasionally become very warm. If his sense of truth +and honour were touched, he became goaded into passion; but most things +appealed to him from their humorous side. He was tall, fair, and +handsome, the features clean cut and the eyes grey. His manners +were polished, and he was always well dressed. He was full of +high spirits and good temper, and was a most agreeable companion to +all to whom his satire did not render him uncomfortable. Strange +to say, he stood very high in the favour of Mrs. Porkington, who, had +she known what fun he made of her behind her back, would, I think, have +sometimes forgotten that he was the nephew of a peer. He studied +logic, classics, mathematics, moral philosophy indifferently, because +he found that a certain amount of study conduced to a quiet life with +the “governor.” He proposed ultimately, he said, to +be called to the Bar, because that was equivalent to leaving your future +career still enveloped in mystery for many years.</p> +<p><!-- page 70--><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>I do not know that +I have very much to say about Thornton. He was a very estimable +young man. I think he was the only one of the party who might +say with a clear conscience that he did some work for his “coach.” +He was not short, nor tall, nor good-looking, nor very rich, nor very +poor. He was of plebeian origin. His father was a grocer. +I am sure the young man had been well brought up at home, and had been +well taught at school; and he was a brave, frank, honest fellow enough, +but there was withal a certain common or commonplace way with him. +He acquitted himself well at cricket and football; and I have no doubt +he will succeed in life, and be most respectable, but on the whole very +uninteresting.</p> +<p>The present writer is one of the most handsome, most amiable, and +most witty of men; but if there is one vice more than another at which +his soul revolts, it is the sin of egotism. Else the world would +here have become the possessor of one of the most eloquent pages in +literature. It is said that artists, who paint their own portraits, +make a mere copy of their image in the looking glass. For my part, +if I had to draw my own likeness, I would scorn such paltry devices. +The true artist draws from the imagination. Let any man think +for a moment what manner of man he is. Is he not at once struck +with the fact that he is not as other men are—that he is not extortionate, +nor unjust, and so forth? But, in truth, if I were to paint my +own portrait, I know there are fifty fools who would think I meant it +for themselves; and as I cannot tolerate vanity in other people, I will +say no more about it.</p> +<p>So at length here at Babbicombe were the coach, <!-- page 71--><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>harness, +drag, and team duly arrived, and settled for six weeks or more, in a +fine large house, far above the deep blue ocean, and far removed from +all the turmoil and bustle of this busy world. Wonderful truly +are the happiness and privileges of young men, if they only knew how +to enjoy them wisely.</p> +<p>“I think it is somewhat unthoughtful, to say the least of it,” +said Mrs. Porkington to Glenville, “that Mr. Porkington should +have taken a house so very far from the beach. He knows how I +adore the sea.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps he is jealous of it on that account,” said Glenville.</p> +<p>The Drag said she believed he would be jealous of anything. +For her part if she were tied to such a man she would give him good +cause to be jealous.</p> +<p>Glenville replied in his most polite manner that he was sure she +could never be so cruel.</p> +<p>The Drag did not understand him.</p> +<p>“Confound the old aunt,” said he, as he sat down to the +table in the dining-room to his mathematical papers, “why did +she not stick to the tallow-chandling, instead of coming here? +Don’t you think, Barton, our respected governors ought to pay +less for our coaching on account of the drag? Of course we really +pay something extra on her account; but, generally speaking, you know +an irremovable nuisance would diminish the value of an estate, and I +think a coach with an irremovable drag ought to fetch less than a coach +without encumbrances.”</p> +<p>“I daresay you are right,” said Barton. “The +two women will ruin Porky between them. The quantity of <!-- page 72--><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>donkey +chaises they require is something awful. To be sure the hill is +rather steep in hot weather.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Glenville, “they began by trying one +chaise between them, ride and tie; but Mrs. Porkington always would +ride the first half of the way, and so Miss Candlish only rode the last +quarter, until at last the first half grew to such enormous proportions +that it caused a difference between the ladies, and Porkington had to +allow two donkey chaises. How they do squabble, to be sure, about +which of the two it really is who requires the chaise!”</p> +<p>“I can’t help thinking Socrates was a fool to want to +be killed when he had done nothing to deserve it,” said Thornton, +with a yawn, as he put down his book.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Glenville, “nowadays a man expects +to take his whack first—I mean to hit some man on the head, or +stab some woman in the breast, first. Then he professes himself +quite ready for the consequences, and poetic justice is satisfied.”</p> +<p>“How a man can put the square root of minus three eggs into +a basket, and then give five to one person, and half the remainder and +the square of the whole, divided by twelve, and so on, I never could +understand; but perhaps the answer is wrong, I mean the square root +of minus three.”</p> +<p>“Oh, if that is your answer, Barton,” said Glenville, +“you are fairly floored. Take care you don’t get an +answer of that sort—a facer, I mean—from the ‘pretty +fisher maiden.’”</p> +<p>“Don’t chaff, Glenville,” cried Barton; “you +are always talking some folly or other.”</p> +<p>“Well, well, let us have some beer and a pipe.</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 73--><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>‘He, +who would shine and petrify his tutor,<br /> +Should drink draught Allsopp from its native pewter.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>We shall all go to the dance to-night, I suppose—Thornton, +of course, lured by the two Will-o-the-wisps in Miss Delamere’s +black eyes.”</p> +<p>“Go, and order the beer, Dick,” said Thornton, “and +come back a wiser, if not a sadder man.” Dick procured the +beer; and, it being now twelve o’clock at noon, pipes were lit, +and papers and books remained in abeyance, though not absolutely forgotten. +At half-past twelve Mr. Porkington looked in timidly to see how work +was progressing, to assist in the classics, and to disentangle the mathematics; +but the liberal sciences were so besmothered with tobacco smoke and +so bespattered with beer, that the poor little man did not even dare +to come to their assistance; but coughed, and smiled, and said feebly +that he would come again when the air was a little clearer.</p> +<p>“Upon my word, it is too bad,” said Barton. “Many +fellows would not stand it. I declare I won’t smoke any +more this morning.”</p> +<p>The rest followed the good example. Pipes were extinguished, +and Glenville was deputed to go and tell the tutor that the room was +clear of smoke. They were not wicked young men, but I don’t +think their mothers and sisters were at all aware of that state of life +into which a love of ease and very high spirits had called their sons +and brothers.</p> +<h3><!-- page 74--><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>CHAPTER III.—THE +VISITORS.</h3> +<p>Babbicombe was full. The lodgings were all taken. There +were still bills in the windows of a few of the houses in the narrower +streets of the little town announcing that the apartments had a “good +sea view.” The disappointed visitor, however, upon further +investigation, would discover that by standing on a chair in the attic +it might be possible to obtain a glimpse of the topmasts of the schooners +in the harbour, or the furthest circle of the distant ocean. Mr. +and Mrs. Delamere, with their two daughters, occupied lodgings facing +the sea. Next door but one were our friends, Colonel and Mrs. +Bagshaw. Two Irish captains, O’Brien and Kelly, were stopping +at the Bull Hotel, in the High Street. On the side of the hill +in our row lived the two beautiful Misses Bankes with their parents +and the younger olive branches, much snubbed by those who had “come +out” into blossom. The visitors’ doctor also lived +in our row, and a young landscape painter (charming, as they all are) +had a room somewhere, but I never could quite make out where it was +or how he lived.</p> +<p>“There are your friends the Delameres,” cried Glenville +to Thornton, as we all lounged down one afternoon, not long after our +arrival, to the parade, where the little discordant German band was +playing. “Looking for you, too, I think,” added he.</p> +<p>“I am sure they are not looking at all,” said Thornton.</p> +<p>“Why, not now,” said Glenville; “their books have +<!-- page 75--><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>suddenly become interesting, +but I vow I saw Mrs. Delamere’s spyglass turned full upon us a +minute ago.” We all four stepped from the parade upon the +rocks, and approached the Delameres’ party, who were seated on +rugs and shawls spread upon the huge dry rocks overlooking the deep, +clear water which lapped underneath with a gentle and regular plash +and sucking sound. It was a brilliant day. Not a cloud was +in the sky, and the blue-green seas lay basking in the sunshine. +A brisk but gentle air had begun to crisp the top of the water, making +it sparkle and bubble; and there was just visible a small silver cord +of foam on the coast line of dark crags. A white sail or a brown, +here and there, dotted about the space of ocean, gleamed in the light +of the noon-day sun. Porpoises rolled and gamboled in the bay, +and the round heads of two or three swimmers from the bathing cove appeared +like corks upon the surface of the water. Half lost in the hazy +horizon, a dim fairy island hung between sky and ocean; while overhead +flew the milk-white birds, whose presence inland is said to presage +stormy weather.</p> +<p>“What was Miss Delamere reading?”</p> +<p>“Oh, only Hallam’s <i>Constitutional History</i>.”</p> +<p>“Great Heavens!” whispered Glenville to me, “think +of that!”</p> +<p>“Do you like it?” asked Thornton.</p> +<p>“Well, I can’t say I do, but I suppose I ought. +My mother wanted me to bring it.”</p> +<p>“I think it must be very dull,” said Thornton, “though +I have never tried it. I have just finished Kingsley’s <i>Two +Years Ago</i>. It is awfully good. May I lend it to you?”</p> +<p><!-- page 76--><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>“Oh, I do +so like a good novel when I can get it, but I am afraid I mayn’t.”</p> +<p>“What is that, Flo?” asked her mother. “You +know I do not approve of novels, except, of course, Sir Walter’s. +My daughters, Mr. Thornton, have, I hope, been brought up very differently +from most young ladies. I always encourage them to read such works +as are likely to tend to the improvement of their understanding and +the cultivation of their taste. I always choose their books for +them.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense, my dear,” said Mr. Delamere, “if Mr. +Thornton recommends the book, Flo can have it. I know nothing +of books, sir, and care less; but if you say it is a good book, that +is sufficient.”</p> +<p>“Oh, quite so indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Delamere, “if +Mr. Thornton recommends the book. My daughter Florence has too +much imagination, dear child, and we have to be very careful. +May I inquire the name of the work which you recommend?”</p> +<p>She called everything a work.</p> +<p>“Oh, only <i>Two Years Ago</i>, by Kingsley,” said Thornton.</p> +<p>“Ah!” said Mrs. Delamere, “a delightful writer. +The Rev. Charles Kingsley was a man whom I unfeignedly admire. +Perhaps I might not altogether approve of his writings for young persons, +but for those whose minds have been matured by a considerable acquaintance +with our literature it is, of course, different. He is a bold +and fearless thinker. He is not fettered and tied down by those +barriers which impede the speculations of other writers.”</p> +<p>“Off she goes!” whispered Glenville to me, “broken +<!-- page 77--><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>her knees over the +first metaphor. She will be plunging wildly in the ditch directly, +and never fairly get out of it for about an hour and a half. Let +us escape while we can.” We rose and left Mrs. Delamere +explaining to Thornton how darling Florence and dearest Beatrix were +all that a fond and intellectual mother could desire. She was +anxious to be thought to be trembling on the verge of atheism, to which +position her highly-gifted intelligence quite entitled her; while, at +the same time, her strong judgment and moral virtues enabled her to +assist in supporting the orthodox faith. The younger Miss Delamere +(Beatrix) was doing one of those curious pieces of work in which ladies +delight, which appear to be designed for no particular purpose, and +which, curiously enough, are always either a little more or less than +half finished. I think she very seldom spoke. She was positively +crushed by that most superior person, her mother. Flo was gazing +abstractedly into the sea, hearing her mother but not listening, while +Thornton was seated a foot or two below her, gazing up into her deep-blue +eyes, shaded by her large hat and dark hair, as happy and deluded as +a lunatic who thinks himself monarch of the world.</p> +<p>The Squire said he would join us. I expect his wife rather +bored the old gentleman. We all sauntered up to the little crush +of people who were listening (or not listening) to the discordant sounds +of the German band. Here we found the whole tribe of Bankes’ +and the two Irish captains, one standing in front of each beautiful +Miss Bankes; and a little further removed from this party were Colonel +and Mrs. and Miss Bagshaw, with the doctor’s son. Above +the cliff, on a slope of grass, <!-- page 78--><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>lay +the young artist, smoking his pipe and enjoying the scenery.</p> +<p>“I hope you intend to honour the Assembly Wooms with your pwesence +this evening,” drawled Captain Kelly to the elder Miss Bankes—the +dark one with the single curl hanging down her back. Her sister +wore two light ones, and it puzzled us very much to account for the +difference in number, and even in colour, for the complexions were the +same. Was Glenville justified in surmising that the art of the +contrivance was to prove that the curls were natural and indigenous, +for if false, he said, surely they would be expected to wear two or +one each.</p> +<p>“My sister and I certainly intend going this evening,” +replied the young lady, “but really I hear they are very dull +affairs.”</p> +<p>“They will be so no longer,” said he.</p> +<p>“Well, I suppose we must do something in this dreadful little +place to keep up our spirits.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I must own it is very dull here, and I certainly should +not have come had not a little bird told me at Mrs. Cameron’s +dance who was coming here,” said the Captain, with a languishing +air.</p> +<p>“I am sure I said nothing about it,” said Miss Bankes, +poutingly.</p> +<p>“Beauty attracts like a magnet, Miss Bankes, and you must not +be angry with a poor fellow for what can’t be helped.”</p> +<p>“Very well, now you are come, you must be very good, and keep +us all amused.”</p> +<p>“I will endeavour to do my best,” said the gallant soldier.</p> +<p><!-- page 79--><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>“Bagshaw, +come here!” shouted Mrs. Bagshaw right athwart the parade, startling +several of the performers in the band, and drawing all eyes towards +her. “Bagshaw, behave yourself like a gentleman. Don’t +leave me, sir; I should be ashamed to let the people see me following +that woman. It’s disgraceful, mean, and disgusting.”</p> +<p>Bagshaw came back, looking ridiculous. He hated to look ridiculous, +as who does not? He approached his wife, and said in a low, but +angry tone, “You are making a fool of yourself; the people will +think you are mad; and they are not far wrong, as I have known to my +cost this twenty years.”</p> +<p>Porkington, wife, and drag had just passed up the parade.</p> +<p>“I saw you, I tell you I saw you,” she went on excitedly. +“You were sneaking away from my side—you know you were. +Don’t laugh at me, Mr. Bagshaw, for I won’t have it. +I don’t care who hears me,” she cried in a louder voice, +“all the world shall hear how I am treated.”</p> +<p>“Look at Miss Bagshaw,” said the artist to me. +“What a good girl she is! I am so sorry for her!” +Pity is kin to love, thought I, as I watched the beautiful girl move +swiftly up to her father and mother, and in a moment all three moved +quietly away.</p> +<p>“Who’s the old girl?” asked Captain O’Brien +of Captain Kelly.</p> +<p>“The celebwated Mrs. Bagshaw, wife of Colonel Bagshaw. +She was a gweat singer or something not very long ago. Very wich, +Tom; chance for you, you know; only daughter, rather a pwetty girl, +not much style, <!-- page 80--><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>father-in-law +and mother-in-law not desiwable, devil of a wow, wampageous, both of +them!”</p> +<p>“How much?” “Say twenty thou.” +“Can’t be done at the pwice.” “Don’t +know that—lunatic asylums—go abroad—that sort of thing—-young +lady chawming!” “Ah!”</p> +<p>“What do you say to a row in the old four oar?” said +Harry Barton. “With all my heart,” said I. “Let +us make up a party. The Delameres will go, the two young ladies +and Thornton. Don’t let’s have the mother, she jaws +so confoundedly. Go and ask Mrs. Bagshaw and her daughter to make +things proper.”</p> +<p>“All right! Thornton shall steer; you three; I stroke; +Glenville two; Hawkstone bow, to look out ahead and see all safe.” +And off he went to ask Mrs. Bagshaw, who was now all smiles and sunshine, +and managed very cleverly to secure the two Misses Delamere and Thornton +without the mamma. And so we all went down to the harbour, where +we found Hawkstone looking out for our party as usual.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV.—BOATING.</h3> +<p>“Muscular Christianity is very great!” said the Archangel. +“The devil it is!” said Satan, “see how I will deal +with it!” In the days of Job he said, “Touch his bone +and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face”—</p> +<blockquote><p>“But Satan now is wiser than of yore,<br /> +And tempts by making <i>strong</i>, not making poor.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Muscular Christianity was at one time the cant phrase. Can +we even now talk of Christian muscularity? For my part I think +an Eton lad or a Camford man is <!-- page 81--><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>a +sight for gods and fishes. The glory of his neck-tie is terrible. +He saith among the cricket balls, Ha, ha, and he smelleth the battle +afar off, the thud of the oars and the shouting. I suppose the +voice of the people is the voice of God; but let a thing once become +fashionable and the devil steps in and leads the dance. When Lady +Somebody, or Sir John Nobody, gives away the prizes at the county athletic +sports, amid the ringing cheers of the surrounding ladies and gentlemen, +I suspect the recipient, in nine times out of ten, is little better +than an obtainer of goods by false pretences. When that ardent +youth, Tommy Leapwell, brings home a magnificent silver goblet for the +“high jump,” what a fuss is made of it and of him both at +home and in the newspapers; whereas when that exemplary young student, +Mugger, after a term’s hard labour, receives as a reward a volume +of Macaulay’s <i>Essays</i>, in calf, price two and sixpence, +very little is said about the matter; and, at all events, the dismal +circumstance is not mentioned outside the family circle.</p> +<p>Nelly Crayshaw was talking saucily with Hawkstone as we came down +to the quay. I noticed Barton shaking hands with her, and whispering +a few words as we got into the boat; and I noticed also a certain sheepish, +and rather sulky look upon Hawkstone’s face, as he did so; and +if I was not mistaken, my learned friend Glenville let something very +like an oath escape him as he shouted: “Barton, Barton, come along; +we are all waiting for you!”</p> +<p>I do not think Nelly could be called a beauty. The face was +too flat, the mouth was too large, and the colour of the cheeks was +too brilliant. Yet she was <!-- page 82--><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>very +charming. The blue of her eyes underneath dark eyelashes and eyebrows +was—well—heavenly. The whole face beamed and glowed +through masses of brown hair, which were arranged in a somewhat disorderly +manner, and yet with an evident eye to effect. The aspect was +frank and good-humoured, though somewhat soft and sensuous; and the +form, though full, was not without elegance, and showed both strength +and agility. No one could pass by her without being arrested by +her appearance, but we used to quarrel very much as to her claims to +be called a “clipper,” or a “stunner,” or whatever +was the word in use among us to express our ideal.</p> +<p>Barton jumped into the boat and away we went, Thornton steering, +Mrs. Bagshaw, her daughter, and the Misses Delamere in the stern, Barton +stroke, myself three, Glenville two, and Hawkstone bow—a very +fine crew, let me tell you, for we all knew how to handle an oar,—especially +in smooth water. And so we passed in front of the parade, waving +our pocket handkerchiefs in answer to those which fluttered on the shore, +and rowing away into the wide sea. Mrs. Bagshaw, who was an excellent +musician, and her daughter, who had a lovely voice, sang duets and songs +for our amusement; and, with the aid of the two Misses Delamere, made +up some tolerable glees and choruses, in the latter of which we all +joined at intervals, to the confusion of the whole effect,—of +the singing in point of tune, and of the rowing in point of time.</p> +<p>As we were rounding Horn Point, Thornton said to Mrs. Bagshaw, “Do +you know, there are some such splendid ferns grow in a little ravine +you can see there <!-- page 83--><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>on +the side of that hill. Do let us land and get some.”</p> +<p>“What do you want ferns for?” asked I, innocently.</p> +<p>“Silence in the boat, three,” cried Glenville. +“What a hard-hearted monster you must be!” he whispered +in my ear.</p> +<p>“Oh, do let us land,” said Miss Delamere, “I do +so want some common bracken”—or whatever it was, for she +cared no more than you or I about the ferns—“I want some +for my book, and mamma says we really must collect some rare specimens +before we go home.” Mrs. Bagshaw guessed what sort of flower +they would be looking for—heartsease, I suppose, or forget-me-not; +but she very good-naturedly agreed to the proposal, and Hawkstone undertook +to show us where we could land. We were soon ashore, and Hawkstone +said, “You must not be long, gentlemen, if you please, for the +wind is rising, and it will come on squally before long; and we have +wind and tide against us going back, and a tough job it is often to +round the lighthouse hill.”</p> +<p>“All right,” said Thornton, “how long can you give +us?”</p> +<p>“Twenty minutes at the most,” said the boatman, “and +you will only just have time to mount the cliff and come back.”</p> +<p>I heard an indistinct, dull murmur, half of the sea and half of the +wind, and, looking far out to sea, could fancy I saw little white sheep +on the waves. We left Glenville with Hawkstone talking and smoking. +They were really great friends, although in such different ranks in +life. Glenville used to rave about him as a true specimen of the +old Devon rover. He was a tall, well-proportioned <!-- page 84--><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>man, +with a clear, open face, very ruddy with sun and wind and rough exercise, +a very pleasant smile, and grey eyes, rather piercing and deep set. +The brow was fine, and the features regular, though massive. The +hair and beard were brown and rough-looking, but his manner was gentle, +and had that peculiar courtesy which makes many a Devon man a gentleman +and many a Devon lass a lady, let them be of ever so humble an origin.</p> +<p>Barton paired off with the younger Miss Delamere, Thornton with the +elder. Mrs. Bagshaw and I followed, conversing cheerfully of many +things. I found her a very entertaining and agreeable lady, accomplished, +frank, and amiable. There was nothing at all peculiar either in +her appearance or conversation. While I was talking to her I kept +wondering whether her outbreaks of temper were the result of some real +or supposed cause of jealousy, or were to be attributed solely to a +chronic feeling of irritability against her husband. In the course +of our walk together Mrs. Bagshaw said to me—</p> +<p>“Your friend, Mr. Thornton, is evidently very much smitten +with Florence Delamere.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I think so,” I replied, “but I daresay nothing +will come of it. Her family would not like it, I suppose; for, +you know, they are of a good family in Norfolk, and Thornton is only +the son of a grocer.”</p> +<p>“I did not know that,” she said, “but I have thought +your friend had not quite the manners of the class to which the Delameres +clearly belong. Mrs. Delamere is perhaps not anyone in particular, +and she certainly talks overmuch upon subjects which probably she does +not understand. The young ladies are most agreeable and <!-- page 85--><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>lady-like, +and I think Mr. Thornton has found that out. It is easy to see +that objections to any engagement would be of the gravest sort—indeed, +I imagine, insurmountable. It is most unfortunate that this should +happen when the young man is away from his parents, who might guide +him out of the difficulty. I think Mrs. Delamere is aware of the +attachment, and is not inclined to favour it. Do you think you +could influence your friend in any way? You will do him a great +service if you can warn him of his danger; if he does not attend to +you, you might tell Mr. Porkington, and consult with him.”</p> +<p>I promised to follow her advice as well as I could, for I felt that +it was both kindly meant and reasonable, although I felt myself rather +too young to be entangled in such matters.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>“Oh what a lovely fern, such a nice little one too. Do +try and dig it up for me,” said Florence.</p> +<p>“I will try to do my best,” said Thornton; “I have +got a knife.” And down he went upon his knees, and soon +extracted a little brittle bladder, which he handed to the young lady, +saying, “I hope it will live. Do you think it will?”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes,” she said. “I can keep it here +till we go home, and then plant it in my rockery, where they flourish +nicely, as it is beautifully sheltered from the sun.”</p> +<p>“I wish it were rather a handsomer-looking thing,” said +the young man, looking rather ruefully at the little specimen.</p> +<p>“I shall prize it for the sake of the giver,” she said, +<!-- page 86--><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>with a slight blush. +“But I am afraid you have spoilt your knife.”</p> +<p>“Oh, not at all. Do let me dig up some more.”</p> +<p>“No, thank you; do not trouble. See what a pretty bank +of wild thyme.”</p> +<p>“Would you like to sit down upon it? You know it smells +all the sweeter for being crushed.”</p> +<p>“Well, it does really look most inviting.” Florence +sat down, saying as she did so, “How lovely the wild flowers are—heather +and harebells.”</p> +<p>“Let me gather some for you.” He began plucking +the flowers, which flourished in such profusion and variety that a nosegay +grew in every foot of turf. “When do you think of leaving +Babbicombe?”</p> +<p>“In two or three days.”</p> +<p>“So soon!”</p> +<p>“Yes; for papa has to go back to attend to his Quarter Sessions.”</p> +<p>“I am very, very sorry you are going. I had hoped you +would stay much longer. These three weeks have flown like three +days.”</p> +<p>“Why, Mr. Thornton, I declare you are throwing my flowers away +as fast as you gather them.”</p> +<p>“So I am,” he said. “The fact is I hardly +know what I am doing.” The colour was blazing into his face, +and his heart beating wildly. “Florence,” he cried, +flinging himself upon his knees beside her, “forgive me if I speak +rashly or wildly—I don’t know how to speak. I don’t +know what to tell you—but I love you dearly, dearly, with my whole +heart. I cannot tell—I hope—I think you may like me. +Do not say no, I implore you. If you do not like me to speak so +wildly, <!-- page 87--><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>tell me so; +but don’t say you will not love me. Tell me you will love +me—if you can.”</p> +<p>Florence was young, and was taken by surprise, or perhaps she might +have stopped the young gentleman at once; but after all it is not unpleasant +to a pretty girl to see a good-looking young lad at her feet and to +listen to his passionate words of homage. At length, when he seemed +to come to a pause, she replied: “Oh, Mr. Thornton, please, please +do not talk so. This is so sudden. Our parents know nothing +of this!”</p> +<p>“Do you love me—tell me?”</p> +<p>“We are too young. You really must not—”</p> +<p>“It does not matter about being young.”</p> +<p>“Oh, do not speak any more.”</p> +<p>“Florence, do you love me? I shall go mad if you will +not answer.” He seized her hand as he leant forward, and +gazed eagerly into her face, while he trembled violently with his own +emotion. “Do you love me—say?”</p> +<p>“I think, I think—I do,” she said very softly, +looking him full in the face, while he seized her round the waist, and +her head leant for one moment on his shoulder, and he kissed her forehead.</p> +<p>She started up, saying, “Oh, do let me go, please. I +ought not to have said so.”</p> +<p>He rose first, and lifted her up by the hand.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>“I will tell you what it is, Hawkstone,” said Glenville. +“I think it is a d---d shame, and I shall tell him so. He +may be a bigger fellow than I, but I could punch his head for him, if +he were in the wrong and I in the right.”</p> +<p><!-- page 88--><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>“I dare say +you could, sir, and thank you, sir, for what you say. I thought +you were a brave, kind gentleman when I first saw you, though you do +like to have a bit of a joke at me at times.”</p> +<p>“Bit of a joke! That’s another matter. But +I will never joke again, if this goes wrong. But are you quite +sure that Nelly is in love with you really, and you with her.”</p> +<p>“Why, sir, we have told each other so this hundred times; and +I feel as sure she spoke the truth as God knows I did; and sometimes +I think I am a fool to doubt her now. But you see, sir, she is +flattered by the notice of a grand gentleman. It may be nothing, +but, when I talk to her now, she seems weary like. It is not like +what it was in the old days before you came, sir. We were to be +married, sir, so soon as the gentle folk have left the town, that is +about six weeks from to-day; but now I hardly know what to think. +I think one thing one day, and another the next. Sometimes I think +I am jealous about nothing. Sometimes I think he is a gentleman, +and will act as such; and sometimes I think, suppose he should harm +her; and then I feel that if he dared to do it I would throttle him.” +Glenville could see the sailor’s fists clenching as he spoke, +and he replied, “Hush, Hawkstone, hush! This will all come +right. I feel for you very much, but you must not be violent. +I believe it is all folly, and Barton will forget all about it in a +day or two.”</p> +<p>“May be, may be, sir; but will she forget so soon? When +a woman gets a thing of this sort into her head it sticks there, sir. +There is nothing to drive it out. He will go off among his fine +friends in London, or wherever <!-- page 89--><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>it +is; but she will be alone here in the little dull town, and it is mighty +dull in the winter, sir.”</p> +<p>“You see, Hawkstone, Barton is a friend of mine; and, though +I have only known him a couple of years, I am sure he is a generous, +good sort of fellow, and honest and truthful, though a bit thoughtless +and careless. I am sure he will see his own folly and bad conduct +when it is shown to him. This is a sham love of his. She +is a very pretty girl, it is true. You won’t mind my saying +that?”</p> +<p>“Say away, sir. I look more to what people mean than +what they say.”</p> +<p>“Well, no doubt, he has been struck by her beauty; but their +positions are different, and he has only seen her for a week or two. +Besides, he knows that you and she are fond of one another. I +believe he is only idle and thoughtless. If I thought for a moment +that he was contemplating a blackguardly act, he should be no friend +of mine, and I would not only tell him so, but I would give him a good +kicking, or look on with pleasure while you did it. But you must +be quiet, Hawkstone, at present, for you know nothing, and a quarrel +would only do you harm all round.”</p> +<p>“It’s not so easy to be quiet. The neighbours are +beginning to talk, sir, though they don’t let me hear what they +say. I can see by their looks. What business has he to sit +beside her on the quay? He is making a fool of her and of me. +I cannot bear it. Sometimes I feel as if I should go mad. +I don’t know what those poor creatures in the Bible felt when +they were possessed by the devil, but I believe he comes right into +me when I think of this business.” Then he <!-- page 90--><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>bent +over the boat and covered his face with his arms, and his great broad +back heaved up and down, like a boat on the sea. Glenville left +him alone, and puffed away vigorously at a cigar he was smoking in order +to quiet his own feelings, which had been more excited than he liked.</p> +<p>After a few minutes, Hawkstone raised his head as if from a sleep, +and suddenly exclaimed, “Hey, sir! The wind and the sea +have not been idle while we have been talking. We must be sharp +now. Shout to your friends, sir. I cannot shout just yet, +I think.”</p> +<p>Glenville shouted as loud as he was able.</p> +<p>“That won’t do, I’m afeard,” said Hawkstone, +and he gave a loud halloo, which rang from cliff to cliff, and brought +out a cloud of gulls, sailing round and round for a while in great commotion, +but soon disappearing into the cliffs again.</p> +<p>We were most of us already descending when we heard Hawkstone’s +voice; the boat was soon ready; but where were Thornton and his lady +love? After waiting a while, Hawkstone shouting more than once, +it was proposed that someone should go in search for them. Hawkstone +was getting very impatient, and warned us we should have a hard struggle +to get home again.</p> +<p>“It will be a bad job if we cannot get round the point,” +cried he, “for then we shall have to land in the bay, and although +there will be no danger if we get off soon, yet the ladies will get +a wetting, and maybe the boat will be damaged. We shall just get +a little water going out, for the surf is running in strong.”</p> +<p>“It is very wonderful,” said Mrs. Bagshaw, “how +<!-- page 91--><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>suddenly the wind rises +on this coast, and the waves answer to the lash like wild colts. +The change from calm to storm is most remarkable.”</p> +<p>“Very,” thought I to myself, when I called to mind the +sudden changes of temper which I had noticed in her.</p> +<p>“What can that duffer Thornton be about all this long time?” +asked Barton.</p> +<p>Mrs. Bagshaw and I exchanged glances. “I am not sure,” +said she to me, “that I have not been doing a very imprudent thing +in letting them land.”</p> +<p>It was full ten minutes after the arrival of the rest of the party +before Thornton and Florence made their appearance, looking very confused +and awkward. Glenville preceded them, shouting and laughing. +“Here they are, caught at last, and apparently quite pleased at +keeping us all waiting, and quite unable to give any account of what +they have been doing. One little fern has fallen before their +united efforts in the space of half an hour or more. Hawkstone +says he’ll be shot if he lends you his boat to go a row in another +time. Don’t you, Hawkstone?”</p> +<p>“No, sir, I didn’t say that. If a gentleman and +a lady like to loiter on the hill it’s nothing to a poor boatman +how long they stay, leastways wind and weather permitting, as the packet +says.”</p> +<p>Hawkstone pushed us off through the surf, and it was no easy matter, +and, I daresay, required some judgment and presence of mind to seize +the right moment between the breaking of the great waves. With +all his skill we managed to ship a little water, amid the laughing shrieks +of the ladies and the boisterous shouts of “two” and <!-- page 92--><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>“three,” +who got some of the water down their backs. We were soon under +weigh, however, and tugging manfully on, occasionally missing a stroke +when the boat lurched on a great wave, and making but slow progress. +Fortunately we had not far to go before we arrived opposite to the parade, +where a small crowd of people was watching our movements with great +interest, and the pocket handkerchiefs again fluttered from the land. +The signals, however, met with no response from us. Tug as we +would, we seemed to make very little way, notwithstanding Hawkstone’s +“Well rowed, gentlemen, she’s moving fast. We shall +do it yet.”</p> +<p>The waves were now running high, white crested, and with a long, +wide sweep in them. We were forced to steer close to the rocks +at the point in order to keep as much as possible out of the tide, which +was running so strongly a few yards from the land that we never could +have made any way against it there. As it was I could see that +for many seconds we did not open a single point of rock, and it was +all we could do to keep the boat from dropping astern. Just as +I was beginning to despair of ever getting back in safety, and was aware +that my wind was going, and that both arms and legs were on the point +of giving way, a loud shout from Hawkstone alarmed us all. He +jumped up, shouting, “Row hard on the bow side, ease off on the +stroke,” and in a moment (how he got from the bows I shall never +know!) we saw him seated behind the stern-board with the tiller in his +hand. The boat shot round, shipping a heavy sea, and we were at +one moment within a yard of the rock underneath the parade. “Row +hard, all!” was soon the cry, and away we shot before wind and +tide in the opposite <!-- page 93--><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>direction +to that in which we had been going. Again we heard Hawkstone’s +voice, “Steady, keep steady. There’s nothing to fear. +We can run her into the bay!” Nothing to fear! But +there had been. One moment of delay, and we should have been dashed +on the rocks. I do not know why it was, but the waves now seemed +gigantic. Perhaps excitement or fear made them seem larger, or +perhaps the change in the direction of the course of the boat had that +effect. Certainly they now seemed to rear their white crests high +above us, and to menace us with their huge forms. The roar of +the breakers upon the beach added to the excitement of the scene. +The ladies sat pale and silent. I believe all would have gone +well, but at the most exigent moment, when we were riding on the surf +which was to land us, “bow” and “three” missed +their strokes and fell into the bottom of the boat; and, amid great +confusion, the boat swerved round; and, a great wave striking her upon +her broadside, she upset, and rolled the whole party over and over into +about three feet of water. All scrambled as well as they could +to the shore; but in a moment we saw with dismay that one of the ladies +was floating away on the retreating wave, and Thornton was plunging +after the helpless form. Meanwhile the party on the parade had +rushed frantically round to the bay, shouting and screaming as they +came.</p> +<p>“Where’s the life-buoy?” shouted Captain O’Brien +vaguely.</p> +<p>“Fetch the life-boat!” cried Captain Kelly, in a voice +of command, although there was no one to fetch it, and, for aught he +knew, the nearest was in London. The two Misses Bankes screamed +at intervals like minute <!-- page 94--><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>guns. +Mr. and Mrs. Delamere and their younger daughter looked on in speechless +agony. The young artist, like a sensible fellow, seized up a coil +of rope and dragged it towards the sea. The colonel embraced Mrs. +Bagshaw before the multitude.</p> +<p>“She will be drowned!” cried one.</p> +<p>“She is saved!” cried another.</p> +<p>“He has caught her, thank God! Well done!” shrieked +a third.</p> +<p>Thornton had reached Florence, and was endeavouring to stagger back +with her in his arms; but the waves were too strong for him, and they +both fell, and were lost to sight in an enormous breaker, while everyone +held their breath. As the wave dispersed three forms could be +seen struggling forwards; and, amid the wildest cheers and excitement +Hawkstone rolled Thornton and his lady love upon the sand, and then +threw himself on his back quite out of breath.</p> +<p>Florence neither heard nor saw anything for some time. Captain +Kelly suggested water as being the best restorative under the circumstances. +Porkington wished he had not forgotten his brandy flask. The doctor’s +son thought of bleeding, and played with a little pocket-knife in a +suggestive fashion. On a sudden Glenville, who always had his +wits about him, discovered the Drag seated on a rock in a state of helpless +terror, and smelling at a bottle of aromatic vinegar as though her life +was in danger. “Lend that to me—quick, Miss Candlish!” +he cried, and seized the bottle. The Drag struggled to keep possession +of it, but in vain, and then fainted away. The young lady soon +recovered sufficiently under the influence of the smelling bottle to +walk home with the <!-- page 95--><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>assistance +of Thornton and Mrs. Delamere. The rest of the party began to +separate amid much talking and laughter; for as soon as the danger was +passed the whole thing seemed to be a joke; and we had so much to talk +of, that we hardly noticed how we got away. But on looking back +I observed that the young artist brought up the rear with Miss Bagshaw, +and was evidently being most attentive. Hawkstone received everybody’s +thanks and praise in a simple, good-humoured way, and proceeded to fasten +up the boat out of reach of the tide.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V.—THE BALL.</h3> +<p>Mrs. Porkington, attired in the white silk which we all knew so well, +reclined upon the sofa. Porkington, who was, or should be, her +lord and master, was perched upon the music stool. The Drag, in +a pink muslin of a draggled description, sat in a deep easy chair, displaying +a great deal of skinny ancle and large feet.</p> +<p>“It has always surprised me, my dear,” said Mrs. Porkington, +“how fond you are of dancing.”</p> +<p>“Why, what can you mean?” said he. “Why, +I never danced in my life.”</p> +<p>“Oh, of course not,” replied she. “I am aware +you cannot dance, nor did I insinuate that you could, my dear, nor did +I say so that I am aware. But you enjoy these balls so much, you +know you do.”</p> +<p>“Well, yes,” he said, languidly, “I like to see +the young folks enjoy themselves.”</p> +<p>“Now, for my part,” said his wife, “I am sure I +am getting quite tired, and wish the balls were at an end.”</p> +<p><!-- page 96--><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>“My dear, +I am sure I thought you liked them, or I would never have taken the +tickets.”</p> +<p>“Now, my dear, my dear, I must beg, I must entreat, that you +will not endeavour to lay the expense of those tickets upon my shoulders. +I am sure I have never been asked to be taken to one of the balls this +season.”</p> +<p>When a man tells a lie, it is with some hope, however slight, that +he may not be found out; but a woman will lie to the very person whom +she knows to be as fully acquainted with the facts as she is herself. +Which is the more deadly sin I leave to the Jesuits.</p> +<p>“I am sure,” said the Coach, making a desperate effort, +“you appeared to enjoy them, for you danced a great many dances.”</p> +<p>“Aunt!” exclaimed the lady, “is it true that I +always dance every dance?”</p> +<p>“No indeed!” chimed in Miss Candlish, “far from +it. No doubt you would get partners for all if you wished.”</p> +<p>“And is it true,” she continued, “that I wish to +go to these ridiculous soirees?”</p> +<p>“Certainly not, indeed,” said the Drag, “nor do +I wish to go, I am sure!”</p> +<p>“In that case I can dispose of your ticket,” said he. +Unlucky man! In these cases there is no <i>via media</i>. +A man should either resist to the death or submit with as good a grace +as he can. Half measures are fatal.</p> +<p>“No, my dear, you cannot dispose of that ticket,” said +his wife, “and I take it as very unkind in you to speak to Aunt +in that manner. It is not because she is poor, and dependent upon +us, that she is to be sneered at and ill-treated.” At this +speech the Drag burst into tears, and declared that she always knew +that Mr. Porkington <!-- page 97--><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>hated +her; that she might be poor and old and ugly, etc., etc., but she little +expected to be called so by him; that she would not go to the ball now, +if he implored her on his knees, and so on, and so on.</p> +<p>Now, who could have thought it? All this fuss was occasioned +by Mr. P. having meanly backed out of giving Mrs. P. a new dress in +which to electrify the fashionable world at Babbicombe. Ah me! +Let us hope that in some far distant planet there may be some better +world where all unfortunate creatures,—dogs which have had tin +kettles tied to their tails,—cockchafers which have been spun +upon pins,—poor men who have been over-crawed by wives, aunts, +mothers-in-law, and other terrors,—donkeys which have been undeservedly +belaboured by costermongers,—and authors who have been meritoriously +abused by critics,—rest together in peace in a sort of happy family.</p> +<p>At this point Barton, Glenville, Thornton, and I all entered the +room.</p> +<p>“Oh, I am so glad to see the ladies are ready,” said +Thornton. “This will be our last ball, and we ought to make +a happy evening of it. Are you not sorry we are coming to the +end of our gaieties, Miss Candlish?”</p> +<p>“Sorry!” exclaimed the Drag, ferociously. “Sorry! +I never was more pleased—pleased—pleased!” Every +time she repeated the word “pleased” she launched it at +the head of the unfortunate tutor, as if she hoped her words would turn +into brickbats ere they reached him.</p> +<p>“I am glad to see you are going, however,” said Glenville.</p> +<p>“There you are mistaken,” said the Aunt, “for Mr. +<!-- page 98--><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Porkington has been +so very kind as to say he had rather I did not go.”</p> +<p>“Really, really,” cried Porkington, “I can assure +you it is quite the reverse. I am so misunderstood that really +I am sure I can’t tell—”</p> +<p>“Oh, pray do not disappoint us in our last evening together, +Miss Candlish,” said Glenville, coming to the rescue of the unfortunate +tutor, and speaking in his most fascinating manner, “I have hoped +for the pleasure of a quadrille and lancers and” (with an effort) +“a waltz with you this evening if you will allow me.”</p> +<p>The Drag became calm, and after a little while diplomatic relations +were fairly established, and away we all went to the Assembly Rooms, +Glenville whispering to me and Barton, “I have made up my mind +to get rid of that pink muslin to-night or perish in the attempt.” +I had no opportunity at the moment of asking him what he meant, but +I was sure he meant mischief. However, I never gave the matter +a second thought, as the business of dancing soon commenced. Captains +O’Brien and Kelly were already waltzing with the two Misses Bankes, +and whispering delightful nothings into their curls as we entered. +The artist was floundering in a persevering manner with pretty Miss +Bagshaw, and the doctor was standing in the doorway ruminating hopefully +on the probable effects of low dresses and cold draughts. Thornton +was soon engrossed in the charms of his lady love, and Barton, Glenville, +and I were doing our duty by all the young ladies. The room was +well filled, and, though not well lighted nor well appointed, was large +and cheerful enough. The German Band performed prodigies; the +row was simply deafening. There were a few <!-- page 99--><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>seats +by the walls for those who did not dance, and there was a room for lemonade, +cakes, and bad ices for those who liked them, as well as a small room +in which the old fogies could play a rubber of whist.</p> +<p>Mrs. Delamere had pinned Mr. Bankes in a corner, and was enlarging +to him upon one of her favourite topics.</p> +<p>“The Church of England,” said she, “is undoubtedly +in great danger, but why should we regret it? It has become a +thing of the past, and so have chivalry and monasteries. The mind +of the nineteenth century is marching on to its goal. The intellect +of England is asserting itself. I have ever loved the intellect +of England, haven’t you?”</p> +<p>“Oh, quite so—ah, yes, certainly, of course!” said +Mr. Bankes.</p> +<p>“You agree with me,” said Mrs. Delamere; “I was +sure you would. This is most delightful. I have seldom talked +with any true thinker who does not agree with me.”</p> +<p>“I am sure,” said Mr. Bankes gallantly, “no one +would venture to cope with such an accomplished disputant.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps not,” she said complacently, “but I should +not desire to disagree with anyone upon religious subjects. The +great desideratum—you see I understand the Latin tongue, Mr. Bankes—the +great desideratum is harmony—the harmony of the soul! How +are we to arrive at harmony? that is the pressing question.”</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>“Bagshaw, you are a low cheat, sir: you are nothing better +than a common swindler, sir. I will not play with <!-- page 100--><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>you +any more. Do you call yourself a whist player and make signs to +your partner. I should be ashamed to stay in the same room with +you.”</p> +<p>Several of the dancers hastened into the card-room. Mrs. Bagshaw +was standing up flushed and excited, and talking loudly and wildly. +She had overset her chair, and flung down her cards upon the table. +Seeing Porkington enter, she cried out, “Look to your wife, sir, +look to your wife. She received signals across the table. +It has nothing to do with the cards. Look at that man who is called +my husband—that monster—that bundle of lies and deceit, +who has been the ruin of hundreds.”</p> +<p>“By heavens, this is too bad!” exclaimed Colonel Bagshaw. +“I declare nothing has happened that I know of, except that my +wife has forgotten to count honours.”</p> +<p>“It is a lie, sir, and you know it. You are trying to +ruin a woman before my very eyes. Oh, you man, you brute! +Oh, help, help me, help!” and in act to fall she steadied herself +by clenching tightly the back of her chair. Her daughter was luckily +close to her, “Oh, mamma, mamma,” whispered she, “how +can you say such things? Come away, come away; you are ill. +Do come.” She led her out into the hall, and hurriedly adjusting +the shawls, went home with her mother.</p> +<p>Porkington showed himself a man. He took Colonel Bagshaw by +the hand. “I am very sorry,” said he, “that +Mrs. Bagshaw should have made some mistake. Some sudden vexation, +and I am afraid some indisposition, must be the cause of her excitement. +Allow me to take her place and finish the game. I am afraid you +will find me a poor performer, Colonel.”</p> +<p><!-- page 101--><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>“Oh, not +at all. Let us begin. I will deal again, and the scoring +stands as it did.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Porkington during this scene had turned pale and red alternately. +Her husband’s dignity and presence of mind astonished her. +She was so excited as to be almost unable to play her cards, and her +lips and eyes betrayed very great emotion. The tutor’s cheek +showed some trace of colour, and his manner was even graver than usual, +but that was all; and his wife felt the presence of a superior force +to her own, and was checked into silence. I had always felt sure +that there was a reserve of force in the timid nature of our Coach which +seemed to peep forth at times and then retire again. It was curious +to mark on these rare occasions how the more boisterous self-assertion +of Mrs. Porkington seemed for a time to cower before the gentler but +finer will. Natures are not changed in a day, but the effect of +the singular scene which had been enacted at that time was never effaced, +and a gradual and mutual approach was made between husband and wife +towards a more cordial and complete sympathy.</p> +<p>The music had not ceased playing during the disturbance, and the +dancers, with great presence of mind, quickly returned to their places, +and the usual frivolities of the evening continued to the accustomed +hour of midnight, when the party began to break up. I could not +find Glenville or Barton. Where could they be? Once or twice +in the pauses of the dance I had noticed them talking earnestly together, +and occasionally with suppressed laughter. “Now, what joke +are these fellows up to, I wonder?” However, it was not +my business to inquire, though I had a kind of fear that the combination +<!-- page 102--><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>of gunpowder with +lucifer matches in a high temperature could hardly be more dangerous +than the meeting of Glenville and Barton in a mischievous mood. +Before the last dance had commenced they had left the hall, and, as +soon as they got outside, they found Miss Candlish’s sedan chair +in the custody of the two men who usually carried her to and fro when +she attended the balls. Two other sedan chairs, several bath chairs +and donkey chairs, and a couple of flys were in attendance. Aided +by the magical influence of a small “tip,” Glenville easily +persuaded the men in charge that the dance would not be over for a few +minutes, and that they had time to go and get a glass of beer, which, +he said, Miss Candlish wished them to have in return for the care and +trouble they had several times taken in carrying her home. As +soon as they had gone, he and Barton came back into the ball-room; and, +as the last dance was coming to an end, and the band was beginning to +scramble through “God save the Queen,” in a most disloyal +manner, he came up to Miss Candlish, and said, “May I have the +pleasure of seeing you to your chair, and thanking you for that very +delightful dance?”</p> +<p>“My dear Mr. Glenville,” said the Drag, “your politeness +is quite overpowering. Ah, if all young men were like you, what +a very different world it would be.”</p> +<p>“You must not flatter me,” said Glenville, “for +I am very soft hearted, especially where the fair sex is concerned.”</p> +<p>“Ah, how I wish I had a son like you!” sighed the Drag.</p> +<p>“And how I wish you were my m—m—mother!” +replied that villain Glenville, as he adjusted her cloak, <!-- page 103--><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>and +led her out to her chair. It was pitchy dark outside (only a couple +of candle lanterns to see by), and the usual confusion upon the breaking +up of a large party was taking place. Miss Candlish stepped into +her chair, and the door was closed. Glenville and Barton took +up the chair, and, going as smoothly as they could (which was not as +smoothly as the usual carriers), they turned aside from the main stream +of the visitors, and made at once for the harbour. Here they had +intended to deposit the chair, and leave the rest to fate; but, as luck +would have it, in setting down the chair in the darkness, one side of +it projected over a sort of landing-place. It toppled over and +fell sideways with a splash into the muddy water. Scream upon +scream followed rapidly. “Murder! thieves! help!” +Shriek after shriek, and at last a female form, wildly flinging her +arms into the air, could be seen emerging from the half buried chair. +Glenville and Barton had run away before the chair fell, but, hearing +the fall, looked back, and were at first spellbound with terror at what +had happened. When, however, they saw the Drag emerge, they fairly +fled for their lives by a circuitous way little frequented by night, +and reached home just before the rest of us arrived. There was +some alarm when Miss Candlish did not arrive for about twenty minutes +or half an hour. Glenville and Barton told Thornton and myself +what had happened, and wanted to know what they should do. Of +course, we advised that they should say and do nothing, but wait upon +the will of the Fates. They were in a great fright, and when Miss +Candlish arrived in charge of two policemen their terror became wild. +And yet they both said afterwards that they could hardly help laughing +out loud. <!-- page 104--><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>The +pink muslin was draggled and besmeared with harbour mud, and torn half +out of the gathers. Its owner was in a state of rage, terror, +and hysterics. The commotion was fearful. It was very strange +she did not seem to have the faintest suspicion of any of our party. +She was sure the men were drunk because they carried her so unsteadily. +She was positive they meant to rob her or something worse. She +saw them as they were running away. They were the very same men +who always carried her. She never could bear those men. +They looked more like demons than men. She would leave the place +next day. She had been disgraced. Everybody hated her, nobody +had any pity. She would go to bed. Don’t speak to +her—go away—go away, do! Brandy and water, certainly +not! and so on. Till at last Mrs. Porkington prevailed on her +to go to bed. We had all vanished as quickly as we could and smoked +a pipe, discussing in low tones the lowering appearance of the skies +above us, and the consequences which might ensue upon those inquiries +which we foresaw must inevitably take place.</p> +<p>I never quite knew how it was managed, but two policemen came the +next morning and actually examined our boots and trousers, and then +had a long interview with Mr. Porkington; and finally we, who were waiting +in terror in the dining-room, saw the pair of them go out of the front +door, touching their hats to Porkington. I thought at the time +that he must have bribed them; but afterwards, on thinking it over, +I came to the conclusion that there was no evidence of the complicity +of our party. Of course, the sedan men did not know what had happened. +Porkington stoutly refused to let the policemen <!-- page 105--><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>come +into our study, and told them he should regard them as trespassers if +they ventured to go into any other room. The Drag, although she +declared she knew the two men, had no desire to bring the matter before +the public. Porkington never said a word to any of us upon the +subject, though he looked cross and nervous. As soon as the aunt +had taken her departure (which she did the next day) he quite recovered +his good humour, and, I believe, even chuckled inwardly at the episode. +The <i>Babbicombe Independent</i> had an amusing paragraph upon the +incident, and opined that some drunken sailors from one of the neighbouring +ports were the perpetrators of the coarse practical joke; but we found +that the general opinion among the visitors was not so wide of the truth. +However, as no one cared for the lady it took less than nine days to +get rid of the wonder.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI.—THE SHORE.</h3> +<p>“Barton,” said Glenville, “I want to speak to you, +old chap. You won’t mind me speaking to you, will you?”</p> +<p>Barton’s brow clouded at once. He knew what was coming. +“I don’t know what you mean,” said he.</p> +<p>“Well, I want to talk to you about that girl.”</p> +<p>“What right have you to interfere? That’s my business, +not yours.”</p> +<p>“If you are going to be angry, I’ll shut up. But +I tell you plainly, it’s a beastly shame; and if you dare to do +any harm to her I’ll kick you out of the place.”</p> +<p>“Out of what place?”</p> +<p><!-- page 106--><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>“Why, out +of this or any other place I find you in. You’ve no right +to go meeting her as you do.”</p> +<p>“And you’ve no right to speak of her like that. +She is as pure as any child in the world, and you ought to know I would +do her no harm. You are trying to insult both me and her.”</p> +<p>“Well, I’m very glad to hear you say so. But, see +what folly it all is. You know you don’t intend to marry +her. Do you?”</p> +<p>“Why, as to that I don’t know. I’m not obliged +to tell you what I mean to do.”</p> +<p>“No; but you ought to think about what you mean to do. +You know she is engaged to be married to Hawkstone.”</p> +<p>“Yes; but I don’t think she cares for him a bit—only +to tease him.”</p> +<p>“Do just think what you are doing as a man and a gentleman—I +won’t say as a Christian, for you tell me you mean nothing bad. +But is it manly, is it fair to play these sort of tricks? I must +tell you we must give up being chums any longer if this goes on.”</p> +<p>“I tell you what, Glenville, I think you are giving yourself +mighty fine airs, and all about nothing; but just because you have an +uncle who is a lord you think you may preach as much as you like.”</p> +<p>“Oh, come now, that’s all nonsense!” said Glenville. +“If you are determined to shut me up, I’ve done. <i>Liberavi +animam meam</i>. I am sorry if I have offended you. I say +it’s quite time we went to join the other fellows. They +want us to go with some of the ladies over the cliffs.”</p> +<p>“Thanks, I can’t come. I’ve a lot more work +to do, <!-- page 107--><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>and—and +I’ve hurt my heel a bit and don’t care to go a stiff climb +to-day.”</p> +<p>Glenville looked at him, and saw a red glow rising in his neck as +he turned away his face and sat down to a book on the table, pretending +to read, as Glenville left the room.</p> +<p>The sky was dark, and ominous of storm. It had a torn and ragged +appearance, as if it had already had a fight with worse weather and +was trying to escape. The sea-gulls showed like white breakers +upon the dark sky. The waves roared and grumbled, lashing themselves +into a fury as they burst in white, wrathful foam against the black +rocks, and then drew back, torn and mangled, to mingle with the crowd +of waves rushing on to their doom. The visitors, dressed for squally +weather, in waterproofs or rough suits, walked up and down the parade, +enjoying the exhilarating breeze, or stood watching with eager excitement +the entry of a fishing smack into the harbour. Far away out at +sea in the mist of distant spray and rain two or three brigantines or +schooners could be dimly descried labouring with the storm;—mysterious +and awful sight as it always seems to me. Will she get safe to +port? What is her cargo? What her human freight? What +are they doing or thinking? What language do they speak? +Are there women or children aboard? Who knows? Ah, gentle +reader, what do you and I know of each other, and what do we know of +even our nearest friends; to what port are they struggling through the +mists which envelop them, and who will meet them on the shore?</p> +<p>An hour had not elapsed since Glenville had left Barton before the +latter had reached the first promontory of rocks which shut in the little +bay of Babbicombe, <!-- page 108--><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>and +on turning the corner found, as he had expected and appointed, the young +woman who had been the subject of their angry conversation. She +rose from a rock on which she had been sitting, and came to meet him +with a frank smile, saying, “Good afternoon, Mr. Henry.” +Somehow the slightly coarse intonation struck him as it had never done +before, and the freedom of manner which a few hours ago would have delighted +him now sent a chilling sensation to his heart. “Good afternoon,” +he replied, and, drawing his arm round her waist, he kissed her several +times, and held her so firmly that at last she said, “Oh, sir, +you’ll hurt me. Let me go!” Then holding him +away from her, and looking him full in the face, she said, “Oh, +Mr. Henry, whatever can be the matter!” “Come and +sit down, darling,” he said, “I want to say something to +you.” He led her to a seat upon the rocks, and they both +sat down. “Darling,” he said, “I am afraid I +must go away at once and leave you for ever.” “Oh, +no, no, no! not that!” she cried, starting up. In a moment +her manner changed from fear to anger. “I know what it is!” +she exclaimed, “Hawkstone has been rude to you. There now, +I will never forgive him. I will never be friends with him again—never!”</p> +<p>“No, darling, it is nothing about Hawkstone at all. I +haven’t seen him. But come here, you must be quiet and listen +to what I have to say.”</p> +<p>She sat down again beside him. Her lips quivered. Her +blue eyes were staring into the cliff in front of her, but she saw nothing, +felt nothing, except that a dreadful moment had come which she had for +some time dimly expected, but never distinctly foreseen.</p> +<p><!-- page 109--><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>“I hardly +know how to tell you,” he began. “You know I love +you very dearly, and if I could—if it was possible, I would ask +you to marry me. But I cannot. It is impossible. It +would bring misery upon all, upon my father and mother, and upon you. +How can I make you understand? My people are rich, all their friends +are rich, and all very proud.”</p> +<p>The tears were streaming down her face, and she sat motionless.</p> +<p>“But I don’t want to know your friends,” she said, +in a choking voice.</p> +<p>“I know, I know,” he said, “and I could be quite +happy with you if they were all dead and out of the way, and if the +world was different from what it is. But I have thought it all +out, and I am sure I ought to go away at once, and never come back again.”</p> +<p>There was a long pause, but at last she rose and said, “Mr. +Barton, I have felt that something of this sort might happen, but I +have never thought it out, as you say you have. I am confused +now it has come, just as if I had never feared it beforehand. +I was very, very happy, and I would not think of what might come of +it. I might have known that a grand gentleman like you would never +live with the like of me; but then I thought I loved you very, very +dearly; you seemed so bright, and grand, and tender, that I loved you +in spite of all I was afraid of, and I thought if you loved me you might +perhaps be—” Here she broke down altogether, and burst +into sobs, and seemed as though she would fall. He rose and threw +his arms round her, led her back to the rock, called her all the sweet +names he could think of, kissed her again and again, and tried to soothe +her; <!-- page 110--><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>while she, poor +thing, could do nothing but sob, with her head upon his shoulder.</p> +<p>A loud shout aroused them. They both rose suddenly, and turned +their faces towards the place whence the sound proceeded. Hawkstone +was just emerging from the surf, which was lashing furiously against +the corner of the cliff, round which they had come dry-shod a short +time before, They at once guessed their fate, and glanced in dismay +at one another and then at the sea, and again at Hawkstone, who rapidly +approached them, drenched through and through, and in a fierce state +of wrath and terror, added to the excitement of his struggle with the +waves.</p> +<p>“What are you doing here?” he cried, and in the same +breath, “Don’t answer—don’t dare to answer, +but listen. You are caught by the tide. I have sent a boy +back to Babbicombe for help. No help can come by sea in such a +storm. They will bring a basket and ropes by the cliff. +It will be a race between them and the tide. If all goes well, +they will be here in time. If not, we shall all be drowned.”</p> +<p>“Is there no way up the cliff?” said Barton.</p> +<p>“None. The cliff overhangs. There is a place where +I have just come through, but I doubt if I could reach it again; and +I am sure neither of you could stand the surf. You must wait.” +He then turned from them, and sat himself down on a fallen piece of +the cliff, and buried his face in his hands. Nellie sank down +on the rock where she and Barton had been sitting, and he stood by her, +helplessly gazing alternately with a pale face and bewildered mind at +his two companions. Two or three minutes passed without any motion +or sound from the <!-- page 111--><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>living +occupants of the bay; but the roaring of the sea grew louder and louder, +and the terror of it sank into the hearts of all three. At last +Hawkstone raised his head, and immediately Barton approached him.</p> +<p>“Forgive me, Hawkstone,” he said, “I have done +you a great wrong, and I am sorry for it.”</p> +<p>“What’s the good in saying that? You can’t +mend the wrong you have done,” and his head sank down again between +his hands.</p> +<p>There was a pause. Barton felt that what had been said was +true and not true. One of the most painful consequences of wrong-doing +is that the wrong has a sort of fungus growth about it, and insists +upon appearing more wrong than it ever was meant to be.</p> +<p>“Hawkstone,” he said at last, “I swear to you, +on my honour as a gentleman, I have never dreamed of doing her an injury. +I have been very, very foolish; I have come between you and her with +my cursed folly. I deserve anything you may say or do to me. +I care nothing about the waves; let them come. Take her with you +up the cliff, and leave me to drown. It’s all I’m +fit for. She will forget me soon enough, I feel sure, for I am +not worth remembering.”</p> +<p>Hawkstone still kept himself bent down, his hands covering his face, +and his body swaying to and fro with his strong emotions.</p> +<p>“You talk, you talk,” he muttered. “You seem +to have ruined her, and me, and yourself too.”</p> +<p>“Not ruined her!” cried Barton, “I have told you, +I swear to you. I swear—”</p> +<p>“Yes!” cried Hawkstone, springing up in a passion and +towering above Barton, with his hands tightly <!-- page 112--><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>clenched +and his chest heaving, “Yes! you are too great a coward for that. +In one moment I could crush you as I crush the mussels in the harbour +with my heel.”</p> +<p>Nelly threw herself upon him, “Jack, spare him, spare him. +He meant no harm. Not now, not now! The sea, Jack, the sea! +Save us, save us!”</p> +<p>The man’s strength seemed to leave him, and she seemed to overpower +him, as he sank back into his former position, muttering “O God, +O God!” At last he said, “Let be, let be—there, +there, I’ve prayed I might not kill you both, and the devil is +gone, thank the Lord for it. There, lass, don’t fret; I +can’t abide crying. The sea! the sea! Yes, the sea. +I had almost forgotten it. Cheer up a bit—fearful—how +it blows—but there’s time yet—a few minutes. +Keep up, keep up. There’s a God above us anyway.”</p> +<p>At this moment a shout was heard above them. “There they +are at last,” cried Hawkstone, and he sent a loud halloo up the +cliff, which was immediately responded to by those at the top, though +the sound seemed faint and far off. After the lapse of about five +minutes, a basket attached to two ropes descended slowly and bumped +upon the rocks.</p> +<p>“Now, lass, you get up first. Come, come, give over crying. +It’s no time for crying now. Be a brave lass or you’ll +fall out. Sit down and keep tight hold. Shut your eyes, +never mind a bump or two, and keep tight hold. Now then!” +He lifted her into the basket. She tried to take his hand, but +he drew it sharply away.</p> +<p>“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Jack,” she said, “I +have been very wicked, but I will try to be good.”</p> +<p>“That’s right, lass, that’s right. God keep +you safe. <!-- page 113--><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>Hold +on,” and he gave a shout up the cliff, and the basket began slowly +to ascend. The two men gazed at it in silence till it reached +the summit, when, with a rapid swirl, it disappeared.</p> +<p>“Thank God, she is safe,” said Hawkstone.</p> +<p>“Look, look!” cried Barton, catching hold of Hawkstone +in alarm. “Look how fast the waves are coming. They +will be on us directly.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Hawkstone, “there will be barely time +to get the two of us up unless they make great haste. I don’t +know why they don’t lower at once. Something must have gone +wrong with the rope, but they will do their best, that’s certain.”</p> +<p>They waited in anxiety amounting to horror, as wave after wave, larger +and louder, roared at them, and rushed round the rocks on which they +were standing. Presently down came the basket, plunging into the +retreating wave.</p> +<p>“Now, then, sir, in with you,” said Hawkstone.</p> +<p>“No, you go first. I will not go. It is my fault +you are here.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense, sir, there’s no time for talk.”</p> +<p>“I will not go without you. Let us both get in together.”</p> +<p>“The rope will hardly bear two. Besides, I doubt if there +is strength enough above to pull us up. Get in, get in.”</p> +<p>Barton still hesitated. “I am afraid to leave you alone. +Promise me if I go that you will not—. I can’t say +what I mean, but if anything happened to you I should be the cause of +it.”</p> +<p>“For shame, sir, shame. I guess what you mean, but I +have not forgotten who made me, though I have been <!-- page 114--><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>sorely +tried. In with you at once.” He suddenly lifted Barton +up in his arms, and almost threw him into the basket, raising a loud +shout, upon which the basket again ascended the cliff more rapidly than +on the first occasion. Hawkstone fell upon his knees at the base +of the cliff, while the waves roared at him like wild beasts held back +from their victim. He was alone with them and with the God in +whom his simple faith taught him to trust as being mightier than all +the waves. Down came the basket with great rapidity, and Hawkstone +had a hard fight before he could drag it out from the waves and get +into it. Drenched from head to foot, and cold and trembling with +excitement and grief, he again shouted, and the basket once more ascended. +He remembered no more. A sudden faintness overcame him, and the +first thing he remembered was feeling himself borne along on a kind +of extemporary litter, and hearing kind voices saying that he was “coming +to,” and would soon be all right again.</p> +<p>Luckily there was no scandal. It was thought quite natural +that Hawkstone should be with Nelly, and Barton was supposed to have +been there by accident. Of course, we knew what the real state +of the case was, and were glad that Barton had got a good fright; but +we kept our own counsel.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII.—CONCLUSION.</h3> +<p>Very soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, the Reading +Party broke up, and it only remains now for the writer of this veracious +narrative to disclose any information he may have subsequently obtained +as to the <!-- page 115--><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>fate of +his characters. Porkington still holds an honoured position in +the University, and still continues to take young men in the summer +vacation to such places as Mrs. Porkington considers sufficiently invigorating +to her constitution. They grow better friends every year, but +the grey mare will always be the better horse. One cause of difference +has disappeared. The Drag died very shortly after leaving Babbicombe; +not at all, I believe, in consequence of her ducking in the harbour; +but, being of a peevish and “worritting” disposition, she +had worn herself out in her attempts to make other people’s lives +a burden to them. I do not know what has become of Harry Barton; +but I know that he has never revisited Babbicombe, nor even written +to the fair Nelly. I suppose he is helping to manage his father’s +cotton mill, and will in due course marry the daughter of a wealthy +manufacturer. Glenville has become quite a rising barrister, popular +in both branches of his profession, and has announced his fixed intention +to remain happy and unmarried till his death. Looking into the +future, however, with the eye of a prophet, the present writer thinks +he can see Glenville walking arm in arm with a tall, graceful lady, +attended by two little girls to whom he is laughingly talking—but +the dream fades from me, and I wonder will it ever come true. +Thornton, of course, married Miss Delamere (how could it be otherwise), +but, alas! there are no children, and this unhappy want is hardly compensated +by the indefatigable attentions of Mamma Delamere, who is never weary +of condoling with that poor, desolate couple, imploring them to resign +themselves to the fate which has been assigned to them, and to strengthen +their minds by the principles <!-- page 116--><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>of +true philosophy and the writings of great thinkers; by which she hopes +they may acquire that harmony of the soul in private life which is so +much to be desiderated in both politics and religion. Nobody knows +what she means.</p> +<p>Nelly was not forgiven for one whole year. When she and Hawkstone +met, they used only the customary expressions of mere acquaintances; +but lovers are known to make use of signals which are unperceived by +the outside world; and, after a year’s skirmishing, a peace was +finally concluded, and a happier couple than John Hawkstone and Nelly +cannot be found in the whole country, and I am afraid to say how many +of their children are already tumbling about the boats in the harbour.</p> +<p>The colonel died, and Mrs. Bagshaw lamented his death most truly, +and has nothing but gentleness left in her nature. Her daughter +has married the young artist, whose pictures of brown-sailed boats and +fresh seas breaking in white foam against the dark rocks have become +quite the rage at the Academy. The minor characters have disappeared +beneath the waves, and nothing remains to be said except the last word, +“farewell.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 117--><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>A FARRAGO OF +VERSES.</h2> +<h3>MY BOATING SONG.</h3> +<p>I.</p> +<p>Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure,<br /> + A goblet, that’s full to the brim,<br /> +And each man may take for his pleasure<br /> + The thing that’s most pleasant to him;<br /> +Then let all, who are birds of my feather,<br /> + Throw heart and soul into my song;<br /> +Mark the time, pick it up all together,<br /> + And merrily row it along.</p> +<p> Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,<br /> + Feel your stretchers and make the blades +bend;<br /> + Hard on to it, catch the beginning,<br /> + And pull it clean through to the end.</p> +<p>II.</p> +<p>I’ll admit ’tis delicious to plunge in<br /> + Clear pools, with their shadows at rest;<br /> +’Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in<br /> + Your foil at the enemy’s chest;<br /> + <!-- page 118--><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>’Tis rapture +to take a man’s wicket,<br /> + Or lash round to leg for a four;<br /> +But somehow the glories of cricket<br /> + Depend on the state of the score.</p> +<p> But in boating, or losing or winning,<br /> + Though victory may not attend;<br /> + Oh, ’tis jolly to catch the beginning,<br /> + And pull it clean through to the end.</p> +<p>III.</p> +<p>’Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping,<br /> + To be in at the death of the fox;<br /> +Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping,<br /> + The river that roars o’er the rocks;<br /> +’Tis prime to bring down the cock pheasant;<br /> + And yachting is certainly great;<br /> +But, beyond all expression, ’tis pleasant<br /> + To row in a rattling good eight.</p> +<p> Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,<br /> + What matter what labour we spend?<br /> + Hard on to it, catch the beginning,<br /> + And pull it clean through to the end.</p> +<p>IV.</p> +<p>Shove her off! Half a stroke! Now, get ready!<br /> + Five seconds! Four, three, two, one, gun!<br /> +Well started! Well rowed! Keep her steady!<br /> + You’ll want all your wind e’er you’ve +done.<br /> +Now you’re straight! Let the pace become swifter!<br /> + Roll the wash to the left and the right!<br /> +<!-- page 119--><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Pick it up all together, +and lift her,<br /> + As though she would bound out of sight!</p> +<p> Hurrah, Hall! Hall, now you’re winning,<br /> + Feel your stretchers and make the blades +bend;<br /> + Hard on to it, catch the beginning,<br /> + And pull it clean through to the end.</p> +<p>V.</p> +<p>Bump! Bump! O ye gods, how I pity<br /> + The ears those sweet sounds never heard;<br /> +More tuneful than loveliest ditty<br /> + E’er poured from the throat of a bird.<br /> +There’s a prize for each honest endeavour,<br /> + But none for the man who’s a shirk;<br /> +And the pluck that we’ve showed on the river,<br /> + Shall tell in the rest of our work.</p> +<p> At the last, whether losing or winning,<br /> + This thought with all memories blend,—<br /> + We forgot not to catch the beginning,<br /> + And we pulled it clean through to the +end.</p> +<h3><!-- page 120--><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>LETTER FROM THE +TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.</h3> +<p>I.</p> +<p>Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!<br /> + I ask no more<br /> + Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four,<br /> +Contentment sweet to yield.<br /> +For I am not fastidious,<br /> + And, with a proud demeanour, I<br /> +Will not affect invidious<br /> + Distinctions about scenery.<br /> +I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise<br /> +Against Italian skies,<br /> + Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather,<br /> + Set off with glorious weather;<br /> + Such sights as these<br /> + The most exacting please;<br /> +But I, lone wanderer in London streets,<br /> +Where every face one meets<br /> + Is full of care,<br /> + And seems to wear<br /> + A troubled air,<br /> + Of being late for some affair<br /> + Of life or death:—thus I, ev’n I,<br /> +Long for a field of grass, flat, square, and green<br /> +Thick hedges set between,<br /> + Without or house or bield,<br /> + A sense of quietude to yield;<br /> + And heave my longing sigh,<br /> +Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!</p> +<p><!-- page 121--><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>II.</p> +<p>For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest<br /> + With hoarseness every night;<br /> + And greet returning light<br /> +With noise and roar, renewed with greater zest.<br /> + Where’er I go,<br /> + Full well I know<br /> +The eternal grinding wheels will never cease.<br /> +There is no place of peace!<br /> + Rumbling, roaring, and rushing,<br /> + Hurrying, crowding, and crushing,<br /> +Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret,<br /> +From early morning to late sunset—<br /> +Ah me! but when shall I respite get—<br /> +What cave can hide me, or what covert shield?<br /> + So still I sigh,<br /> + And raise my cry,<br /> +Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!</p> +<p>III.</p> +<p>Oh for a field, where all concealed,<br /> + From this life’s fret and noise,<br /> +I sip delights from rural sights,<br /> + And simple rustic joys.<br /> +Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest,<br /> + I lie and think what likes me best;<br /> +Or stroll about where’er I list,<br /> + Nor fear to be run over<br /> +By sheep, contented to exist<br /> + Only on grass and clover.<br /> +<!-- page 122--><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>In town, as through +the throng I steer,<br /> + Confiding in the Muses,<br /> +My finest thoughts are drowned in fear<br /> + Of cabs and omnibuses.<br /> +I dream I’m on Parnassus hill,<br /> + With laurels whispering o’er me,<br /> +When suddenly I feel a chill—<br /> + What was it passed before me?<br /> +A lady bowed her gracious head<br /> + From yonder natty brougham—<br /> +The windows were as dull as lead,<br /> + I didn’t know her through them.<br /> +She’ll say I saw her, cut her dead,—<br /> + I’ve lost my opportunity;<br /> +I take my hat off when she’s fled,<br /> + And bow to the community!<br /> +Or sometimes comes a hansom cab,<br /> + Just as I near the crossing;<br /> +The “cabby” gives his reins a grab,<br /> + The steed is wildly tossing.<br /> +Me, haply fleeing from his horse,<br /> + He greets with language somewhat coarse,<br /> +To which there’s no replying;<br /> + A brewer’s dray comes down that way,<br /> +And simply sends me flying!<br /> +I try the quiet streets, but there<br /> +I find an all-pervading air<br /> +Of death in life, which my despair<br /> + In no degree diminishes.<br /> +Then homewards wend my weary way,<br /> +And read dry law books as I may,<br /> +No solace will they yield.<br /> +<!-- page 123--><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>And so the sad day +finishes<br /> +With one long sigh and yearning cry,<br /> +Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!</p> +<p>IV.</p> +<p> The fields are bright, and all bedight<br /> + With buttercups and daisies;<br /> + Oh, how I long to quit the throng<br /> + Of human forms and faces:<br /> + The vain delights, the empty shows,<br /> + The toil and care bewild’rin’,<br /> + To feel once more the sweet repose<br /> + Calm Nature gives her children.<br /> + At times the thrush shall sing, and hush<br /> + The twitt’ring yellow-hammer;<br /> + The blackbird fluster from the bush<br /> + With panic-stricken clamour;<br /> + The finch in thistles hide from sight,<br /> + And snap the seeds and toss ’em;<br /> + The blue-tit hop, with pert delight,<br /> + About the crab-tree blossom;<br /> + The homely robin shall draw near,<br /> + And sing a song most tender;<br /> + The black-cap whistle soft and clear,<br /> + Swayed on a twig top slender;<br /> + The weasel from the hedge-row creep,<br /> + So crafty and so cruel,<br /> + The rabbit from the tussock leap,<br /> + And splash the frosty jewel.<br /> + I care not what the season be—<br /> + Spring, summer, autumn, winter—<br /> + In morning sweet, or noon-day heat,<br /> + <!-- page 124--><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>Or +when the moonbeams glint, or<br /> + When rosy beams and fiery gleams,<br /> + And floods of golden yellow,<br /> + Proclaim the sweetest hour of all—<br /> + The evening mild and mellow.<br /> + There, though the spring shall backward keep,<br /> + And loud the March winds bluster,<br /> + The white anemone shall peep<br /> + Through loveliest leaves in cluster.<br /> + There primrose pale or violet blue<br /> + Shall gleam between the grasses;<br /> + And stitchwort white fling starry light,<br /> + And blue bells blaze in masses.<br /> + As summer grows and spring-time goes,<br /> + O’er all the hedge shall ramble<br /> + The woodbine and the wilding rose,<br /> + And blossoms of the bramble.<br /> + When autumn comes, the leafy ways<br /> + To red and yellow turning,<br /> + With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze,<br /> + And scarlet briony burning.<br /> + When winter reigns and sheets of snow,<br /> + The flowers and grass lie under;<br /> + The sparkling hoar frost yet shall show,<br /> + A world of fairy wonder.<br /> + To me more dear such scenes appear,<br /> + Than this eternal racket,<br /> + No longer will I fret and fag!<br /> + Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag,<br /> + And help me quick to pack it.<br /> +For here one must go where every one goes,<br /> +And meet shoals of people whom one never knows,<br /> + <!-- page 125--><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>Till +it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic;<br /> +And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows,<br /> +And will do just the same when I’m dead I suppose;<br /> + And I’m rapidly growing a sceptic.<br /> +For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack!<br /> +I’ve a pain in my head and an ache in my back;<br /> + A terrible cold that makes me shiver,<br /> + And a general sense of a dried-up liver;<br /> + And I feel I can hardly bear it.<br /> +And it’s oh for a field with four hedgerows,<br /> +And the bliss which comes from an hour’s repose,<br /> + And a true, true friend to share it.</p> +<h3>PROTHALAMION.</h3> +<p>The following “Prothalamion” was recently discovered +among some other rubbish in Pope’s Villa at Twickenham. +It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not +received the master’s last touches. Some of the lines afford +an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat +themselves.</p> +<p>Nothing so true as what you once let fall,—<br /> +“To growl at something is the lot of all;<br /> +Contentment is a gem on earth unknown,<br /> +And Perfect Happiness the wizard’s stone.<br /> +Give me,” you cried, “to see my duty clear,<br /> +And room to work, unhindered in my sphere;<br /> +<!-- page 126--><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>To live my life, +and work my work alone,<br /> +Unloved while living, and unwept when gone.<br /> +Let none my triumphs or my failures share,<br /> +Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir.”</p> +<p>Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower,<br /> +Wish to make all men good, but want the power.<br /> +Freedom you’ll have, but still will lack the thrall,—<br /> +The bond of sympathy, which binds us all.<br /> +Children and wives are hostages to fame,<br /> +But aids and helps in every useful aim.</p> +<p>You answer, “Look around, where’er you will,<br /> +Experience teaches the same lesson still.<br /> +Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten,<br /> +To abject drudgery dooms its married men:<br /> +A slave at first, before the knot is tied,<br /> +But soon a mere appendage to the bride;<br /> +A cover, next, to shield her arts from blame;<br /> +At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame;<br /> +In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord;<br /> +Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored.”</p> +<p>This picture, friend, is surely overdone,<br /> +You paint the tribe by drawing only one;<br /> +Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, conclude<br /> +The man’s whole life with misery imbued.</p> +<p>Say, what can Horace want to crown his life,<br /> +Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife?<br /> +His lively grin proclaims the man is blest,<br /> +Here perfect happiness must be confessed!<br /> +<!-- page 127--><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>Hark, hear that melancholy +shriek, alack!—<br /> +That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack.</p> +<p>This evil vexed not Courthope’s happy ways,<br /> +Who wants no extra coat on coldest days.<br /> +His face, his walk, his dress—whate’er you scan,<br /> +He stands revealed the prosperous gentleman.<br /> +Still must he groan each Sabbath, while he hears<br /> +The hoarse Gregorians vex his tortured ears.</p> +<p>Sure Bosanquet true happiness must know,<br /> +While wit and wisdom mingle as they flow,<br /> +Him Bromley Sunday scholars will obey;<br /> +For him e’en Leech will work a good half day;<br /> +He strives to hide the fear he still must feel,<br /> +Lest sharp Jack Frost should catch his Marshal Niel.</p> +<p>Peace to all such; but were there one, whose fires<br /> +True genius kindles and fair fame inspires;<br /> +Blest with demurrers, statements, counts, and pleas,<br /> +And born to arbitrations, briefs, and fees;<br /> +Should such a man, couched on his easy throne,<br /> +(Unlike the Turk) desire to live alone;<br /> +View every virgin with distrustful eyes,<br /> +And dread those arts, which suitors mostly prize,<br /> +Alike averse to blame, or to commend,<br /> +Not quite their foe, but something less than friend;<br /> +Dreading e’en widows, when by these besieged;<br /> +And so obliging, that he ne’er obliged;<br /> +Who, in all marriage contracts, looks for flaws,<br /> +And sits, and meditates on Salic laws;<br /> +While Pall Mall bachelors proclaim his praise,<br /> +And spinsters wonder at his works and ways;<br /> +<!-- page 128--><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>Who would not smile +if such a man there be?<br /> +Who would not weep if Atticus were he?</p> +<p>Oh, blest beyond the common lot are they,<br /> +On whom Contentment sheds her cheerful ray;<br /> +Who find in Duty’s path unmixed delight,<br /> +And perfect Pleasure in pursuit of Right;<br /> +Thankful for every Joy they feel, or share,<br /> +Unsought for blessings, like the light and air,<br /> +And grateful even for the ills they bear;<br /> +Wedded or single, taking nought amiss,<br /> +And learning that Content is more than Bliss.</p> +<p>Oh, friend, may each domestic joy be thine,<br /> +Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.<br /> +As rolling years disclose the will of Fate,<br /> +I see you wedded to some equal mate;<br /> +Thronged by a crowd of growing girls and boys,<br /> +A heap of troubles, but a host of joys.<br /> +On sights like these, should length of days attend,<br /> +Still may good luck pursue you to the end;<br /> +Still heaven vouchsafe the gifts it has in store;<br /> +Still make you, what you would be, more and more;<br /> +Preserve you happy, cheerful, and serene,<br /> +Blest with your young retainers, and your Queen.</p> +<h3><!-- page 129--><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>YOUNG ENGLAND.</h3> +<p>The times still “grow to something strange”;<br /> + We rap and turn the tables;<br /> +We fire our guns at awful range;<br /> + We lay Atlantic cables;<br /> +We bore the hills, we bridge the seas—<br /> + To me ’tis better far<br /> +To sit before my fire at ease,<br /> + And smoke a mild cigar.</p> +<p>We start gigantic bubble schemes,—<br /> + Whoever <i>can</i> invent ’em!—<br /> +How splendid the prospectus seems,<br /> + With int’rest cent. per centum<br /> +His shares the holder, startled, sees<br /> + At eighty below par:<br /> +I dawdle to my club at ease,<br /> + And light a mild cigar.</p> +<p>We pickle peas, we lock up sound,<br /> + We bottle electricity;<br /> +We run our railways underground,<br /> + Our trams above in this city<br /> +We fly balloons in calm or breeze,<br /> + And tumble from the car;<br /> +I wander down Pall Mall at ease,<br /> + And smoke a mild cigar.</p> +<p><!-- page 130--><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>Some strive to +get a post or place,<br /> + Or entrée to society;<br /> +Or after wealth or pleasure race,<br /> + Or any notoriety;<br /> +Or snatch at titles or degrees,<br /> + At ribbon, cross, or star:<br /> +I elevate my limbs at ease,<br /> + And smoke a mild cigar.</p> +<p>Some people strive for manhood right<br /> + With riots or orations;<br /> +For anti-vaccination fight,<br /> + Or temperance demonstrations:<br /> +I gently smile at things like these,<br /> + And, ’mid the clash and jar,<br /> +I sit in my arm-chair at ease,<br /> + And smoke a mild cigar.</p> +<p>They say young ladies all demand<br /> + A smart barouche and pair,<br /> +Two flunkies at the door to stand,<br /> + A mansion in May Fair:<br /> +I can’t afford such things as these,<br /> + I hold it safer far<br /> +To sip my claret at my ease,<br /> + And smoke a mild cigar.</p> +<p>It may be proper one should take<br /> + One’s place in the creation;<br /> +It may be very right to make<br /> + A choice of some vocation;<br /> +<!-- page 131--><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>With such remarks +one quite agrees,<br /> + So sensible they are:<br /> +I much prefer to take my ease,<br /> + And smoke a mild cigar.</p> +<p>They say our morals are so so,<br /> + Religion still more hollow;<br /> +And where the upper classes go,<br /> + The lower always follow;<br /> +That honour lost with grace and ease<br /> + Your fortunes will not mar:<br /> +That’s not so well; but, if you please,<br /> + We’ll light a fresh cigar.</p> +<p>Rank heresy is fresh and green,<br /> + E’en womenkind have caught it;<br /> +They say the Bible doesn’t mean<br /> + What people always thought it;<br /> +That miracles are what you please,<br /> + Or nature’s order mar:<br /> +I read the last review at ease,<br /> + And smoke a mild cigar.</p> +<p>Some folks who make a fearful fuss,<br /> + In eighteen ninety-seven,<br /> +Say, heaven will either come to us,<br /> + Or we shall go to heaven;<br /> +They settle it just as they please;<br /> + But, though it mayn’t be far,<br /> +At any rate there’s time with ease<br /> + To light a fresh cigar.</p> +<p><!-- page 132--><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>It may be there +is something true;<br /> + It may be one might find it;<br /> +It may be, if one looked life through,<br /> + That something lies behind it;<br /> +It may be, p’raps, for aught one sees,<br /> + The things that may be, are:<br /> +I’m growing serious—if you please<br /> + We’ll light a fresh cigar.</p> +<h3>AN OLDE LYRIC.</h3> +<p>I.</p> +<p>Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye,<br /> + My own true love so sweete?<br /> +For the flowers have lightly toss’d awaye<br /> + The prynte of her faery feete.<br /> +Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye?<br /> + Is she darke or fayre to see?<br /> +Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies?<br /> + Is’t braided her haire or free?</p> +<p>II.</p> +<p>Oh, never by outward looke or signe,<br /> + My true love shall ye knowe;<br /> +There be many as fayre, and many as fyne,<br /> + And many as brighte to showe.<br /> +But if ye coude looke with angel’s eyes,<br /> + Which into the soule can see,<br /> +She then would be seene as the matchless Queene<br /> + Of Love and of Puritie.</p> +<h3><!-- page 133--><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>LULLABY.</h3> +<p>Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!<br /> + Evening is coming, and night is nigh;<br /> +Under the lattice the little birds cheep,<br /> + All will be sleeping by and by.<br /> + Sleep, little baby, sleep.</p> +<p>Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!<br /> + Darkness is creeping along the sky;<br /> +Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,<br /> + Slowly the moon comes sailing by.<br /> + Sleep, little baby, sleep.</p> +<p>Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!<br /> + Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;<br /> +Under the lattice the little birds cheep,<br /> + All will be waking by and by.<br /> + Sleep, little baby, sleep.</p> +<h3>ISLE OF WIGHT—SPRING, 1891.</h3> +<p>I know not what the cause may be,<br /> + Or whether there be one or many;<br /> +But this year’s Spring has seemed to me<br /> + More exquisite than any.</p> +<p>What happy days we spent together<br /> + In that fair Isle of primrose flowers!<br /> +<!-- page 134--><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>How brilliant was +the April weather!<br /> + What glorious sunshine and what showers!</p> +<p>I think the leaves peeped out and in<br /> + At every change from cold to heat;<br /> +The grass threw off a livelier sheen<br /> + From dewdrops sparkling at our feet.</p> +<p>What wealth of early bloom was there—<br /> + The wind flow’r and the primrose pale,<br /> +On bank or copse, and orchis rare,<br /> + And cowslip covering Wroxhall dale.</p> +<p>And, oh, the splendour of the sea,—<br /> + The blue belt glimmering soft and far,<br /> +Through many a tumbled rock and tree<br /> + Strewn ’neath the overhanging scar!</p> +<p>’Tis twenty years and more, since here,<br /> + As man and wife we sought this Isle,<br /> +Dear to us both, O wife most dear,<br /> + And we can greet it with a smile.</p> +<p>Not now alone we come once more,<br /> + But bringing young ones of our brood—<br /> +One boy (Salopian), and four<br /> + Girls, blooming into maidenhood.</p> +<p>And I had late begun to fret<br /> + And sicken at the sordid town—<br /> +The crime, the guilt, and, loathlier yet,<br /> + The helpless, hopeless sinking down;</p> +<p><!-- page 135--><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>The want, the +misery, the woe,<br /> + The stubborn heart which will not turn;<br /> +The tears which will or will not flow;<br /> + The shame which does or does not burn.</p> +<p>And Winter’s frosts had proved unkind,<br /> + With darkest gloom and deadliest cold;<br /> +A time which will be brought to mind,<br /> + And talked of, when our boys are old.</p> +<p>And thus the contrast seemed to wake<br /> + New vigour in the heart and brain;<br /> +Sea, land, and sky conspired to make<br /> + The jaded spirit young again;</p> +<p>Or hopes for growing girl or boy,<br /> + Or thankfulness for things that be,<br /> +Or sweet content in wedded joy,<br /> + Set all the world to harmony.</p> +<p>And so I know not if it be<br /> + That there are causes one or many,<br /> +But this year’s Spring still seems to me<br /> + More exquisite than any.</p> +<h3><!-- page 136--><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>LOVE AND LIBERTY.</h3> +<p>The linnet had flown from its cage away,<br /> +And flitted and sang in the light of day—<br /> +Had flown from the lady who loved it well,<br /> +In Liberty’s freer air to dwell.<br /> +Alas! poor bird, it was soon to prove,<br /> +Sweeter than Liberty is Love.</p> +<p>When night came on it had ceased to sing,<br /> +And had hidden its head beneath its wing.<br /> +It thought of the warm room left behind,<br /> +The shelter from cold and rain and wind;<br /> +It could not sleep, when to sleep it strove—<br /> +Liberty needeth the help of Love.</p> +<p>The night owls shrieked as they wheeled along,<br /> +Bent upon slaughter, and rapine, and wrong:<br /> +There was devilish mirth in their wild halloo,<br /> +And the linnet trembled when near they drew;<br /> +’Twas fearful to watch them madly rove,<br /> +Drunken with Liberty, left of Love.</p> +<p>When morning broke, a grey old crow<br /> +Was pecking some carrion down below;<br /> +A poor little lamb, half alive, half-dead,<br /> +And the crow at each peck turned up its head<br /> +With a cunning glance at the linnet above—<br /> +What a demon is Liberty left of Love!</p> +<p><!-- page 137--><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>Then an eagle +hovered far up in the sky,<br /> +And the linnet trembled, but could not fly;<br /> +With a swoop to the earth the eagle fell,<br /> +And rose up anon with a savage yell.<br /> +The birds in the woodlands dared not move.<br /> +What a despot is Liberty left of Love!</p> +<p>By and bye there arrived, with chattering loud,<br /> +Chaffinch and sparrow and finch, in a cloud;<br /> +Round and around in their fierce attack,<br /> +They plucked the feathers from breast and back;<br /> +And the poor little linnet all vainly strove,<br /> +Fighting with Liberty left of Love.</p> +<p>“Alas!” it said, with a cry of pain,<br /> +“Carry me back to my cage again;<br /> +There let me dwell in peaceful ease,<br /> +Piping whatever songs I please;<br /> +Here, if I stay, my death shall prove,<br /> +Liberty dieth left of Love.”</p> +<h3>TO THE REV. A. A. IN THE COUNTRY FROM HIS FRIEND IN LONDON.</h3> +<p>(<span class="smcap">After Heine</span>.)</p> +<p>Thou little village curate,<br /> + Come quick, and do not wait;<br /> +We’ll sit and talk together,<br /> + So sweetly <i>tête-a-tête</i>.</p> +<p><!-- page 138--><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>Oh do not fear +the railway<br /> + Because it seems so big—<br /> +Dost thou not daily trust thee<br /> + Unto thy little gig.</p> +<p>This house is full of painters,<br /> + And half shut up and black;<br /> +But rooms the very snuggest<br /> + Lie hidden at the back.<br /> + Come! come! come!</p> +<h3>THE CURATE TO HIS SLIPPERS.</h3> +<p>Take, oh take those boots away,<br /> + That so nearly are outworn;<br /> +And those shoes remove, I pray—<br /> + Pumps that but induce the corn!<br /> +But my slippers bring again,<br /> + Bring again;<br /> +Works of love, but worked in vain,<br /> + Worked in vain!</p> +<h3>AN ATTEMPT TO REMEMBER THE “GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY.”</h3> +<p>(<span class="smcap">With Many Apologies to the Laureate</span>.)</p> +<p>And Willie, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Anne,<br /> +Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man;<br /> +<!-- page 139--><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>He was only fourscore +years, quite young, when he died;<br /> +I ought to have gone before, but must wait for time and tide.</p> +<p>So Harry’s wife has written; she was always an awful fool,<br /> +And Charlie was always drunk, which made our families cool;<br /> +For Willie was walking with Jenny when the moon came up the dale,<br /> +And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.</p> +<p>Jenny I know had tripped, and she knew that I knew of it well.<br /> +She began to slander me. I knew, but I wouldn’t tell!<br /> +And she to be slandering me, the impertinent, base little liar;<br /> +But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.</p> +<p>And the parson made it his text last week; and he said likewise,<br /> +That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;<br /> +That a downright hearty good falsehood doesn’t so very much matter,<br /> +But a lie which is half a truth is worse than one that is flatter.</p> +<p><!-- page 140--><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>Then Willie and +Jenny turned in the sweet moonshine,<br /> +And he said to me through his tears, “Let your good name be mine,”<br /> +“And what do I care for Jane.” She was never over-wise,<br /> +Never the wife for Willie: thank God that I keep my eyes.</p> +<p>“Marry you, Willie!” said I, and I thought my heart would +break,<br /> +“But a man cannot marry his grandmother, so there must be some +mistake.”<br /> +But he turned and clasped me in his arms, and answered, “No, love, +no!<br /> +Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago!”</p> +<p>So Willie and I were wedded, though clearly against the law,<br /> +And the ringers rang with a will, and Willie’s gloves were straw;<br /> +But the first that ever I bear was dead before it was born—<br /> +For Willie I cannot weep, life is flower and thorn.</p> +<p>Pattering over the boards, my Annie, an Annie like you,<br /> +Pattering over the boards, and Charlie and Harry too;<br /> +Pattering over the boards of our beautiful little cot,<br /> +And I’m not exactly certain whether they died or not.</p> +<p><!-- page 141--><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>And yet I know +of a truth, there is none of them left alive,<br /> +For Willie went at eighty, and Harry at ninety-five;<br /> +And Charlie at threescore years, aye! or more than that I’ll be +sworn,<br /> +And that very remarkable infant that died before it was born.</p> +<p>So Willie has gone, my beauty, the eldest that bears the name,<br /> +It’s a soothing thought—“In a hundred years it’ll +be all the same.”<br /> +“Here’s a leg for a babe of a week,” says doctor, +in some surprise,<br /> +But fetch me my glasses, Annie, I’m thankful I keep my eyes.</p> +<h3>AIR—“Three Fishers went Sailing.”</h3> +<p>Three attorneys came sailing down Chancery Lane,<br /> + Down Chancery Lane e’er the courts had sat;<br /> +They thought of the leaders they ought to retain,<br /> + But the Junior Bar, oh, they thought not of that;<br /> + For serjeants get work and Q.C.’s +too,<br /> + And solicitors’ sons-in-law frequently +do,<br /> + While the Junior Bar +is moaning.</p> +<p>Three juniors sat up in Crown Office Row,<br /> + In Crown Office Row e’er the courts had sat,<br /> +They saw the solicitors passing below,<br /> + And the briefs that were rolled up so tidy and fat,<br /> + For serjeants get work, etc.</p> +<p><!-- page 142--><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>Three briefs were +delivered to Jones, Q.C,<br /> + To Jones, Q.C., e’er the courts had sat;<br /> +And the juniors weeping, and wringing their paws,<br /> + Remarked that their business seemed uncommon flat;<br /> + For Serjeants get work and Q.C.’s +too,<br /> + But as for the rest it’s a regular +“do,”<br /> + And the Junior Bar +is moaning.</p> +<h3>AIR—“Give that Wreath to Me”</h3> +<p>(“Farewell, Manchester”).</p> +<p>I.</p> +<p> Give that brief to me,<br /> + Without so much bother;<br /> + Never let it be<br /> + Given to another.<br /> + Why this coy resistance?<br /> + Wherefore keep such distance?<br /> +Why hesitate so long to give that brief to me?</p> +<p>II.</p> +<p> Should’st thou ever find<br /> + Any counsel willing<br /> + To conduct thy case<br /> + For one pound one shilling;<br /> + Scorn such vulgar tricks, love;<br /> + One pound three and six, love,<br /> +Is the proper thing,—then give that brief to me.</p> +<p><!-- page 143--><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>III.</p> +<p> Should thy case turn out<br /> + Hopeless and delusive,<br /> + Still I’d rave and shout,<br /> + Using terms abusive.<br /> + Truth and sense might perish,<br /> + Still thy cause I’d cherish,<br /> +Hallow’d by thy gold,—then give that brief to me.</p> +<p>IV.</p> +<p> Should the learned judge<br /> + Sit on me like fury,<br /> + Still I’d never budge—<br /> + There’s the British Jury!<br /> + Should that stay prove rotten,<br /> + Bowen, Brett, and Cotton <a name="citation143"></a><a href="#footnote143">{143}</a><br /> +Would upset them all,—then give that brief to me.</p> +<h3>ON CIRCUIT.</h3> +<p>Two neighbours, fighting for a yard of land;<br /> +Two witnesses, who <i>lie</i> on either hand;<br /> +Two lawyers, issuing many writs and pleas;<br /> +Two clerks, in a dark passage counting fees;<br /> +Two counsel, calling one another names;<br /> +Two courts, where lawyers play their little games;<br /> +<!-- page 144--><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>Two weeks at Leeds, +which wear the soul away;<br /> +Two judges getting limper every day;<br /> +Two bailiffs of the court with aspect sour—<br /> +So runs the round of life from hour to hour.</p> +<h3>AT THE “COCK” TAVERN.</h3> +<p>Champagne doth not a luncheon make,<br /> + Nor caviare a meal;<br /> +Men gluttonous and rich may take<br /> + These till they make them ill.<br /> +If I’ve potatoes to my chop,<br /> + And after that have cheese,<br /> +Angels in Pond & Spiers’s shop<br /> + Serve no such luxuries.</p> +<h3>IMPROMPTU IN THE ASSIZE COURT, NOTTINGHAM,</h3> +<p><i>On seeing</i> <span class="smcap">Bret Harte</span> <i>come upon +the Bench</i>.</p> +<p>Thanks for an hour of laughing<br /> + In a world that is growing old;<br /> +Thanks for an hour of weeping<br /> + In a world that is growing cold;<br /> +For we who have wept with Dickens,<br /> + And we who have laughed with Boz,<br /> +Have renewed the days of our childhood<br /> + With his American Coz.</p> +<h3><!-- page 145--><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>IMPROMPTU IN +THE ASSIZE COURT AT LINCOLN.</h3> +<p><i>Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages +caused by the overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great +spirit he contended that the river had for three days flowed from the +sea</i>.</p> +<p>The moon in the valley of Ajalon<br /> + Stood still at the word of the prophet;<br /> +But since certain “Essays” were written<br /> + We don’t think so very much of it.<br /> +Now, a prophet is raised up among us,<br /> + Whose miracles none can gainsay;<br /> +For he spoke, and the great river Witham<br /> + Flowed three days, uphill, the wrong way.</p> +<h3>PROLOGUE<br /> +TO A CHARADE.—“DAMN-AGES.”</h3> +<p>In olden time—in great Eliza’s age,<br /> +When rare Ben Jonson ruled the humorous stage,<br /> +No play without its Prologue might appear<br /> +To earn applause or ward the critic’s sneer;<br /> +And surely now old customs should not sleep<br /> +When merry Christmas revelries we keep.<br /> +He loves old ways, old faces, and old friends,<br /> +Nor to new-fangled fancies condescends;<br /> +<!-- page 146--><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>Besides, we need +your kindly hearts to move<br /> +Our faults to pardon and our freaks approve,<br /> +For this our sport has been in haste begun,<br /> +Unpractised actors and impromptu fun;<br /> +So on our own deserts we dare not stand,<br /> +But beg the favour that we can’t command.<br /> +Most flat would fall our “cranks and wanton wiles,”<br /> +Reft of your favouring “nods and wreathed smiles,”<br /> +As some tame landscape desolately bare<br /> +Is charmed by sunshine into seeming fair;<br /> +So, gentle friends, if you your smiles bestow,<br /> +That which is tame in us will not seem so.<br /> +Our play is a charade. We split the word,<br /> +Each syllable an act, the whole a third;<br /> +My first we show you by a comic play,<br /> +Old, but not less the welcome, I dare say.<br /> +My second will be brought upon the stage<br /> +From lisping childhood down to palsied age.<br /> +Last, but not least, our country’s joy and pride,<br /> +A British Jury will my whole decide;<br /> +But what’s the word you’ll ask me, what’s the word?<br /> +That you must guess, or ask some little bird;<br /> +Guess as you will you’ll fail; for ’tis no doubt<br /> +One of those things “no fellow can find out.”</p> +<h3><!-- page 147--><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>TO A SCIENTIFIC +FRIEND.</h3> +<p>You say ’tis plain that poets feign,<br /> + And from the truth depart;<br /> +They write with ease what fibs they please,<br /> + With artifice, not art;<br /> +Dearer to you the simply true—<br /> + The fact without the fancy—<br /> +Than this false play of colours gay,<br /> + So very vague and chancy.<br /> +No doubt ’tis well the truth to tell<br /> + In scientific coteries;<br /> +But I’ll be bold to say she’s cold,<br /> + Excepting to her votaries.<br /> +The false disguise of tawdry lies<br /> + May hide sweet Nature’s face;<br /> +But in her form the blood runs warm,<br /> + As in the human race;<br /> +And in the rose the dew-drop glows,<br /> + And, o’er the seas serene,<br /> +The sunshine white still breaks in light<br /> + Of yellow, blue, and green.<br /> +In thousand rays the fancy plays;<br /> + The feelings rise and bubble;<br /> +The mind receives, the heart believes,<br /> + And makes each pleasure double.<br /> +Then spare to draw without a flaw,<br /> + Nor all too perfect make her,<br /> +<!-- page 148--><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>Lest Nature wear +the dull, cold air<br /> + Of some demurest Quaker—<br /> +Whose mien austere is void of cheer,<br /> + Or sense of sins forgiven,<br /> +And her sweet face has lost all grace<br /> + Of either earth or heaven.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">glasgow: printed at the university press by robert +maclehose</span>.</p> +<h2>Footnotes</h2> +<p><a name="footnote5"></a><a href="#citation5">{5}</a> Milton +only received £10 for <i>Paradise Lost</i>, and there is a good +story told that some one copied it out in manuscript and sent it successively +to three great London publishers, who all declined it as unsuitable +to the public taste.</p> +<p><a name="footnote143"></a><a href="#citation143">{143}</a> +Three of the Justices of Appeal.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INTERLUDES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 17065-h.htm or 17065-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/0/6/17065 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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