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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18135-8.txt b/18135-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5448493 --- /dev/null +++ b/18135-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7108 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Dreamthorp, by Alexander 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: Dreamthorp + A Book of Essays Written in the Country + + +Author: Alexander Smith + + + +Release Date: April 9, 2006 [eBook #18135] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMTHORP*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +DREAMTHORP + +A Book of Essays Written in the Country + +by + +ALEXANDER SMITH + + + + + + + +London +George Routledge & Sons, Limited +New York: E. P. Dutton & Co. +First Edition (in this series), July 1905 +Reprinted November, 1907 +Reprinted April, 1912 + + + + +Contents + + + DREAMTHORP + ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS + OF DEATH AND THE FEAR OF DYING + WILLIAM DUNBAR + A LARK'S FLIGHT + CHRISTMAS + MEN OF LETTERS + ON THE IMPORTANCE OF A MAN TO HIMSELF + A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE + GEOFFREY CHAUCER + BOOKS AND GARDENS + ON VAGABONDS + + + + +DREAMTHORP + +It matters not to relate how or when I became a denizen of Dreamthorp; +it will be sufficient to say that I am not a born native, but that I +came to reside in it a good while ago now. The several towns and +villages in which, in my time, I have pitched a tent did not please, +for one obscure reason or another; this one was too large, t'other too +small; but when, on a summer evening about the hour of eight, I first +beheld Dreamthorp, with its westward-looking windows painted by sunset, +its children playing in the single straggling street, the mothers +knitting at the open doors, the fathers standing about in long white +blouses, chatting or smoking; the great tower of the ruined castle +rising high into the rosy air, with a whole troop of swallows--by +distance made as small as gnats--skimming about its rents and +fissures;--when I first beheld all this, I felt instinctively that my +knapsack might be taken off my shoulders, that my tired feet might +wander no more, that at last, on the planet, I had found a home. From +that evening I have dwelt here, and the only journey I am like now to +make, is the very inconsiderable one, so far at least as distance is +concerned, from the house in which I live to the graveyard beside the +ruined castle. There, with the former inhabitants of the place, I +trust to sleep quietly enough, and nature will draw over our heads her +coverlet of green sod, and tenderly tuck us in, as a mother her +sleeping ones, so that no sound from the world shall ever reach us, and +no sorrow trouble us any more. + +The village stands far inland; and the streams that trot through the +soft green valleys all about have as little knowledge of the sea as the +three-years' child of the storms and passions of manhood. The +surrounding country is smooth and green, full of undulations; and +pleasant country roads strike through it in every direction, bound for +distant towns and villages, yet in no hurry to reach them. On these +roads the lark in summer is continually heard; nests are plentiful in +the hedges and dry ditches; and on the grassy banks, and at the feet of +the bowed dikes, the blue-eyed speedwell smiles its benison on the +passing wayfarer. On these roads you may walk for a year and encounter +nothing more remarkable than the country cart, troops of tawny children +from the woods, laden with primroses, and at long intervals--for people +in this district live to a ripe age--a black funeral creeping in from +some remote hamlet; and to this last the people reverently doff their +hats and stand aside. Death does not walk about here often, but when +he does, he receives as much respect as the squire himself. Everything +round one is unhurried, quiet, moss-grown, and orderly. Season follows +in the track of season, and one year can hardly be distinguished from +another. Time should be measured here by the silent dial, rather than +by the ticking clock, or by the chimes of the church. Dreamthorp can +boast of a respectable antiquity, and in it the trade of the builder is +unknown. Ever since I remember, not a single stone has been laid on +the top of another. The castle, inhabited now by jackdaws and +starlings, is old; the chapel which adjoins it is older still; and the +lake behind both, and in which their shadows sleep, is, I suppose, as +old as Adam. A fountain in the market-place, all mouths and faces and +curious arabesques,--as dry, however, as the castle moat,--has a +tradition connected with it; and a great noble riding through the +street one day several hundred years ago, was shot from a window by a +man whom he had injured. The death of this noble is the chief link +which connects the place with authentic history. The houses are old, +and remote dates may yet be deciphered on the stones above the doors; +the apple-trees are mossed and ancient; countless generations of +sparrows have bred in the thatched roofs, and thereon have chirped out +their lives. In every room of the place men have been born, men have +died. On Dreamthorp centuries have fallen, and have left no more trace +than have last winter's snowflakes. This commonplace sequence and +flowing on of life is immeasurably affecting. That winter morning when +Charles lost his head in front of the banqueting-hall of his own +palace, the icicles hung from the eaves of the houses here, and the +clown kicked the snowballs from his clouted shoon, and thought but of +his supper when, at three o'clock, the red sun set in the purple mist. +On that Sunday in June while Waterloo was going on, the gossips, after +morning service, stood on the country roads discussing agricultural +prospects, without the slightest suspicion that the day passing over +their heads would be a famous one in the calendar. Battles have been +fought, kings have died, history has transacted itself; but, all +unheeding and untouched, Dreamthorp has watched apple-trees redden, and +wheat ripen, and smoked its pipe, and quaffed its mug of beer, and +rejoiced over its new-born children, and with proper solemnity carried +its dead to the churchyard. As I gaze on the village of my adoption I +think of many things very far removed, and seem to get closer to them. +The last setting sun that Shakspeare saw reddened the windows here, and +struck warmly on the faces of the hinds coming home from the fields. +The mighty storm that raged while Cromwell lay a-dying made all the +oak-woods groan round about here, and tore the thatch from the very +roofs I gaze upon. When I think of this, I can almost, so to speak, +lay my hand on Shakspeare and on Cromwell. These poor walls were +contemporaries of both, and I find something affecting in the thought. +The mere soil is, of course, far older than either, but _it_ does not +touch one in the same way. A wall is the creation of a human hand, the +soil is not. + +This place suits my whim, and I like it better year after year. As +with everything else, since I began to love it I find it gradually +growing beautiful. Dreamthorp--a castle, a chapel, a lake, a +straggling strip of gray houses, with a blue film of smoke over +all--lies embosomed in emerald. Summer, with its daisies, runs up to +every cottage door. From the little height where I am now sitting, I +see it beneath me. Nothing could be more peaceful. The wind and the +birds fly over it. A passing sunbeam makes brilliant a white +gable-end, and brings out the colours of the blossomed apple-tree +beyond, and disappears. I see figures in the street, but hear them +not. The hands on the church clock seem always pointing to one hour. +Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine. I make a frame of my +fingers, and look at my picture. On the walls of the next Academy's +Exhibition will hang nothing half so beautiful! + +My village is, I think, a special favourite of summer's. Every +window-sill in it she touches with colour and fragrance; everywhere she +wakens the drowsy murmurs of the hives; every place she scents with +apple-blossom. Traces of her hand are to be seen on the weir beside +the ruined mill; and even the canal, along which the barges come and +go, has a great white water-lily asleep on its olive-coloured face. +Never was velvet on a monarch's robe so gorgeous as the green mosses +that be-ruff the roofs of farm and cottage, when the sunbeam slants on +them and goes. The old road out towards the common, and the hoary +dikes that might have been built in the reign of Alfred, have not been +forgotten by the generous adorning season; for every fissure has its +mossy cushion, and the old blocks themselves are washed by the +loveliest gray-green lichens in the world, and the large loose stones +lying on the ground have gathered to themselves the peacefulest mossy +coverings. Some of these have not been disturbed for a century. +Summer has adorned my village as gaily, and taken as much pleasure in +the task, as the people of old, when Elizabeth was queen, took in the +adornment of the May-pole against a summer festival. And, just think, +not only Dreamthorp, but every English village she has made beautiful +after one fashion or another--making vivid green the hill slope on +which straggling white Welsh hamlets hang right opposite the sea; +drowning in apple-blossom the red Sussex ones in the fat valley. And +think, once more, every spear of grass in England she has touched with +a livelier green; the crest of every bird she has burnished; every old +wall between the four seas has received her mossy and licheny +attentions; every nook in every forest she has sown with pale flowers, +every marsh she has dashed with the fires of the marigold. And in the +wonderful night the moon knows, she hangs--the planet on which so many +millions of us fight, and sin, and agonise, and die--a sphere of +glow-worm light. + +Having discoursed so long about Dreamthorp, it is but fair that I +should now introduce you to her lions. These are, for the most part, +of a commonplace kind; and I am afraid that, if you wish to find +romance in them, you must bring it with you. I might speak of the old +church-tower, or of the church-yard beneath it, in which the village +holds its dead, each resting-place marked by a simple stone, on which +is inscribed the name and age of the sleeper, and a Scripture text +beneath, in which live our hopes of immortality. But, on the whole, +perhaps it will be better to begin with the canal, which wears on its +olive-coloured face the big white water-lily already chronicled. Such +a secluded place is Dreamthorp that the railway does not come near, and +the canal is the only thing that connects it with the world. It stands +high, and from it the undulating country may be seen stretching away +into the gray of distance, with hills and woods, and stains of smoke +which mark the sites of villages. Every now and then a horse comes +staggering along the towing-path, trailing a sleepy barge filled with +merchandise. A quiet, indolent life these bargemen lead in the summer +days. One lies stretched at his length on the sun-heated plank; his +comrade sits smoking in the little dog-hutch, which I suppose he calls +a cabin. Silently they come and go; silently the wooden bridge lifts +to let them through. The horse stops at the bridge-house for a drink, +and there I like to talk a little with the men. They serve instead of +a newspaper, and retail with great willingness the news they have +picked up in their progress from town to town. I am told they +sometimes marvel who the old gentleman is who accosts them from beneath +a huge umbrella in the sun, and that they think him either very wise or +very foolish. Not in the least unnatural! We are great friends, I +believe--evidence of which they occasionally exhibit by requesting me +to disburse a trifle for drink-money. This canal is a great haunt of +mine of an evening. The water hardly invites one to bathe in it, and a +delicate stomach might suspect the flavour of the eels caught therein; +yet, to my thinking, it is not in the least destitute of beauty. A +barge trailing up through it in the sunset is a pretty sight; and the +heavenly crimsons and purples sleep quite lovingly upon its glossy +ripples. Nor does the evening star disdain it, for as I walk along I +see it mirrored therein as clearly as in the waters of the +Mediterranean itself. + +The old castle and chapel already alluded to are, perhaps, to a +stranger, the points of attraction in Dreamthorp. Back from the houses +is the lake, on the green sloping banks of which, with broken windows +and tombs, the ruins stand. As it is noon, and the weather is warm, +let us go and sit on a turret. Here, on these very steps, as old +ballads tell, a queen sat once, day after day, looking southward for +the light of returning spears. I bethink me that yesterday, no further +gone, I went to visit a consumptive shoemaker; seated here I can single +out his very house, nay, the very window of the room in which he is +lying. On that straw roof might the raven alight, and flap his sable +wings. There, at this moment, is the supreme tragedy being enacted. A +woman is weeping there, and little children are looking on with a sore +bewilderment. Before nightfall the poor peaked face of the bowed +artisan will have gathered its ineffable peace, and the widow will be +led away from the bedside by the tenderness of neighbours, and the +cries of the orphan brood will be stilled. And yet this present +indubitable suffering and loss does not touch me like the sorrow of the +woman of the ballad, the phantom probably of a minstrel's brain. The +shoemaker will be forgotten--I shall be forgotten; and long after, +visitors will sit here and look out on the landscape and murmur the +simple lines. But why do death and dying obtrude themselves at the +present moment? On the turret opposite, about the distance of a +gun-shot, is as pretty a sight as eye could wish to see. Two young +people, strangers apparently, have come to visit the ruin. Neither the +ballad queen, nor the shoemaker down yonder, whose respirations are +getting shorter and shorter, touches them in the least. They are merry +and happy, and the gray-beard turret has not the heart to thrust a +foolish moral upon them. They would not thank him if he did, I dare +say. Perhaps they could not understand him. Time enough! Twenty +years hence they will be able to sit down at his feet, and count griefs +with him, and tell him tale for tale. Human hearts get ruinous in so +much less time than stone walls and towers. See, the young man has +thrown himself down at the girl's feet on a little space of grass. In +her scarlet cloak she looks like a blossom springing out of a crevice +on the ruined steps. He gives her a flower, and she bows her face down +over it almost to her knees. What did the flower say? Is it to hide a +blush? He looks delighted; and I almost fancy I see a proud colour on +his brow. As I gaze, these young people make for me a perfect idyl. +The generous, ungrudging sun, the melancholy ruin, decked, like mad +Lear, with the flowers and ivies of forgetfulness and grief, and +between them, sweet and evanescent, human truth and love! + +Love!--does it yet walk the world, or is it imprisoned in poems and +romances? Has not the circulating library become the sole home of the +passion? Is love not become the exclusive property of novelists and +playwrights, to be used by them only for professional purposes? +Surely, if the men I see are lovers, or ever have been lovers, they +would be nobler than they are. The knowledge that he is beloved +should--_must_ make a man tender, gentle, upright, pure. While yet a +youngster in a jacket, I can remember falling desperately in love with +a young lady several years my senior,--after the fashion of youngsters +in jackets. Could I have fibbed in these days? Could I have betrayed +a comrade? Could I have stolen eggs or callow young from the nest? +Could I have stood quietly by and seen the weak or the maimed bullied? +Nay, verily! In these absurd days she lighted up the whole world for +me. To sit in the same room with her was like the happiness of +perpetual holiday; when she asked me to run a message for her, or to do +any, the slightest, service for her, I felt as if a patent of nobility +were conferred on me. I kept my passion to myself, like a cake, and +nibbled it in private. Juliet was several years my senior, and had a +lover--was, in point of fact, actually engaged; and, in looking back, I +can remember I was too much in love to feel the slightest twinge of +jealousy. I remember also seeing Romeo for the first time, and +thinking him a greater man than Caesar or Napoleon. The worth I +credited him with, the cleverness, the goodness, the everything! He +awed me by his manner and bearing. He accepted that girl's love coolly +and as a matter of course: it put him no more about than a crown and +sceptre puts about a king. What I would have given my life to +possess--being only fourteen, it was not much to part with after +all--he wore lightly, as he wore his gloves or his cane. It did not +seem a bit too good for him. His self-possession appalled me. If I +had seen him take the sun out of the sky, and put it into his breeches' +pocket, I don't think I should have been in the least degree surprised. +Well, years after, when I had discarded my passion with my jacket, I +have assisted this middle-aged Romeo home from a roystering wine-party, +and heard him hiccup out his marital annoyances, with the strangest +remembrances of old times, and the strangest deductions therefrom. Did +that man with the idiotic laugh and the blurred utterance ever love? +Was he ever capable of loving? I protest I have my doubts. But where +are my young people? Gone! So it is always. We begin to moralise and +look wise, and Beauty, who is something of a coquette, and of an +exacting turn of mind, and likes attentions, gets disgusted with our +wisdom or our stupidity, and goes off in a huff. Let the baggage go! + +The ruined chapel adjoins the ruined castle on which I am now sitting, +and is evidently a building of much older date. It is a mere shell +now. It is quite roofless, ivy covers it in part; the stone tracery of +the great western window is yet intact, but the coloured glass is gone +with the splendid vestments of the abbot, the fuming incense, the +chanting choirs, and the patient, sad-eyed monks, who muttered _Aves_, +shrived guilt, and illuminated missals. Time was when this place +breathed actual benedictions, and was a home of active peace. At +present it is visited only by the stranger, and delights but the +antiquary. The village people have so little respect for it, that they +do not even consider it haunted. There are several tombs in the +interior bearing knights' escutcheons, which time has sadly defaced. +The dust you stand upon is noble. Earls have been brought here in +dinted mail from battle, and earls' wives from the pangs of +child-bearing. The last trumpet will break the slumber of a right +honourable company. One of the tombs--the most perfect of all in point +of preservation--I look at often, and try to conjecture what it +commemorates. With all my fancies, I can get no further than the old +story of love and death. There, on the slab, the white figures sleep; +marble hands, folded in prayer, on marble breasts. And I like to think +that he was brave, she beautiful; that although the monument is worn by +time, and sullied by the stains of the weather, the qualities which it +commemorates--husbandly and wifely affection, courtesy, courage, +knightly scorn of wrong and falsehood, meekness, penitence, +charity--are existing yet somewhere, recognisable by each other. The +man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul, is not likely +to lose it in any other. + +In summer I spend a good deal of time floating about the lake. The +landing-place to which my boat is tethered is ruinous, like the chapel +and palace, and my embarkation causes quite a stir in the sleepy little +village. Small boys leave their games and mud-pies, and gather round +in silence; they have seen me get off a hundred times, but their +interest in the matter seems always new. Not unfrequently an idle +cobbler, in red night-cap and leathern apron, leans on a broken stile, +and honours my proceedings with his attention. I shoot off, and the +human knot dissolves. The lake contains three islands, each with a +solitary tree, and on these islands the swans breed. I feed the birds +daily with bits of bread. See, one comes gliding towards me, with +superbly arched neck, to receive its customary alms! How wildly +beautiful its motions! How haughtily it begs! The green pasture lands +run down to the edge of the water, and into it in the afternoons the +red kine wade and stand knee-deep in their shadows, surrounded by +troops of flies. Patiently the honest creatures abide the attacks of +their tormentors. Now one swishes itself with its tail,--now its +neighbour flaps a huge ear. I draw my oars alongside, and let my boat +float at its own will. The soft blue heavenly abysses, the wandering +streams of vapour, the long beaches of rippled clouds, are glassed and +repeated in the lake. Dreamthorp is silent as a picture, the voices of +the children are mute; and the smoke from the houses, the blue pillars +all sloping in one angle, float upward as if in sleep. Grave and stern +the old castle rises from its emerald banks, which long ago came down +to the lake in terrace on terrace, gay with fruits and flowers, and +with stone nymph and satyrs hid in every nook. Silent and empty enough +to-day! A flock of daws suddenly bursts out from a turret, and round +and round they wheel, as if in panic. Has some great scandal exploded? +Has a conspiracy been discovered? Has a revolution broken out? The +excitement has subsided, and one of them, perched on the old +banner-staff, chatters confidentially to himself as he, sideways, eyes +the world beneath him. Floating about thus, time passes swiftly, for, +before I know where I am, the kine have withdrawn from the lake to +couch on the herbage, while one on a little height is lowing for the +milkmaid and her pails. Along the road I see the labourers coming home +for supper, while the sun setting behind me makes the village windows +blaze; and so I take out my oars, and pull leisurely through waters +faintly flushed with evening colours. + +I do not think that Mr. Buckle could have written his "History of +Civilization" in Dreamthorp, because in it books, conversation, and the +other appurtenances of intellectual life, are not to be procured. I am +acquainted with birds, and the building of nests--with wild-flowers, +and the seasons in which they blow,--but with the big world far away, +with what men and women are thinking, and doing, and saying, I am +acquainted only through the _Times_, and the occasional magazine or +review, sent by friends whom I have not looked upon for years, but by +whom, it seems, I am not yet forgotten. The village has but few +intellectual wants, and the intellectual supply is strictly measured by +the demand. Still there is something. Down in the village, and +opposite the curiously-carved fountain, is a schoolroom which can +accommodate a couple of hundred people on a pinch. There are our +public meetings held. Musical entertainments have been given there by +a single performer. In that schoolroom last winter an American +biologist terrified the villagers, and, to their simple understandings, +mingled up the next world with this. Now and again some rare bird of +an itinerant lecturer covers dead walls with posters, yellow and blue, +and to that schoolroom we flock to hear him. His rounded periods the +eloquent gentleman devolves amidst a respectful silence. His audience +do not understand him, but they see that the clergyman does, and the +doctor does; and so they are content, and look as attentive and wise as +possible. Then, in connexion with the schoolroom, there is a public +library, where books are exchanged once a month. This library is a +kind of Greenwich Hospital for disabled novels and romances. Each of +these books has been in the wars; some are unquestionable antiques. +The tears of three generations have fallen upon their dusky pages. The +heroes and the heroines are of another age than ours. Sir Charles +Grandison is standing with his hat under his arm. Tom Jones plops from +the tree into the water, to the infinite distress of Sophia. Moses +comes home from market with his stock of shagreen spectacles. Lovers, +warriors, and villains,--as dead to the present generation of readers +as Cambyses,--are weeping, fighting, and intriguing. These books, +tattered and torn as they are, are read with delight to-day. The +viands are celestial if set forth on a dingy table-cloth. The gaps and +chasms which occur in pathetic or perilous chapters are felt to be +personal calamities. It is with a certain feeling of tenderness that I +look upon these books; I think of the dead fingers that have turned +over the leaves, of the dead eyes that have travelled along the lines. +An old novel has a history of its own. When fresh and new, and before +it had breathed its secret, it lay on my lady's table. She killed the +weary day with it, and when night came it was placed beneath her +pillow. At the seaside a couple of foolish heads have bent over it, +hands have touched and tingled, and it has heard vows and protestations +as passionate as any its pages contained. Coming down in the world, +Cinderella in the kitchen has blubbered over it by the light of a +surreptitious candle, conceiving herself the while the magnificent +Georgiana, and Lord Mordaunt, Georgiana's lover, the pot-boy round the +corner. Tied up with many a dingy brother, the auctioneer knocks the +bundle down to the bidder of a few pence, and it finds its way to the +quiet cove of some village library, where with some difficulty--as if +from want of teeth--and with numerous interruptions--as if from lack of +memory--it tells its old stories, and wakes tears, and blushes, and +laughter as of yore. Thus it spends its age, and in a few years it +will become unintelligible, and then, in the dust-bin, like poor human +mortals in the grave, it will rest from all its labours. It is +impossible to estimate the benefit which such books have conferred. +How often have they loosed the chain of circumstance! What unfamiliar +tears--what unfamiliar laughter they have caused! What chivalry and +tenderness they have infused into rustic loves! Of what weary hours +they have cheated and beguiled their readers! The big, solemn +history-books are in excellent preservation; the story-books are +defaced and frayed, and their out-of-elbows, condition is their pride, +and the best justification of their existence. They are tashed, as +roses are, by being eagerly handled and smelt. I observe, too, that +the most ancient romances are not in every case the most severely worn. +It is the pace that tells in horses, men, and books. There are Nestors +wonderfully hale; there are juveniles in a state of dilapidation. One +of the youngest books, "The Old Curiosity Shop," is absolutely falling +to pieces. That book, like Italy, is possessor of the fatal gift; but +happily, in its case, every thing can be rectified ay a new edition. +We have buried warriors and poets, princes and queens, but no one of +these was followed to the grave by sincerer mourners than was Little +Nell. + +Besides the itinerant lecturer, and the permanent library, we have the +Sunday sermon. These sum up the intellectual aids and furtherances of +the whole place. We have a church and a chapel, and I attend both. +The Dreamthorp people are Dissenters, for the most part; why, I never +could understand; because dissent implies a certain intellectual +effort. But Dissenters they are, and Dissenters they are likely to +remain. In an ungainly building, filled with hard gaunt pews, without +an organ, without a touch of colour in the windows, with nothing to +stir the imagination or the devotional sense, the simple people +worship. On Sunday, they are put upon a diet of spiritual bread and +water. Personally, I should desire more generous food. But the +labouring people listen attentively, till once they fall asleep, and +they wake up to receive the benediction with a feeling of having done +their duty. They know they ought to go to chapel, and they go. I go +likewise, from habit, although I have long ago lost the power of +following a discourse. In my pew, and whilst the clergyman is going +on, I think of the strangest things--of the tree at the window, of the +congregation of the dead outside, of the wheat-fields and the +corn-fields beyond and all around. And the odd thing is, that it is +during sermon only that my mind flies off at a tangent and busies +itself with things removed from the place and the circumstances. +Whenever it is finished fancy returns from her wanderings, and I am +alive to the objects around me. The clergyman knows my humour, and is +good Christian enough to forgive me; and he smiles good-humouredly when +I ask him to let me have the chapel keys, that I may enter, when in the +mood, and preach a sermon to myself. To my mind, an empty chapel is +impressive; a crowded one, comparatively a commonplace affair. Alone, +I could choose my own text, and my silent discourse would not be +without its practical applications. + +An idle life I live in this place, as the world counts it; but then I +have the satisfaction of differing from the world as to the meaning of +idleness. A windmill twirling its arms all day is admirable only when +there is corn to grind. Twirling its arms for the mere barren pleasure +of twirling them, or for the sake of looking busy, does not deserve any +rapturous paean of praise. I must be made happy after my own fashion, +not after the fashion of other people. Here I can live as I please, +here I can throw the reins on the neck of my whim. Here I play with my +own thoughts; here I ripen for the grave. + + + + +ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS + +I have already described my environments and my mode of life, and out +of both I contrive to extract a very tolerable amount of satisfaction. +Love in a cottage, with a broken window to let in the rain, is not my +idea of comfort; no more is Dignity, walking forth richly clad, to whom +every head uncovers, every knee grows supple. Bruin in winter-time +fondly sucking his own paws, loses flesh; and love, feeding upon +itself, dies of inanition. Take the candle of death in your hand, and +walk through the stately galleries of the world, and their splendid +furniture and array are as the tinsel armour and pasteboard goblets of +a penny theatre; fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the +melancholy blazon on a coffin lid. We argue fiercely about happiness. +One insists that she is found in the cottage which the hawthorn shades. +Another that she is a lady of fashion, and treads on cloth of gold. +Wisdom, listening to both, shakes a white head, and considers that "a +good deal may be said on both sides." + +There is a wise saying to the effect that "a man can eat no more than +he can hold." Every man gets about the same satisfaction out of life. +Mr. Suddlechops, the barber of Seven Dials, is as happy as Alexander at +the head of his legions. The business of the one is to depopulate +kingdoms, the business of the other to reap beards seven days old; but +their relative positions do not affect the question. The one works +with razors and soap-lather the other with battle-cries and +well-greaved Greeks. The one of a Saturday night counts up his shabby +gains and grumbles; the other on _his_ Saturday night sits down and +weeps for other worlds to conquer. The pence to Mr. Suddlechops are as +important as are the worlds to Alexander. Every condition of life has +its peculiar advantages, and wisdom points these out and is contented +with them. The varlet who sang-- + + "A king cannot swagger + Or get drunk like a beggar, + Nor be half so happy as I"-- + +had the soul of a philosopher in him. The harshness of the parlour is +revenged at night in the servants' hall. The coarse rich man rates his +domestic, but there is a thought in the domestic's brain, docile and +respectful as he looks, which makes the matter equal, which would +madden the rich man if he knew it--make him wince as with a shrewdest +twinge of hereditary gout. For insult and degradation are not without +their peculiar solaces. You may spit upon Shylock's gaberdine, but the +day comes when he demands his pound of flesh; every blow, every insult, +not without a certain satisfaction, he adds to the account running up +against you in the day-book and ledger of his hate--which at the proper +time he will ask you to discharge. Every way we look we see +even-handed nature administering her laws of compensation. Grandeur +has a heavy tax to pay. The usurper rolls along like a god, surrounded +by his guards. He dazzles the crowd--all very fine; but look beneath +his splendid trappings and you see a shirt of mail, and beneath _that_ +a heart cowering in terror of an air-drawn dagger. Whom did the memory +of Austerlitz most keenly sting? The beaten emperor? or the mighty +Napoleon, dying like an untended watch-fire on St. Helena? + +Giddy people may think the life I lead here staid and humdrum, but they +are mistaken. It is true, I hear no concerts, save those in which the +thrushes are performers in the spring mornings. I see no pictures, +save those painted on the wide sky-canvas with the colours of sunrise +and sunset. I attend neither rout nor ball; I have no deeper +dissipation than the tea-table; I hear no more exciting scandal than +quiet village gossip. Yet I enjoy my concerts more than I would the +great London ones. I like the pictures I see, and think them better +painted, too, than those which adorn the walls of the Royal Academy; +and the village gossip is more after my turn of mind than the scandals +that convulse the clubs. It is wonderful how the whole world reflects +itself in the simple village life. The people around me are full of +their own affairs and interests; were they of imperial magnitude, they +could not be excited more strongly. Farmer Worthy is anxious about the +next market; the likelihood of a fall in the price of butter and eggs +hardly allows him to sleep o' nights. The village doctor--happily we +have only one--skirrs hither and thither in his gig, as if man could +neither die nor be born without his assistance. He is continually +standing on the confines of existence, welcoming the new-comer, bidding +farewell to the goer-away. And the robustious fellow who sits at the +head of the table when the Jolly Swillers meet at the Blue Lion on +Wednesday evenings is a great politician, sound of lung metal, and +wields the village in the taproom, as my Lord Palmerston wields the +nation in the House. His listeners think him a wiser personage than +the Premier, and he is inclined to lean to that opinion himself. I +find everything here that other men find in the big world. London is +but a magnified Dreamthorp. + +And just as the Rev. Mr. White took note of the ongoings of the seasons +in and around Hampshire Selborne, watched the colonies of the rooks in +the tall elms, looked after the swallows in the cottage and rectory +eaves, played the affectionate spy on the private lives of chaffinch +and hedge-sparrow, was eaves-dropper to the solitary cuckoo; so here I +keep eye and ear open; take note of man, woman, and child; find many a +pregnant text imbedded in the commonplace of village life; and, out of +what I see and hear, weave in my own room my essays as solitary as the +spider weaves his web in the darkened corner. The essay, as a literary +form, resembles the lyric, in so far as it is moulded by some central +mood--whimsical, serious, or satirical. Give the mood, and the essay, +from the first sentence to the last, grows around it as the cocoon +grows around the silkworm. The essay-writer is a chartered libertine, +and a law unto himself. A quick ear and eye, an ability to discern the +infinite suggestiveness of common things, a brooding meditative spirit, +are all that the essayist requires to start business with. Jacques, in +"As You Like It," had the makings of a charming essayist. It is not +the essayist's duty to inform, to build pathways through metaphysical +morasses, to cancel abuses, any more than it is the duty of the poet to +do these things. Incidentally he may do something in that way, just as +the poet may, but it is not his duty, and should not be expected of +him. Skylarks are primarily created to sing, although a whole choir of +them may be baked in pies and brought to table; they were born to make +music, although they may incidentally stay the pangs of vulgar hunger. +The essayist is a kind of poet in prose, and if questioned harshly as +to his uses, he might be unable to render a better apology for his +existence than a flower might. The essay should be pure literature as +the poem is pure literature. The essayist wears a lance, but he cares +more for the sharpness of its point than for the pennon that flutters +on it, than for the banner of the captain under whom he serves. He +plays with death as Hamlet plays with Yorick's skull, and he reads the +morals--strangely stern, often, for such fragrant lodging--which are +folded up in the bosoms of roses. He has no pride, and is deficient in +a sense of the congruity and fitness of things. He lifts a pebble from +the ground, and puts it aside more carefully than any gem; and on a +nail in a cottage-door he will hang the mantle of his thought, heavily +brocaded with the gold of rhetoric. He finds his way into the Elysian +fields through portals the most shabby and commonplace. + +The essayist plays with his subject, now whimsical, now in grave, now +in melancholy mood. He lies upon the idle grassy bank, like Jacques, +letting the world flow past him, and from this thing and the other he +extracts his mirth and his moralities. His main gift is an eye to +discover the suggestiveness of common things; to find a sermon in the +most unpromising texts. Beyond the vital hint, the first step, his +discourses are not beholden to their titles. Let him take up the most +trivial subject, and it will lead him away to the great questions over +which the serious imagination loves to brood,--fortune, mutability, +death,--just as inevitably as the runnel, trickling among the summer +hills, on which sheep are bleating, leads you to the sea; or as, +turning down the first street you come to in the city, you are led +finally, albeit by many an intricacy, out into the open country, with +its waste places and its woods, where you are lost in a sense of +strangeness and solitariness. The world is to the meditative man what +the mulberry plant is to the silkworm. The essay-writer has no lack of +subject-matter. He has the day that is passing over his head; and, if +unsatisfied with that, he has the world's six thousand years to +depasture his gay or serious humour upon. I idle away my time here, +and I am finding new subjects every hour. Everything I see or hear is +an essay in bud. The world is everywhere whispering essays, and one +need only be the world's amanuensis. The proverbial expression which +last evening the clown dropped as he trudged homeward to supper, the +light of the setting sun on his face, expands before me to a dozen +pages. The coffin of the pauper, which to-day I saw carried carelessly +along, is as good a subject as the funeral procession of an emperor. +Craped drum and banner add nothing to death; penury and disrespect take +nothing away. Incontinently my thought moves like a slow-paced hearse +with sable nodding plumes. Two rustic lovers, whispering between the +darkening hedges, is as potent to project my mind into the tender +passion as if I had seen Romeo touch the cheek of Juliet in the +moon-light garden. Seeing a curly-headed child asleep in the sunshine +before a cottage door is sufficient excuse for a discourse on +childhood; quite as good as if I had seen infant Cain asleep in the lap +of Eve with Adam looking on. A lark cannot rise to heaven without +raising as many thoughts as there are notes in its song. Dawn cannot +pour its white light on my village without starting from their dim lair +a hundred reminiscences; nor can sunset burn above yonder trees in the +west without attracting to itself the melancholy of a lifetime. When +spring unfolds her green leaves I would be provoked to indite an essay +on hope and youth, were it not that it is already writ in the carols of +the birds; and I might be tempted in autumn to improve the occasion, +were it not for the rustle of the withered leaves as I walk through the +woods. Compared with that simple music, the saddest-cadenced words +have but a shallow meaning. + +The essayist who feeds his thoughts upon the segment of the world which +surrounds him cannot avoid being an egotist; but then his egotism is +not unpleasing. If he be without taint of boastfulness, of +self-sufficiency, of hungry vanity, the world will not press the charge +home. If a man discourses continually of his wines, his plate, his +titled acquaintances, the number and quality of his horses, his +men-servants and maid-servants, he must discourse very skilfully indeed +if he escapes being called a coxcomb. If a man speaks of death--tells +you that the idea of it continually haunts him, that he has the most +insatiable curiosity as to death and dying, that his thought mines in +churchyards like a "demon-mole"--no one is specially offended, and that +this is a dull fellow is the hardest thing likely to be said of him. +Only, the egotism that overcrows you is offensive, that exalts trifles +and takes pleasure in them, that suggests superiority in matters of +equipage and furniture; and the egotism is offensive, because it runs +counter to and jostles your self-complacency. The egotism which rises +no higher than the grave is of a solitary and a hermit kind--it crosses +no man's path, it disturbs no man's _amour propre_. You may offend a +man if you say you are as rich as he, as wise as he, as handsome as he. +You offend no man if you tell him that, like him, you have to die. The +king, in his crown and coronation robes, will allow the beggar to claim +that relationship with him. To have to die is a distinction of which +no man is proud. The speaking about one's self is not necessarily +offensive. A modest, truthful man speaks better about himself than +about anything else, and on that subject his speech is likely to be +most profitable to his hearers. Certainly, there is no subject with +which he is better acquainted, and on which he has a better title to be +heard. And it is this egotism, this perpetual reference to self, in +which the charm of the essayist resides. If a man is worth knowing at +all, he is worth knowing well. The essayist gives you his thoughts, +and lets you know, in addition, how he came by them. He has nothing to +conceal; he throws open his doors and windows, and lets him enter who +will. You like to walk round peculiar or important men as you like to +walk round a building, to view it from different points, and in +different lights. Of the essayist, when his mood is communicative, you +obtain a full picture. You are made his contemporary and familiar +friend. You enter into his humours and his seriousness. You are made +heir of his whims, prejudices, and playfulness. You walk through the +whole nature of him, as you walk through the streets of Pompeii, +looking into the interior of stately mansions, reading the satirical +scribblings on the walls. And the essayist's habit of not only giving +you his thoughts, but telling you how he came by them, is interesting, +because it shows you by what alchemy the ruder world becomes transmuted +into the finer. We like to know the lineage of ideas, just as we like +to know the lineage of great earls and swift race-horses. We like to +know that the discovery of the law of gravitation was born of the fall +of an apple in an English garden on a summer afternoon. Essays written +after this fashion are racy of the soil in which they grow, as you +taste the larva in the vines grown on the slopes of Etna, they say. +There is a healthy Gascon flavour in Montaigne's Essays; and Charles +Lamb's are scented with the primroses of Covent Garden. + +The essayist does not usually appear early in the literary history of a +country: he comes naturally after the poet and the chronicler. His +habit of mind is leisurely; he does not write from any special stress +of passionate impulse; he does not create material so much as he +comments upon material already existing. It is essential for him that +books should have been written, and that they should, at least to some +extent, have been read and digested. He is usually full of allusions +and references, and these his reader must be able to follow and +understand. And in this literary walk, as in most others, the giants +came first: Montaigne and Lord Bacon were our earliest essayists, and, +as yet, they are our best. In point of style, these essays are +different from anything that could now be produced. Not only is the +thinking different--the manner of setting forth the thinking is +different also. We despair of reaching the thought, we despair equally +of reaching the language. We can no more bring back their turns of +sentence than we can bring back their tournaments. Montaigne, in his +serious moods, has a curiously rich and intricate eloquence; and +Bacon's sentence bends beneath the weight of his thought, like a branch +beneath the weight of its fruit. Bacon seems to have written his +essays with Shakspeare's pen. There is a certain want of ease about +the old writers which has an irresistible charm. The language flows +like a stream over a pebbled bed, with propulsion, eddy, and sweet +recoil--the pebbles, if retarding movement, giving ring and dimple to +the surface, and breaking the whole into babbling music. There is a +ceremoniousness in the mental habits of these ancients. Their +intellectual garniture is picturesque, like the garniture of their +bodies. Their thoughts are courtly and high mannered. A singular +analogy exists between the personal attire of a period and its written +style. The peaked beard, the starched collar, the quilted doublet, +have their correspondences in the high sentence and elaborate ornament +(worked upon the thought like figures upon tapestry) of Sidney and +Spenser. In Pope's day men wore rapiers, and their weapons they +carried with them into literature, and frequently unsheathed them too. +They knew how to stab to the heart with an epigram. Style went out +with the men who wore knee-breeches and buckles in their shoes. We +write more easily now; but in our easy writing there is ever a taint of +flippancy: our writing is to theirs, what shooting-coat and wide-awake +are to doublet and plumed hat. + +Montaigne and Bacon are our earliest and greatest essayists, and +likeness and unlikeness exist between the men. Bacon was +constitutionally the graver nature. He writes like one on whom presses +the weight of affairs, and he approaches a subject always on its +serious side. He does not play with it fantastically. He lives +amongst great ideas, as with great nobles, with whom he dare not be too +familiar. In the tone of his mind there is ever something imperial. +When he writes on building, he speaks of a palace with spacious +entrances, and courts, and banqueting-halls; when he writes on gardens, +he speaks of alleys and mounts, waste places and fountains, of a garden +"which is indeed prince-like." To read over his table of contents, is +like reading over a roll of peers' names. We have, taking them as they +stand, essays treating _Of Great Place, Of Boldness, Of Goodness, and +Goodness of Nature, Of Nobility, Of Seditions and Troubles, Of Atheism, +Of Superstition, Of Travel, Of Empire, Of Counsel_,--a book plainly to +lie in the closets of statesmen and princes, and designed to nurture +the noblest natures. Bacon always seems to write with his ermine on. +Montaigne was different from all this. His table of contents reads, in +comparison, like a medley, or a catalogue of an auction. He was quite +as wise as Bacon; he could look through men quite as clearly, and +search them quite as narrowly; certain of his moods were quite as +serious, and in one corner of his heart he kept a yet profounder +melancholy; but he was volatile, a humourist, and a gossip. He could +be dignified enough on great occasions, but dignity and great occasions +bored him. He could stand in the presence with propriety enough, but +then he got out of the presence as rapidly as possible. When, in the +thirty-eighth year of his age, he--somewhat world-weary, and with more +scars on his heart than he cared to discover--retired to his chateau, +he placed his library "in the great tower overlooking the entrance to +the court," and over the central rafter he inscribed in large letters +the device--"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND; I PAUSE; I EXAMINE." When he began +to write his Essays he had no great desire to shine as an author; he +wrote simply to relieve teeming heart and brain. The best method to +lay the spectres of the mind is to commit them to paper. Speaking of +the Essays, he says, "This book has a domestic and private object. It +is intended for the use of my relations and friends; so that, when they +have lost me, which they will soon do, they may find in it some +features of my condition and humours; and by this means keep up more +completely, and in a more lively manner, the knowledge they have of +me." In his Essays he meant to portray himself, his habits, his modes +of thought, his opinions, what fruit of wisdom he had gathered from +experience sweet and bitter; and the task he has executed with +wonderful fidelity. He does not make himself a hero. Cromwell would +have his warts painted; and Montaigne paints his, and paints them too +with a certain fondness. He is perfectly tolerant of himself and of +everybody else. Whatever be the subject, the writing flows on easy, +equable, self-satisfied, almost always with a personal anecdote +floating on the surface. Each event of his past life he considers a +fact of nature; creditable or the reverse, there it is; sometimes to be +speculated upon, not in the least to be regretted. If it is worth +nothing else, it may be made the subject of an essay, or, at least, be +useful as an illustration. We have not only his thoughts, we see also +how and from what they arose. When he presents you with a bouquet, you +notice that the flowers have been plucked up by the roots, and to the +roots a portion of the soil still adheres. On his daily life his +Essays grew like lichens upon rocks. If a thing is useful to him, he +is not squeamish as to where he picks it up. In his eye there is +nothing common or unclean; and he accepts a favour as willingly from a +beggar as from a prince. When it serves his purpose, he quotes a +tavern catch, or the smart saying of a kitchen wench, with as much +relish as the fine sentiment of a classical poet, or the gallant _bon +mot_ of a king. Everything is important which relates to himself. +That his mustache, if stroked with his perfumed glove, or handkerchief, +will retain the odour a whole day, is related with as much gravity as +the loss of a battle, or the march of a desolating plague. Montaigne, +in his grave passages, reaches an eloquence intricate and highly +wrought; but then his moods are Protean, and he is constantly +alternating his stateliness with familiarity, anecdote, humour, +coarseness. His Essays are like a mythological landscape--you hear the +pipe of Pan in the distance, the naked goddess moves past, the satyr +leers from the thicket. At the core of him profoundly melancholy, and +consumed by a hunger for truth, he stands like Prospero in the +enchanted island, and he has Ariel and Caliban to do his behests and +run his errands. Sudden alternations are very characteristic of him. +Whatever he says suggests its opposite. He laughs at himself and his +reader. He builds his castle of cards for the mere pleasure of +knocking it down again. He is ever unexpected and surprising. And +with this curious mental activity, this play and linked dance of +discordant elements, his page is alive and restless, like the constant +flicker of light and shadow in a mass of foliage which the wind is +stirring. + +Montaigne is avowedly an egotist; and by those who are inclined to make +this a matter of reproach, it should be remembered that the value of +egotism depends entirely on the egotist. If the egotist is weak, his +egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of +distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a +possession of the race. If Shakspeare had left personal revelations, +how we should value them; if, indeed, he has not in some sense left +them--if the tragedies and comedies are not personal revelations +altogether--the multiform nature of the man rushing towards the sun at +once in Falstaff, Hamlet, and Romeo. But calling Montaigne an egotist +does not go a great way to decipher him. No writer takes the reader so +much into his confidence, and no one so entirely escapes the penalty of +confidence. He tells us everything about himself, we think; and when +all is told, it is astonishing how little we really know. The +esplanades of Montaigne's palace are thoroughfares, men from every +European country rub clothes there, but somewhere in the building there +is a secret room in which the master sits, of which no one but himself +wears the key. We read in the Essays about his wife, his daughter, his +daughter's governess, of his cook, of his page, "who was never found +guilty of telling the truth," of his library, the Gascon harvest +outside his chateau, his habits of composition, his favourite +speculations; but somehow the man himself is constantly eluding us. +His daughter's governess, his page, the ripening Gascon fields, are +never introduced for their own sakes; they are employed to illustrate +and set off the subject on which he happens to be writing. A brawl in +his own kitchen he does not consider worthy of being specially set +down, but he has seen and heard everything: it comes in his way when +travelling in some remote region, and accordingly it finds a place. He +is the frankest, most outspoken of writers; and that very frankness. +and outspokenness puts the reader off his guard. If you wish to +preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness. The Essays are full of +this trick. The frankness is as well simulated as the grape-branches +of the Grecian artist which the birds flew towards and pecked. When +Montaigne retreats, he does so like a skilful general, leaving his +fires burning. In other ways, too, he is an adept in putting his +reader out. He discourses with the utmost gravity, but you suspect +mockery or banter in his tones. He is serious with the most trifling +subjects, and he trifles with the most serious. "He broods eternally +over his own thought," but who can tell what his thought may be for the +nonce? He is of all writers the most vagrant, surprising, and, to many +minds, illogical. His sequences are not the sequences of other men. +His writings are as full of transformations as a pantomime or a fairy +tale. His arid wastes lead up to glittering palaces, his +banqueting-halls end in a dog-hutch. He begins an essay about +trivialities, and the conclusion is in the other world. And the +peculiar character of his writing, like the peculiar character of all +writing which is worth anything, arises from constitutional turn of +mind. He is constantly playing at fast and loose with himself and his +reader. He mocks and scorns his deeper nature; and, like Shakspeare in +Hamlet, says his deepest things in a jesting way. When he is gayest, +be sure there is a serious design in his gaiety. Singularly shrewd and +penetrating--sad, not only from sensibility of exquisite nerve and +tissue, but from meditation, and an eye that pierced the surfaces of +things--fond of pleasure, yet strangely fascinated by death--sceptical, +yet clinging to what the Church taught and believed--lazily possessed +by a high ideal of life, yet unable to reach it, careless perhaps often +to strive after it, and with no very high opinion of his own goodness, +or of the goodness of his fellows--and with all these serious elements, +an element of humour mobile as flame, which assumed a variety of forms, +now pure fun, now mischievous banter, now blistering scorn--humour in +all its shapes, carelessly exercised on himself and his readers--with +all this variety, complexity, riot, and contradiction almost of +intellectual forces within, Montaigne wrote his bewildering +Essays--with the exception of Rabelais, the greatest Modern +Frenchman--the creator of a distinct literary form, and to whom, down +even to our own day, even in point of subject-matter, every essayist +has been more or less indebted. + +Bacon is the greatest of the serious and stately essayists,--Montaigne +the greatest of the garrulous and communicative. The one gives you his +thoughts on Death, Travel, Government, and the like, and lets you make +the best of them; the other gives you his on the same subjects, but he +wraps them up in personal gossip and reminiscence. With the last it is +never Death or Travel alone: it is always Death one-fourth, and +Montaigne three-fourths; or Travel one-fourth, and Montaigne +three-fourths. He pours his thought into the water of gossip, and +gives you to drink. He gilds his pill always, and he always gilds it +with himself. The general characteristics of his Essays have been +indicated, and it is worth while inquiring what they teach, what +positive good they have done, and why for three centuries they have +charmed, and still continue to charm. + +The Essays contain a philosophy of life, which is not specially high, +yet which is certain to find acceptance more or less with men who have +passed out beyond the glow of youth, and who have made trial of the +actual world. The essence of his philosophy is a kind of cynical +common-sense. He will risk nothing in life; he will keep to the beaten +track; he will not let passion blind or enslave him; he will gather +round him what good he can, and will therewith endeavour to be content. +He will be, as far as possible, self-sustained; he will not risk his +happiness in the hands of man, or of woman either. He is shy of +friendship, he fears love, for he knows that both are dangerous. He +knows that life is full of bitters, and he holds it wisdom that a man +should console himself, as far as possible, with its sweets, the +principal of which are peace, travel, leisure, and the writing of +essays. He values obtainable Gascon bread and cheese more than the +unobtainable stars. He thinks crying for the moon the foolishest thing +in the world. He will remain where he is. He will not deny that a new +world may exist beyond the sunset, but he knows that to reach the new +world there is a troublesome Atlantic to cross; and he is not in the +least certain that, putting aside the chance of being drowned on the +way, he will be one whit happier in the new world than he is in the +old. For his part he will embark with no Columbus. He feels that life +is but a sad thing at best; but as he has little hope of making it +better, he accepts it, and will not make it worse by murmuring. When +the chain galls him, he can at least revenge himself by making jests on +it. He will temper the despotism of nature by epigrams. He has read +Aesop's fable, and is the last man in the world to relinquish the +shabbiest substance to grasp at the finest shadow. + +Of nothing under the sun was Montaigne quite certain, except that every +man--whatever his station--might travel farther and fare worse; and +that the playing with his own thoughts, in the shape of essay-writing, +was the most harmless of amusements. His practical acquiescence in +things does not promise much fruit, save to himself; yet in virtue of +it he became one of the forces of the world--a very visible agent in +bringing about the Europe which surrounds us today. He lived in the +midst of the French religious wars. The rulers of his country were +execrable Christians, but most orthodox Catholics. The burning of +heretics was a public amusement, and the court ladies sat out the play. +On the queen-mother and on her miserable son lay all the blood of the +St. Bartholomew. The country was torn asunder; everywhere was battle, +murder, pillage, and such woeful partings as Mr. Millais has +represented in his incomparable picture. To the solitary humourous +essayist this state of things was hateful. He was a good Catholic in +his easy way; he attended divine service regularly; he crossed himself +when he yawned. He conformed in practice to every rule of the Church; +but if orthodox in these matters, he was daring in speculation. There +was nothing he was not bold enough to question. He waged war after his +peculiar fashion with every form of superstition. He worked under the +foundations of priestcraft. But while serving the Reformed cause, he +had no sympathy with Reformers. If they would but remain quiet, but +keep their peculiar notions to themselves, France would rest! That a +man should go to the stake for an opinion, was as incomprehensible to +him as that a priest or king should send him there for an opinion. He +thought the persecuted and the persecutors fools about equally matched. +He was easy-tempered and humane--in the hunting-field he could not bear +the cry of a dying hare with composure--martyr-burning had consequently +no attraction for such a man. His scepticism came into play, his +melancholy humour, his sense of the illimitable which surrounds man's +life, and which mocks, defeats, flings back his thought upon himself. +Man is here, he said, with bounded powers, with limited knowledge, with +an unknown behind, an unknown in front, assured of nothing but that he +was born, and that he must die; why, then, in Heaven's name should he +burn his fellow for a difference of opinion in the matter of surplices, +or as to the proper fashion of conducting devotion? Out of his +scepticism and his merciful disposition grew, in that fiercely +intolerant age, the idea of toleration, of which he was the apostle. +Widely read, charming every one by his wit and wisdom, his influence +spread from mind to mind, and assisted in bringing about the change +which has taken place in European thought. His ideas, perhaps, did not +spring from the highest sources. He was no ascetic, he loved pleasure, +he was tolerant of everything except cruelty; but on that account we +should not grudge him his meed. It is in this indirect way that great +writers take their place among the forces of the world. In the long +run, genius and wit side with the right cause. And the man fighting +against wrong to-day is assisted, in a greater degree than perhaps he +is himself aware, by the sarcasm of this writer, the metaphor of that, +the song of the other, although the writers themselves professed +indifference, or were even counted as belonging to the enemy. + +Montaigne's hold on his readers arises from many causes. There is his +frank and curious self-delineation; _that_ interests, because it is the +revelation of a very peculiar nature. Then there is the positive value +of separate thoughts imbedded in his strange whimsicality and humour. +Lastly, there is the perennial charm of style, which is never a +separate quality, but rather the amalgam and issue of all the mental +and moral qualities in a man's possession, and which bears the same +relation to these that light bears to the mingled elements that make up +the orb of the sun. And style, after all, rather than thought, is the +immortal thing in literature. In literature, the charm of style is +indefinable, yet all-subduing, just as fine manners are in social life. +In reality, it is not of so much consequence what you say, as how you +say it. Memorable sentences are memorable on account of some single +irradiating word. "But Shadwell never _deviates_ into sense," for +instance. Young Roscius, in his provincial barn, will repeat you the +great soliloquy of Hamlet, and although every word may be given with +tolerable correctness, you find it just as commonplace as himself; the +great actor speaks it, and you "read Shakspeare as by a flash of +lightning." And it is in Montaigne's style, in the strange freaks and +turnings of his thought, his constant surprises, his curious +alternations of humour and melancholy, his careless, familiar form of +address, and the grace with which everything is done, that his charm +lies, and which makes the hundredth perusal of him as pleasant as the +first. + +And on style depends the success of the essayist. Montaigne said the +most familiar things in the finest way. Goldsmith could not be termed +a thinker; but everything he touched he brightened, as after a month of +dry weather, the shower brightens the dusty shrubbery of a suburban +villa. The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when +thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be +called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new. Love +is an old story enough, but in every generation it is re-born, in the +downcast eyes and blushes of young maidens. And so, although he +fluttered in Eden, Cupid is young to-day. If Montaigne had lived in +Dreamthorp, as I am now living, had he written essays as I am now +writing them, his English Essays would have been as good as his Gascon +ones. Looking on, the country cart would not for nothing have passed +him on the road to market, the setting sun would be arrested in its +splendid colours, the idle chimes of the church would be translated +into a thoughtful music. As it is, the village life goes on, and there +is no result. My sentences are not much more brilliant than the +speeches of the clowns; in my book there is little more life than there +is in the market-place on the days when there is no market. + + + + +OF DEATH AND THE FEAR OF DYING + +Let me curiously analyse eternal farewells, and the last pressures of +loving hands. Let me smile at faces bewept, and the nodding plumes and +slow paces of funerals. Let me write down brave heroical +sentences--sentences that defy death, as brazen Goliath the hosts of +Israel. + +"When death waits for us is uncertain, let us everywhere look for him. +The premeditation of death is the premeditation of liberty; who has +learnt to die, has forgot to serve. There is nothing of evil in life +for him who rightly comprehends that death is no evil; to know how to +die delivers us from all subjection and constraint. _Paulus Aemilius_ +answered him whom the miserable _king of Macedon_, his prisoner, sent +to entreat him that he would not lead him in his triumph, '_Let him +make that request to himself_.' In truth, in all things, if nature do +not help a little, it is very hard for art and industry to perform +anything to purpose. I am, in my own nature, not melancholy, but +thoughtful; and there is nothing I have more continually entertained +myself withal than the imaginations of death, even in the gayest and +most wanton time of my age. In the company of ladies, and in the +height of mirth, some have perhaps thought me possessed of some +jealousy, or meditating upon the uncertainty of some imagined hope, +whilst I was entertaining myself with the remembrance of some one +surprised a few days before with a burning fever, of which he died, +returning from an entertainment like this, with his head full of idle +fancies of love and jollity, as mine was then; and for aught I knew, +the same destiny was attending me. Yet did not this thought wrinkle my +forehead any more than any other." . . . . "Why dost thou fear this +last day? It contributes no more to thy destruction than every one of +the rest. The last step is not the cause of lassitude, it does but +confer it. Every day travels toward death; the last only arrives at +it. These are the good lessons our mother nature teaches. I have +often considered with myself whence it should proceed, that in war the +image of death--whether we look upon it as to our own particular +danger, or that of another--should, without comparison, appear less +dreadful than at home in our own houses, (for if it were not so, it +would be an army of whining milksops,) and that being still in all +places the same, there should be, notwithstanding, much more assurance +in peasants and the meaner sort of people, than others of better +quality and education; and I do verily believe, that it is those +terrible ceremonies and preparations wherewith we set it out, that more +terrify us than the thing itself; a new, quite contrary way of living, +the cries of mothers, wives and children, the visits of astonished and +affected friends, the attendance of pale and blubbered servants, a dark +room set round with burning tapers, our beds environed with physicians +and divines; in fine, nothing but ghostliness and horror round about +us, render it so formidable, that a man almost fancies himself dead and +buried already. Children are afraid even of those they love best, and +are best acquainted with, when disguised in a vizor, and so are we; the +vizor must be removed as well from things as persons; which being taken +away, we shall find nothing underneath but the very same death that a +mean servant, or a poor chambermaid, died a day or two ago, without any +manner of apprehension or concern." [1] + +"Men feare _death_ as children feare to goe in the darke; and as that +natural feare in children is increased with tales, so in the other. +Certainly the contemplation of _death_ as the _wages of sinne_, and +passage to another world, is holy and religious; but the feare of it as +a tribute unto nature, is weake. Yet in religious meditations there is +sometimes mixture of vanitie and of superstition. You shal reade in +some of the friars' books of _mortification_, that a man should thinke +unto himself what the paine is if he have but his finger-end pressed or +tortured; and thereby imagine what the pains of _death_ are when the +whole body is corrupted and dissolved; when many times _death_ passeth +with lesse paine than the torture of a Lemme. For the most vitall +parts are not the quickest of sense. Groanes and convulsions, and a +discoloured face, and friends weeping, and blackes and obsequies, and +the like, shew _death_ terrible. It is worthy the observing, that +there is no passion in the minde of man so weake but it mates and +masters the feare of _death_; and therefore death is no such terrible +enemy when a man hath so many attendants about him that can winne the +combat of him. _Revenge_ triumphs over _death_, love subjects it, +honour aspireth to it, _griefe_ fleeth to it, _feare_ pre-occupieth it; +nay, we read, after _Otho_ the emperour had slaine himselfe, _pitty_, +(which is the tenderest of affections,) provoked many to die, out of +meer compassion to their soveraigne, and as the truest sort of +followers. . . . . It is as naturall to die as to be born; and to a +little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful as the other. He that +dies in an earnest pursuit is like one that is wounded in hot blood, +who for the time scarce feels the hurt; and, therefore, a minde mixt +and bent upon somewhat that is good, doth avert the sadness of _death_. +But above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is _Nunc Dimittis_, +when a man hath obtained worthy ends and expectations. Death hath this +also; that it openeth the gate to good fame, and extinguisheth envie." +[2] + +These sentences of the great essayists are brave and ineffectual as +Leonidas and his Greeks. Death cares very little for sarcasm or trope; +hurl at him a javelin or a rose, it is all one. We build around +ourselves ramparts of stoical maxims, edifying to witness, but when the +terror comes these yield as the knots of river flags to the shoulder of +Behemoth. + +Death is terrible only in presence. When distant, or supposed to be +distant, we can call him hard or tender names, nay, even poke our poor +fun at him. _Mr. Punch_, on one occasion, when he wished to ridicule +the useful-information leanings of a certain periodical publication, +quoted from its pages the sentence, "Man is mortal," and people were +found to grin broadly over the exquisite stroke of humour. Certainly +the words, and the fact they contain, are trite enough. Utter the +sentence gravely in any company, and you are certain to provoke +laughter. And yet some subtile recognition of the fact of death runs +constantly through the warp and woof of the most ordinary human +existence. And this recognition does not always terrify. The spectre +has the most cunning disguises, and often when near us we are unaware +of the fact of proximity. Unsuspected, this idea of death lurks in the +sweetness of music; it has something to do with the pleasures with +which we behold the vapours of morning; it comes between the passionate +lips of lovers; it lives in the thrill of kisses. "An inch deeper, and +you will find the emperor." Probe joy to its last fibre, and you will +find death. And it is the most merciful of all the merciful provisions +of nature, that a haunting sense of insecurity should deepen the +enjoyment of what we have secured; that the pleasure of our warm human +day and its activities should to some extent arise from a vague +consciousness of the waste night which environs it, in which no arm is +raised, in which no voice is ever heard. Death is the ugly fact which +nature has to hide, and she hides it well. Human life were otherwise +an impossibility. The pantomime runs on merrily enough; but when once +Harlequin lifts his vizor, Columbine disappears, the jest is frozen on +the Clown's lips, and the hand of the filching Pantaloon is arrested in +the act. Wherever death looks, _there_ is silence and trembling. But +although on every man he will one day or another look, he is coy of +revealing himself till the appointed time. He makes his approaches +like an Indian warrior, under covers and ambushes. We have our parts +to play, and he remains hooded till they are played out. We are +agitated by our passions, we busily pursue our ambitions, we are +acquiring money or reputation, and all at once, in the centre of our +desires, we discover the "Shadow feared of man." And so nature fools +the poor human mortal evermore. When she means to be deadly, she +dresses her face in smiles; when she selects a victim, she sends him a +poisoned rose. There is no pleasure, no shape of good fortune, no form +of glory in which death has not hid himself, and waited silently for +his prey. + +And death is the most ordinary thing in the world. It is as common as +births; it is of more frequent occurrence than marriages and the +attainment of majorities. But the difference between death and other +forms of human experience lies in this, that we can gain no information +about it. The dead man is wise, but he is silent. We cannot wring his +secret from him. We cannot interpret the ineffable calm which gathers +on the rigid face. As a consequence, when our thought rests on death +we are smitten with isolation and loneliness. We are without company +on the dark road; and we have advanced so far upon it that we cannot +hear the voices of our friends. It is in this sense of loneliness, +this consciousness of identity and nothing more, that the terror of +dying consists. And yet, compared to that road, the most populous +thoroughfare of London or Pekin is a desert. What enumerator will take +for us the census of dead? And this matter of death and dying, like +most things else in the world, may be exaggerated by our own fears and +hopes. Death, terrible to look forward to, may be pleasant even to +look back at. Could we be admitted to the happy fields, and hear the +conversations which blessed spirits hold, one might discover that to +conquer death a man has but to die; that by that act terror is softened +into familiarity, and that the remembrance of death becomes but as the +remembrance of yesterday. To these fortunate ones death may be but a +date, and dying a subject fruitful in comparisons, a matter on which +experiences may be serenely compared. Meantime, however, _we_ have not +yet reached that measureless content, and death scares, piques, +tantalises, as mind and nerve are built. Situated as we are, knowing +that it is inevitable, we cannot keep our thoughts from resting on it +curiously, at times. Nothing interests us so much. The Highland seer +pretended that he could see the winding-sheet high upon the breast of +the man for whom death was waiting. Could we behold any such visible +sign, the man who bore it, no matter where he stood--even if he were a +slave watching Caesar pass--would usurp every eye. At the coronation +of a king, the wearing of that order would dim royal robe, quench the +sparkle of the diadem, and turn to vanity the herald's cry. Death +makes the meanest beggar august, and that augustness would assert +itself in the presence of a king. And it is this curiosity with regard +to everything related to death and dying which makes us treasure up the +last sayings of great men, and attempt to wring out of them tangible +meanings. Was Goethe's "Light--light, more light!" a prayer, or a +statement of spiritual experience, or simply an utterance of the fact +that the room in which he lay was filling with the last twilight? In +consonance with our own natures, we interpret it the one way or the +other--_he_ is beyond our questioning. For the same reason it is that +men take interest in executions--from Charles I. on the scaffold at +Whitehall, to Porteous in the Grassmarket execrated by the mob. These +men are not dulled by disease, they are not delirious with fever; they +look death in the face, and what in these circumstances they say and do +has the strangest fascination for us. + +What does the murderer think when his eyes are forever blinded by the +accursed nightcap? In what form did thought condense itself between +the gleam of the lifted axe and the rolling of King Charles's head in +the saw-dust? This kind of speculation may be morbid, but it is not +necessarily so. All extremes of human experience touch us; and we have +all the deepest personal interest in the experience of death. Out of +all we know about dying we strive to clutch something which may break +its solitariness, and relieve us by a touch of companionship. + +To denude death of its terrible associations were a vain attempt. The +atmosphere is always cold around an iceberg. In the contemplation of +dying the spirit may not flinch, but pulse and heart, colour and +articulation, are always cowards. No philosophy will teach them +bravery in the stern presence. And yet there are considerations which +rob death of its ghastliness, and help to reconcile us to it. The +thoughtful happiness of a human being is complex, and in certain moved +moments, which, after they have gone, we can recognise to have been our +happiest, some subtle thought of death has been curiously intermixed. +And this subtle intermixture it is which gives the happy moment its +character--which makes the difference between the gladness of a child, +resident in mere animal health and impulse, and too volatile to be +remembered, and the serious joy of a man, which looks before and after, +and takes in both this world and the next. Speaking broadly, it may be +said that it is from some obscure recognition of the fact of death that +life draws its final sweetness. An obscure, haunting recognition, of +course; for if more than that, if the thought becomes palpable, +defined, and present, it swallows up everything. The howling of the +winter wind outside increases the warm satisfaction of a man in bed; +but this satisfaction is succeeded by quite another feeling when the +wind grows into a tempest, and threatens to blow the house down. And +this remote recognition of death may exist almost constantly in a man's +mind, and give to his life keener zest and relish. His lights may burn +the brighter for it, and his wines taste sweeter. For it is on the +tapestry or a dim ground that the figures come out in the boldest +relief and the brightest colour. + +If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, +clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It +is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death. The brutes die +even as we; but it is our knowledge that we have to die that makes us +human. If nature cunningly hides death, and so permits us to play out +our little games, it is easily seen that our knowing it to be +inevitable, that to every one of us it will come one day or another, is +a wonderful spur to action. We really do work while it is called +to-day, because the night cometh when no man can work. We may not +expect it soon--it may not have sent us a single _avant-courier_--yet +we all know that every day brings it nearer. On the supposition that +we were to live here always, there would be little inducement to +exertion. But, having some work at heart, the knowledge that we may +be, any day, finally interrupted, is an incentive to diligence. We +naturally desire to have it completed, or at least far advanced toward +completion, before that final interruption takes place. And knowing +that his existence here is limited, a man's workings have reference to +others rather than to himself, and thereby into his nature comes a new +influx of nobility. If a man plants a tree, he knows that other hands +than his will gather the fruit; and when he plants it, he thinks quite +as much of those other hands as of his own. Thus to the poet there is +the dearer life after life; and posterity's single laurel leaf is +valued more than a multitude of contemporary bays. Even the man +immersed in money-making does not make money so much for himself as for +those who may come after him. Riches in noble natures have a double +sweetness. The possessor enjoys his wealth, and he heightens that +enjoyment by the imaginative entrance into the pleasure which his son +or his nephew may derive from it when he is away, or the high uses to +which he may turn it. Seeing that we have no perpetual lease of life +and its adjuncts, we do not live for ourselves. And thus it is that +death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us +the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence. My +life, and your life, flowing on thus day by day, is a vapid enough +piece of business; but when we think that it must _close_, a multitude +of considerations, not connected with ourselves but with others, rush +in, and vapidity vanishes at once. Life, if it were to flow on forever +and _thus_, would stagnate and rot. The hopes, and fears, and regrets, +which move and trouble it, keep it fresh and healthy, as the sea is +kept alive by the trouble of its tides. In a tolerably comfortable +world, where death is not, it is difficult to see from what quarter +these healthful fears, regrets, and hopes could come. As it is, there +are agitations and sufferings in our lots enough; but we must remember +that it is on account of these sufferings and agitations that we become +creatures breathing thoughtful breath. As has already been said, death +takes away the commonplace of life. And positively, when one looks on +the thousand and one poor, foolish, ignoble faces of this world, and +listens to the chatter as poor and foolish as the faces, one, in order +to have any proper respect for them, is forced to remember that +solemnity of death, which is silently waiting. The foolishest person +will look grand enough one day. The features are poor now, but the +hottest tears and the most passionate embraces will not seem out of +place _then_. If you wish to make a man look noble, your best course +is to kill him. What superiority he may have inherited from his race, +what superiority nature may have personally gifted him with, comes out +in death. The passions which agitate, distort, and change, are gone +away forever, and the features settle back into a marble calm, which is +the man's truest image. Then the most affected look sincere, the most +volatile, serious--all noble, more or less. And nature will not be +surprised into disclosures. The man stretched out there may have been +voluble as a swallow, but now--when he could speak to some +purpose--neither pyramid nor sphinx holds a secret more tenaciously. + +Consider, then, how the sense of impermanence brightens beauty and +elevates happiness. Melancholy is always attendant on beauty, and that +melancholy brings out its keenness as the dark green corrugated leaf +brings out the wan loveliness of the primrose. The spectator enjoys +the beauty, but his knowledge that _it_ is fleeting, and that _he_ +fleeting, adds a pathetic something to it; and by that something the +beautiful object and the gazer are alike raised. + +Everything is sweetened by risk. The pleasant emotion is mixed and +deepened by a sense of mortality. Those lovers who have never +encountered the possibility of last embraces and farewells are novices +in the passion. Sunset affects us more powerfully than sunrise, simply +because it is a setting sun, and suggests a thousand analogies. A +mother is never happier than when her eyes fill over her sleeping +child, never does she kiss it more fondly, never does she pray for it +more fervently; and yet there is more in her heart than visible red +cheek and yellow curl; possession and bereavement are strangely mingled +in the exquisite maternal mood, the one heightening the other. All +great joys are serious; and emotion must be measured by its complexity +and the deepness of its reach. A musician may draw pretty notes enough +from a single key, but the richest music is that in which the whole +force of the instrument is employed, in the production of which every +key is vibrating; and, although full of solemn touches and majestic +tones, the final effect may be exuberant and gay. Pleasures which rise +beyond the mere gratification of the senses are dependant for their +exquisiteness on the number and variety of the thoughts which they +evoke. And that joy is the greatest which, while felt to be joy, can +include the thought of death and clothe itself with that crowning +pathos. And in the minds of thoughtful persons every joy does, more or +less, with the crowning pathos clothe itself. + +In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the +arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place +to-day, it is vain to seek it there to-morrow. You cannot lay a trap +for it. It will fall into no ambuscade, concert it ever so cunningly. +Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps. Into our +commonplace existence it comes with a surprise, like a pure white swan +from the airy void into the ordinary village lake; and just as the +swan, for no reason that can be discovered, lifts itself on its wings +and betakes itself to the void again, _it_ leaves us, and our sole +possession is its memory. And it is characteristic of pleasure that we +can never recognise it to be pleasure till after it is gone. Happiness +never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse +of its features it disappears. It is a gleam of unreckoned gold. From +the nature of the case, our happiness, such as in its degree it has +been, lives in memory. We have not the voice itself; we have only its +echo. We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once. +And while in the very heart and structure of the happy moment there +lurked an obscure consciousness of death, the memory in which past +happiness dwells is always a regretful memory. This is why the tritest +utterance about the past, youth, early love, and the like, has always +about it an indefinable flavour of poetry, which pleases and affects. +In the wake of a ship there is always a melancholy splendour. The +finest set of verses of our modern time describes how the poet gazed on +the "happy autumn fields," and remembered the "days that were no more." +After all, a man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is +he rich, in nothing else is he poor. + +In our warm imaginative youth, death is far removed from us, and +attains thereby a certain picturesqueness. The grim thought stands in +the ideal world as a ruin stands in a blooming landscape. The thought +of death sheds a pathetic charm over everything then. The young man +cools himself with a thought of the winding-sheet and the charnel, as +the heated dancer cools himself on the balcony with the night-air. The +young imagination plays with the idea of death, makes a toy of it, just +as a child plays with edge-tools till once it cuts its fingers. The +most lugubrious poetry is written by very young and tolerably +comfortable persons. When a man's mood becomes really serious he has +little taste for such foolery. The man who has a grave or two in his +heart, does not need to haunt churchyards. The young poet uses death +as an antithesis; and when he shocks his reader by some flippant use of +it in that way, he considers he has written something mightily fine. +In his gloomiest mood he is most insincere, most egotistical, most +pretentious. The older and wiser poet avoids the subject as he does +the memory of pain; or when he does refer to it, he does so in a +reverential manner, and with some sense of its solemnity and of the +magnitude of its issues. It was in that year of revelry, 1814, and +while undressing from balls, that Lord Byron wrote his "Lara," as he +informs us. Disrobing, and haunted, in all probability, by eyes in +whose light he was happy enough, the spoiled young man, who then +affected death-pallors, and wished the world to believe that he felt +his richest wines powdered with the dust of graves,--of which wine, +notwithstanding, he frequently took more than was good for him,--wrote, + + "That sleep the loveliest, since it dreams the least." + +The sleep referred to being death. This was meant to take away the +reader's breath; and after performing the feat, Byron betook himself to +his pillow with a sense of supreme cleverness. Contrast with this +Shakspeare's far out-looking and thought-heavy lines--lines which, +under the same image, represent death-- + + "To die--to sleep;-- + To sleep! perchance to dream;--ay, there's the rub: + For in that sleep of death what dreams may come!" + +And you see at once how a man's notions of death and dying are deepened +by a wider experience. Middle age may fear death quite as little as +youth fears it; but it has learned seriousness, and it has no heart to +poke fun at the lean ribs, or to call it fond names like a lover, or to +stick a primrose in its grinning chaps, and draw a strange pleasure +from the irrelevancy. + +The man who has reached thirty, feels at times as if he had come out of +a great battle. Comrade after comrade has fallen; his own life seems +to have been charmed. And knowing how it fared with his +friends--perfect health one day, a catarrh the next, blinds drawn down, +silence in the house, blubbered faces of widow and orphans, intimation +of the event in the newspapers, with a request that friends will accept +of it, the day after--a man, as he draws near middle age, begins to +suspect every transient indisposition; to be careful of being caught in +a shower, to shudder at sitting in wet shoes; he feels his pulse, he +anxiously peruses his face in a mirror, he becomes critical as to the +colour of his tongue. In early life illness is a luxury, and draws out +toward the sufferer curious and delicious tendernesses, which are felt +to be a full over-payment of pain and weakness; then there is the +pleasant period of convalescence, when one tastes a core and marrow of +delight in meats, drinks, sleep, silence; the bunch of newly-plucked +flowers on the table, the sedulous attentions and patient forbearance +of nurses and friends. Later in life, when one occupies a post, and is +in discharge of duties which are accumulating against recovery, illness +and convalescence cease to be luxuries. Illness is felt to be a cruel +interruption of the ordinary course of things, and the sick person is +harassed by a sense of the loss of time and the loss of strength. He +is placed _hors de combat_; all the while he is conscious that the +battle is going on around him, and he feels his temporary withdrawal a +misfortune. Of course, unless a man is very unhappily circumstanced, +he has in his later illnesses all the love, patience, and attention +which sweetened his earlier ones; but then he cannot rest in them, and +accept them as before as compensation in full. The world is ever with +him; through his interests and his affections he has meshed himself in +an intricate net-work of relationships and other dependences, and a +fatal issue--which in such cases is ever on the cards--would destroy +all these, and bring about more serious matters than the shedding of +tears. In a man's earlier illnesses, too, he had not only no such +definite future to work out, he had a stronger spring of life and hope; +he was rich in time, and could wait; and lying in his chamber now, he +cannot help remembering that, as Mr. Thackeray expresses it, there +comes at last an illness to which there may be no convalescence. What +if that illness be already come? And so there is nothing left for him, +but to bear the rod with patience, and to exercise a humble faith in +the Ruler of all. If he recovers, some half-dozen people will be made +happy; if he does not recover, the same number of people will be made +miserable for a little while, and, during the next two or three days, +acquaintances will meet in the street--"You've heard of poor So-and-so? +Very sudden! Who would have thought it? Expect to meet you at ----'s +on Thursday. Good-bye." And so to the end. Your death and my death +are mainly of importance to ourselves. The black plumes will be +stripped off our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt hearts +close again, our graves grow level with the church-yard, and although +we are away, the world wags on. It does not miss us; and those who are +near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss +us much either. + +We are curious as to death-beds and death-bed sayings; we wish to know +how the matter stands; how the whole thing looks to the dying. +Unhappily--perhaps, on the whole, happily--we can gather no information +from these. The dying are nearly as reticent as the dead. The +inferences we draw from the circumstances of death, the pallor, the +sob, the glazing eye, are just as likely to mislead us as not. Manfred +exclaims, "Old man, 'tis not so difficult to die!" Sterling wrote +Carlyle "that it was all very strange, yet not so strange as it seemed +to the lookers on." And so, perhaps, on the whole it is. The world +has lasted six thousand years now, and, with the exception of those at +present alive, the millions who have breathed upon it--splendid +emperors, horny-fisted clowns, little children, in whom thought has +never stirred--_have_ died, and what they have done, we also shall be +able to do. It may not be so difficult, may not be so terrible, as our +fears whisper. The dead keep their secrets, and in a little while we +shall be as wise as they--and as taciturn. + + +[1] Montaigne. + +[2] Bacon. + + + + +WILLIAM DUNBAR + +If it be assumed that the North Briton is, to an appreciable extent, a +different creature from the Englishman, the assumption is not likely to +provoke dispute. No one will deny us the prominence of our cheek-bones, +and our pride in the same. How far the difference extends, whether it +involves merit or demerit, are questions not now sought to be settled. +Nor is it important to discover how the difference arose; how far chiller +climate and sourer soil, centuries of unequal yet not inglorious +conflict, a separate race of kings, a body of separate traditions, and a +peculiar crisis of reformation issuing in peculiar forms of religious +worship, confirmed and strengthened the national idiosyncrasy. If a +difference between the races be allowed, it is sufficient for the present +purpose. _That_ allowed, and Scot and Southern being fecund in literary +genius, it becomes an interesting inquiry to what extent the great +literary men of the one race have influenced the great literary men of +the other. On the whole, perhaps, the two races may fairly cry quits. +Not unfrequently, indeed, have literary influences arisen in the north +and travelled southwards. There were the Scottish ballads, for instance, +there was Burns, there was Sir Walter Scott, there is Mr. Carlyle. The +literary influence represented by each of these arose in Scotland, and +has either passed or is passing "in music out of sight" in England. The +energy of the northern wave has rolled into the southern waters. On the +other hand, we can mark the literary influences travelling from the south +northward. The English Chaucer rises, and the current of his influence +is long afterwards visible in the Scottish King James, and the Scottish +poet Dunbar. That which was Prior and Gay in London, became Allan Ramsay +when it reached Edinburgh. Inspiration, not unfrequently, has travelled, +like summer, from the south northwards; just as, when the day is over, +and the lamps are lighted in London, the radiance of the setting sun is +lingering on the splintered peaks and rosy friths of the Hebrides. All +this, however, is a matter of the past; literary influence can no longer +be expected to travel leisurely from south to north, or from north to +south. In times of literary activity, as at the beginning of the present +century, the atmosphere of passion or speculation envelop the entire +island, and Scottish and English writers simultaneously draw from it what +their peculiar natures prompt--just as in the same garden the rose drinks +crimson and the convolvulus azure from the superincumbent air. + +Chaucer must always remain a name in British literary history. He +appeared at a time when the Saxon and Norman races had become fused, and +when ancient bitternesses were lost in the proud title of Englishman. He +was the first great poet the island produced; and he wrote for the most +part in the language of the people, with just the slightest infusion of +the courtlier Norman element, which gives to his writings something of +the high-bred air that the short upper-lip gives to the human +countenance. In his earlier poems he was under the influence of the +Provençal Troubadours, and in his "Flower and the Leaf," and other works +of a similar class, he riots in allegory; he represents the cardinal +virtues walking about in human shape; his forests are full of beautiful +ladies with coronals on their heads; courts of love are held beneath the +spreading elm, and metaphysical goldfinches and nightingales, perched +among the branches green, wrangle melodiously about the tender passion. +In these poems he is fresh, charming, fanciful as the spring-time itself: +ever picturesque, ever musical, and with a homely touch and stroke of +irony here and there, suggesting a depth of serious matter in him which +it needed years only to develop. He lived in a brilliant and stirring +time; he was connected with the court; he served in armies; he visited +the Continent; and, although a silent man, he carried with him, wherever +he went, and into whatever company he was thrown, the most observant eyes +perhaps that ever looked curiously out upon the world. There was nothing +too mean or too trivial for his regard. After parting with a man, one +fancies that he knew every line and wrinkle of his face, had marked the +travel-stains on his boots, and had counted the slashes of his doublet. +And so it was that, after mixing in kings' courts, and sitting with +friars in taverns, and talking with people on country roads, and +travelling in France and Italy, and making himself master of the +literature, science, and theology of his time, and when perhaps touched +with misfortune and sorrow, he came to see the depth of interest that +resides in actual life,--that the rudest clown even, with his sordid +humours and coarse speech, is intrinsically more valuable than a whole +forest full of goddesses, or innumerable processions of cardinal virtues, +however well mounted and splendidly attired. It was in some such mood of +mind that Chaucer penned those unparalleled pictures of contemporary life +that delight yet, after five centuries have come and gone. It is +difficult to define Chaucer's charm. He does not indulge in fine +sentiment; he has no bravura passages; he is ever master of himself and +of his subject. The light upon his page is the light of common day. +Although powerful delineations of passion may be found in his "Tales," +and wonderful descriptions of nature, and although certain of the +passages relating to Constance and Griselda in their deep distresses are +unrivalled in tenderness, neither passion, nor natural description, nor +pathos, are his striking characteristics. It is his shrewdness, his +conciseness, his ever-present humour, his frequent irony, and his short, +homely line--effective as the play of the short Roman sword--which +strikes the reader most. In the "Prologue to the Canterbury Tales"--by +far the ripest thing he has done--he seems to be writing the easiest, +most idiomatic prose, but it is poetry all the while. He is a poet of +natural manner, dealing with out-door life. Perhaps, on the whole, the +writer who most resembles him--superficial differences apart--is +Fielding. In both there is constant shrewdness and common-sense, a +constant feeling of the comic side of things, a moral instinct which +escapes in irony, never in denunciation or fanaticism; no remarkable +spirituality of feeling, an acceptance of the world as a pleasant enough +place, provided good dinners and a sufficiency of cash are to be had, and +that healthy relish for fact and reality, and scorn of humbug of all +kinds, especially of that particular phase of it which makes one appear +better than one is, which--for want of a better term--we are accustomed +to call _English_. Chaucer was a Conservative in all his feelings; he +liked to poke his fun at the clergy, but he was not of the stuff of which +martyrs are made. He loved good eating and drinking, and studious +leisure and peace; and although in his ordinary moods shrewd, and +observant, and satirical, his higher genius would now and then splendidly +assert itself--and behold the tournament at Athens, where kings are +combatants and Emily the prize; or the little boat, containing the +brain-bewildered Constance and her child, wandering hither and thither on +the friendly sea. + +Chaucer was born about 1328, and died about 1380; and although he had, +both in Scotland and England, contemporaries and immediate successors, no +one of them can be compared with him for a moment. The "Moral Gower" was +his friend, and inherited his tediousness and pedantry without a sparkle +of his fancy, passion, humour, wisdom, and good spirits. Occleve and +Lydgate followed in the next generation; and although their names are +retained in literary histories, no line or sentence of theirs has found a +place in human memory. The Scottish contemporary of Chaucer was Barbour, +who although deficient in tenderness and imagination, deserves praise for +his sinewy and occasionally picturesque verse. "The Bruce" is really a +fine poem. The hero is noble, resolute, and wise. Sir James Douglas is +a very perfect, gentle knight. The old Churchman had the true poetic +fire in him. He rises into eloquence in an apostrophe to Freedom, and he +fights the battle of Bannockburn over again with great valour, shouting, +and flapping of standards. In England, nature seemed to have exhausted +herself in Chaucer, and she lay quiescent till Lord Surrey and Sir Thomas +Wyatt came, the immediate precursors of Spenser, Shakspeare, and their +companions. + +While in England the note of the nightingale suddenly ceased, to be +succeeded by the mere chirping of the barn-door sparrows, the divine and +melancholy voice began to be heard further north. It was during that +most barren period of English poetry--extending from Chaucer's death till +the beginning of Elizabeth's reign--that Scottish poetry arose, suddenly, +splendidly--to be matched only by that other uprising nearer our own +time, equally unexpected and splendid, of Burns and Scott. And it is +curious to notice in this brilliant outburst of northern genius how much +is owing to Chaucer; the cast of language is identical, the literary form +is the same, there is the same way of looking at nature, the same +allegorical forests, the troops of ladies, the same processions of +cardinal virtues. James I., whose long captivity in England made him +acquainted with Chaucer's works was the leader of the poetic movement +which culminated in Dunbar, and died away in Sir David Lindsay just +before the noise and turmoil of the Reformation set in. In the +concluding stanza of the "Quair," James records his obligation to those-- + + "Masters dear, + Gower and Chaucer, that on the steppes sate + Of retorick, while they were livand here, + Superlative as poets laureate + Of morality and eloquence ornate." + +But while, during the reigns of the Jameses, Scottish genius was being +acted upon by the broader and deeper genius of England, Scotland, quite +unconsciously to herself, was preparing a liquidation in full of all +spiritual obligations. For even then, in obscure nooks and corners, the +Scottish ballads were growing up, quite uncontrolled by critical rules, +rude in structure and expression, yet, at the same time, full of +vitality, retaining in all their keenness the mirth of rustic festivals, +and the piteousness of domestic tragedies. The stormy feudal time out of +which they arose crumbled by process of gradual decay, but they remained, +made brighter by each succeeding summer, like the wildflowers that blow +in the chinks of ruins. And when English poetry had become artificial +and cold, the lucubrations of forgotten Scottish minstrels, full of the +touches that make the whole world kin, brought new life with them. +Scotland had invaded England more than once, but the blue bonnets never +went over the border so triumphantly as when they did so in the shape of +songs and ballads. + +James IV., if not the wisest, was certainly the most brilliant monarch of +his name; and he was fortunate beyond the later Stuarts in this, that +during his lifetime no new popular tide had set in which it behooved him +to oppose or to float upon. For him in all its essentials to-day had +flowed quietly out of yesterday, and he lived unperplexed by fear of +change. With something of a Southern gaiety of spirit, he was a merrier +monarch than his dark-featured and saturnine descendant who bore the +appellation. He was fond of martial sports, he loved to glitter at +tournaments, his court was crowded with singing men and singing women. +Yet he had his gloomy moods and superstitious despondencies. He could +not forget that he had appeared in arms against his father; even while he +whispered in the ear of beauty the iron belt of penance was fretting his +side, and he alternated the splendid revel with the cell of the monk. In +these days, and for long after, the Borders were disturbed, and the +Highland clans, setting royal authority at defiance, were throttling each +other in their mists. The Catholic religion was yet unsapped, and the +wealth of the country resided in the hands of the nobles and the +churchmen. Edinburgh towered high on the ridge between Holyrood and the +Castle, its streets reddened with feud at intervals, and its merchants +clustering round the Cathedral of St. Giles like bees in a honeycomb; and +the king, when he looked across the faint azure of the Forth, beheld the +long coast of Fife dotted with little towns, where ships were moored that +traded with France and Holland, and brought with them cargoes of silk and +wines. James was a popular monarch; he was beloved by the nobles and by +the people. He loved justice, he cultivated his marine, and he built the +_Great Michael_--the _Great Eastern_ of that day. He had valiant seamen, +and more than once Barton sailed into Leith with a string of English +prizes. When he fell with all his nobility at Flodden, there came upon +Scotland the woe with which she was so familiar-- + + "Woe to that realme that haith an ower young king." + + +A long regency followed; disturbing elements of religion entered into the +life of the nation, and the historical stream which had flowed smoothly +for a series of years became all at once convulsed and turbulent, as if +it had entered upon a gorge of rapids. It was in this pleasant +interregnum of the reign of the fourth James, when ancient disorders had +to a certain extent been repressed, and when religious difficulties ahead +were yet undreamed of, that the poet Dunbar flourished--a nightingale +singing in a sunny lull of the Scottish historical storm. + +Modern readers are acquainted with Dunbar chiefly through the medium of +Mr. David Laing's beautiful edition of his works published in 1834, and +by good Dr. Irving's intelligent and admirable compacted "History of +Scottish Poetry," published the other day. Irving's work, if deficient +somewhat in fluency and grace of style, is characterised by +conscientiousness of statement and by the ripest knowledge. Yet, despite +the researches of these competent writers, of the events of the poet's +life not much is known. He was born about 1460, and from an unquotable +allusion in one of his poems, he is supposed to have been a native of the +Lothians. His name occurs in the register of the University of St. +Andrews as a Bachelor of Arts. With the exception of these entries in +the college register, there is nothing authentically known of his early +life. We have no portrait of him, and cannot by that means decipher him. +We do not know with certainty from what family he sprang. Beyond what +light his poems may throw on them, we have no knowledge of his habits and +personal tastes. He exists for the most part in rumour, and the vague +shadows of things. It appears that in early life he became a friar of +the order of St. Francis; and in the capacity of a travelling priest +tells us that "he preached in Derntown kirk and in Canterbury;" that he +"passed at Dover across the Channel, and went through Picardy teaching +the people." He does not seem to have taken kindly to his profession. +His works are full of sarcastic allusions to the clergy, and in no +measured terms he denounces their luxury, their worldly-mindedness, and +their desire for high place and fat livings. Yet these denunciations +have no very spiritual origin. His rage is the rage of a disappointed +candidate, rather than of a prophet; and, to the last, he seems to have +expected preferment in the Church. Not without a certain pathos he +writes, when he had become familiar with disappointment, and the sickness +of hope deferred-- + + "I wes in youth an nureiss knee, + Dandely! bischop, dandely! + And quhen that age now dois me greif, + Ane sempill vicar I can nocht be." + + +It is not known when he entered the service of King James. From his +poems it appears that he was employed as a clerk or secretary in several +of the missions despatched to foreign courts. It is difficult to guess +in what capacity Dunbar served at Holyrood. He was all his life a +priest, and expected preferment from his royal patron. We know that he +performed mass in the presence. Yet when the king in one of his dark +moods had withdrawn from the gaieties of the capital to the religious +gloom of the convent of Franciscans at Stirling, we find the poet +inditing a parody on the machinery of the Church, calling on Father, Son, +and Holy Spirit, and on all the saints of the calendar, to transport the +princely penitent from Stirling, "where ale is thin and small," to +Edinburgh, where there is abundance of swans, cranes, and plovers, and +the fragrant clarets of France. And in another of his poems, he +describes himself as dancing in the queen's chamber so zealously that he +lost one of his slippers, a mishap which provoked her Majesty to great +mirth. Probably, as the king was possessed of considerable literary +taste, and could appreciate Dunbar's fancy and satire, he kept him +attached to his person, with the intention of conferring a benefice on +him when one fell vacant; and when a benefice _did_ fall vacant, felt +compelled to bestow it on the cadet of some powerful family in the +state,--for it was always the policy of James to stand well with his +nobles. He remembered too well the deaths of his father and +great-grandfather to give unnecessary offense to his great barons. From +his connexion with the court, the poet's life may be briefly epitomised. +In August, 1500, his royal master granted Dunbar an annual pension of 10 +pounds for life, or till such time as he should be promoted to a benefice +of the annual value of 40 pounds. In 1501, he visited England in the +train of the ambassadors sent thither to negotiate the king's marriage. +The marriage took place in May, 1503, on which occasion the high-piled +capital wore holiday attire, balconies blazed with scarlet cloth, and the +loyal multitude shouted as bride and bridegroom rode past, with the +chivalry of two kingdoms in their train. Early in May, Dunbar composed +his most celebrated poem in honour of the event. Next year he said mass +in the king's presence for the first time, and received a liberal reward. +In 1505, he received a sum in addition to his stated pension, and two +years thereafter his pension was doubled. In August, 1510, his pension +was increased to 80 pounds per annum, until he became possessed of a +benefice of the annual value of 10 pounds or upwards. In 1513, Flodden +was fought, and in the confusion consequent on the king's death, Dunbar +and his slowly-increasing pensions disappear from the records of things. +We do not know whether he received his benefice; we do not know the date +of his death, and to this day his grave is secret as the grave of Moses. + +Knowing but little of Dunbar's life, our interest is naturally +concentrated on what of his writings remain to us. And to modern eyes +the old poet is a singular spectacle. His language is different than +ours; his mental structure and modes of thought are unfamiliar; in his +intellectual world, as we map it out to ourselves, it is difficult to +conceive how a comfortable existence could be attained. Times, manners, +and ideas have changed, and we look upon Dunbar with a certain +reverential wonder and curiosity as we look upon Tantallon, standing up, +grim and gray, in the midst of the modern landscape. The grand old +fortress is a remnant of a state of things which have utterly passed +away. Curiously, as we walk beside it, we think of the actual human life +its walls contained. In those great fire-places logs actually burned +once, and in winter nights men-at-arms spread out big palms against the +grateful heat. In those empty apartments was laughter, and feasting, and +serious talk enough in troublous times, and births, and deaths, and the +bringing home of brides in their blushes. This empty moat was filled +with water, to keep at bay long-forgotten enemies, and yonder loop-hole +was made narrow, as a protection from long-moulded arrows. In Tantallon +we know the Douglasses lived in state, and bearded kings, and hung out +banners to the breeze; but a sense of wonder is mingled with our +knowledge, for the bothy of the Lothian farmer is even more in accordance +with our methods of conducting life. Dunbar affects us similarly. We +know that he possessed a keen intellect, a blossoming fancy, a satiric +touch that blistered, a melody that enchanted Northern ears; but then we +have lost the story of his life, and from his poems, with their wonderful +contrasts, the delicacy and spring-like flush of feeling, the piety, the +freedom of speech, the irreverent use of the sacredest names, the +"Flyting" and the "Lament for the Makars," there is difficulty in making +one's ideas of him cohere. He is present to the imagination, and yet +remote. Like Tantallon, he is a portion of the past. We are separated +from him by centuries, and that chasm we are unable to bridge properly. + +The first thing that strikes the reader of these poems is their variety +and intellectual range. It may be said that--partly from constitutional +turn of thought, partly from the turbulent and chaotic time in which he +lived, when families rose to splendour and as suddenly collapsed, when +the steed that bore his rider at morning to the hunting-field returned at +evening masterless to the castle-gate--Dunbar's prevailing mood of mind +is melancholy; that he, with a certain fondness for the subject, as if it +gave him actual relief, moralised over the sandy foundations of mortal +prosperity, the advance of age putting out the lights of youth, and +cancelling the rapture of the lover, and the certainty of death. This is +a favourite path of contemplation with him, and he pursues it with a +gloomy sedateness of acquiescence, which is more affecting than if he +raved and foamed against the inevitable. But he has the mobility of the +poetic nature, and the sad ground-tone is often drowned in the ecstasy of +lighter notes. All at once the "bare ruined choirs" are covered with the +glad light-green of spring. His genius combined the excellencies of many +masters. His "Golden Targe" and "The Thistle and the Rose" are +allegorical poems, full of colour, fancy, and music. His "Two Married +Women and the Widow" has a good deal of Chaucer's slyness and humour. +"The Dance of the Deadly Sins," with its fiery bursts of imaginative +energy, its pictures finished at a stroke, is a prophecy of Spenser and +Collins, and as fine as anything they have accomplished; while his +"Flytings" are torrents of the coarsest vituperation. And there are +whole flights of occasional poems, many of them sombre-coloured enough, +with an ever-recurring mournful refrain, others satirical, but all flung +off, one can see, at a sitting; in the few verses the mood is exhausted, +and while the result remains, the cause is forgotten even by himself. +Several of these short poems are almost perfect in feeling and execution. +The melancholy ones are full of a serious grace, while in the satirical a +laughing devil of glee and malice sparkles in every line. Some of these +latter are dangerous to touch as a thistle--all bristling and angry with +the spikes of satiric scorn. + +In his allegorical poems--"The Golden Targe," "The Merle and the +Nightingale," "The Thistle and the Rose"--Dunbar's fancy has full scope. +As allegories, they are, perhaps, not worth much; at all events, modern +readers do not care for the adventures of "Quaking Dread and Humble +Obedience"; nor are they affected by descriptions of Beauty, attended by +her fair damsels, Fair Having, Fine Portraiture, Pleasance, and Lusty +Cheer. The whole conduct and machinery of such things are too artificial +and stilted for modern tastes. Stately masques are no longer performed +in earls' mansions; and when a sovereign enters a city, a fair lady, with +wings, representing Loyalty, does not burst out of a pasteboard cloud and +recite a poetical address to Majesty. In our theatres the pantomime, +which was originally an adumbration of human life, has become degraded. +Symbolism has departed from the boards, and burlesque reigns in its +stead. The Lord Mavor's Show, the last remnant of the antique +spectacular taste, does not move us now; it is held a public nuisance; it +provokes the rude "chaff" of the streets. Our very mobs have become +critical. Gog and Magog are dethroned. The knight feels the satiric +comments through his armour. The very steeds are uneasy, as if ashamed. +But in Dunbar the allegorical machinery is saved from contempt by colour, +poetry, and music. + +Quick surprises of beauty, and a rapid succession of pictures, keep the +attention awake. Now it is-- + + "May, of mirthful monethis queen, + Betwixt April and June, her sisters sheen, + Within the garden walking up and down." + +Now-- + + "The god of windis, Eolus, + With variand look, richt like a lord unstable." + +Now the nightingale-- + + "Never sweeter noise was heard with livin' man, + Nor made this merry, gentle nightingale; + Her sound went with the river as it ran + Out throw the fresh and flourished lusty vale." + +And now a spring morning-- + + "Ere Phoebus was in purple cape revest, + Up raise the lark, the heaven's minstrel fine + In May, in till a morrow mirthfullest. + + "Full angel-like thir birdis sang their hours + Within their curtains green, in to their hours + Apparelled white and red with bloomes sweet; + Enamelled was the field with all colours, + The pearly droppis shook in silver shours; + While all in balm did branch and leavis fleet. + To part fra Phoebus did Aurora greet, + Her crystal tears I saw hing on the flours, + Whilk he for love all drank up with his heat. + + "For mirth of May, with skippis and with hops, + The birdis sang upon the tender crops, + With curious notes, as Venus' chapel clerks; + The roses young, new spreading of their knops, + Were powderit bricht with heavenly beriall drops, + Through beams red, burning as ruby sparks; + The skies rang for shouting of the larks, + The purple heaven once scal't in silver slops, + Oure gilt the trees, branches, leaves, and barks." + + +The finest of Dunbar's poems in this style is "The Thistle and the Rose." +It was written in celebration of the marriage of James with the Princess +Margaret of England, and the royal pair are happily represented as the +national emblems. It, of course, opens with a description of a spring +morning. Dame Nature resolves that every bird, beast, and flower should +compeer before her highness; the roe is commanded to summon the animals, +the restless swallow the birds, and the "conjured" yarrow the herbs and +flowers. In the twinkling of an eye they stand before the queen. The +lion and the eagle are crowned, and are instructed to be humble and just, +and to exercise their powers mercifully:-- + + "Then callit she all flouris that grew in field, + Discerning all their seasons and effeirs, + Upon the awful thistle she beheld + And saw him keepit with a bush of spears: + Consid'ring him so able for the weirs, + A radius crown of rubies she him gave, + And said, 'In field, go forth and fend the lave.'" + +The rose, also, is crowned, and the poet gives utterance to the universal +joy on occasion of the marriage--type of peace between two kingdoms. +Listen to the rich music of according voices:-- + + "Then all the birds sang with voice on hicht, + Whose mirthful soun' was marvellous to hear; + The mavis sang, Hail Rose, most rich and richt, + That does up flourish under Phoebus' sphere, + Hail, plant of youth, hail Princess, dochter dear; + Hail blosom breaking out of the bluid royal, + Whose precious virtue is imperial. + + "The merle she sang, Hail, Rose of most delight, + Hail, of all floris queen an' sovereign! + The lark she sang, Hail, Rose both red and white; + Most pleasant flower, of michty colours twane: + The nichtingale sang, Hail, Nature's suffragane, + In beauty, nurture, and every nobleness, + In rich array, renown, and gentleness. + + "The common voice up raise of birdes small, + Upon this wise, Oh, blessit be the hour + That thou was chosen to be our principal! + Welcome to be our Princess of honour, + Our pearl, our pleasance, and our paramour, + Our peace, our play, our plain felicity; + Christ thee comfort from all adversity." + + +But beautiful as these poems are, it is as a satirist that Dunbar has +performed his greatest feats. He was by nature "dowered with the scorn +of scorn," and its edge was whetted by life-long disappointment. Like +Spenser, he knew-- + + "What Hell it is in suing long to bide." + + +And even in poems where the mood is melancholy, where the burden is the +shortness of life and the unpermanence of felicity, his satiric rage +breaks out in single lines of fire. And although his satire is often +almost inconceivably coarse, the prompting instinct is healthy at bottom. +He hates Vice, although his hand is too often in the kennel to pelt her +withal. He lays his grasp on the bridle-rein of the sleek prelate, and +upbraids him with his secret sins in language unsuited to modern ears. +His greater satires have a wild sheen of imagination about them. They +are far from being cold, moral homilies. His wrath or his contempt +breaks through the bounds of time and space, and brings the spiritual +world on the stage. He wishes to rebuke the citizens of Edinburgh for +their habits of profane swearing, and the result is a poem, which +probably gave Coleridge the hint of his "Devil's Walk." Dunbar's satire +is entitled the "Devil's Inquest." He represents the Fiend passing up +through the market, and chuckling as he listens to the strange oaths of +cobbler, maltman, tailor, courtier, and minstrel. He comments on what he +hears and sees with great pleasantry and satisfaction. Here is the +conclusion of the piece:-- + + "Ane thief said, God that ever I chaip, + Nor ane stark widdy gar me gaip, + But I in hell for geir wald be. + The Devil said, 'Welcome in a raip: + Renounce thy God, and cum to me.' + + "The fishwives net and swore with granes, + And to the Fiend saul flesh and banes; + They gave them, with ane shout on hie. + The Devil said, 'Welcome all at anes; + Renounce your God, and cum to me.' + + "The rest of craftis great aiths swair, + Their wark and craft had nae compair, + Ilk ane unto their qualitie. + The Devil said then, withouten mair, + 'Renounce your God, and cum to me.'" + + +But the greatest of Dunbar's satires--in fact, the greatest of all his +poems--is that entitled "The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins." It is +short, but within its compass most swift, vivid, and weird. The pictures +rise on the reader's eye, and fade at once. It is a singular compound of +farce and earnest. It is Spenser and Hogarth combined--the wildest +grotesquerie wrought on a background of penal flame. The poet conceives +himself in a dream, on the evening preceding Lent, and in his vision he +heard Mahoun command that the wretched who "had ne'er been shriven" +should dance before him. Immediately a hideous rout present themselves; +"holy harlots" appear in their finery, and never a smile wrinkles the +faces of the onlookers; but when a string of "priests with their shaven +necks" come in, the arches of the unnameable place shakes with the +laughter of all the fiends. Then "The Seven Deadly Sins" begin to leap +at once:-- + + "And first of all the dance was Pride, + With hair wyld back and bonnet on side." + +He, with all his train, came skipping through the fire. + + "Then Ire came in with sturt and strife; + His hand was aye upon his knife;" + +and with him came armed boasters and braggarts, smiting each other with +swords, jagging each other with knives. Then Envy, trembling with secret +hatred, accompanied by his court of flatterers, backbiters, calumniators +and all the human serpentry that lurk in the palaces of kings. Then came +Covetousness, with his hoarders and misers, and these the fiends gave to +drink of newly-molten gold. + + "Syne Swearness, at the second bidding, + Came like a sow out of a midding:" + +and with him danced a sleepy crew, and Belial lashed them with a +bridle-rein, and the fiends gave them a turn in the fire to make them +nimbler. Then came Lechery, led by Idleness, with a host of evil +companions, "full strange of countenance, like torches burning bright." +Then came Gluttony, so unwieldy that he could hardly move:-- + + "Him followed mony foul drunkart + With can and callop, cup and quart, + In surfeit and excess." + +"Drink, aye they cried," with their parched lips; and the fiends gave +them hot lead to lap. Minstrels, it appears, are not to be found in that +dismal place:-- + + "Nae minstrels played to them but doubt, + For gleemen there were halden out + By day and eik by nicht: + Except a minstrel that slew a man, + So to his heritage he wan, + And entered by brieve of richt." + +And to the music of the solitary poet in hell, the strange shapes pass. +The conclusion of this singular poem is entirely farcical. The devil is +resolved to make high holiday: + + "Then cried Mahoun for a Hielan Padyane, + Syne ran a fiend to fetch Makfadyane, + Far north-wast in a neuck; + Be he the coronach had done shout, + Ersche men so gatherit him about, + In hell great room they took. + Thae tarmigants, with tag and tatter, + Full loud in Ersche begoud to clatter, + And roup like raven and rook. + The Devil sae deaved was with their yell, + That in the deepest pot of hell + He smorit them with smook." + + +There is one other poem of Dunbar's which may be quoted as a contrast to +what has been already given. It is remarkable as being the only one in +which he assumes the character of a lover. The style of thought is quite +modern; bereave it of its uncouth orthography, and it might have been +written to-day. It is turned with much skill and grace. The +constitutional melancholy of the man comes out in it; as, indeed, it +always does when he finds a serious topic. It possesses more tenderness +and sentiment than is his usual. It is the night-flower among his poems, +breathing a mournful fragrance:-- + + "Sweit rose of vertew and of gentilnes, + Delytsum lyllie of everie lustynes, + Richest in bontie, and in beutie cleir, + And every vertew that to hevin is dear, + Except onlie that ye ar mercyles, + + "Into your garthe this day I did persew: + Thair saw I flowris that fresche wer of dew, + Baith quhyte and reid most lustye wer to seyne, + And halsum herbis upone stalkis grene: + Yet leif nor flour fynd could I nane of rew. + + "I doute that March, with his cauld blastis keyne, + Hes slane this gentill herbe, that I of mene; + Quhois pitewous deithe dois to my hart sic pane, + That I wald mak to plant his rute agane, + So comfortand his levis unto me bene." + + +The extracts already given will enable the reader to form some idea of +the old poet's general power--his music, his picturesque faculty, his +colour, his satire. Yet it is difficult from what he has left to form +any very definite image of the man. Although his poems are for the most +part occasional, founded upon actual circumstances, or written to relieve +him from the over-pressure of angry or melancholy moods, and although the +writer is by no means shy or indisposed to speak of himself, his +personality is not made clear to us. There is great gap of time between +him and the modern reader; and the mixture of gold and clay in the +products of his genius, the discrepancy of elements, beauty and +coarseness, Apollo's cheek, and the satyr's shaggy limbs, are explainable +partly from a want of harmony and completeness in himself, and partly +from the pressure of the half-barbaric time. His rudeness offends, his +narrowness astonishes. But then we must remember that our advantages in +these respects do not necessarily arise from our being of a purer and +nobler essence. We have these things by inheritance; they have been +transmitted to us along a line of ancestors. Five centuries share with +us the merit of the result. Modern delicacy of taste and intellectual +purity--although we hold them in possession, and may add to their sheen +before we hand them on to our children--are no more to be placed to our +personal credits than Dryden's satire, Pope's epigram, Marlborough's +battles, Burke's speeches, and the victories of Trafalgar and Waterloo. +Intellectual delicacy has grown like our political constitution. The +English duke is not the creator of his own wealth, although in his +keeping it makes the earth around him a garden, and the walls of his +house bright with pictures. But our inability to conceive satisfactorily +of Dunbar does not arise from this alone. We have his works, but then +they are not supplemented by personal anecdote and letters, and the +reminiscences of contemporaries. Burns, for instance,--if limited to his +works for our knowledge of him,--would be a puzzling phenomenon. He was +in his poems quite as spoken as Dunbar, but then they describe so wide an +area, they appear so contradictory, they seem often to lead in opposite +directions. It is, to a large extent, through his letters that Burns is +known, through his short, careless, pithy sayings, which imbedded +themselves in the memories of his hearers, from the recollections of his +contemporaries and their expressed judgments, and the multiform +reverberations of fame lingering around such a man--these fill up +interstices between works, bring apparent opposition into intimate +relationship, and make wholeness out of confusion. Not on the stage +alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his +asides. With Dunbar there is nothing of this. He is a name, and little +more. He exists in a region to which rumour and conjecture have never +penetrated. He was long neglected by his countrymen, and was brought to +light as if by accident. He is the Pompeii of British poetry. We have +his works, but they are like the circumvallations of a Roman camp on the +Scottish hillside. We see lines stretching hither and thither, but we +cannot make out the plan, or divine what purposes were served. We only +know that every crumpled rampart was once a defence; that every +half-obliterated fosse once swarmed with men; that it was once a station +and abiding-place of human life, although for centuries now remitted to +silence and blank summer sunshine. + + + + +A LARK'S FLIGHT + +Rightly or wrongly, during the last twenty or thirty years a strong +feeling has grown up in the public mind against the principle, and a +still stronger feeling against the practice, of capital punishments. +Many people who will admit that the execution of the murderer may be, +abstractly considered, just enough, sincerely doubt whether such +execution be expedient, and are in their own minds perfectly certain +that it cannot fail to demoralise the spectators. In consequence of +this, executions have become rare; and it is quite clear that many +scoundrels, well worthy of the noose, contrive to escape it. When, on +the occasion of a wretch being turned off, the spectators are few, it +is remarked by the newspapers that the mob is beginning to lose its +proverbial cruelty, and to be stirred by humane pulses; when they are +numerous, and especially when girls and women form a majority, the +circumstance is noticed and deplored. It is plain enough that, if the +newspaper considered such an exhibition beneficial, it would not lament +over a few thousand eager witnesses: if the sermon be edifying, you +cannot have too large a congregation; if you teach a moral lesson in a +grand, impressive way, it is difficult to see how you can have too many +pupils. Of course, neither the justice nor the expediency of capital +punishments falls to be discussed here. This, however, may be said, +that the popular feeling against them may not be so admirable a proof +of enlightenment as many believe. It is true that the spectacle is +painful, horrible; but in pain and horror there is often hidden a +certain salutariness, and the repulsion of which we are conscious is as +likely to arise from debilitation of public nerve, as from a higher +reach of public feeling. To my own thinking, it is out of this pain +and hatefulness that an execution becomes invested with an ideal +grandeur. It is sheer horror to all concerned--sheriffs, halbertmen, +chaplain, spectators, Jack Ketch, and culprit; but out of all this, and +towering behind the vulgar and hideous accessories of the scaffold, +gleams the majesty of implacable law. When every other fine morning a +dozen cut-purses were hanged at Tyburn, and when such sights did not +run very strongly against the popular current, the spectacle was +vulgar, and could be of use only to the possible cut-purses congregated +around the foot of the scaffold. Now, when the law has become so far +merciful; when the punishment of death is reserved for the murderer; +when he can be condemned only on the clearest evidence; when, as the +days draw slowly on to doom, the frightful event impending over one +stricken wretch throws its shadow over the heart of every man, woman, +and child in the great city; and when the official persons whose duty +it is to see the letter of the law carried out perform that duty at the +expense of personal pain,--a public execution is not vulgar, it becomes +positively sublime. It is dreadful, of course; but its dreadfulness +melts into pure awfulness. The attention is taken off the criminal, +and is lost in a sense of the grandeur of justice; and the spectator +who beholds an execution, solely as it appears to the eye, without +recognition of the idea which towers behind it, must be a very +unspiritual and unimaginative spectator indeed. + +It is taken for granted that the spectators of public executions--the +artisans and country people who take up their stations overnight as +close to the barriers as possible, and the wealthier classes who occupy +hired windows and employ opera-glasses--are merely drawn together by a +morbid relish for horrible sights. He is a bold man who will stand +forward as the advocate of such persons--so completely is the popular +mind made up as to their tastes and motives. It is not disputed that +the large body of the mob, and of the occupants at windows, have been +drawn together by an appetite for excitement; but it is quite possible +that many come there from an impulse altogether different. Just +consider the nature of the expected sight,--a man in tolerable health +probably, in possession of all his faculties, perfectly able to realise +his position, conscious that for him this world and the next are so +near that only a few seconds divide them--such a man stands in the +seeing of several thousand eyes. He is so peculiarly circumstanced, so +utterly lonely,--hearing the tolling of his own death-bell, yet living, +wearing the mourning clothes for his own funeral,--that he holds the +multitude together by a shuddering fascination. The sight is a +peculiar one, you must admit, and every peculiarity has its +attractions. Your volcano is more attractive than your ordinary +mountain. Then consider the unappeasable curiosity as to death which +haunts every human being, and how pathetic that curiosity is, in so far +as it suggests our own ignorance and helplessness, and we see at once +that people _may_ flock to public executions for other purposes than +the gratification of morbid tastes: that they would pluck if they could +some little knowledge of what death is; that imaginatively they attempt +to reach to it, to touch and handle it through an experience which is +not their own. It is some obscure desire of this kind, a movement of +curiosity not altogether ignoble, but in some degree pathetic; some +rude attempt of the imagination to wrest from the death of the criminal +information as to the great secret in which each is profoundly +interested, which draws around the scaffold people from the country +harvest-fields, and from the streets and alleys of the town. Nothing +interests men so much as death. Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale +it. "A greater crowd would come to see me hanged," Cromwell is +reported to have said when the populace came forth on a public +occasion. The Lord Protector was right in a sense of which, perhaps, +at the moment he was not aware. Death is greater than official +position. When a man has to die, he may safely dispense with stars and +ribbands. He is invested with a greater dignity than is held in the +gift of kings. A greater crowd _would_ have gathered to see Cromwell +hanged, but the compliment would have been paid to death rather than to +Cromwell. Never were the motions of Charles I. so scrutinised as when +he stood for a few moments on the scaffold that winter morning at +Whitehall. King Louis was no great orator usually, but when on the 2d +January, 1793, he attempted to speak a few words in the Place De la +Revolution, it was found necessary to drown his voice in a harsh roll +of soldiers' drums. Not without a meaning do people come forth to see +men die. We stand in the valley, they on the hill-top, and on their +faces strikes the light of the other world, and from some sign or +signal of theirs we attempt to discover or extract a hint of what it is +all like. + +To be publicly put to death, for whatever reason, must ever be a +serious matter. It is always bitter, but there are degrees in its +bitterness. It is easy to die like Stephen with an opened heaven above +you, crowded with angel faces. It is easy to die like Balmerino with a +chivalrous sigh for the White Rose, and an audible "God bless King +James." Such men die for a cause in which they glory, and are +supported thereby; they are conducted to the portals of the next world +by the angels, Faith, Pity, Admiration. But it is not easy to die in +expiation of a crime like murder, which engirdles you with trembling +and horror even in the loneliest places, which cuts you off from the +sympathies of your kind, which reduces the universe to two elements--a +sense of personal identity, and a memory of guilt. In so dying, there +must be inconceivable bitterness; a man can have no other support than +what strength he may pluck from despair, or from the iron with which +nature may have originally braced heart and nerve. Yet, taken as a +whole, criminals on the scaffold comport themselves creditably. They +look Death in the face when he wears his cruelest aspect, and if they +flinch somewhat, they can at least bear to look. I believe that, for +the criminal, execution within the prison walls, with no witnesses save +some half-dozen official persons, would be infinitely more terrible +than execution in the presence of a curious, glaring mob. The daylight +and the publicity are alien elements, which wean the man a little from +himself. He steadies his dizzy brain on the crowd beneath and around +him. He has his last part to play, and his manhood rallies to play it +well. Nay, so subtly is vanity intertwined with our motives, the +noblest and the most ignoble, that I can fancy a poor wretch with the +noose dangling at his ear, and with barely five minutes to live, +soothed somewhat with the idea that his firmness and composure will +earn him the approbation, perhaps the pity, of the spectators. He +would take with him, if he could, the good opinion of his fellows. +This composure of criminals puzzles one. Have they looked at death so +long and closely, that familiarity has robbed it of terror? Has life +treated them so harshly, that they are tolerably well pleased to be +quit of it on any terms? Or is the whole thing mere blind stupor and +delirium, in which thought is paralysed, and the man an automaton? +Speculation is useless. The fact remains that criminals for the most +part die well and bravely. It is said that the championship of England +was to be decided at some little distance from London on the morning of +the day on which Thurtell was executed, and that, when he came out on +the scaffold, he inquired privily of the executioner if the result had +yet become known. Jack Ketch was not aware, and Thurtell expressed his +regret that the ceremony in which he was chief actor should take place +so inconveniently early in the day. Think of a poor Thurtell forced to +take his long journey an hour, perhaps, before the arrival of +intelligence so important! + +More than twenty years ago I saw two men executed, and the impression +then made remains fresh to this day. For this there were many reasons. +The deed for which the men suffered created an immense sensation. They +were hanged on the spot where the murder was committed--on a rising +ground, some four miles north-east of the city; and as an attempt at +rescue was apprehended, there was a considerable display of military +force on the occasion. And when, in the dead silence of thousands, the +criminals stood beneath the halters, an incident occurred, quite +natural and slight in itself, but when taken in connection with the +business then proceeding, so unutterably tragic, so overwhelming in its +pathetic suggestion of contrast, that the feeling of it has never +departed, and never will. At the time, too, I speak of, I was very +young; the world was like a die newly cut, whose every impression is +fresh and vivid. + +While the railway which connects two northern capitals was being built, +two brothers from Ireland, named Doolan, were engaged upon it in the +capacity of navvies. For some fault or negligence, one of the brothers +was dismissed by the overseer--a Mr. Green--of that particular portion +of the line on which they were employed. The dismissed brother went +off in search of work, and the brother who remained--Dennis was the +Christian name of him--brooded over this supposed wrong, and in his +dull, twilighted brain revolved projects of vengeance. He did not +absolutely mean to take Green's life, but he meant to thrash him within +an inch of it. Dennis, anxious to thrash Green, but not quite seeing +his way to it, opened his mind one afternoon, when work was over, to +his friends--fellow-Irishmen and navvies--Messrs. Redding and Hickie. +These took up Doolan's wrong as their own, and that evening, by the +dull light of a bothy fire, they held a rude parliament, discussing +ways and means of revenge. It was arranged that Green should be +thrashed--the amount of thrashing left an open question, to be decided, +unhappily, when the blood was up and the cinder of rage blown into a +flame. Hickie's spirit was found not to be a mounting one, and it was +arranged that the active partners in the game should be Doolan and +Redding. Doolan, as the aggrieved party, was to strike the first blow, +and Redding, as the aggrieved party's particular friend, asked and +obtained permission to strike the second. The main conspirators, with +a fine regard for the feelings of the weaker Hickie, allowed him to +provide the weapons of assault,--so that by some slight filament of aid +he might connect himself with the good cause. The unambitious Hickie +at once applied himself to his duty. He went out, and in due time +returned with two sufficient iron pokers. The weapons were examined, +approved of, and carefully laid aside. Doolan, Redding, and Hickie ate +their suppers, and retired to their several couches to sleep, +peacefully enough no doubt. About the same time, too, Green, the +English overseer, threw down his weary limbs, and entered on his last +sleep--little dreaming what the morning had in store for him. + +Uprose the sun, and uprose Doolan and Redding, and dressed, and thrust +each his sufficient iron poker up the sleeve of his blouse, and went +forth. They took up their station on a temporary wooden bridge which +spanned the line, and waited there. Across the bridge, as was +expected, did Green ultimately come. He gave them good morning; asked, +"why they were loafing about?" received no very pertinent answer, +perhaps did not care to receive one; whistled--the unsuspecting +man!--thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, turned his back on +them, and leaned over the railing of the bridge, inspecting the +progress of the works beneath. The temptation was really too great. +What could wild Irish flesh and blood do? In a moment out from the +sleeve of Doolan's blouse came the hidden poker, and the first blow was +struck, bringing Green to the ground. The friendly Redding, who had +bargained for the second, and who, naturally enough, was in fear of +being cut out altogether, jumped on the prostrate man, and fulfilled +his share of the bargain with a will. It was Redding it was supposed +who sped the unhappy Green. They overdid their work--like young +authors--giving many more blows than were sufficient, and then fled. +The works, of course, were that morning in consternation. Redding and +Hickie were, if I remember rightly, apprehended in the course of the +day. Doolan got off, leaving no trace of his whereabouts. + +These particulars were all learned subsequently. The first intimation +which we schoolboys received of anything unusual having occurred, was +the sight of a detachment of soldiers with fixed bayonets, trousers +rolled up over muddy boots, marching past the front of the Cathedral +hurriedly home to barracks. This was a circumstance somewhat unusual. +We had, of course, frequently seen a couple of soldiers trudging along +with sloped muskets, and that cruel glitter of steel which no one of us +could look upon quite unmoved; but in such cases, the deserter walking +between them in his shirt-sleeves, his pinioned hands covered from +public gaze by the loose folds of his great-coat, explained everything. +But from the hurried march of these mud-splashed men, nothing could be +gathered, and we were left to speculate upon its meaning. Gradually, +however, before the evening fell, the rumour of a murder having been +committed spread through the city, and with that I instinctively +connected the apparition of the file of muddy soldiers. Next day, +murder was in every mouth. My school-fellows talked of it to the +detriment of their lessons; it flavoured the tobacco of the fustian +artisan as he smoked to work after breakfast; it walked on 'Change +amongst the merchants. It was known that two of the persons implicated +had been captured, but that the other, and guiltiest, was still at +large; and in a few days out on every piece of boarding and blank wall +came the "Hue and cry"--describing Doolan like a photograph, to the +colour and cut of his whiskers, and offering 100 pounds as reward for +his apprehension, or for such information as would lead to his +apprehension--like a silent, implacable bloodhound following close on +the track of the murderer. This terrible broadsheet I read, was +certain that _he_ had read it also, and fancy ran riot over the ghastly +fact. For him no hope, no rest, no peace, no touch of hands gentler +than the hangman's; all the world is after him like a roaring prairie +of flame! I thought of Doolan, weary, foot-sore, heart-sore, entering +some quiet village of an evening; and to quench his thirst, going up to +the public well, around which the gossips are talking, and hearing that +they were talking of _him_; and seeing from the well itself IT glaring +upon him, as if conscious of his presence, with a hundred eyes of +vengeance. I thought of him asleep in out-houses, and starting up in +wild dreams of the policeman's hand upon his shoulder fifty times ere +morning. He had committed the crime of Cain, and the weird of Cain he +had to endure. But yesterday innocent, how unimportant; to-day +bloody-handed, the whole world is talking of him, and everything he +touches, the very bed he sleeps on, steals from him his secret, and is +eager to betray! + +Doolan was finally captured in Liverpool, and in the Spring Assize the +three men were brought to trial. The jury found them guilty, but +recommended Hickie to mercy on account of some supposed weakness of +mind on his part. Sentence was, of course, pronounced with the usual +solemnities. They were set apart to die; and when snug abed o' +nights--for imagination is most mightily moved by contrast--I crept +into their desolate hearts, and tasted a misery which was not my own. +As already said, Hickie was recommended to mercy, and the +recommendation was ultimately in the proper quarter given effect to. + +The evening before the execution has arrived, and the reader has now to +imagine the early May sunset falling pleasantly on the outskirts of the +city. The houses looking out upon an open square or space, have little +plots of garden-ground in their fronts, in which mahogany-coloured +wall-flowers and mealy auriculas are growing. The side of this square, +along which the City Road stretches northward, is occupied by a +blind-asylum, a brick building, the bricks painted red and picked out +with white, after the tidy English fashion, and a high white cemetery +wall, over which peers the spire of the Gothic Cathedral; and beyond +that, on the other side of the ravine, rising out of the populous city +of the dead, a stone John Knox looks down on the Cathedral, a Bible +clutched in his outstretched and menacing hand. On all this the May +sunset is striking, dressing everything in its warm, pleasant pink, +lingering in the tufts of foliage that nestle around the asylum, and +dipping the building itself one half in light, one half in tender +shade. This open space or square is an excellent place for the games +of us boys, and "Prisoner's Base" is being carried out with as much +earnestness as the business of life now by those of us who are left. +The girls, too, have their games of a quiet kind, which we held in huge +scorn and contempt. In two files, linked arm-in-arm, they alternately +dance towards each other and then retire, singing the while, in their +clear, girlish treble, verses, the meaning and pertinence of which time +has worn away-- + + "The Campsie Duke's a-riding, a-riding, a-riding," + +being the oft-recurring "owercome," or refrain. All this is going on +in the pleasant sunset light, when by the apparition of certain waggons +coming up from the city, piled high with blocks and beams, and guarded +by a dozen dragoons, on whose brazen helmets the sunset danced, every +game is dismembered, and we are in a moment a mere mixed mob of boys +and girls, flocking around to stare and wonder. Just at this place +something went wrong with one of the waggon wheels, and the procession +came to a stop. A crowd collected, and we heard some of the grown-up +people say, that the scaffold was being carried out for the ceremony of +to-morrow. Then, more intensely than ever, one realised the condition +of the doomed men. _We_ were at our happy games in the sunset, _they_ +were entering on their last night on earth. After hammering and delay +the wheel was put to rights, the sunset died out, waggons and dragoons +got into motion and disappeared; and all the night through, whether +awake or asleep, I saw the torches burning, and heard the hammers +clinking, and witnessed as clearly as if I had been an onlooker, the +horrid structure rising, till it stood complete, with a huge cross-beam +from which two empty halters hung, in the early morning light. + +Next morning the whole city was in commotion. Whether the authorities +were apprehensive that a rescue would be attempted, or were anxious +merely to strike terror into the hundreds of wild Irishry engaged on +the railway, I cannot say: in any case, there was a display of military +force quite unusual. The carriage in which the criminals--Catholics +both--and their attendant priests were seated, was guarded by soldiers +with fixed bayonets; indeed, the whole regiment then lying in the city +was massed in front and behind, with a cold, frightful glitter of +steel. Besides the foot soldiers, there were dragoons, and two pieces +of cannon; a whole little army, in fact. With a slenderer force +battles have been won which have made a mark in history. What did the +prisoners think of their strange importance, and of the tramp and +hurly-burly all around? When the procession moved out of the city, it +seemed to draw with it almost the entire population; and when once the +country roads were reached, the crowds spread over the fields on either +side, ruthlessly treading down the tender wheat braird. I got a +glimpse of the doomed, blanched faces which had haunted me so long, at +the turn of the road, where, for the first time, the black cross-beam +with its empty halters first became visible to them. Both turned and +regarded it with a long, steady look; that done, they again bent their +heads attentively to the words of the clergyman. I suppose in that +long, eager, fascinated gaze they practically _died_--that for them +death had no additional bitterness. When the mound was reached on +which the scaffold stood, there was immense confusion. Around it a +wide space was kept clear by the military; the cannon were placed in +position; out flashed the swords of the dragoons; beneath and around on +every side was the crowd. Between two brass helmets I could see the +scaffold clearly enough, and when in a little while the men, bareheaded +and with their attendants, appeared upon it, the surging crowd became +stiffened with fear and awe. And now it was that the incident so +simple, so natural, so much in the ordinary course of things, and yet +so frightful in its tragic suggestions, took place. Be it remembered +that the season was early May, that the day was fine, that the +wheat-fields were clothing themselves in the green of the young crop, +and that around the scaffold, standing on a sunny mound, a wide space +was kept clear. When the men appeared beneath the beam, each under his +proper halter, there was a dead silence,--every one was gazing too +intently to whisper to his neighbour even. Just then, out of the +grassy space at the foot of the scaffold, in the dead silence audible +to all, a lark rose from the side of its nest, and went singing upward +in its happy flight. O heaven! how did that song translate itself into +dying ears? Did it bring, in one wild burning moment, father and +mother, and poor Irish cabin, and prayers said at bed-time, and the +smell of turf fires, and innocent sweethearting, and rising and setting +suns? Did it--but the dragoon's horse has become restive, and his +brass helmet bobs up and down and blots everything; and there is a +sharp sound, and I feel the great crowd heave and swing, and hear it +torn by a sharp shiver of pity, and the men whom I saw so near but a +moment ago are at immeasurable distance, and have solved the great +enigma,--and the lark has not yet finished his flight: you can see and +hear him yonder in the fringe of a white May cloud. + +This ghastly lark's flight, when the circumstances are taken in +consideration, is, I am inclined to think, more terrible than anything +of the same kind which I have encountered in books. The artistic uses +of contrast as background and accompaniment, are well known to nature +and the poets. Joy is continually worked on sorrow, sorrow on joy; +riot is framed in peace, peace in riot. Lear and the Fool always go +together. Trafalgar is being fought while Napoleon is sitting on +horseback watching the Austrian army laying down its arms at Ulm. In +Hood's poem, it is when looking on the released schoolboys at their +games that Eugene Aram remembers he is a murderer. And these two poor +Irish labourers could not die without hearing a lark singing in their +ears. It is nature's fashion. She never quite goes along with us. +She is sombre at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on +ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics. + +There is a stronger element of terror in this incident of the lark than +in any story of a similar kind I can remember. + +A good story is told of an Irish gentleman--still known in London +society--who inherited the family estates and the family banshee. The +estates he lost--no uncommon circumstance in the history of Irish +gentlemen,--but the banshee, who expected no favours, stuck to him in +his adversity, and crossed the channel with him, making herself known +only on occasions of death-beds and sharp family misfortunes. This +gentleman had an ear, and, seated one night at the opera, the +_keen_--heard once or twice before on memorable occasions--thrilled +through the din of the orchestra and the passion of the singers. He +hurried home, of course, found his immediate family well, but on the +morrow a telegram arrived with the announcement of a brother's death. +Surely of all superstitions that is the most imposing which makes the +other world interested in the events which befall our mortal lot. For +the mere pomp and pride of it, your ghost is worth a dozen retainers, +and it is entirely inexpensive. The peculiarity and supernatural worth +of this story lies in the idea of the old wail piercing through the +sweet entanglement of stringed instruments and extinguishing Grisi. +Modern circumstances and luxury crack, as it were, and reveal for a +moment misty and aboriginal time big with portent. There is a +ridiculous Scotch story in which one gruesome touch lives. A +clergyman's female servant was seated in the kitchen one Saturday night +reading the Scriptures, when she was somewhat startled by hearing at +the door the tap and voice of her sweetheart. Not expecting him, and +the hour being somewhat late, she opened it in astonishment, and was +still more astonished to hear him on entering abuse Scripture-reading. +He behaved altogether in an unprecedented manner, and in many ways +terrified the poor girl. Ultimately he knelt before her, and laid his +head on her lap. You can fancy her consternation when glancing down +she discovered that, _instead of hair, the head was covered with the +moss of the moorland_. By a sacred name she adjured him to tell who he +was, and in a moment the figure was gone. It was the Fiend, of +course--diminished sadly since Milton saw him bridge chaos--fallen from +worlds to kitchen-wenches. But just think how in the story, in +half-pity, in half-terror, the popular feeling of homelessness, of +being outcast, of being unsheltered as waste and desert places, has +incarnated itself in that strange covering of the head. It is a true +supernatural touch. One other story I have heard in the misty +Hebrides: A Skye gentleman was riding along an empty moorland road. +All at once, as if it had sprung from the ground, the empty road was +crowded by a funeral procession. Instinctively he drew his horse to a +side to let it pass, which it did without sound of voice, without tread +of foot. Then he knew it was an apparition. Staring on it, he knew +every person who either bore the corpse or walked behind as mourners. +There were the neighbouring proprietors at whose houses he dined, there +were the members of his own kirk-session, there were the men to whom he +was wont to give good-morning when he met them on the road or at +market. Unable to discover his own image in the throng, he was +inwardly marvelling whose funeral it _could_ be, when the troop of +spectres vanished, and the road was empty as before. Then, remembering +that the coffin had an invisible occupant, he cried out, "It is my +funeral!" and, with all his strength taken out of him, rode home to +die. All these stories have their own touches of terror; yet I am +inclined to think that my lark rising from the scaffold foot, and +singing to two such auditors, is more terrible than any one of them. + + + + +CHRISTMAS + +Over the dial-face of the year, on which the hours are months, the apex +resting in sunshine, the base in withered leaves and snows, the finger of +time does not travel with the same rapidity. Slowly it creeps up from +snow to sunshine; when it has gained the summit it seems almost to rest +for a little; rapidly it rushes down from sunshine to the snow. Judging +from my own feelings, the distance from January to June is greater than +from June to January--the period from Christmas to Midsummer seems longer +than the period from Midsummer to Christmas. This feeling arises, I +should fancy, from the preponderance of _light_ on that half of the dial +on which the finger seems to be travelling upwards, compared with the +half on which it seems to be travelling downwards. This light to the +eye, the mind translates into time. Summer days are long, often +wearisomely so. The long-lighted days are bracketed together by a little +bar of twilight, in which but a star or two find time to twinkle. +Usually one has less occupation in summer than in winter, and the +surplusage of summer light, a stage too large for the play, wearies, +oppresses, sometimes appalls. From the sense of time we can only shelter +ourselves by occupation; and when occupation ceases while yet some three +or four hours of light remain, the burden falls down, and is often +greater than we can bear. Personally, I have a certain morbid fear of +those endless summer twilights. A space of light stretching from +half-past 2 A.M. to 11 P.M. affects me with a sense of infinity, of +horrid sameness, just as the sea or the desert would do. I feel that for +too long a period I am under the eye of the taskmaster. Twilight is +always in itself, or at least in its suggestions, melancholy; and these +midsummer twilights are so long, they pass through such series of lovely +change, they are throughout so mournfully beautiful, that in the brain +they beget strange thoughts, and in the heart strange feelings. We see +too much of the sky, and the long, lovely, pathetic, lingering evening +light, with its suggestions of eternity and death, which one cannot for +the soul of one put into words, is somewhat too much for the comfort of a +sensitive human mortal. The day dies, and makes no apology for being +such an unconscionable time in dying; and all the while it colours our +thoughts with its own solemnity. There is no relief from this kind of +thing at midsummer. You cannot close your shutters and light your +candles; that in the tone of mind which circumstances superinduce would +be brutality. You cannot take Pickwick to the window and read it by the +dying light; that is profanation. If you have a friend with you, you +can't talk; the hour makes you silent. You are driven in on your +self-consciousness. The long light wearies the eye, a sense of time +disturbs and saddens the spirit; and that is the reason, I think, that +one half of the year seems so much longer than the other half; that on +the dial-plate whose hours are months, the restless finger _seems_ to +move more slowly when travelling upward from autumn leaves and snow to +light, than when it is travelling downward from light to snow and +withered leaves. + +Of all the seasons of the year, I like winter best. That peculiar burden +of time I have been speaking of, does not affect me now. The day is +short, and I can fill it with work; when evening comes, I have my lighted +room and my books. Should black care haunt me, I throw it off the scent +in Spenser's forests, or seek refuge from it among Shakspeare's men and +women, who are by far the best company I have met with, or am like to +meet with, on earth. I am sitting at this present moment with my +curtains drawn; the cheerful fire is winking at all the furniture in the +room, and from every leg and arm the furniture is winking to the fire in +return. I put off the outer world with my great-coat and boots, and put +on contentment and idleness with my slippers. On the hearth-rug, Pepper, +coiled in a shaggy ball, is asleep in the ruddy light and heat. An +imaginative sense of the cold outside increases my present comfort--just +as one never hugs one's own good luck so affectionately as when listening +to the relation of some horrible misfortune which has overtaken others. +Winter has fallen on Dreamthorp, and it looks as pretty when covered with +snow as when covered with apple blossom. Outside, the ground is hard as +iron; and over the low dark hill, lo! the tender radiance that precedes +the morn. Every window in the little village has its light, and to the +traveller coming on, enveloped in his breath, the whole place shines like +a congregation of glow-worms. A pleasant enough sight to him if his home +be there! At this present season, the canal is not such a pleasant +promenade as it was in summer. The barges come and go as usual, but at +this time I do not envy the bargemen quite so much. The horse comes +smoking along; the tarpaulin which covers the merchandise is sprinkled +with hoar-frost; and the helmsman, smoking his short pipe for the mere +heat of it, cowers over a few red cinders contained in a framework of +iron. The labour of the poor fellows will soon be over for a time; for +if this frost continues, the canal will be sheathed in a night, and next +day stones will be thrown upon it, and a daring urchin venturing upon it +will go souse head over heels, and run home with his teeth in a chatter; +and the day after, the lake beneath the old castle will be sheeted, and +the next, the villagers will be sliding on its gleaming face from ruddy +dawn at nine to ruddy eve at three; and hours later, skaters yet +unsatisfied will be moving ghost-like in the gloom--now one, now another, +shooting on sounding irons into a clear space of frosty light, chasing +the moon, or the flying image of a star! Happy youths leaning against +the frosty wind! + +I am a Christian, I hope, although far from a muscular one--consequently +I cannot join the skaters on the lake. The floor of ice, with the people +upon it, will be but a picture to me. And, in truth, it is in its +pictorial aspect that I chiefly love the bleak season. As an artist, +winter can match summer any day. The heavy, feathery flakes have been +falling all the night through, we shall suppose, and when you get up in +the morning the world is draped in white. What a sight it is! It is the +world you knew, but yet a different one. The familiar look has gone, and +another has taken its place; and a not unpleasant puzzlement arises in +your mind, born of the patent and the remembered aspect. It reminds you +of a friend who has been suddenly placed in new circumstances, in whom +there is much that you recognise, and much that is entirely strange. How +purely, divinely white when the last snowflake has just fallen! How +exquisite and virginal the repose! It touches you like some perfection +of music. And winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful +in trifles. Pluck a single ivy leaf from the old wall, and see what a +jeweller he is! How he has silvered over the dark-green reticulations +with his frosts! The faggot which the Tramp gathers for his fire is +thicklier incrusted with gems than ever was sceptre of the Moguls. Go +into the woods, and behold on the black boughs his glories of pearl and +diamond--pendant splendours that, smitten by the noon-ray, melt into +tears and fall but to congeal into splendours again. Nor does he work in +black and white alone. He has on his palette more gorgeous colours than +those in which swim the summer setting suns; and with these, about three +o'clock, he begins to adorn his west, sticking his red hot ball of a sun +in the very midst; and a couple of hours later, when the orb has fallen, +and the flaming crimson has mellowed into liquid orange, you can see the +black skeletons of trees scribbled upon the melancholy glory. Nor need I +speak of the magnificence of a winter midnight, when space, sombre blue, +crowded with star and planet, "burnished by the frost," is glittering +like the harness of an archangel full panoplied against a battle day. + +For years and years now I have watched the seasons come and go around +Dreamthorp, and each in its turn interests me as if I saw it for the +first time. But the other week it seems that I saw the grain ripen; then +by day a motley crew of reapers were in the fields, and at night a big +red moon looked down upon the stocks of oats and barley; then in mighty +wains the plenteous harvest came swaying home, leaving a largess on the +roads for every bird; then the round, yellow, comfortable-looking stacks +stood around the farm-houses, hiding them to the chimneys; then the woods +reddened, the beech hedges became russet, and every puff of wind made +rustle the withered leaves; then the sunset came before the early dark, +and in the east lay banks of bleak pink vapour, which are ever a prophecy +of cold; then out of a low dingy heaven came all day, thick and silent, +the whirling snow,--and so by exquisite succession of sight and sound +have I been taken from the top of the year to the bottom of it, from +midsummer, with its unreaped harvests, to the night on which I am sitting +here--Christmas, 1862. + +Sitting here, I incontinently find myself holding a levee of departed +Christmas nights. Silently, and without special call, into my study of +imagination come these apparitions, clad in snowy mantles, brooched and +gemmed with frosts. Their numbers I do not care to count, for I know +they are the numbers of my years. The visages of two or three are sad +enough, but on the whole 'tis a congregation of jolly ghosts. The +nostrils of my memory are assailed by a faint odour of plum-pudding and +burnt brandy. I hear a sound as of light music, a whisk of women's +dresses whirled round in dance, a click as of glasses pledged by friends. +Before one of these apparitions is a mound, as of a new-made grave, on +which the snow is lying. I know, I know! Drape thyself not in white +like the others, but in mourning stole of crape; and instead of dance +music, let there haunt around thee the service for the dead! I know that +sprig of Mistletoe, O Spirit in the midst! Under it I swung the girl I +loved--girl no more now than I am a boy--and kissed her spite of blush +and pretty shriek. And thee, too, with fragrant trencher in hand, over +which blue tongues of flame are playing, do I know--most ancient +apparition of them all. I remember thy reigning night. Back to very +days of childhood am I taken by the ghostly raisins simmering in a +ghostly brandy flame. Where now the merry boys and girls that thrust +their fingers in thy blaze? And now, when I think of it, thee also would +I drape in black raiment, around thee also would I make the burial +service murmur. + +Men hold the anniversaries of their birth, of their marriage, of the +birth of their first-born, and they hold--although they spread no feast, +and ask no friends to assist--many another anniversary besides. On many +a day in every year does a man remember what took place on that self-same +day in some former year, and chews the sweet or bitter herb of memory, as +the case may be. Could I ever hope to write a decent Essay, I should +like to write one "On the Revisiting of Places." It is strange how +important the poorest human being is to himself! how he likes to double +back on his experiences, to stand on the place he has stood on before, to +meet himself face to face, as it were! I go to the great city in which +my early life was spent, and I love to indulge myself in this whim. The +only thing I care about is that portion of the city which is connected +with myself. I don't think this passion of reminiscence is debased by +the slightest taint of vanity. The lamp-post, under the light of which +in the winter rain there was a parting so many years ago, I contemplate +with the most curious interest. I stare on the windows of the houses in +which I once lived, with a feeling which I should find difficult to +express in words. I think of the life I led there, of the good and the +bad news that came, of the sister who died, of the brother who was born; +and were it at all possible, I should like to knock at the once familiar +door, and look at the old walls--which could speak to me so +strangely--once again. To revisit that city is like walking away back +into my yesterdays. I startle myself with myself at the corners of +streets, I confront forgotten bits of myself at the entrance to houses. +In windows which to another man would seem blank and meaningless, I find +personal poems too deep to be ever turned into rhymes--more pathetic, +mayhap, than I have ever found on printed page. The spot of ground on +which a man has stood is for ever interesting to him. Every experience +is an anchor holding him the more firmly to existence. It is for this +reason that we hold our sacred days, silent and solitary anniversaries of +joy and bitterness, renewing ourselves thereby, going back upon +ourselves, living over again the memorable experience. The full yellow +moon of next September will gather into itself the light of the full +yellow moons of Septembers long ago. In this Christmas night all the +other Christmas nights of my life live. How warm, breathing, full of +myself is the year 1862, now almost gone! How bare, cheerless, unknown, +the year 1863, about to come in! It stretches before me in imagination +like some great, gaunt untenanted ruin of a Colosseum, in which no +footstep falls, no voice is heard; and by this night year its naked +chambers and windows, three hundred and sixty-five in number, will be +clothed all over, and hidden by myself as if with covering ivies. +Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, +because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a +friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and +all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices. + +This, then, is Christmas, 1862. Everything is silent in Dreamthorp. The +smith's hammer reposes beside the anvil. The weaver's flying shuttle is +at rest. Through the clear wintry sunshine the bells this morning rang +from the gray church tower amid the leafless elms, and up the walk the +villagers trooped in their best dresses and their best faces--the latter +a little reddened by the sharp wind: mere redness in the middle aged; in +the maids, wonderful bloom to the eyes of their lovers--and took their +places decently in the ancient pews. The clerk read the beautiful +prayers of our Church, which seem more beautiful at Christmas than at any +other period. For that very feeling which breaks down at this time the +barriers which custom, birth, or wealth have erected between man and man, +strikes down the barrier of time which intervenes between the worshipper +of to-day and the great body of worshippers who are at rest in their +graves. On such a day as this, hearing these prayers, we feel a kinship +with the devout generations who heard them long ago. The devout lips of +the Christian dead murmured the responses which we now murmur; along this +road of prayer did their thoughts of our innumerable dead, our brothers +and sisters in faith and hope, approach the Maker, even as ours at +present approach Him. Prayers over, the clergyman--who is no Boanerges, +or Chrysostom, golden-mouthed, but a loving, genial-hearted, pious man, +the whole extent of his life from boyhood until now, full of charity and +kindly deeds, as autumn fields with heavy wheaten ears; the clergyman, I +say--for the sentence is becoming unwieldy on my hands, and one must +double back to secure connexion--read out in that silvery voice of his, +which is sweeter than any music to my ear, those chapters of the New +Testament that deal with the birth of the Saviour. And the red-faced +rustic congregation hung on the good man's voice as he spoke of the +Infant brought forth in a manger, of the shining angels that appeared in +mid-air to the shepherds, of the miraculous star that took its station in +the sky, and of the wise men who came from afar and laid their gifts of +frankincense and myrrh at the feet of the child. With the story every +one was familiar, but on that day, and backed by the persuasive melody of +the reader's voice, it seemed to all quite new--at least, they listened +attentively as if it were. The discourse that followed possessed no +remarkable thoughts; it dealt simply with the goodness of the Maker of +heaven and earth, and the shortness of time, with the duties of +thankfulness and charity to the poor; and I am persuaded that every one +who heard returned to his house in a better frame of mind. And so the +service remitted us all to our own homes, to what roast-beef and +plum-pudding slender means permitted, to gatherings around cheerful +fires, to half-pleasant, half-sad remembrances of the dead and the absent. + +From sermon I have returned like the others, and it is my purpose to hold +Christmas alone. I have no one with me at table, and my own thoughts +must be my Christmas guests. Sitting here, it is pleasant to think how +much kindly feeling exists this present night in England. By imagination +I can taste of every table, pledge every toast, silently join in every +roar of merriment. I become a sort of universal guest. With what +propriety is this jovial season, placed amid dismal December rains and +snows! How one pities the unhappy Australians, with whom everything is +turned topsy-turvy, and who hold Christmas at midsummer! The face of +Christmas glows all the brighter for the cold. The heart warms as the +frost increases. Estrangements which have embittered the whole year, +melt in to-night's hospitable smile. There are warmer hand-shakings on +this night than during the by-past twelve months. Friend lives in the +mind of friend. There is more charity at this time than at any other. +You get up at midnight and toss your spare coppers to the half-benumbed +musicians whiffling beneath your windows, although at any other time you +would consider their performance a nuisance, and call angrily for the +police. Poverty, and scanty clothing, and fireless grates, come home at +this season to the bosoms of the rich, and they give of their abundance. +The very red-breast of the woods enjoys his Christmas feast. Good +feeling incarnates itself in plum-pudding. The Master's words, "The poor +ye have always with you," wear at this time a deep significance. For at +least one night on each year over all Christendom there is brotherhood. +And good men, sitting amongst their families, or by a solitary fire like +me, when they remember the light that shone over the poor clowns huddling +on the Bethlehem plains eighteen hundred years ago, the apparition of +shining angels overhead, the song "Peace on earth and good-will toward +men," which for the first time hallowed the midnight air,--pray for that +strain's fulfilment, that battle and strife may vex the nations no more, +that not only on Christmas-eve, but the whole year round, men shall be +brethren owning one Father in heaven. + +Although suggested by the season, and by a solitary dinner, it is not my +purpose to indulge in personal reminiscence and talk. Let all that pass. +This is Christmas-day, the anniversary of the world's greatest event. To +one day all the early world looked forward; to the same day the later +world looks back. That day holds time together. Isaiah, standing on the +peaks of prophecy, looked across ruined empires and the desolations of +many centuries, and saw on the horizon the new star arise, and was glad. +On this night eighteen hundred years ago, Jove was discrowned, the Pagan +heaven emptied of its divinities, and Olympus left to the solitude of its +snows. On this night, so many hundred years bygone, the despairing voice +was heard shrieking on the Aegean, "Pan is dead, great Pan is dead!" On +this night, according to the fine reverence of the poets, all things that +blast and blight are powerless, disarmed by sweet influence:-- + + "Some say that ever 'gainst the season comes + Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated + The bird of dawning singeth all night long; + And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad; + The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike; + No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm: + So hallowed and so gracious is the time." + + +The flight of the Pagan mythology before the new faith has been a +favourite subject with the poets; and it has been my custom for many +seasons to read Milton's "Hymn to the Nativity" on the evening of +Christmas-day. The bass of heaven's deep organ seems to blow in the +lines, and slowly and with many echoes the strain melts into silence. To +my ear the lines sound like the full-voiced choir and the rolling organ +of a cathedral, when the afternoon light streaming through the painted +windows fills the place with solemn colours and masses of gorgeous gloom. +To-night I shall float my lonely hours away on music:-- + + "The oracles are dumb, + No voice or hideous hum + Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving: + Apollo from his shrine + Can no more divine + With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. + No nightly trance or breathed spell + Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. + + "The lonely mountains o'er, + And the resounding shore, + A voice of weeping heard and loud lament: + From haunted spring, and dale + Edged with poplars pale, + The parting genius is with sighing sent: + With flower-enwoven tresses torn + The nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn. + + "Peor and Baalim + Forsake their temples dim + With that twice-battered god of Palestine; + And mooned Ashtaroth, + Heaven's queen and mother both, + Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine! + The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, + In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. + + "And sullen Moloch, fled, + Hath left in shadows dread + His burning idol, all of blackest hue: + In vain with cymbals' ring + They call the grisly king + In dismal dance about the furnace blue: + The Brutish gods of Nile as fast, + Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. + + "He feels from Juda's land + The dreaded Infant's hand, + The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne: + Nor all the gods beside + Dare longer there abide, + Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine. + Our Babe to shew His Godhead true + Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew." + + +These verses, as if loath to die, linger with a certain persistence in +mind and ear. This is the "mighty line" which critics talk about! And +just as in an infant's face you may discern the rudiments of the future +man, so in the glorious hymn may be traced the more majestic lineaments +of the "Paradise Lost." + +Strangely enough, the next noblest dirge for the unrealmed divinities +which I can call to remembrance, and at the same time the most eloquent +celebration of the new power and prophecy of its triumph, has been +uttered by Shelley, who cannot in any sense be termed a Christian poet. +It is one of the choruses in "Hellas," and perhaps had he lived longer +amongst us, it would have been the prelude to higher strains. Of this I +am certain, that before his death the mind of that brilliant genius was +rapidly changing,--that for him the cross was gathering attractions round +it,--that the wall which he complained had been built up between his +heart and his intellect was being broken down, and that rays of a strange +splendour were already streaming upon him through the interstices. What +a contrast between the darkened glory of "Queen Mab"--of which in +afterlife he was ashamed, both as a literary work and as an expression of +opinion--and the intense, clear, lyrical light of this triumphant poem!-- + + "A power from the unknown God, + A Promethean conqueror came: + Like a triumphal path he trod + The thorns of death and shame. + A mortal shape to him + Was like the vapour dim + Which the orient planet animates with light. + Hell, sin, and slavery came + Like bloodhounds mild and tame, + Nor prey'd until their lord had taken flight. + The moon of Mahomet + Arose, and it shall set; + While blazon'd, as on heaven's immortal noon, + The Cross leads generations on. + + "Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep, + From one whose dreams are paradise, + Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep, + And day peers forth with her blank eyes: + So fleet, so faint, so fair, + The powers of earth and air + Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem. + Apollo, Pan, and Love, + And even Olympian Jove, + Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them. + Our hills, and seas, and streams, + Dispeopled of their dreams, + Their water turned to blood, their dew to tears, + Wailed for the golden years." + + +For my own part, I cannot read these lines without emotion--not so much +for their beauty as for the change in the writer's mind which they +suggest. The self-sacrifice which lies at the centre of Christianity +should have touched this man more deeply than almost any other. That it +was beginning to touch and mould him, I verily believe. He died and made +_that_ sign. Of what music did that storm in Spezia Bay rob the world! + +"The Cross leads generations on." Believing as I do that my own personal +decease is not more certain than that our religion will subdue the world, +I own that it is with a somewhat saddened heart that I pass my thoughts +around the globe, and consider how distant is yet that triumph. There +are the realms on which the crescent beams, the monstrous many-headed +gods of India, the Chinaman's heathenism, the African's devil-rites. +These are, to a large extent, principalities and powers of darkness with +which our religion has never been brought into collision, save at trivial +and far separated points, and in these cases the attack has never been +made in strength. But what of our own Europe--the home of philosophy, of +poetry, and painting? Europe, which has produced Greece, and Rome, and +England's centuries of glory; which has been illumined by the fires of +martyrdom; which has heard a Luther preach; which has listened to Dante's +"mystic unfathomable song"; to which Milton has opened the door of +heaven--what of it? And what, too, of that younger America, starting in +its career with all our good things, and enfranchised of many of our +evils? Did not the December sun now shining look down on thousands +slaughtered at Fredericksburg, in a most mad, most incomprehensible +quarrel? And is not the public air which European nations breathe at +this moment, as it has been for several years back, charged with thunder? +Despots are plotting, ships are building, man's ingenuity is bent, as it +never was bent before, on the invention and improvement of instruments of +death; Europe is bristling with five millions of bayonets: and this is +the condition of a world for which the Son of God died eighteen hundred +and sixty-two years ago! There is no mystery of Providence so +inscrutable as this; and yet, is not the very sense of its mournfulness a +proof that the spirit of Christianity is living in the minds of men? +For, of a verity, military glory is becoming in our best thoughts a +bloody rag, and conquest the first in the catalogue of mighty crimes, and +a throned tyrant, with armies, and treasures, and the cheers of millions +rising up like a cloud of incense around him, but a mark for the +thunderbolt of Almighty God--in reality poorer than Lazarus stretched at +the gate of Dives. Besides, all these things are getting themselves to +some extent mitigated. Florence Nightingale--for the first time in the +history of the world--walks through the Scutari hospitals, and "poor, +noble, wounded and sick men," to use her Majesty's tender phrases, kiss +her shadow as it falls on them. The Emperor Napoleon does not make war +to employ his armies, or to consolidate his power; he does so for the +sake of an "idea," more or less generous and disinterested. The soul of +mankind would revolt at the blunt, naked truth; and the taciturn emperor +knows this, as he knows most things. This imperial hypocrisy, like every +other hypocrisy, is a homage which vice pays to virtue. There cannot be +a doubt that when the political crimes of kings and governments, the +sores that fester in the heart of society, and all "the burden of the +unintelligible world," weigh heaviest on the mind, we have to thank +Christianity for it. That pure light makes visible the darkness. The +Sermon on the Mount makes the morality of the nations ghastly. The +Divine love makes human hate stand out in dark relief. This sadness, in +the essence of it nobler than any joy, is the heritage of the Christian. +An ancient Roman could not have felt so. Everything runs on smoothly +enough so long as Jove wields the thunder. But Venus, Mars, and Minerva +are far behind us now; the Cross is before us; and self-denial and sorrow +for sin, and the remembrance of the poor, and the cleansing of our own +hearts, are duties incumbent upon every one of us. If the Christian is +less happy than the Pagan, and at times I think he is so, it arises from +the reproach of the Christian's unreached ideal, and from the stings of +his finer and more scrupulous conscience. His whole moral organisation +is finer, and he must pay the noble penalty of finer organisations. + +Once again, for the purpose of taking away all solitariness of feeling, +and of connecting myself, albeit only in fancy, with the proper gladness +of the time, let me think of the comfortable family dinners now being +drawn to a close, of the good wishes uttered, and the presents made, +quite valueless in themselves, yet felt to be invaluable from the +feelings from which they spring; of the little children, by sweetmeats +lapped in Elysium; and of the pantomime, pleasantest Christmas sight of +all, with the pit a sea of grinning delight, the boxes a tier of beaming +juvenility, the galleries, piled up to the far-receding roof, a mass of +happy laughter which a clown's joke brings down in mighty avalanches. In +the pit, sober people relax themselves, and suck oranges, and quaff +ginger-pop; in the boxes, Miss, gazing through her curls, thinks the +Fairy Prince the prettiest creature she ever beheld, and Master, that to +be a clown must be the pinnacle of human happiness: while up in the +galleries the hard literal world is for an hour sponged out and +obliterated; the chimney-sweep forgets, in his delight when the policeman +comes to grief, the harsh call of his master, and Cinderella, when the +demons are foiled, and the long parted lovers meet and embrace in a +paradise of light and pink gauze, the grates that must be scrubbed +tomorrow. All bands and trappings of toil are for one hour loosened by +the hands of imaginative sympathy. What happiness a single theatre can +contain! And those of maturer years, or of more meditative temperament, +sitting at the pantomime, can extract out of the shifting scenes meanings +suitable to themselves; for the pantomime is a symbol or adumbration of +human life. Have we not all known Harlequin, who rules the roast, and +has the pretty Columbine to himself? Do we not all know that rogue of a +clown with his peculating fingers, who brazens out of every scrape, and +who conquers the world by good humour and ready wit? And have we not +seen Pantaloons not a few, whose fate it is to get all the kicks and lose +all the halfpence, to fall through all the trap doors, break their shins +over all the barrows, and be forever captured by the policeman, while the +true pilferer, the clown, makes his escape with the booty in his +possession? Methinks I know the realities of which these things are but +the shadows; have met with them in business, have sat with them at +dinner. But to-night no such notions as these intrude; and when the +torrent of fun, and transformation, and practical joking which rushed out +of the beautiful fairy world gathered up again, the high-heaped happiness +of the theatre will disperse itself, and the Christmas pantomime will be +a pleasant memory the whole year through. Thousands on thousands of +people are having their midriffs tickled at this moment; in fancy I see +their lighted faces, in memory I hear their mirth. + +By this time I should think every Christmas dinner at Dreamthorp or +elsewhere has come to an end. Even now in the great cities the theatres +will be dispersing. The clown has wiped the paint off his face. +Harlequin has laid aside his wand, and divested himself of his glittering +raiment; Pantaloon, after refreshing himself with a pint of porter, is +rubbing his aching joints; and Columbine, wrapped up in a shawl, and with +sleepy eyelids, has gone home in a cab. Soon, in the great theatre, the +lights will be put out, and the empty stage will be left to ghosts. +Hark! midnight from the church tower vibrates through the frosty air. I +look out on the brilliant heaven, and see a milky way of powdery +splendour wandering through it, and clusters and knots of stars and +planets shining serenely in the blue frosty spaces; and the armed +apparition of Orion, his spear pointing away into immeasurable space, +gleaming overhead; and the familiar constellation of the Plough dipping +down into the west; and I think when I go in again that there is one +Christmas the less between me and my grave. + + + + +MEN OF LETTERS + +Mr. Hazlitt has written many essays, but none pleasanter than that +entitled "My First Acquaintance with Poets," which, in the edition edited +by his son, opens the _Wintersloe_ series. It relates almost entirely to +Coleridge; containing sketches of his personal appearance, fragments of +his conversation, and is filled with a young man's generous enthusiasm, +belief, admiration, as with sunrise. He had met Coleridge, walked with +him, talked with him, and the high intellectual experience not only made +him better acquainted with his own spirit and its folded powers, but--as +is ever the case with such spiritual encounters--it touched and +illuminated the dead outer world. The road between Wem and Shrewsbury +was familiar enough to Hazlitt, but as the twain passed along it on that +winter day, it became etherealised, poetic--wonderful, as if leading +across the Delectable Mountains to the Golden City, whose gleam is +discernible on the horizon. The milestones were mute with attention, the +pines upon the hill had ears for the stranger as he passed. Eloquence +made the red leaves rustle on the oak; made the depth of heaven seem as +if swept by a breath of spring; and when the evening star appeared, +Hazlitt saw it as Adam did while in Paradise and but one day old. "As we +passed along," writes the essayist, "between Wem and Shrewsbury, and I +eyed the blue hill tops seen through the wintry branches, or the red, +rustling leaves of the sturdy oak-trees by the wayside, a sound was in my +ears as of a siren's song. I was stunned, startled with it as from deep +sleep; but I had no notion that I should ever be able to express my +admiration to others in motley imagery or quaint allusion, till the light +of his genius shone into my soul, like the sun's rays glittering in the +puddles of the road. I was at that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless, +like a worm by the wayside, crushed, bleeding, lifeless; but now, +bursting from the deadly bands that bound them, my ideas float on winged +words, and as they expand their plumes, catch the golden light of other +years. My soul has indeed remained in its original bondage, dark, +obscure, with longings infinite and unsatisfied; my heart, shut up in the +prison-house of this rude clay, has never found, nor will it ever find, a +heart to speak to; but that my understanding also did not remain dumb and +brutish, or at length found a language to express itself, I owe to +Coleridge." Time and sorrow, personal ambition thwarted and fruitlessly +driven back on itself, hopes for the world defeated and unrealised, +changed the enthusiastic youth into a petulant, unsocial man; yet ever as +he remembered that meeting and his wintry walk from Wem to Shrewsbury, +the early glow came back, and a "sound was in his ears as of a siren's +song." + +We are not all hero-worshippers like Hazlitt, but most of us are so to a +large extent. A large proportion of mankind feel a quite peculiar +interest in famous writers. They like to read about them, to know what +they said on this or the other occasion, what sort of house they +inhabited, what fashion of dress they wore, if they liked any particular +dish for dinner, what kind of women they fell in love with, and whether +their domestic atmosphere was stormy or the reverse. Concerning such men +no bit of information is too trifling; everything helps to make out the +mental image we have dimly formed for ourselves. And this kind of +interest is heightened by the artistic way in which time occasionally +groups them. The race is gregarious, they are visible to us in clumps +like primroses, they are brought into neighbourhood and flash light on +each other like gems in a diadem. We think of the wild geniuses who came +up from the universities to London in the dawn of the English drama. +Greene, Nash, Marlowe--our first professional men of letters--how they +cracked their satirical whips, how they brawled in taverns, how pinched +they were at times, how, when they possessed money, they flung it from +them as if it were poison, with what fierce speed they wrote, how they +shook the stage. Then we think of the "Mermaid" in session, with +Shakspeare's bland, oval face, the light of a smile spread over it, and +Ben Jonson's truculent visage, and Beaumont and Fletcher sitting together +in their beautiful friendship, and fancy as best we can the drollery, the +repartee, the sage sentences, the lightning gleams of wit, the +thunder-peals of laughter. + + "What things have we seen + Done at the Mermaid? Heard words that hath been + So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, + As if that every one from whence they came + Had meant to put his whole soul in a jest, + And had resolved to live a fool the rest + Of his dull life." + +Then there is the "Literary Club," with Johnson, and Garrick, and Burke, +and Reynolds, and Goldsmith sitting in perpetuity in Boswell. The Doctor +has been talking there for a hundred years, and there will he talk for +many a hundred more. And we of another generation, and with other things +to think about, can enter any night we please, and hear what is going on. +Then we have the swarthy ploughman from Ayrshire sitting at Lord +Monboddo's with Dr. Blair, Dugald Stewart, Henry Mackenzie, and the rest. +These went into the presence of the wonderful rustic thoughtlessly +enough, and now they cannot return even if they would. They are +defrauded of oblivion. Not yet have they tasted forgetfulness and the +grave. The day may come when Burns will be forgotten, but till that day +arrives--and the eastern sky as yet gives no token of its approach--_him_ +they must attend as satellites the sun, as courtiers their king. Then +there are the Lakers,--Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, De Quincey +burdened with his tremendous dream, Wilson in his splendid youth. What +talk, what argument, what readings of lyrical and other ballads, what +contempt of critics, what a hail of fine things! Then there is Charles +Lamb's room in Inner Temple Lane, the hush of a whist table in one +corner, the host stuttering puns as he deals the cards; and sitting round +about. Hunt, whose every sentence is flavoured with the hawthorn and the +primrose, and Hazlitt maddened by Waterloo and St. Helena, and Godwin +with his wild theories, and Kemble with his Roman look. And before the +morning comes, and Lamb stutters yet more thickly--for there is a slight +flavour of punch in the apartment--what talk there has been of Hogarth's +prints, of Izaak Walton, of the old dramatists, of Sir Thomas Browne's +"Urn Burial," with Elia's quaint humour breaking through every +interstice, and flowering in every fissure and cranny of the +conversation! One likes to think of these social gatherings of wit and +geniuses; they are more interesting than conclaves of kings or +convocations of bishops. One would like to have been the waiter at the +"Mermaid," and to have stood behind Shakspeare's chair. What was that +functionary's opinion of his guests? Did he listen and become witty by +infection? or did he, when his task was over, retire unconcernedly to +chalk up the tavern score? One envies somewhat the damsel who brought +Lamb the spirit-case and the hot water. I think of these meetings, and, +in lack of companionship, frame for myself imaginary conversations--not +so brilliant, of course, as Mr. Landor's, but yet sufficient to make +pleasant for me the twilight hour while the lamp is yet unlit, and my +solitary room is filled with ruddy lights and shadows of the fire. + +Of human notabilities men of letters are the most interesting, and this +arises mainly from their outspokenness as a class. The writer makes +himself known in a way that no other man makes himself known. The +distinguished engineer may be as great a man as the distinguished writer, +but as a rule we know little about him. We see him invent a locomotive, +or bridge a strait, but there our knowledge stops; we look at the engine, +we walk across the bridge, we admire the ingenuity of the one, we are +grateful for the conveniency of the other, but to our apprehensions the +engineer is undeciphered all the while. Doubtless he reveals himself in +his work as the poet reveals himself in his song, but then this +revelation is made in a tongue unknown to the majority. After all, we do +not feel that we get nearer him. The man of letters, on the other hand, +is outspoken, he takes you into his confidence, he keeps no secret from +you. Be you beggar, be you king, you are welcome. He is no respecter of +persons. He gives without reserve his fancies, his wit, his wisdom; he +makes you a present of all that the painful or the happy years have +brought him. The writer makes his reader heir in full. Men of letters +are a peculiar class. They are never commonplace or prosaic--at least +those of them that mankind care for. They are airy, wise, gloomy, +melodious spirits. They give us the language we speak, they furnish the +subjects of our best talk. They are full of generous impulses and +sentiments, and keep the world young. They have said fine things on +every phase of human experience. The air is full of their voices. Their +books are the world's holiday and playground, and into these neither +care, nor the dun, nor despondency can follow the enfranchised man. Men +of letters forerun science as the morning star the dawn. Nothing has +been invented, nothing has been achieved, but has gleamed a +bright-coloured Utopia in the eyes of one or the other of these men. +Several centuries before the Great Exhibition of 1851 rose in Hyde Park, +a wondrous hall of glass stood, radiant in sunlight, in the verse of +Chaucer. The electric telegraph is not so swift as the flight of Puck. +We have not yet realised the hippogriff of Ariosto. Just consider what a +world this would be if ruled by the best thoughts of men of letters! +Ignorance would die at once, war would cease, taxation would be +lightened, not only every Frenchman, but every man in the world, would +have his hen in the pot. May would not marry January. The race of +lawyers and physicians would be extinct. Fancy a world the affairs of +which are directed by Goethe's wisdom and Goldsmith's heart! In such a +case, methinks the millennium were already come. Books are a finer world +within the world. With books are connected all my desires and +aspirations. When I go to my long sleep, on a book will my head be +pillowed. I care for no other fashion of greatness. I'd as lief not be +remembered at all as remembered in connection with anything else. I +would rather be Charles Lamb than Charles XII. I would rather be +remembered by a song than by a victory. I would rather build a fine +sonnet than have built St. Paul's. I would rather be the discoverer of a +new image than the discoverer of a new planet. Fine phrases I value more +than bank notes. I have ear for no other harmony than the harmony of +words. To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for. + +But what of the literary life? How fares it with the men whose days and +nights are devoted to the writing of books? We know the famous men of +letters; we give them the highest place in our regards; we crown them +with laurels so thickly that we hide the furrows on their foreheads. Yet +we must remember that there are men of letters who have been equally +sanguine, equally ardent, who have pursued perfection equally +unselfishly, but who have failed to make themselves famous. We know the +ships that come with streaming pennons into the immortal ports; we know +but little of the ships that have gone on fire on the way thither,--that +have gone down at sea. Even with successful men we cannot know precisely +how matters have gone. We read the fine raptures of the poet, but we do +not know into what kind of being he relapses when the inspiration is +over, any more than, seeing and hearing the lark shrilling at the gate of +heaven, we know with what effort it has climbed thither, or into what +kind of nest it must descend. The lark is not always singing; no more is +the poet. The lark is only interesting _while_ singing; at other times +it is but a plain brown bird. We may not be able to recognise the poet +when he doffs his singing robes; he may then sink to the level of his +admirers. We laugh at the fancies of the humourists, but he may have +written his brilliant things in a dismal enough mood. The writer is not +continually dwelling amongst the roses and lilies of life, he is not +continually uttering generous sentiments, and saying fine things. On +him, as on his brethren, the world presses with its prosaic needs. He +has to make love and marry, and run the usual matrimonial risks. The +income-tax collector visits him as well as others. Around his head at +Christmas-times drives a snow-storm of bills. He must keep the wolf from +the door, and he has only his goose-quills to confront it with. And here +it is, having to deal with alien powers, that his special temperament +comes into play, and may work him evil. Wit is not worldly wisdom. A +man gazing on the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles on +the road. A man may be able to disentangle intricate problems, be able +to recall the past, and yet be cozened by an ordinary knave. The finest +expression will not liquidate a butcher's account. If Apollo puts his +name to a bill, he must meet it when it becomes due, or go into the +gazette. Armies are not always cheering on the heights which they have +won; there are forced marches, occasional shortness of provisions, +bivouacs on muddy plains, driving in of pickets, and the like, although +these inglorious items are forgotten when we read the roll of victories +inscribed on their banners. The books of the great writer are only +portions of the great writer. His life acts on his writings; his +writings react on his life. His life may impoverish his books; his books +may impoverish his life. + + "Apollo's branch that might have grown full straight," + +may have the worm of a vulgar misery gnawing at its roots. The heat of +inspiration may be subtracted from the household fire; and those who sit +by it may be the colder in consequence. A man may put all his good +things in his books, and leave none for his life, just as a man may +expend his fortune on a splendid dress, and carry a pang of hunger +beneath it. + +There are few less exhilarating books than the biographies of men of +letters, and of artists generally; and this arises from the pictures of +comparative defeat which, in almost every instance, such books contain. +In these books we see failure more or less,--seldom clear, victorious +effort. If the art is exquisite, the marble is flawed; if the marble is +pure, there is defect in art. There is always something lacking in the +poem; there is always irremediable defect in the picture. In the +biography we see persistent, passionate effort, and almost constant +repulse. If, on the whole, victory is gained, one wing of the army has +been thrown into confusion. In the life of a successful farmer, for +instance, one feels nothing of this kind; his year flows on harmoniously, +fortunately; through ploughing, seed-time, growth of grain, the yellowing +of it beneath meek autumn suns and big autumn moons, the cutting of it +down, riotous harvest-home, final sale, and large balance at the +banker's. From the point of view of almost unvarying success the +farmer's life becomes beautiful, poetic. Everything is an aid and help +to him. Nature puts her shoulder to his wheel. He takes the winds, the +clouds, the sunbeams, the rolling stars into partnership, and, asking no +dividend, they let him retain the entire profits. As a rule, the lives +of men of letters do not flow on in this successful way. In their case +there is always either defect in the soil or defect in the husbandry. +Like the Old Guard at Waterloo, they are fighting bravely on a lost +field. In literary biography there is always an element of tragedy, and +the love we bear the dead is mingled with pity. Of course the life of a +man of letters is more perilous than the life of a farmer; more perilous +than almost any other kind of life which it is given a human being to +conduct. It is more difficult to obtain the mastery over spiritual ways +and means than over material ones, and he must command _both_. Properly +to conduct his life he must not only take large crops off his fields, he +must also leave in his fields the capacity of producing large crops. It +is easy to drive in your chariot two horses of one breed; not so easy +when the one is of terrestrial stock, the other of celestial; in every +respect different--in colour, temper, and pace. + +At the outset of his career, the man of letters is confronted by the fact +that he must live. The obtaining of a livelihood is preliminary to +everything else. Poets and cobblers are placed on the same level so far. +If the writer can barter MSS. for sufficient coin, he may proceed to +develop himself; if he cannot so barter it, there is a speedy end of +himself, and of his development also. Literature has become a +profession; but it is in several respects different from the professions +by which other human beings earn their bread. The man of letters, unlike +the clergyman, the physician, or the lawyer, has to undergo no special +preliminary training for his work, and while engaged in it, unlike the +professional persons named, he has no accredited status. Of course, to +earn any success, he must start with as much special knowledge, with as +much dexterity in his craft, as your ordinary physician; but then he is +not recognised till once he is successful. When a man takes a +physician's degree, he has done something; when a man betakes himself to +literary pursuits, he has done nothing--till once he is lucky enough to +make his mark. There is no special preliminary training for men of +letters, and as a consequence, their ranks are recruited from the vagrant +talent of the world. Men that break loose from the professions, who +stray from the beaten tracks of life, take refuge in literature. In it +are to be found doctors, lawyers, clergymen, and the motley nation of +Bohemians. Any one possessed of a nimble brain, a quire of paper, a +steel-pen and ink-bottle, can start business. Any one who chooses may +enter the lists, and no questions are asked concerning his antecedents. +The battle is won by sheer strength of brain. From all this it comes +that the man of letters has usually a history of his own: his +individuality is more pronounced than the individuality of other men; he +has been knocked about by passion and circumstance. All his life he has +had a dislike for iron rules and common-place maxims. There is something +of the gipsy in his nature. He is to some extent eccentric, and he +indulges his eccentricity. And the misfortunes of men of letters--the +vulgar and patent misfortunes, I mean--arise mainly from the want of +harmony between their impulsiveness and volatility, and the staid +unmercurial world with which they are brought into conflict. They are +unconventional in a world of conventions; they are fanciful, and are +constantly misunderstood in prosaic relations. They are wise enough in +their books, for there they are sovereigns, and can shape everything to +their own likings; out of their books, they are not unfrequently +extremely foolish, for they exist then in the territory of an alien +power, and are constantly knocking their heads against existing orders of +things. Men of letters take prosaic men out of themselves; but they are +weak where the prosaic men are strong. They have their own way in the +world of ideas, prosaic men in the world of facts. From his practical +errors the writer learns something, if not always humility and amendment. +A memorial flower grows on every spot where he has come to grief; and the +chasm he cannot over-leap he bridges with a rainbow. + +But the man of letters has not only to live, he has to develop himself; +and his earning of money and his intellectual development should proceed +simultaneously and in proportionate degrees. Herein lies the main +difficulty of the literary life. Out of his thought the man must bring +fire, food, clothing; and fire, food, clothing must in their turns +subserve thought. It is necessary, for the proper conduct of such a +life, that while the balance at the banker's increases, intellectual +resource should increase at the same ratio. Progress should not be made +in the faculty of expression alone,--progress at the same time should be +made in thought; for thought is the material on which expression feeds. +Should sufficient advance not be made in this last direction, in a short +time the man feels that he has expressed himself,--that now he can only +more or less dexterously repeat himself,--more or less prettily become +his own echo. It is comparatively easy to acquire facility in writing; +but it is an evil thing for the man of letters when such facility is the +only thing he has acquired,--when it has been, perhaps, the only thing he +has striven to acquire. Such miscalculation of ways and means suggests +vulgarity of aspiration, and a fatal material taint. In the life in +which this error has been committed there can be no proper harmony, no +satisfaction, no spontaneous delight in effort. The man does not +create,--he is only desperately keeping up appearances. He has at once +become "a base mechanical," and his successes are not much higher than +the successes of the acrobat or the rope-dancer. This want of proper +relationship between resources of expression and resources of thought, or +subject-matter for expression, is common enough, and some slight +suspicion of it flashes across the mind at times in reading even the best +authors. It lies at the bottom of every catastrophe in the literary +life. Frequently a man's first book is good, and all his after +productions but faint and yet fainter reverberations of the first. The +men who act thus are in the long run deserted like worked-out mines. A +man reaches his limits as to thought long before he reaches his limits as +to expression; and a haunting suspicion of this is one of the peculiar +bitters of the literary life. Hazlitt tells us that, after one of his +early interviews with Coleridge, he sat down to his Essay on the Natural +Disinterestedness of the Human Mind. "I sat down to the task shortly +afterwards for the twentieth time, got new pens and paper, determined to +make clean work of it, wrote a few sentences in the skeleton style of a +mathematical demonstration, stopped half-way down the second page, and, +after trying in vain to pump up any words, images, notions, +apprehensions, facts, or observations, from that gulf of abstraction in +which I had plunged myself for four, or five years preceding, gave up the +attempt as labour in vain, and shed tears of hopeless despondency on the +blank unfinished paper. I can write fast enough now. Am I better than I +was then? oh, no! One truth discovered, one pang of regret at not being +able to express it, is worth all the fluency and flippancy in the world." +This regretful looking back to the past, when emotions were keen and +sharp, and when thought wore the novel dress of a stranger, and this +dissatisfaction with the acquirements of the present, is common enough +with the man of letters. The years have come and gone, and he is +conscious that he is not intrinsically richer,--he has only learned to +assort and display his riches to advantage. His wares have neither +increased in quantity nor improved in quality,--he has only procured a +window in a leading thoroughfare. He can catch his butterflies more +cunningly, he can pin them on his cards more skilfully, but their wings +are fingered and tawdry compared with the time when they winnowed before +him in the sunshine over the meadows of youth. This species of regret is +peculiar to the class of which I am speaking, and they often discern +failure in what the world counts success. The veteran does not look back +to the time when he was in the awkward squad; the accountant does not +sigh over the time when he was bewildered by the mysteries of +double-entry. And the reason is obvious. The dexterity which time and +practice have brought to the soldier and the accountant is pure gain: the +dexterity of expression which time and practice have brought to the +writer is gain too, in its way, but not quite so pure. It may have been +cultivated and brought to its degree of excellence at the expense of +higher things. The man of letters lives by thought and expression, and +his two powers may not be perfectly balanced. And, putting aside its +effect on the reader, and through that, on the writer's pecuniary +prosperity, the tragedy of want of equipoise lies in this. When the +writer expresses his thought, it is immediately dead to him, however +life-giving it may be to others; he pauses midway in his career, he looks +back over his uttered past--brown desert to him, in which there is no +sustenance--he looks forward to the green _un_uttered future, and +beholding its narrow limits, knows it is all that he can call his +own,--on that vivid strip he must pasture his intellectual life. + +Is the literary life, on the whole, a happy one? Granted that the writer +is productive, that he possesses abundance of material, that he has +secured the ear of the world, one is inclined to fancy that no life could +be happier. Such a man seems to live on the finest of the wheat. If a +poet, he is continually singing; if a novelist, he is supreme in his +ideal world; if a humourist, everything smiles back upon his smile; if an +essayist, he is continually saying the wisest, most memorable things. He +breathes habitually the serener air which ordinary mortals can only at +intervals respire, and in their happiest moments. Such conceptions of +great writers are to some extent erroneous. Through the medium of their +books we know them only in their active mental states,--in their +triumphs; we do not see them when sluggishness has succeeded the effort +which was delight. The statue does not come to her white limbs all at +once. It is the bronze wrestler, not the flesh and blood one, that +stands forever over a fallen adversary with pride of victory on his face. +Of the labour, the weariness, the self-distrust, the utter despondency of +the great writer, we know nothing. Then, for the attainment of mere +happiness or contentment, any high faculty of imagination is a +questionable help. Of course imagination lights the torch of joy, it +deepens the carmine on the sleek cheek of the girl, it makes wine +sparkle, makes music speak, gives rays to the rising sun. But in all its +supreme sweetnesses there is a perilous admixture of deceit, which is +suspected even at the moment when the senses tingle keenliest. And it +must be remembered that this potent faculty can darken as well as +brighten. It is the very soul of pain. While the trumpets are blowing +in Ambition's ear, it whispers of the grave. It drapes Death in austere +solemnities, and surrounds him with a gloomy court of terrors. The life +of the imaginative man is never a commonplace one: his lights are +brighter, his glooms are darker, than the lights and gloom of the vulgar. +His ecstasies are as restless as his pains. The great writer has this +perilous faculty in excess; and through it he will, as a matter of +course, draw out of the atmosphere of circumstance surrounding him the +keenness of pleasure and pain. To my own notion, the best gifts of the +gods are neither the most glittering nor the most admired. These gifts I +take to be, a moderate ambition, a taste for repose with circumstances +favourable thereto, a certain mildness of passion, an even-beating pulse, +an even-beating heart. I do not consider heroes and celebrated persons +the happiest of mankind. I do not envy Alexander the shouting of his +armies, nor Dante his laurel wreath. Even were I able, I would not +purchase these at the prices the poet and the warrior paid. So far, +then, as great writers--great poets, especially--are of imagination all +compact--a peculiarity of mental constitution which makes a man go shares +with every one he is brought into contact with; which makes him enter +into Romeo's rapture when he touches Juliet's cheek among cypresses +silvered by the Verona moonlight, and the stupor of the blinded and +pinioned wretch on the scaffold before the bolt is drawn--so far as this +special gift goes, I do not think the great poet,--and by virtue of it he +_is_ a poet,--is likely to be happier than your more ordinary mortal. On +the whole, perhaps, it is the great readers rather than the great writers +who are entirely to be envied. They pluck the fruits, and are spared the +trouble of rearing them. Prometheus filched fire from heaven, and had +for reward the crag of Caucasus, the chain, the vulture; while they for +whom he stole it cook their suppers upon it, stretch out benumbed hands +towards it, and see its light reflected in their children's faces. They +are comfortable: he, roofed by the keen crystals of the stars, groans +above. + +Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life. The majority +of men slip into their graves without having encountered on their way +thither any signal catastrophe or exaltation of fortune or feeling. +Collect a thousand ignited sticks into a heap, and you have a bonfire +which may be seen over three counties. If, during thirty years, the +annoyances connected with shirt-buttons found missing when you are +hurriedly dressing for dinner, were gathered into a mass and endured at +once, it would be misery equal to a public execution. If, from the same +space of time, all the little titillations of a man's vanity were +gathered into one lump of honey and enjoyed at once, the pleasure of +being crowned would not perhaps be much greater. If the equanimity of an +ordinary man be at the mercy of trifles, how much more will the +equanimity of the man of letters, who is usually the most sensitive of +the race, and whose peculiar avocation makes sad work with the fine +tissues of the nerves. Literary composition is, I take it, with the +exception of the crank, in which there is neither hope nor result, the +most exhausting to which a human being can apply himself. Just consider +the situation. Here is your man of letters, tender-hearted as Cowper, +who would not count upon his list of friends the man who tramples +heedlessly upon a worm; as light of sleep and abhorrent of noise as +Beattie, who denounces chanticleer for his lusty proclamation of morning +to his own and the neighbouring farmyards in terms that would be +unmeasured if applied to Nero; as alive to blame as Byron, who declared +that the praise of the greatest of the race could not take the sting from +the censure of the meanest. Fancy the sufferings of a creature so built +and strung in a world which creaks so vilely on its hinges as this! Will +such a man confront a dun with an imperturbable countenance? Will he +throw himself back in his chair and smile blandly when his chamber is +lanced through and through by the notes of a street bagpiper? When his +harrassed brain should be solaced by music, will he listen patiently to +stupid remarks? I fear not. The man of letters suffers keenlier than +people suspect from sharp, cruel noises, from witless observations, from +social misconceptions of him of every kind, from hard utilitarian wisdom, +and from his own good things going to the grave unrecognised and +unhonoured. And, forced to live by his pen, to extract from his brain +bread and beer, clothing, lodging, and income-tax, I am not surprised +that he is oftentimes nervous, querulous, impatient. Thinking of these +things, I do not wonder at Hazlitt's spleen, at Charles Lamb's punch, at +Coleridge's opium. I think of the days spent in writing, and of the +nights which repeat the day in dream, and in which there is no +refreshment. I think of the brain which must be worked out at length; of +Scott, when the wand of the enchanter was broken, writing poor romances; +of Southey sitting vacantly in his library, and drawing a feeble +satisfaction from the faces of his books. And for the man of letters +there is more than the mere labour: he writes his book, and has +frequently the mortification of seeing it neglected or torn to pieces. +Above all men, he longs for sympathy, recognition, applause. He respects +his fellow-creatures, because he beholds in him a possible reader. To +write a book, to send it forth to the world and the critics, is to a +sensitive person like plunging mother-naked into tropic waters where +sharks abound. It is true that, like death, the terror of criticism +lives most in apprehension; still, to have been frequently criticised, +and to be constantly liable to it, are disagreeable items in a man's +life. Most men endure criticism with commendable fortitude, just as most +criminals when under the drop conduct themselves with calmness. They +bleed, but they bleed inwardly. To be flayed in the _Saturday Review_, +for instance,--a whole amused public looking on,--is far from pleasant; +and, after the operation, the ordinary annoyances of life probably +magnify themselves into tortures. The grasshopper becomes a burden. +Touch a flayed man ever so lightly, and with ever so kindly an intention, +and he is sure to wince. The skin of the man of letters is peculiarly +sensitive to the bite of the critical mosquito; and he lives in a climate +in which such mosquitoes swarm. He is seldom stabbed to the heart--he is +often killed by pin-pricks. + +But, to leave palisade and outwork, and come to the interior of the +citadel, it may be said that great writers, although they must ever +remain shining objects of regard to us, are not exempted from ordinary +limitations and conditions. They are cabined, cribbed, confined, even as +their more prosaic brethren. It is in the nature of every man to be +endued with that he works in. Thus, in course of time, the merchant +becomes bound up in his ventures and his ledger; an indefinable flavour +of the pharmacopoeia lingers about the physician; the bombasine and +horse-hair of the lawyer eat into his soul--his experiences are docketed +in a clerkly hand, bound together with red tape, and put away in +professional pigeon-holes. A man naturally becomes leavened by the +profession which he has adopted. He thinks, speaks, and dreams "shop," +as the colloquial phrase has it. Men of letters are affected by their +profession just as merchants, physicians, and lawyers are. In course of +time the inner man becomes stained with ink, like blotting-paper. The +agriculturist talks constantly of bullocks--the man of letters constantly +of books. The printing-press seems constantly in his immediate +neighbourhood. He is stretched on the rack of an unfavourable +review,--he is lapped in the Elysium of a new edition. The narrowing +effect of a profession is in every man a defect, albeit an inevitable +one. Byron, who had a larger amount of common sense than any poet of his +day, tells us, in "Beppo," + + "One hates an author that's _all author_; fellows + In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink." + +And his lordship's "hate" in the matter is understandable enough. In his +own day, Scott and himself were almost the only distinguished authors who +were not "all authors," just as Mr. Helps and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton +are almost the only representatives of the class in ours. This +professional taint not only resides in the writer, impairing his fulness +and completion; it flows out of him into his work, and impairs it also. +It is the professional character which authorship has assumed which has +taken individuality and personal flavour from so much of our writing, and +prevented to a large extent the production of enduring books. Our +writing is done too hurriedly, and to serve a purpose too immediate. +Literature is not so much an art as a manufacture. There is a demand, +and too many crops are taken off the soil; it is never allowed to lie +fallow, and to nourish itself in peacefulness and silence. When so many +cups are to be filled, too much water is certain to be put into the +teapot. Letters have become a profession, and probably of all +professions it is, in the long run, the least conducive to personal +happiness. It is the most precarious. In it, above all others, to be +weak is to be miserable. It is the least mechanical, consequently the +most exhausting; and in its higher walks it deals with a man's most vital +material--utilises his emotions, trades on his faculties of love and +imagination, uses for its own purposes the human heart by which he lives. +These things a man requires for himself; and when they are in a large +proportion transported to an ideal world, they make the ideal world all +the more brilliant and furnished, and leave his ordinary existence all +the more arid and commonplace. You cannot spend money and have it; you +cannot use emotion and possess it. The poet who sings loudly of love and +love's delights, may in the ordinary intercourse of life be all the +colder for his singing. The man who has been moved while describing an +imaginary death-bed to-day, is all the more likely to be unmoved while +standing by his friend's grave to-morrow. Shakspeare, after emerging +from the moonlight in the Verona orchard, and Romeo and Juliet's silvery +interchange of vows, was, I fear me, not marvellously enamoured of the +autumn on Ann Hathaway's cheek. It is in some such way as this that a +man's books may impoverish his life; that the fire and heat of his genius +may make his hearth all the colder. From considerations like these, one +can explain satisfactorily enough to one's self the domestic +misadventures of men of letters--of poets especially. We know the poets +only in their books; their wives know them out of them. Their wives see +the other side of the moon; and we have been made pretty well aware how +they have appreciated _that_. + +The man engaged in the writing of books is tempted to make such writing +the be-all and end-all of his existence--to grow his literature out of +his history, experience, or observation, as the gardener grows out of +soils brought from a distance the plants which he intends to exhibit. +The cup of life foams fiercely over into first books; materials for the +second, third, and fourth must be carefully sought for. The man of +letters, as time passes on, and the professional impulse works deeper, +ceases to regard the world with a single eye. The man slowly merges into +the artist. He values new emotions and experiences, because he can turn +these into artistic shapes. He plucks "copy" from rising and setting +suns. He sees marketable pathos in his friend's death-bed. He carries +the peal of his daughter's marriage-bells into his sentences or his +rhymes; and in these the music sounds sweeter to him than in the sunshine +and the wind. If originally of a meditative, introspective mood, his +profession can hardly fail to confirm and deepen his peculiar +temperament. He begins to feel his own pulse curiously, and for a +purpose. As a spy in the service of literature, he lives in the world +and its concerns. Out of everything he seeks thoughts and images, as out +of everything the bee seeks wax and honey. A curious instance of this +mode of looking at things occurs in Goethe's "Letters from Italy," with +whom, indeed, it was fashion, and who helped himself out of the teeming +world to more effect than any man of his time:-- + +"From Botzen to Trent the stage is nine leagues, and runs through a +valley which constantly increases in fertility. All that merely +struggles into vegetation on the higher mountains has here more strength +and vitality. The sun shines with warmth, and there is once more belief +in a Deity. + +"A poor woman cried out to me to take her child into my vehicle, as the +soil was burning its feet. I did her this service out of honour to the +strong light of Heaven. The child was strangely decked out, _but I could +get nothing from it in any way_." + +It is clear that out of all this the reader gains; but I cannot help +thinking that for the writer it tends to destroy entire and simple +living--all hearty and final enjoyment in life. Joy and sorrow, death +and marriage, the comic circumstance and the tragic, what befalls him, +what he observes, what he is brought into contact with, do not affect him +as they affect other men; they are secrets to be rifled, stones to be +built with, clays to be moulded into artistic shape. In giving emotional +material artistic form, there is indisputably a certain noble pleasure; +but it is of a solitary and severe complexion, and takes a man out of the +circle and sympathies of his fellows. I do not say that this kind of +life makes a man selfish, but it often makes him _seem_ so; and the +results of this seeming, on friendship and the domestic relationships, +for instance, are as baleful as if selfishness really existed. The +peculiar temptation which besets men of letters, the curious playing with +thought and emotion, the tendency to analyse and take everything to +pieces, has two results, and neither aids his happiness nor even his +literary success. On the one hand, and in relation to the social +relations, it gives him somewhat of an icy aspect, and so breaks the +spring and eagerness of affectionate response. For the best affection is +shy, reticent, undemonstrative, and needs to be drawn out by its like. +If unrecognised, like an acquaintance on the street, it passes by, making +no sign, and is for the time being a stranger. On the other hand, the +desire to say a fine thing about a phenomenon, whether natural or moral, +prevents a man from reaching the inmost core of the phenomenon. Entrance +into these matters will never be obtained by the most sedulous seeking. +The man who has found an entrance cannot tell how he came there, and he +will never find his way back again by the same road. From this law +arises all the dreary conceits and artifices of the poets; it is through +the operation of the same law that many of our simple songs and ballads +are inexpressibly affecting, because in them there is no consciousness of +authorship; emotion and utterance are twin born, consentaneous--like +sorrow and tears, a blow and its pain, a kiss and its thrill. When a man +is happy, every effort to express his happiness mars its completeness. I +am not happy at all unless I am happier than I know. When the tide is +full there is silence in channel and creek. The silence of the lover +when he clasps the maid is better than the passionate murmur of the song +which celebrates her charms. If to be near the rose makes the +nightingale tipsy with delight, what must it be to be the rose herself? +One feeling of the "wild joys of living--the leaping from rock to rock," +is better than the "muscular-Christianity" literature which our time has +produced. I am afraid that the profession of letters interferes with the +elemental feelings of life; and I am afraid, too, that in the majority of +cases this interference is not justified by its results. The entireness +and simplicity of life is flawed by the intrusion of an inquisitive +element, and this inquisitive element never yet found anything which was +much worth the finding. Men live by the primal energies of love, faith, +imagination; and happily it is not given to every one to _live_, in the +pecuniary sense, by the artistic utilisation and sale of these. You +cannot make ideas; they must come unsought if they come at all. + + "From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine" + +is a profitable occupation enough, if you stumble on the little +churchyard covered over with silence, and folded among the hills. If you +go to the churchyard with intent to procure thought, as you go into the +woods to gather anemones, you are wasting your time. Thoughts must come +naturally, like wild flowers; they cannot be forced in a hot-bed--even +although aided by the leaf-mould of your past--like exotics. And it is +the misfortune of men of letters of our day that they cannot afford to +wait for this natural flowering of thought, but are driven to the forcing +process, with the results which were to be expected. + + + + +ON THE IMPORTANCE OF A MAN TO HIMSELF + +The present writer remembers to have been visited once by a strange +feeling of puzzlement; and the puzzled feeling arose out of the +following circumstance:--He was seated in a railway-carriage, five +minutes or so before starting, and had time to contemplate certain +waggons or trucks filled with cattle, drawn up on a parallel line, and +quite close to the window at which he sat. The cattle wore a +much-enduring aspect; and, as he looked into their large, patient, +melancholy eyes,--for, as before mentioned, there was no space to speak +of intervening,--the feeling of puzzlement alluded to arose in his +mind. And it consisted in an attempt to solve the existence before +him, to enter into it, to understand it, and his inability to +accomplish it, or indeed to make any way toward the accomplishment of +it. The much-enduring animals in the trucks opposite had +unquestionably some rude twilight of a notion of a world; of objects +they had some unknown cognisance; but he could get behind the +melancholy eye within a yard of him, and look through it. How, from +that window, the world shaped itself, he could not discover, could not +even fancy; and yet, staring on the animals, he was conscious of a +certain fascination in which there lurked an element of terror. These +wild, unkempt brutes, with slavering muzzles, penned together, lived, +could choose between this thing and the other, could be frightened, +could be enraged, could even love or hate; and gazing into a placid, +heavy countenance, and the depths of a patient eye, not a yard away, he +was conscious of an obscure and shuddering recognition, of a life akin +so far with his own. But to enter into that life imaginatively, and to +conceive it, he found impossible. Eye looked upon eye, but the one +could not flash recognition on the other; and, thinking of this, he +remembers, with what a sense of ludicrous horror, the idea came,--what, +if looking on one another thus, some spark of recognition could be +elicited; if some rudiment of thought could be detected; if there were +indeed a point at which man and ox could not compare notes? Suppose +some gleam or scintillation of humour had lighted up the unwinking, +amber eye? Heavens, the bellow of the weaning calf would be pathetic, +shoe-leather would be forsworn, the eating of roast meat, hot or cold, +would be cannibalism, the terrified world would make a sudden dash into +vegetarianism! Happily before fancy had time to play another vagary, +with a snort and pull the train moved on, and my truckful of horned +friends were left gazing into empty space, with the same wistful, +patient, and melancholy expression with which, for the space of five +minutes or so, they had surveyed and bewildered me. + +A similar feeling of puzzlement to that which I have indicated, besets +one not unfrequently in the contemplation of men and women. You are +brought in contact with a person, you attempt to comprehend him, to +enter into him, in a word to _be_ him, and, if you are utterly foiled +in the attempt, you cannot flatter yourself that you have been +successful to the measure of your desire. A person interests, or +piques, or tantalises you, you do your best to make him out; yet strive +as you will, you cannot read the riddle of his personality. From the +invulnerable fortress of his own nature he smiles contemptuously on the +beleaguering armies of your curiosity and analysis. And it is not only +the stranger that thus defeats you; it may be the brother brought up by +the same fireside with you, the best friend whom you have known from +early school and college days, the very child, perhaps, that bears your +name, and with whose moral and mental apparatus you think you are as +familiar as with your own. In the midst of the most amicable +relationships and the best understandings, human beings are, at times, +conscious of a cold feeling of strangeness--the friend is actuated by a +feeling which never could actuate you, some hitherto unknown part of +his character becomes visible, and while at one moment you stood in +such close neighbourhood, that you could feel his arm touch your own, +in the next there is a feeling of removal, of distance, of empty space +betwixt him and you in which the wind is blowing. You and he become +separate entities. He is related to you as Border peel is related to +Border peel on Tweedside, or as ship is related to ship on the sea. It +is not meant that any quarrel or direct misunderstanding should have +taken place, simply that feeling of foreignness is meant to be +indicated which occurs now and then in the intercourse of the most +affectionate; which comes as a harsh reminder to friends and lovers +that with whatsoever flowery bands they may be linked, they are +separated persons, who understand, and can only understand, each other +partially. It is annoying to be put out in our notions of men and +women thus, and to be forced to rearrange them. It is a misfortune to +have to manoeuvre one's heart as a general has to manoeuvre his army. +The globe has been circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has; you may +survey a kingdom and note the result in maps, but all the servants in +the world could not produce a reliable map of the poorest human +personality. And the worst of all this is, that love and friendship +may be the outcome of a certain condition of knowledge; increase the +knowledge, and love and friendship beat their wings and go. Every +man's road in life is marked by the graves of his personal likings. +Intimacy is frequently the road to indifference, and marriage a +parricide. From these accidents to the affections, and from the +efforts to repair them, life has in many a patched and tinkered look. + +Love and friendship are the discoveries of ourselves in others, and our +delight in the recognition; and in men, as in books, we only know that, +the parallel of which we have in ourselves. We know only that portion +of the world which we have travelled over; and we are never a whit +wiser than our own experiences. Imagination, the falcon, sits on the +wrist of Experience, the falconer; she can never soar beyond the reach +of his whistle, and when tired she must return to her perch. Our +knowledge is limited by ourselves, and so also are our imaginations. +And so it comes about, that a man measures everything by his own +foot-rule; that if he is ignoble, all the ignobleness that is in the +world looks out upon him, and claims kindred with him; if noble, all +the nobleness in the world does the like. Shakspeare is always the +same height with his reader; and when a thousand Christians subscribe +to one Confession of Faith, hardly to two of them does it mean the same +thing. The world is a great warehouse of raiment, to which every one +has access and is allowed free use; and the remarkable thing is, what +coarse stuffs are often chosen, and how scantily some people are +attired. + +We never get quit of ourselves. While I am writing, the spring is +outside, and this season of the year touches my spirit always with a +sense of newness, of strangeness, of resurrection. It shoots boyhood +again into the blood of middle age. That tender greening of the black +bough and the red field,--that coming again of the new-old +flowers,--that re-birth of love in all the family of birds, with +cooings, and caressings, and building of nests in wood and brake,--that +strange glory of sunshine in the air,--that stirring of life in the +green mould, making even churchyards beautiful,--seems like the +creation of a new world. And yet--and yet, even with the lamb in the +sunny field, the lark mile-high in the blue, Spring has her melancholy +side, and bears a sadder burden to the heart than Autumn, preaching of +decay with all his painted woods. For the flowers that make sweet the +moist places in the forest are not the same that bloomed the year +before. Another lark sings above the furrowed field. Nature rolls on +in her eternal course, repeating her tale of spring, summer, autumn, +winter; but life in man and beast is transitory, and other living +creatures take their places. It is quite certain that one or other of +the next twenty springs will come unseen by me, will awake no throb of +transport in my veins. But will it be less bright on that account? +Will the lamb be saddened in the field? Will the lark be less happy in +the air? The sunshine will draw the daisy from the mound under which I +sleep, as carelessly as she draws the cowslip from the meadow by the +riverside. The seasons have no ruth, no compunction. They care not +for our petty lives. The light falls sweetly on graveyards, and on +brown labourers among the hay-swaths. Were the world depopulated +to-morrow, next spring would break pitilessly bright, flowers would +bloom, fruit-tree boughs wear pink and white; and although there would +be no eye to witness, Summer would not adorn herself with one blossom +the less. It is curious to think how important a creature a man is to +himself. We cannot help thinking that all things exist for our +particular selves. The sun, in whose light a system lives, warms me; +makes the trees grow for me; paints the evening sky in gorgeous colours +for me. The mould I till, produced from the beds of extinct oceans and +the grating of rock and mountain during countless centuries, exists +that I may have muffins to breakfast. Animal life, with its strange +instincts and affections, is to be recognised and cherished,--for does +it not draw my burdens for me, and carry me from place to place, and +yield me comfortable broadcloth, and succulent joints to dinner? I +think it matter of complaint that Nature, like a personal friend to +whom I have done kind services, will not wear crape at my funeral. I +think it cruel that the sun should shine, and birds sing, and I lying +in my grave. People talk of the age of the world! So far as I am +concerned, it began with my consciousness, and will end with my decease. + +And yet, this self-consciousness, which so continually besets us, is in +itself a misery and a galling chain. We are never happy till by +imagination we are taken out of the pales and limits of self. We +receive happiness at second hand: the spring of it may be in ourselves, +but we do not know it to be happiness, till, like the sun's light from +the moon, it is reflected on us from an object outside. The admixture +of a foreign element sweetens and unfamiliarises it. Sheridan prepared +his good things in solitude, but he tasted for the first time his +jest's prosperity when it came back to him in illumined faces and a +roar of applause. Your oldest story becomes new when you have a new +auditor. A young man is truth-loving and amiable, but it is only when +these fair qualities shine upon him from a girl's face that he is +smitten by transport--only then is he truly happy. In that junction of +hearts, in that ecstasy of mutual admiration and delight, the finest +epithalamium ever writ by poet is hardly worthy of the occasion. The +countryman purchases oranges at a fair for his little ones; and when he +brings them home in the evening, and watches his chubby urchins, +sitting up among the bed-clothes, peel and devour the fruit, he is for +the time-being richer than if he drew the rental of the orange-groves +of Seville. To eat an orange himself is nothing; to see _them_ eat it +is a pleasure worth the price of the fruit a thousand times over. +There is no happiness in the world in which love does not enter; and +love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in +the recognition. Apart from others no man can make his happiness; just +as, apart from a mirror of one kind or another, no man can become +acquainted with his own lineaments. + +The accomplishment of a man is the light by which we are enabled to +discover the limits of his personality. Every man brings into the +world with him a certain amount of pith and force, and to that pith or +force his amount of accomplishment is exactly proportioned. It is in +this way that every spoken word, every action of a man, becomes +biographical. Everything a man says or does is in consistency with +himself; and it is by looking back on his sayings and doings that we +arrive at the truth concerning him. A man is one; and every outcome of +him has a family resemblance. Goldsmith did _not_ "write like an angel +and talk like poor Poll," as we may in part discern from Boswell's +"Johnson." Strange, indeed, if a man talked continually the sheerest +nonsense, and wrote continually the gracefulest humours; if a man was +lame on the street, and the finest dancer in the ball-room. To +describe a character by antithesis is like painting a portrait in black +and white--all the curious intermixtures and gradations of colour are +lost. The accomplishment of a human being is measured by his strength, +or by his nice tact in using his strength. The distance to which your +gun, whether rifled or smooth-bored, will carry its shot, depends upon +the force of its charge. A runner's speed and endurance depends upon +his depth of chest and elasticity of limb. If a poet's lines lack +harmony, it instructs us that there is a certain lack of harmony in +himself. We see why Haydon failed as an artist when we read his life. +No one can dip into the "Excursion" without discovering that Wordsworth +was devoid of humour, and that he cared more for the narrow Cumberland +vale than he did for the big world. The flavour of opium can be +detected in the "Ancient Mariner" and "Christabel." A man's word or +deed takes us back to himself, as the sunbeam takes us back to the sun. +It is the sternest philosophy, but on the whole the truest, that, in +the wide arena of the world, failure and success are not accidents as +we so frequently suppose, but the strictest justice. If you do your +fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage--in praise +or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste. You may have seen at +country fairs a machine by which the rustics test their strength of +arm. A country fellow strikes vigorously a buffer, which recoils, and +the amount of the recoil--dependent, of course, on the force with which +it is struck--is represented by a series of notches or marks. The +world is such a buffer. A man strikes it with all his might; his mark +may be 40,000 pounds, a peerage, and Westminster Abbey, a name in +literature or art; but in every case his mark is nicely determined by +the force or the art with which the buffer is struck. Into the world a +man brings his personality, and his biography is simply a catalogue of +its results. + +There are some men who have no individuality, just as there are some +men who have no face. These are to be described by generals, not by +particulars. They are thin, vapid, inconclusive. They are important +solely on account of their numbers. For them the census enumerator +labours; they form majorities; they crowd voting booths; they make the +money; they do the ordinary work of the world. They are valuable when +well officered. They are plastic matter to be shaped by a workman's +hand; and are built with as bricks are built with. In the aggregate, +they form public opinion; but then, in every age, public opinion is the +disseminated thoughts of some half a dozen men, who are in all +probability sleeping quietly in their graves. They retain dead men's +ideas, just as the atmosphere retains the light and heat of the set +sun. They are not light--they are twilight. To know how to deal with +such men--to know how to use them--is the problem which ambitious force +is called upon to solve. Personality, individuality, force of +character, or by whatever name we choose to designate original and +vigourous manhood, is the best thing which nature has in her gift. The +forceful man is a prophecy of the future. The wind blows here, but +long after it is spent the big wave which is its creature, breaks on a +shore a thousand miles away. It is curious how swiftly influences +travel from centre to circumference. A certain empress invents a +gracefully pendulous crinoline, and immediately, from Paris to the +pole, the female world is behooped; and neither objurgation of brother, +lover, or husband, deaths by burning or machinery, nor all the wit of +the satirists, are likely to affect its vitality. Never did an idea go +round civilisation so rapidly. Crinoline has already a heavier +martyrology than many a creed. The world is used easily, if one can +only hit on the proper method; and force of character, originality, of +whatever kind, is always certain to make its mark. It is a diamond, +and the world is its pane of glass. In a world so commonplace as this, +the peculiar man even should be considered a blessing. Humorousness, +eccentricity, the habit of looking at men and things from an odd angle, +are valuable, because they break the dead level of society and take +away its sameness. It is well that a man should be known by something +else than his name; there are few of us who can be known by anything +else, and Brown, Jones, and Robinson are the names of the majority. + +In literature and art, this personal outcome is of the highest value; +in fact, it is the only thing truly valuable. The greatness of an +artist or a writer does not depend on what he has in common with other +artists and writers, but on what he has peculiar to himself. The great +man is the man who does a thing for the first time. It was a difficult +thing to discover America; since it has been discovered, it has been +found an easy enough task to sail thither. It is this peculiar +something resident in a poem or a painting which is its final test,--at +all events, possessing it, it has the elements of endurance. Apart +from its other values, it has, in virtue of that, a biographical one; +it becomes a study of character; it is a window through which you can +look into a human interior. There is a cleverness in the world which +seems to have neither father nor mother. It exists, but it is +impossible to tell from whence it comes,--just as it is impossible to +lift the shed apple-blossom of an orchard, and to discover, from its +bloom and odour, to what branch it belonged. Such cleverness +illustrates nothing: it is an anonymous letter. Look at it ever so +long, and you cannot tell its lineage. It lives in the catalogue of +waifs and strays. On the other hand, there are men whose every +expression is characteristic, whose every idea seems to come out of a +mould. In the short sentence, or curt, careless saying of such when +laid bare, you can read their histories so far, as in the smallest +segment of a tree you can trace the markings of its rings. The first +dies, because it is shallow-rooted, and has no vitality beyond its own; +the second lives, because it is related to and fed by something higher +than itself. The famous axiom of Mrs. Glass, that in order to make +hare-soup you "must first catch your hare," has a wide significance. +In art, literature, social life, morals even, you must first catch your +man: that done, everything else follows as a matter of course. A man +may learn much; but for the most important thing of all he can find +neither teachers nor schools. + +Each man is the most important thing in the world to himself; but why +is he to himself so important? Simply because he is a personality with +capacities of pleasure, of pain, who can be hurt, who can be pleased, +who can be disappointed, who labours and expects his hire, in whose +consciousness, in fact, for the time being, the whole universe lives. +He is, and everything else is relative. Confined to his own +personality, making it his tower of outlook, from which only he can +survey the outer world, he naturally enough forms a rather high +estimate of its value, of its dignity, of its intrinsic worth. This +high estimate is useful in so far as it makes his condition pleasant, +and it--or rather our proneness to form it--we are accustomed to call +vanity. Vanity--which really helps to keep the race alive--has been +treated harshly by the moralists and satirists. It does not quite +deserve the hard names it has been called. It interpenetrates +everything a man says or does, but it inter-penetrates for a useful +purpose. If it is always an alloy in the pure gold of virtue, it at +least does the service of an alloy--making the precious metal workable. +Nature gave man his powers, appetites, aspirations, and along with +these a pan of incense, which fumes from the birth of consciousness to +its decease, making the best part of life rapture, and the worst part +endurable. But for vanity the race would have died out long ago. +There are some men whose lives seem to us as undesirable as the lives +of toads or serpents; yet these men breathe in tolerable content and +satisfaction. If a man could hear all that his fellows say of +him--that he is stupid, that he is henpecked, that he will be in the +_Gazette_ in a week, that his brain is softening, that he has said all +his best things--and if he could believe that these pleasant things are +true, he would be in his grave before the month was out. Happily no +man does hear these things; and if he did, they would only provoke +inextinguishable wrath or inextinguishable laughter. A man receives +the shocks of life on the buffer of his vanity. Vanity acts as his +second and bottleholder in the world's prize-ring, and it fights him +well, bringing him smilingly up to time after the fiercest knock-down +blows. Vanity is to a man what the oily secretion is to a bird, with +which it sleeks and adjusts the plumage ruffled by whatever causes. +Vanity is not only instrumental in keeping a man alive and in heart, +but, in its lighter manifestations, it is the great sweetener of social +existence. It is the creator of dress and fashion; it is the inventor +of forms and ceremonies, to it we are indebted for all our traditions +of civility. For vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as +willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts as sufficient +reward for its services a kind word or an approving smile. It delights +to bask in the sunshine of approbation. Out of man vanity makes +_gentle_man. The proud man is cold, the selfish man hard and +griping--the vain man desires to shine, to please, to make himself +agreeable; and this amiable feeling works to the outside of suavity and +charm of manner. The French are the vainest people in Europe, and the +most polite. + +As each man is to himself the most important thing in the world, each +man is an egotist in his thinkings, in his desires, in his fears. It +does not, however, follow that each man must be an egotist--as the word +is popularly understood--in his speech. But even although this were +the case, the world would be divided into egotists, likable and +unlikable. There are two kinds of egotism, a trifling vainglorious +kind, a mere burning of personal incense, in which the man is at once +altar, priest, censer, and divinity; a kind which deals with the +accidents and wrappages of the speaker, his equipage, his riches, his +family, his servants, his furniture and array. The other kind has no +taint of self-aggrandisement, but is rooted in the faculties of love +and humour, and this latter kind is never offensive, because it +includes others, and knows no scorn or exclusiveness. The one is the +offspring of a narrow and unimaginative personality; the other of a +large and genial one. There are persons who are the terrors of +society. Perfectly innocent of evil intention, they are yet, with a +certain brutal unconsciousness, continually trampling on other people's +corns. They touch you every now and again like a red-hot iron. You +wince, acquit them of any desire to wound, but find forgiveness a hard +task. These persons remember everything about themselves, and forget +everything about you. They have the instinct of a flesh-fly for a raw. +Should your great-grandfather have had the misfortune to be hanged, +such a person is certain, on some public occasion, to make allusion to +your pedigree. He will probably insist on your furnishing him with a +sketch of your family tree. If your daughter has made a runaway +marriage--on which subject yourself and friends maintain a judicious +silence--he is certain to stumble upon it, and make the old sore smart +again. In all this there is no malice, no desire to wound; it arises +simply from want of imagination, from profound immersion in self. An +imaginative man recognises at once a portion of himself in his fellow, +and speaks to that. To hurt you is to hurt himself. Much of the +rudeness we encounter in life cannot be properly set down to cruelty or +badness of heart. The unimaginative man is callous, and although he +hurts easily, he cannot be easily hurt in return. The imaginative man +is sensitive, and merciful to others, out of the merest mercy to +himself. + +In literature, as in social life, the attractiveness of egotism depends +entirely upon the egotist. If he be a conceited man, full of +self-admirations and vainglories, his egotism will disgust and repel. +When he sings his own praises, his reader feels that reflections are +being thrown on himself, and in a natural revenge he calls the writer a +coxcomb. If, on the other hand, he be loving, genial, humourous, with +a sympathy for others, his garrulousness and his personal allusions are +forgiven, because while revealing himself, he is revealing his reader +as well. A man may write about himself during his whole life without +once tiring or offending; but to accomplish this, he must be +interesting in himself--be a man of curious and vagrant moods, gifted +with the cunningest tact and humour; and the experience which he +relates must at a thousand points touch the experiences of his readers, +so that they, as it were, become partners in his game. When X. tells +me, with an evident swell of pride, that he dines constantly with +half-a-dozen men-servants in attendance, or that he never drives abroad +save in a coach-and-six, I am not conscious of any special gratitude to +X. for the information. Possibly, if my establishments boast only of +Cinderella, and if a cab is the only vehicle in which I can afford to +ride, and all the more if I can indulge in _that_ only on occasions of +solemnity, I fly into a rage, pitch the book to the other end of the +room, and may never afterwards be brought to admit that X. is possessor +of a solitary ounce of brains. If, on the other hand, Z. informs me +that every February he goes out to the leafless woods to hunt early +snowdrops, and brings home bunches of them in his hat; or that he +prefers in woman a brown eye to a blue, and explains by early love +passages his reasons for the preference, I do not get angry; on the +contrary, I feel quite pleased; perhaps, if the matter is related with +unusual grace and tenderness, it is read with a certain moisture and +dimness of eye. And the reason is obvious. The egotistical X. is +barren, and suggests nothing beyond himself, save that he is a good +deal better off than I am--a reflection much pleasanter to him than it +is to me; whereas the equally egotistical Z., with a single sentence +about his snowdrops, or his liking for brown eyes rather than for blue, +sends my thoughts wandering away back among my dead spring-times, or +wafts me the odours of the roses of those summers when the colour of an +eye was of more importance than it now is. X.'s men-servants and +coach-and-six do not fit into the life of his reader, because in all +probability his reader knows as much about these things as he knows +about Pharaoh; Z.'s snowdrops and preferences of colour do, because +every one knows what the spring thirst is, and every one in his time +has been enslaved by eyes whose colour he could not tell for his life, +but which he knew were the tenderest that ever looked love, the +brightest that ever flashed sunlight. Montaigne and Charles Lamb are +egotists of the Z. class, and the world never wearies reading them: nor +are egotists of the X. school absolutely without entertainment. +Several of these the world reads assiduously too, although for another +reason. The avid vanity of Mr. Pepys would be gratified if made aware +of the success of his diary; but curiously to inquire into the reason +of that success, _why_ his diary has been found so amusing, would not +conduce to his comfort. + +After all, the only thing a man knows is himself. The world outside he +can know only by hearsay. His shred of personality is all he has; than +that, he is nothing richer nothing poorer. Everything else is mere +accident and appendage. Alexander must not be measured by the +shoutings of his armies, nor Lazarus at Dives' gates by his sores. And +a man knows himself only in part. In every nature, as in Australia, +there is an unexplored territory--green, well-watered regions or mere +sandy deserts; and into that territory experience is making progress +day by day. We can remember when we knew only the outer childish +rim--and from the crescent guessed the sphere; whether, as we advanced, +these have been realised, each knows for himself. + + + + +A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE + +When a man glances critically through the circle of his intimate friends, +he is obliged to confess that they are far from being perfect. They +possess neither the beauty of Apollo, nor the wisdom of Solon, nor the +wit of Mercutio, nor the reticence of Napoleon III. If pushed hard he +will be constrained to admit that he has known each and all get angry +without sufficient occasion, make at times the foolishest remarks, and +act as if personal comfort were the highest thing in their estimation. +Yet, driven thus to the wall, forced to make such uncomfortable +confessions, our supposed man does not like his friends one whit the +less; nay, more, he is aware that if they were very superior and +faultless persons he would not be conscious of so much kindly feeling +towards them. The tide of friendship does not rise high on the bank of +perfection. Amiable weaknesses and shortcomings are the food of love. +It is from the roughnesses and imperfect breaks in a man that you are +able to lay hold of him. If a man be an entire and perfect chrysolite, +you slide off him and fall back into ignorance. My friends are not +perfect--no more am I--and so we suit each other admirably. Their +weaknesses keep mine in countenance, and so save me from humiliation and +shame. We give and take, bear and forbear; the stupidity they utter +to-day salves the recollection of the stupidity I uttered yesterday; in +their want of wit I see my own, and so feel satisfied and kindly +disposed. It is one of the charitable dispensations of Providence that +perfection is not essential to friendship. If I had to seek my perfect +man, I should wander the world a good while, and when I found him, and +was down on my knees before him, he would, to a certainty, turn the cold +shoulder on me--and so life would be an eternal search, broken by the +coldness of repulse and loneliness. Only to the perfect being in an +imperfect world, or the imperfect being in a perfect world, is everything +irretrievably out of joint. + +On a certain shelf in the bookcase which stands in the room in which I am +at present sitting--bookcase surmounted by a white Dante, looking out +with blind, majestic eyes--are collected a number of volumes which look +somewhat the worse for wear. Those of them which originally possessed +gilding have had it fingered off, each of them has leaves turned down, +and they open of themselves at places wherein I have been happy, and with +whose every word I am familiar as with the furniture of the room in which +I nightly slumber, each of them has remarks relevant and irrelevant +scribbled on their margins. These favourite volumes cannot be called +peculiar glories of literature; but out of the world of books have I +singled them, as I have singled my intimates out of the world of men. I +am on easy terms with them, and feel that they are no higher than my +heart. Milton is not there, neither is Wordsworth; Shakspeare, if he had +written comedies only, would have been there to a certainty, but the +presence of the _five_ great tragedies,--Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Lear, +Antony and Cleopatra--for this last should be always included among his +supreme efforts--has made me place him on the shelf where the mighty men +repose, himself the mightiest of all. Reading Milton is like dining off +gold plate in a company of kings; very splendid, very ceremonious, and +not a little appalling. Him I read but seldom, and only on high days and +festivals of the spirit. Him I never lay down without feeling my +appreciation increased for lesser men--never without the same kind of +comfort that one returning from the presence feels when he doffs +respectful attitude and dress of ceremony, and subsides into old coat, +familiar arm-chair, and slippers. After long-continued organ-music, the +jangle of the jews-harp is felt as an exquisite relief. With the volumes +on the special shelf I have spoken of, I am quite at home, and I feel +somehow as if they were at home with me. And as to-day the trees bend to +the blast, and the rain comes in dashes against my window, and as I have +nothing to do and cannot get out, and wish to kill the hours in as +pleasant a manner as I can, I shall even talk about them, as in sheer +liking a man talks about the trees in his garden, or the pictures on his +wall. I can't expect to say anything very new or striking, but I can +give utterance to sincere affection, and that is always pleasant to one's +self and generally not ungrateful to others. + +First; then, on this special shelf stands Nathaniel Hawthorne's +"Twice-Told Tales." + +It is difficult to explain why I like these short sketches and essays, +written in the author's early youth, better than his later, more +finished, and better-known novels and romances. The world sets greater +store by "The Scarlet Letter" and "Transformation" than by this little +book--and, in such matters of liking against the judgment of the world, +there is no appeal. I think the reason of my liking consists in +this--that the novels were written for the world, while the tales seem +written for the author; in these he is actor and audience in one. +Consequently, one gets nearer him, just as one gets nearer an artist in +his first sketch than in his finished picture. And after all, one takes +the greatest pleasure in those books in which a peculiar personality is +most clearly revealed. A thought may be very commendable as a thought, +but I value it chiefly as a window through which I can obtain insight on +the thinker; and Mr. Hawthorne's personality is peculiar, and specially +peculiar in a new country like America. He is quiet, fanciful, quaint, +and his humour is shaded by a meditativeness of spirit. Although a +Yankee, he partakes of none of the characteristics of a Yankee. His +thinking and his style have an antique air. His roots strike down +through the visible mould of the present, and draw sustenance from the +generations under ground. The ghosts that haunt the chamber of his mind +are the ghosts of dead men and women. He has a strong smack of the +Puritan; he wears around him, in the New England town, something of the +darkness and mystery of the aboriginal forest. He is a shy, silent, +sensitive, much ruminating man, with no special overflow of animal +spirits. He loves solitude, and the things which age has made reverent. +There is nothing modern about him. Emerson's writing has a cold +cheerless glitter, like the new furniture in a warehouse, which will come +of use by and by; Hawthorne's, the rich, subdued colour of furniture in a +Tudor mansion-house--which has winked to long-extinguished fires, which +has been toned by the usage of departed generations. In many of the +"Twice-Told Tales" this peculiar personality is charmingly exhibited. He +writes of the street or the sea-shore, his eye takes in every object, +however trifling, and on these he hangs comments, melancholy and +humourous. He does not require to go far for a subject; he will stare on +the puddle in the street of a New England village, and immediately it +becomes a Mediterranean Sea with empires lying on its muddy shores. If +the sermon be written out fully in your heart, almost any text will be +suitable--if you have to find your sermon _in_ your text, you may search +the Testament, New and Old, and be as poor at the close of Revelation as +when you started at the first book of Genesis. Several of the papers +which I like best are monologues, fanciful, humourous, or melancholy; and +of these, my chief favourites are "Sunday at Home," "Night Sketches," +"Footprints on the Seashore," and "The Seven Vagabonds." This last seems +to me almost the most exquisite thing which has flowed from its author's +pen--a perfect little drama, the place, a showman's waggon, the time, the +falling of a summer shower, full of subtle suggestions which, if +followed, will lead the reader away out of the story altogether; and +illuminated by a grave, wistful kind of humour, which plays in turns upon +the author's companions and upon the author himself. Of all Mr. +Hawthorne's gifts, this gift of humour--which would light up the skull +and cross-bones of a village churchyard, which would be silent at a +dinner-table--is to me the most delightful. + +Then this writer has a strangely weird power. He loves ruins like the +ivy, he skims the twilight like the bat, he makes himself a familiar of +the phantoms of the heart and brain. He is fascinated by the jarred +brain and the ruined heart. Other men collect china, books, pictures, +jewels; this writer collects singular human experiences, ancient wrongs +and agonies, murders done on unfrequented roads, crimes that seem to have +no motive, and all the dreary mysteries of the world of will. To his +chamber of horrors Madame Tussaud's is nothing. With proud, prosperous, +healthy men, Mr. Hawthorne has little sympathy; he prefers a cracked +piano to a new one; he likes cobwebs in the corners of his rooms. All +this peculiar taste comes out strongly in the little book in whose praise +I am writing. I read "The Minister's Black Veil," and find it the first +sketch of "The Scarlet Letter." In "Wakefield,"--the story of the man +who left his wife, remaining away twenty years, but who yet looked upon +her every day to appease his burning curiosity as to her manner of +enduring his absence--I find the keenest analysis of an almost +incomprehensible act. + +And then Mr. Hawthorne has a skill in constructing allegories which no +one of his contemporaries, either English or American, possesses. These +allegorical papers may be read with pleasure for their ingenuity, their +grace, their poetical feeling; but just as, gazing on the surface of a +stream, admiring the ripples and eddies, and the widening rings made by +the butterfly falling into it, you begin to be conscious that there is +something at the bottom, and gradually a dead face wavers upwards from +the oozy weeds, becoming every moment more clearly defined, so through +Mr. Hawthorne's graceful sentences, if read attentively, begins to flash +the hidden meaning, a meaning, perhaps, the writer did not care to +express formally and in set terms, and which he merely suggests and +leaves the reader to make out for himself. If you have the book I am +writing about, turn up "David Swan," "The Great Carbuncle," "The Fancy +Show-box," and after you have read these, you will understand what I mean. + +The next two books on my shelf--books at this moment leaning on the +"Twice-Told Tales"--are Professor Aytoun's "Ballads of Scotland," and the +"Lyra Germanica." These books I keep side by side with a purpose. The +forms of existence with which they deal seem widely separated; but a +strong kinship exists between them, for all that. I open Professor +Aytoun's book, and all this modern life--with its railways, its +newspapers, its crowded cities, its Lancashire distresses, its debates in +Parliament--fades into nothingness and silence. Scotland, from Edinburgh +rock to the Tweed, stretches away in rude spaces of moor and forest. The +wind blows across it, unpolluted by the smoke of towns. That which lives +now has not yet come into existence; what are to-day crumbling and ivied +ruins, are warm with household fires, and filled with human activities. +Every Border keep is a home: brides are taken there in their blushes; +children are born there; gray men, the crucifix held over them, die +there. The moon dances on a plump of spears, as the moss-troopers, by +secret and desert paths, ride over into England to lift a prey, and the +bale-fire on the hill gives the alarm to Cumberland. Men live and marry, +and support wife and little ones by steel-jacket and spear; and the +Flower of Yarrow, when her larder is empty, claps a pair of spurs in her +husband's platter. A time of strife and foray, of plundering and +burning, of stealing and reaving; when hate waits half a lifetime for +revenge, and where difficulties are solved by the slash of a sword-blade. +I open the German book, and find a warfare conducted in a different +manner. Here the Devil rides about wasting and destroying. Here +temptations lie in wait for the soul; here pleasures, like glittering +meteors, lure it into marshes and abysses. Watch and ward are kept here, +and to sleep at the post is death. Fortresses are built on the rock of +God's promises--inaccessible to the arrows of the wicked,--and therein +dwell many trembling souls. Conflict rages around, not conducted by +Border spear on barren moorland, but by weapons of faith and prayer in +the devout German heart;--a strife earnest as the other, with issues of +life and death. And the resemblance between the books lies in this, that +when we open them these past experiences and conditions of life gleam +visibly to us far down like submerged cities--all empty and hollow now, +though once filled with life as real as our own--through transparent +waters. + +In glancing over these German hymns, one is struck by their adaptation to +the seasons and occurrences of ordinary life. Obviously, too, the +writer's religion was not a Sunday matter only, it had its place in +week-days as well. In these hymns there is little gloom, a healthy human +cheerfulness pervades many of them, and this is surely as it ought to be. +These hymns, as I have said, are adapted to the occasions of ordinary +life; and this speaks favourably of the piety which produced them. I do +not suppose that we English are less religious than other nations, but we +are undemonstrative in this, as in most things. We have the sincerest +horror of over-dressing ourselves in fine sentiments. We are a little +shy of religion. We give it a day entirely to itself, and make it a +stranger to the other six. We confine it in churches, or in the closet +at home, and never think of taking it with us to the street, or into our +business, or with us to the festival, or the gathering of friends. Dr. +Arnold used to complain that he could get religious subjects treated in a +masterly way, but could not get common subjects treated in a religious +spirit. The Germans have done better; they have melted down the Sunday +into the week. They have hymns embodying confessions of sin, hymns in +the near prospect of death: and they have--what is more +important--spiritual songs that may be sung by soldiers on the march, by +the artisan at the loom, by the peasant following his team, by the mother +among her children, and by the maiden sitting at her wheel listening for +the step of her lover. Religion is thus brought in to refine and hallow +the sweet necessities and emotions of life, to cheer its weariness, and +to exalt its sordidness. The German life revolves like the village +festival with the pastor in the midst--joy and laughter and merry games +do not fear the holy man, for he wears no unkindness in his eye, but his +presence checks everything boisterous or unseemly,--the rude word, the +petulant act,--and when it has run its course, he uplifts his hands and +leaves his benediction on his children. + +The "Lyra Germanica" contains the utterances of pious German souls in all +conditions of life during many centuries. In it hymns are to be found +written not only by poor clergymen, and still poorer precentors, by +ribbon-manufacturers and shoemakers, who, amid rude environments, had a +touch of celestial melody in their hearts, but by noble ladies and +gentlemen, and crowned kings. The oldest in the collection is one +written by King Robert of France about the year 1000. It is beautifully +simple and pathetic. State is laid aside with the crown, pride with the +royal robe, and Lazarus at Dives' gate could not have written out of a +lowlier heart. The kingly brow may bear itself high enough before men, +the voice may be commanding and imperious enough, cutting through +contradiction as with a sword; but before the Highest all is humbleness +and bended knees. Other compositions there are, scattered through the +volume, by great personages, several by Louisa Henrietta, Electress of +Brandenburg, and Anton Ulrich, Duke of Brunswick,--all written two +hundred years ago. These are genuine poems, full of faith and charity, +and calm trust in God. They are all dead now, these noble gentlemen and +gentlewomen; their warfare, successful or adverse, has been long closed; +but they gleam yet in my fancy, like the white effigies on tombs in dim +cathedrals, the marble palms pressed together on the marble breast, the +sword by the side of the knight, the psalter by the side of the lady, and +flowing around them the scrolls on which are inscribed the texts of +resurrection. + +This book contains surely one of the most touching of human +compositions,--a song of Luther's. The great Reformer's music resounds +to this day in our churches; and one of the rude hymns he wrote has such +a step of thunder in it that the father of Frederick the Great, Mr. +Carlyle tells us, used to call it "God Almighty's Grenadier March." This +one I speak of is of another mood, and is soft as tears. To appreciate +it thoroughly, one must think of the burly, resolute, humourous, and +withal tender-hearted man, and of the work he accomplished. He it was, +the Franklin's kite, led by the highest hand, that went up into the papal +thundercloud hanging black over Europe; and the angry fire that broke +upon it burned it not, and in roars of boltless thunder the apparition +collapsed, and the sun of truth broke through the inky fragments on the +nations once again. He it was who, when advised not to trust himself in +Worms, declared, "Although there be as many devils in Worms as there are +tiles on the house-tops, I will go." He it was who, when brought to bay +in the splendid assemblage, said, "It is neither safe nor prudent to do +aught against conscience. Here stand I--I cannot do otherwise. God help +me. Amen." The rock cannot move--the lightnings may splinter it. Think +of these things, and then read Luther's "Christmas Carol," with its +tender inscription, "Luther--written for his little son Hans, 1546." +Coming from another pen, the stanzas were perhaps not much; coming from +_his_, they move one like the finest eloquence. This song sunk deep into +the hearts of the common people, and is still sung from the dome of the +Kreuz Kirche in Dresden before daybreak on Christmas morning. + +There is no more delightful reading in the world than these Scottish +ballads. The mailed knight, the Border peel, the moonlight raid, the +lady at her bower window--all these have disappeared from the actual +world, and lead existence now as songs. Verses and snatches of these +ballads are continually haunting and twittering about my memory, as in +summer the swallows haunt and twitter about the eaves of my dwelling. I +know them so well, and they meet a mortal man's experience so fully, that +I am sure--with, perhaps, a little help from Shakspeare--I could conduct +the whole of my business by quotation,--do all its love-making, pay all +its tavern-scores, quarrel and make friends again, in their words, far +better than I could in my own. If you know these ballads, you will find +that they mirror perfectly your every mood. If you are weary and +down-hearted, behold, a verse starts to your memory trembling with the +very sigh you have heaved. If you are merry, a stanza is dancing to the +tune of your own mirth. If you love, be you ever so much a Romeo, here +is the finest language for your using. If you hate, here are words which +are daggers. If you like battle, here for two hundred years have +trumpets been blowing and banners flapping. If you are dying, plentiful +are the broken words here which have hovered on failing lips. Turn where +you will, some fragment of a ballad is sure to meet you. Go into the +loneliest places of experience and passion, and you discover that you are +walking in human footprints. If you should happen to lift the first +volume of Professor Aytoun's "Ballads of Scotland," the book of its own +accord will open at "Clerk Saunders," and by that token you will guess +that the ballad has been read and re-read a thousand times. And what a +ballad it is! The story in parts is somewhat perilous to deal with, but +with what instinctive delicacy the whole matter is managed! Then what +tragic pictures, what pathos, what manly and womanly love! Just fancy +how the sleeping lovers, the raised torches, and the faces of the seven +brothers looking on, would gleam on the canvas of Mr. Millais!-- + + "'For in may come my seven bauld brothers, + Wi' torches burning bright.' + + "It was about the midnight hour, + And they were fa'en asleep, + When in and came her seven brothers, + And stood at her bed feet. + + "Then out and spake the first o' them, + 'We 'll awa' and let them be.' + Then out and spake the second o' them, + 'His father has nae mair than he.' + + "Then out and spake the third o' them, + 'I wot they are lovers dear.' + Then out and spake the fourth o' them, + 'They ha'e lo'ed for mony a year.' + + "Then out and spake the fifth o' them, + 'It were sin true love to twain.' + ''Twere shame,' out spake the sixth o' them, + 'To slay a sleeping man!' + + "Then up and gat the seventh o' them, + And never word spake he, + But he has striped his bright-brown brand + Through Saunders's fair bodie. + + "Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd + Into his arms as asleep she lay, + And sad and silent was the night + That was atween thir twae." + + +Could a word be added or taken from these verses without spoiling the +effect? You never think of the language, so vividly is the picture +impressed on the imagination. I see at this moment the sleeping pair, +the bright burning torches, the lowering faces of the brethren, and the +one fiercer and darker than the others. + +Pass we now to the Second Part-- + + "Sae painfully she clam' the wa', + She clam' the wa' up after him; + Hosen nor shoon upon her feet + She had na time to put them on. + + "'Is their ony room at your head, Saunders? + Is there ony room at your feet? + Or ony room at your side, Saunders, + Where fain, fain I wad sleep?'" + + +In that last line the very heart-strings crack. She is to be pitied far +more than Clerk Saunders, lying stark with the cruel wound beneath his +side, the love-kisses hardly cold yet upon his lips. + +It may be said that the books of which I have been speaking attain to the +highest literary excellence by favour of simplicity and unconsciousness. +Neither the German nor the Scotsman considered himself an artist. The +Scot sings a successful foray, in which perhaps he was engaged, and he +sings as he fought. In combat he did not dream of putting himself in a +heroic position, or of flourishing his blade in a manner to be admired. +A thrust of a lance would soon have finished him if he had. The pious +German is over-laden with grief, or touched by some blessing into sudden +thankfulness, and he breaks into song as he laughs from gladness or +groans from pain. This directness and naturalness give Scottish ballad +and German hymn their highest charm. The poetic gold, if rough and +unpolished, and with no elaborate devices carved upon it, is free at +least from the alloy of conceit and simulation. Modern writers might, +with benefit to themselves, barter something of their finish and +dexterity for that pure innocence of nature, and child-like simplicity +and fearlessness, full of its own emotion, and unthinking of others or of +their opinions, which characterise these old writings. + +The eighteenth century must ever remain the most brilliant and +interesting period of English literary history. It is interesting not +only on account of its splendour, but because it is so well known. We +are familiar with the faces of its great men by portraits, and with the +events of their lives by innumerable biographies. Every reader is +acquainted with Pope's restless jealousy, Goldsmith's pitted countenance +and plum-coloured coat, Johnson's surly manners and countless +eccentricities, and with the tribe of poets who lived for months ignorant +of clean linen, who were hunted by bailiffs, who smelt of stale punch, +and who wrote descriptions of the feasts of the gods in twopenny +cook-shops. Manners and modes of thought had greatly changed since the +century before. Macbeth, in silk stockings and scarlet coat, slew King +Duncan, and the pit admired the wild force occasionally exhibited by the +barbarian Shakspeare. In those days the Muse wore patches, and sat in a +sumptuous boudoir, and her worshippers surrounded her in high-heeled +shoes, ruffles, and powdered wigs. When the poets wished to paint +nature, they described Chloe sitting on a green bank watching her sheep, +or sighing when Strephon confessed his flame. And yet, with all this +apparent shallowness, the age was earnest enough in its way. It was a +good hater. It was filled with relentless literary feuds. Just recall +the lawless state of things on the Scottish Border in the olden +time,--the cattle-lifting, the house-burning, the midnight murders, the +powerful marauders, who, safe in numerous retainers and moated keep, bade +defiance to law; recall this state of things, and imagine the quarrels +and raids literary, the weapons satire and wit, and you have a good idea +of the darker aspect of the time. There were literary reavers, who laid +desolate at a foray a whole generation of wits. There were literary +duels, fought out in grim hate to the very death. It was dangerous to +interfere in the literary _mêlée_. Every now and then a fine gentleman +was run through with a jest, or a foolish Maecenas stabbed to the heart +with an epigram, and his foolishness settled for ever. + +As a matter of course, on this special shelf of books will be found +Boswell's "Life of Johnson"--a work in our literature unique, priceless. +That altogether unvenerable yet profoundly venerating Scottish +gentleman,--that queerest mixture of qualities, of force and weakness, +blindness and insight, vanity and solid worth,--has written the finest +book of its kind which our nation possesses. It is quite impossible to +over-state its worth. You lift it, and immediately the intervening years +disappear, and you are in the presence of the Doctor. You are made free +of the last century, as you are free of the present. You double your +existence. The book is a letter of introduction to a whole knot of +departed English worthies. In virtue of Boswell's labours, we know +Johnson--the central man of his time--better than Burke did, or +Reynolds,--far better even than Boswell did. We know how he expressed +himself, in what grooves his thoughts ran, how he ate, drank, and slept. +Boswell's unconscious art is wonderful, and so is the result attained. +This book has arrested, as never book did before, time and decay. Bozzy +is really a wizard: he makes the sun stand still. Till his work is done, +the future stands respectfully aloof. Out of ever-shifting time he has +made fixed and permanent certain years, and in these Johnson talks and +argues, while Burke listens, and Reynolds takes snuff, and Goldsmith, +with hollowed hand, whispers a sly remark to his neighbour. There have +they sat, these ghosts, for seventy years now, looked at and listened to +by the passing generations; and there they still sit, the one voice going +on! Smile at Boswell as we may, he was a spiritual phenomenon quite as +rare as Johnson. More than most he deserves our gratitude. Let us hope +that when next Heaven sends England a man like Johnson, a companion and +listener like Boswell will be provided. The Literary Club sits forever. +What if the Mermaid were in like eternal session, with Shakspeare's +laughter ringing through the fire and hail of wit! + +By the strangest freak of chance or liking, the next book on my shelf +contains the poems of Ebenezer Elliott, the Corn-law Rhymer. This +volume, adorned by a hideous portrait of the author, I can well remember +picking up at a bookstall for a few pence many years ago. It seems +curious to me that this man is not in these days better known. A more +singular man has seldom existed,--seldom a more genuine. His first +business speculation failed, but when about forty he commenced again, and +this time fortune made amends for her former ill-treatment. His +warehouse was a small, dingy place, filled with bars of iron, with a bust +of Shakspeare looking down on the whole. His country-house contained +busts; of Achilles, Ajax, and Napoleon. Here is a poet who earned a +competence as an iron-merchant; here is a monomaniac on the Corn-laws, +who loved nature as intensely as ever did Burns or Wordsworth. Here is a +John Bright uttering himself in fiery and melodious verse,--Apollo with +iron dust on his face, wandering among the Sheffield knife-grinders! If +you wish to form some idea of the fierce discontent which thirty years +ago existed amongst the working men of England, you should read the +Corn-law Rhymes. The Corn-laws are to him the twelve plagues of Egypt +rolled together. On account of them he denounces his country as the +Hebrew prophets were wont to denounce Tyre and Sidon. His rage breaks +out into curses, which are _not_ forgiveness. He is maddened by the +memory of Peterloo. Never, perhaps, was a sane human being so tyrannised +over by a single idea. A skeleton was found on one of the Derbyshire +hills. Had the man been crossed in love? had he crept up there to die in +the presence of the stars? "Not at all," cries Elliott; "he was a victim +of the Corn-laws, who preferred dying on the mountain-top to receiving +parish pay." In his wild poem all the evil kings in Hades descend from +their thrones when King George enters. They only let slip the dogs of +war; he taxed the people's bread. "Sleep on, proud Britoness!" he +exclaims over a woman at rest in the grave she had purchased. In one of +his articles in _Tait's Magazine_, he seriously proposed that tragedies +should be written showing the evils of the Corn-laws, and that on a given +night they should be performed in every theatre of the kingdom, so that +the nation might, by the speediest possible process, be converted to the +gospel of Free-trade. In his eyes the Corn-laws had gathered into their +black bosoms every human wrong: repeal them, and lo! the new heavens and +the new earth! A poor and shallow theory of the universe, you will say; +but it is astonishing what poetry he contrives to extract out of it. It +is hardly possible, without quotation, to give an idea of the rage and +fury which pervade these poems. He curses his political opponents with +his whole heart and soul. He pillories them, and pelts them with dead +cats and rotten eggs. The earnestness of his mood has a certain terror +in it for meek and quiet people. His poems are of the angriest, but +their anger is not altogether undivine. His scorn blisters and scalds, +his sarcasm flays; but then outside nature is constantly touching him +with a summer breeze or a branch of pink and white apple-blossom, and his +mood becomes tenderness itself. He is far from being lachrymose; and +when he is pathetic, he affects one as when a strong man sobs. His anger +is not nearly so frightful as his tears. I cannot understand why Elliott +is so little read. Other names not particularly remarkable I meet in the +current reviews--his never. His book stands on my shelf, but on no other +have I seen it. This I think strange, because, apart from the intrinsic +value of his verse as verse, it has an historical value. Evil times and +embittered feelings, now happily passed away, are preserved in his books, +like Pompeii and Herculaneum in Vesuvian lava. He was a poet of the +poor, but in a quite peculiar sense. Burns, Crabbe, Wordsworth, were +poets of the poor, but mainly of the peasant poor. Elliott is the poet +of the English artisans,--men who read newspapers and books, who are +members of mechanics' institutes, who attend debating societies, who +discuss political measures and political men, who are tormented by +ideas,--a very different kind of persons altogether. It is easier to +find poetry beneath the blowing hawthorn than beneath the plumes of +factory or furnace smoke. In such uninviting atmospheres Ebenezer +Elliott found his; and I am amazed that the world does not hold it in +greater regard, if for nothing else than for its singularity. + + +There is many another book on my shelf on which I might dilate, but this +gossiping must be drawn to a close. When I began, the wind was bending +the trees, and the rain came against the window in quick, petulant +dashes. For hours now, wind and rain have ceased, the trees are +motionless, the garden walk is dry. The early light of wintry sunset is +falling across my paper, and, as I look up, the white Dante opposite is +dipped in tender rose. Less stern he looks, but not less sad, than he +did in the morning. The sky is clear, and an arm of bleak pink vapour +stretches up into its depths. The air is cold with frost, and the rain +which those dark clouds in the east hold will fall during the night in +silent, feathery flakes. When I wake to-morrow, the world will be +changed, frosty forests will cover my bedroom panes, the tree branches +will be furred with snows; and to the crumbs which it is my daily custom +to sprinkle on the shrubbery walk will come the lineal descendant of the +charitable redbreast that covered up with leaves the sleeping children in +the wood. + + + + +GEOFFREY CHAUCER + +Chaucer is admitted on all hands to be a great poet, but, by the +general public at least, he is not frequently read. He is like a +cardinal virtue, a good deal talked about, a good deal praised, +honoured by a vast amount of distant admiration, but with little +practical acquaintance. And for this there are many and obvious +reasons. He is an ancient, and the rich old mahogany is neglected for +the new and glittering veneer. He is occasionally gross; often tedious +and obscure; he frequently leaves a couple of lovers, to cite the +opinions of Greek and Roman authors; and practice and patience are +required to melt the frost of his orthography, and let his music flow +freely. In the conduct of his stories he is garrulous, homely, and +slow-paced. He wrote in a leisurely world, when there was plenty of +time for writing and reading, long before the advent of the printer's +devil or of Mr. Mudie. There is little of the lyrical element in him. +He does not dazzle by sentences. He is not quotable. He does not +shine in extracts so much as in entire poems. There is a pleasant +equality about his writing; he advances through a story at an even +pace, glancing round him on everything with curious, humourous eyes, +and having his say about everything. He is the prince of +story-tellers, and however much he may move others, he is not moved +himself. His mood is so kindly that he seems always to have written +after dinner, or after hearing good news,--that he had received from +the king another grant of wine, for instance,--and he discourses of +love and lovers' raptures, and the disappointments of life, half +sportively, half sadly, like one who has passed through all, felt the +sweetness and the bitterness of it, and been able to strike a balance. +He had his share of crosses and misfortune, but his was a nature which +time and sorrow could only mellow and sweeten; and for all that had +come and gone, he loved his "books clothed in black and red," to sit at +good men's feasts; and if silent at table, as the Countess of Pembroke +reported, the "stain upon his lip was wine." Chaucer's face is to his +writings the best preface and commentary; it is contented-looking, like +one familiar with pleasant thoughts, shy and self-contained somewhat, +as if he preferred his own company to the noisy and rude companionship +of his fellows; and the outlines are bland, fleshy, voluptuous, as of +one who had a keen relish for the pleasures that leave no bitter +traces. Tears and mental trouble, and the agonies of doubt, you cannot +think of in connexion with it; laughter is sheathed in it, the light of +a smile is diffused over it. In face and turn of genius he differs in +every respect from his successor, Spenser; and in truth, in Chaucer and +Spenser we see the fountains of the two main streams of British song: +the one flowing through the drama and the humourous narrative, the +other through the epic and the didactic poem. Chaucer rooted himself +firmly in fact, and looked out upon the world in a half-humourous, +half-melancholy mood. Spenser had but little knowledge of men as +_men_; the cardinal virtues were the personages he was acquainted with; +in everything he was "high fantastical," and, as a consequence, he +exhibits neither humour nor pathos. Chaucer was thoroughly national; +his characters, place them where he may,--in Thebes or Tartary,--are +natives of one or other of the English shires. Spenser's genius was +country-less as Ariel; search ever so diligently, you will not find an +English daisy in all his enchanted forests. Chaucer was tolerant of +everything, the vices not excepted; morally speaking, an easy-going +man, he took the world as it came, and did not fancy himself a whit +better than his fellows. Spenser was a Platonist, and fed his grave +spirit on high speculations and moralities. Severe and chivalrous, +dreaming of things to come, unsuppled by luxury, unenslaved by passion, +somewhat scornful and self-sustained, it needed but a tyrannous king, +an electrical political atmosphere, and a deeper interest in theology +to make a Puritan of him, as these things made a Puritan of Milton. +The differences between Chaucer and Spenser are seen at a glance in +their portraits. Chaucer's face is round, good-humoured, +constitutionally pensive, and thoughtful. You see in it that he has +often been amused, and that he may easily be amused again. Spenser's +is of sharper and keener feature, disdainful, and breathing that +severity which appertains to so many of the Elizabethan men. A +fourteenth-century child, with delicate prescience, would have asked +Chaucer to assist her in a strait, and would not have been +disappointed. A sixteenth-century child in like circumstances would +have shrunk from drawing on herself the regards of the sterner-looking +man. We can trace the descent of the Chaucerian face and genius in +Shakspeare and Scott, of the Spenserian in Milton and Wordsworth. In +our day, Mr. Browning takes after Chaucer, Mr. Tennyson takes after +Spenser. + +Hazlitt, writing of the four great English poets, tells us, Chaucer's +characteristic is intensity, Spenser's remoteness, Milton's sublimity, +and Shakspeare's everything. The sentence is epigrammatic and +memorable enough; but so far as Chaucer is concerned, it requires a +little explanation. He is not intense, for instance, as Byron is +intense, or as Wordsworth is intense. He does not see man like the +one, nor nature like the other. He would not have cared much for +either of these poets. And yet, so far as straightforwardness in +dealing with a subject, and complete though quiet realisation of it +goes to make up intensity of poetic mood, Chaucer amply justifies his +critic. There is no wastefulness or explosiveness about the old +writer. He does his work silently, and with no appearance of effort. +His poetry shines upon us like a May morning; but the streak over the +eastern hill, the dew on the grass, the wind that bathes the brows of +the wayfarer, are not there by haphazard: they are the results of +occult forces, a whole solar system has had a hand in their production. +From the apparent ease with which an artist works, one does not readily +give him credit for the mental force he is continuously putting forth. +To many people, a chaotic "Festus" is more wonderful than a rounded, +melodious "Princess." The load which a strong man bears gracefully +does not seem so heavy as the load which the weaker man staggers under. +Incompletion is force fighting; completion is force quiescent, its work +done. Nature's forces are patent enough in some scarred volcanic moon +in which no creature can breathe; only the sage, in some soft green +earth, can discover the same forces reft of fierceness and terror, and +translated into sunshine, and falling dew, and the rainbow gleaming on +the shower. It is somewhat in this way that the propriety of Hazlitt's +criticism is to be vindicated. Chaucer is the most simple, natural, +and homely of our poets, and whatever he attempts he does thoroughly. +The Wife of Bath is so distinctly limned that she could sit for her +portrait. You can count the embroidered sprigs in the jerkin of the +squire. You hear the pilgrims laugh as they ride to Canterbury. The +whole thing is admirably life-like and seems easy, and in the seeming +easiness we are apt to forget the imaginative sympathy which bodies +forth the characters, and the joy and sorrow from which that sympathy +has drawn nurture. Unseen by us, the ore has been dug, and smelted in +secret furnaces, and when it is poured into perfect moulds, we are apt +to forget by what potency the whole thing has been brought about. + +And, with his noticing eyes, into what a brilliant, many tinted world +was Chaucer born! In his day life had a certain breadth, colour, and +picturesqueness which it does not possess now. It wore a braver dress, +and flaunted more in the sun. Five centuries effect a great change on +manners. A man may nowadays, and without the slightest suspicion of +the fact, brush clothes with half the English peerage on a sunny +afternoon in Pall Mall. Then it was quite different. The fourteenth +century loved magnificence and show. Great lords kept princely state +in the country; and when they came abroad, what a retinue, what waving +of plumes, and shaking of banners, and glittering of rich dresses! +Religion was picturesque, with dignitaries, and cathedrals, and fuming +incense, and the Host carried through the streets. The franklin kept +open house, the city merchant feasted kings, the outlaw roasted his +venison beneath the greenwood tree. There was a gallant monarch and a +gallant court. The eyes of the Countess of Salisbury shed influence; +Maid Marian laughed in Sherwood. London is already a considerable +place, numbering, perhaps, two hundred thousand inhabitants, the houses +clustering close and high along the river banks; and on the beautiful +April nights the nightingales are singing round the suburban villages +of Strand, Holborn, and Charing. It is rich withal; for after the +battle of Poitiers, Harry Picard, wine-merchant and Lord Mayor, +entertained in the city four kings,--to wit, Edward, king of England, +John, king of France, David, king of Scotland, and the king of Cyprus; +and the last-named potentate, slightly heated with Harry's wine, +engaged him at dice, and being nearly ruined thereby, the honest +wine-merchant returned the poor king his money, which was received with +all thankfulness. There is great stir on a summer's morning in that +Warwickshire castle,--pawing of horses, tossing of bridles, clanking of +spurs. The old lord climbs at last into his saddle and rides off to +court, his favourite falcon on his wrist, four squires in immediate +attendance carrying his arms; and behind these stretches a merry +cavalcade, on which the chestnuts shed their milky blossoms. In the +absence of the old peer, young Hopeful spends his time as befits his +rank and expectations. He grooms his steed, plays with his hawks, +feeds his hounds, and labours diligently to acquire grace and dexterity +in the use of arms. At noon the portcullis is lowered, and out shoots +a brilliant array of ladies and gentlemen, and falconers with hawks. +They bend their course to the river, over which a rainbow is rising +from a shower. Yonder young lady is laughing at our stripling squire, +who seems half angry, half pleased: they are lovers, depend upon it. A +few years, and the merry beauty will have become a noble, gracious +woman, and the young fellow, sitting by a watch-fire on the eve of +Cressy, will wonder if she is thinking of him. But the river is +already reached. Up flies the alarmed heron, his long blue legs +trailing behind him; a hawk is let loose; the young lady's laugh has +ceased as, with gloved hand shading fair forehead and sweet gray eye, +she watches hawk and heron lessening in heaven. The Crusades are now +over, but the religious fervour which inspired them lingered behind; so +that, even in Chaucer's day, Christian kings, when their consciences +were oppressed by a crime more than usually weighty, talked of making +an effort before they died to wrest Jerusalem and the sepulchre of +Christ from the grasp of the infidel. England had at this time several +holy shrines, the most famous being that of Thomas à Becket at +Canterbury, which attracted crowds of pilgrims. The devout travelled +in large companies: and, in the May mornings, a merry sight it was as, +with infinite clatter and merriment, with bells, minstrels, and +buffoons, they passed through thorp and village, bound for the tomb of +St. Thomas. The pageant of events, which seems enchantment when +chronicled by Froissart's splendid pen, was to Chaucer contemporaneous +incident; the chivalric richness was the familiar and every-day dress +of his time. Into this princely element he was endued, and he saw +every side of it,--the frieze as well as the cloth of gold. In the +"Canterbury Tales" the fourteenth century murmurs, as the sea murmurs +in the pink-mouthed shells upon our mantelpieces. + +Of his life we do not know much. In his youth he studied law and +disliked it,--a circumstance common enough in the lives of men of +letters, from his time to that of Shirley Brooks. How he lived, what +he did when he was a student, we are unable to discover. Only for a +moment is the curtain lifted, and we behold, in the old quaint peaked +and gabled Fleet Street of that day, Chaucer thrashing a Franciscan +friar (friar's offence unknown), for which amusement he was next +morning fined two shillings. History has preserved this for us, but +has forgotten all the rest of his early life, and the chronology of all +his poems. What curious flies are sometimes found in the historic +amber! On Chaucer's own authority, we know that he served under Edward +III. in his French campaign, and that he for some time lay in a French +prison. On his return from captivity he married; he was valet in the +king's household, he was sent on an embassy to Genoa, and is supposed +to have visited Petrarch, then resident at Padua, and to have heard +from his lips the story of "Griselda,"--a tradition which one would +like to believe. He had his share of the sweets and the bitters of +life. He enjoyed offices and gifts of wine, and he felt the pangs of +poverty and the sickness of hope deferred. He was comptroller of the +customs for wools; from which post he was dismissed,--why, we know not; +although one cannot help remembering that Edward made the writing out +of the accounts in Chaucer's own hand the condition of his holding +office, and having one's surmises. Foreign countries, strange manners, +meetings with celebrated men, love of wife and children, and their +deaths, freedom and captivity, the light of a king's smile and its +withdrawal, furnished ample matter of meditation to his humane and +thoughtful spirit. In his youth he wrote allegories full of ladies and +knights dwelling in impossible forests and nursing impossible passions; +but in his declining years, when fortune had done all it could for him +and all it could against him, he discarded these dreams, and betook +himself to the actual stuff of human nature. Instead of the "Romance +of the Rose," we have the "Canterbury Tales" and the first great +English poet. One likes to fancy Chaucer in his declining days living +at Woodstock, with his books about him, and where he could watch the +daisies opening themselves at sunrise, shutting themselves at sunset, +and composing his wonderful stories, in which the fourteenth century +lives,--riding to battle in iron gear, hawking in embroidered jerkin +and waving plume, sitting in rich and solemn feast, the monarch on the +dais. + +Chaucer's early poems have music and fancy, they are full of a natural +delight in sunshine and the greenness of foliage; but they have little +human interest. They are allegories for the most part, more or less +satisfactorily wrought out. The allegorical turn of thought, the +delight in pageantry, the "clothing upon" of abstractions with human +forms, flowered originally out of chivalry and the feudal times. +Chaucer imported it from the French, and was proud of it in his early +poems, as a young fellow of that day might be proud of his horse +furniture, his attire, his waving plume. And the poetic fashion thus +set retained its vitality for a long while,--indeed, it was only +thoroughly made an end of by the French Revolution, which made an end +of so much else. About the last trace of its influence is to be found +in Burns' sentimental correspondence with Mrs. M'Lehose, in which the +lady is addressed as Clarinda, and the poet signs himself Sylvander. +It was at best a mere beautiful gauze screen drawn between the poet and +nature; and passion put his foot through it at once. After Chaucer's +youth was over, he discarded somewhat scornfully these abstractions and +shows of things. The "Flower and the Leaf" is a beautiful-tinted +dream; the "Canterbury Tales" are as real as anything in Shakspeare or +Burns. The ladies in the earlier poems dwell in forests, and wear +coronals on their heads; the people in the "Tales" are engaged in the +actual concerns of life, and you can see the splashes of mire upon +their clothes. The separate poems which make up the "Canterbury Tales" +were probably written at different periods, after youth was gone, and +when he had fallen out of love with florid imagery and allegorical +conceits; and we can fancy him, perhaps fallen on evil days and in +retirement, anxious to gather up these loose efforts into one +consummate whole. If of his flowers he would make a bouquet for +posterity, it was of course necessary to procure a string to tie them +together. These necessities, which ruin other men, are the fortunate +chances of great poets. Then it was that the idea arose of a meeting +of pilgrims at the Tabard in Southwark, of their riding to Canterbury, +and of the different personages relating stories to beguile the tedium +of the journey. The notion was a happy one, and the execution is +superb. In those days, as we know, pilgrimages were of frequent +occurrence; and in the motley group that congregated on such occasions, +the painter of character had full scope. All conditions of people are +comprised in the noisy band issuing from the courtyard of the Southwark +inn on that May morning in the fourteenth century. Let us go nearer, +and have a look at them. + +There is a grave and gentle Knight, who has fought in many wars, and +who has many a time hurled his adversary down in tournament before the +eyes of all the ladies there, and who has taken the place of honour at +many a mighty feast. There, riding beside him, is a blooming Squire, +his son, fresh as the month of May, singing day and night from very +gladness of heart,--an impetuous young fellow, who is looking forward +to the time when he will flesh his maiden sword, and shout his first +war-cry in a stricken field. There is an Abbot, mounted on a brown +steed. He is middle-aged, his bald crown shines like glass, and his +face looks as if it were anointed with oil. He has been a valiant +trencher-man at many a well-furnished feast. Above all things, he +loves hunting; and when he rides, men can hear his bridle ringing in +the whistling wind loud and clear as a chapel bell. There is a thin, +ill-conditioned Clerk, perched perilously on a steed as thin and +ill-conditioned as himself. He will never be rich, I fear. He is a +great student, and would rather have a few books bound in black and red +hanging above his bed than be sheriff of the county. There is a +Prioress, so gentle and tender-hearted that she weeps if she hears the +whimper of a beaten hound, or sees a mouse caught in a trap. There +rides the laughing Wife of Bath, bold-faced and fair. She is an adept +in love-matters. Five husbands already "she has fried in their own +grease" till they were glad to get into their graves to escape the +scourge of her tongue. Heaven rest their souls, and swiftly send a +sixth! She wears a hat large as a targe or buckler, brings the +artillery of her eyes to bear on the young Squire, and jokes him about +his sweetheart. Beside her is a worthy Parson, who delivers faithfully +the message of his Master. Although he is poor, he gives away the half +of his tithes in charity. His parish is waste and wide, yet if +sickness or misfortune should befall one of his flock, he rides, in +spite of wind, or rain, or thunder, to administer consolation. Among +the crowd rides a rich Franklin, who sits in the Guildhall on the dais. +He is profuse and hospitable as summer. All day his table stands in +the hall covered with meats and drinks, and every one who enters is +welcome. There is a Ship-man, whose beard has been shaken by many a +tempest, whose cheek knows the kiss of the salt sea spray; a Merchant, +with a grave look, clean and neat in his attire, and with plenty of +gold in his purse. There is a Doctor of Physic, who has killed more +men than the Knight, talking to a Clerk of Laws. There is a merry +Friar, a lover of good cheer; and when seated in a tavern among his +companions, singing songs it would be scarcely decorous to repeat, you +may see his eyes twinkling in his head for joy, like stars on a frosty +night. Beside him is a ruby-faced Sompnour, whose breath stinks of +garlic and onions, who is ever roaring for wine,--strong wine, wine red +as blood; and when drunk, he disdains English,--nothing but Latin will +serve his turn. In front of all is a Miller, who has been drinking +over-night, and is now but indifferently sober. There is not a door in +the country that he cannot break by running at it with his head. The +pilgrims are all ready, the host gives the word, and they defile +through the arch. The Miller blows his bagpipes as they issue from the +town; and away they ride to Canterbury, through the boon sunshine, and +between the white hedges of the English May. + +Had Chaucer spent his whole life in seeking, he could not have selected +a better contemporary circumstance for securing variety of character +than a pilgrimage to Canterbury. It comprises, as we see, all kinds +and conditions of people. It is the fourteenth-century England in +little. In our time, the only thing that could match it in this +respect is Epsom down on the great race-day. But then Epsom down is +too unwieldy; the crowd is too great, and it does not cohere, save for +the few seconds when gay jackets are streaming towards the +winning-post. The Prologue to the "Canterbury Tales," in which we make +the acquaintance of the pilgrims, is the ripest, most genial and +humourous, altogether the most masterly thing which Chaucer has left +us. In its own way, and within its own limits, it is the most +wonderful thing in the language. The people we read about are as real +as the people we brush clothes with in the street,--nay, much _more_ +real; for we not only see their faces, and the fashion and texture of +their garments, we know also what they think, how they express +themselves, and with what eyes they look out on the world. Chaucer's +art in this Prologue is simple perfection. He indulges in no +irrelevant description, he airs no fine sentiments, he takes no special +pains as to style or poetic ornament; but every careless touch tells, +every sly line reveals character; the description of each man's +horse-furniture and array reads like a memoir. The Nun's pretty oath +bewrays her. We see the bold, well-favoured countenance of the Wife of +Bath beneath her hat, as "broad as a buckler or a targe"; and the horse +of the Clerk, "as lean as is a rake," tells tales of his master's +cheer. Our modern dress is worthless as an indication of the +character, or even of the social rank, of the wearer; in the olden time +it was significant of personal tastes and appetites, of profession, and +condition of life generally. See how Chaucer brings out a character by +touching merely on a few points of attire and personal appearance:-- + + "I saw his sleeves were purfiled at the hand + With fur, and that the finest of the land; + And for to fasten his hood under his chin + He had of gold ywrought a curious pin. + A love-knot in the greater end there was; + His head was bald, and shone as any glass, + And eke his face as if it was anoint." + +What more would you have? You could not have known the monk better if +you had lived all your life in the monastery with him. The sleeves +daintly purfiled with fur give one side of him, the curious pin with +the love-knot another, and the shining crown and face complete the +character and the picture. The sun itself could not photograph more +truly. + +On their way the pilgrims tell tales, and these are as various as their +relaters; in fact, the Prologue is the soil out of which they all grow. +Dramatic propriety is everywhere instinctively preserved. "The +Knight's Tale" is noble, splendid, and chivalric as his own nature; the +tale told by the Wife of Bath is exactly what one would expect. With +what good-humour the rosy sinner confesses her sins! how hilarious she +is in her repentance! "The Miller's Tale" is coarse and +full-flavoured,--just the kind of thing to be told by a rough, +humourous fellow who is hardly yet sober. And here it may be said that +although there is a good deal of coarseness in the "Canterbury Tales," +there is not the slightest tinge of pruriency. There is such a +single-heartedness and innocence in Chaucer's vulgarest and broadest +stories, such a keen eye for humour, and such a hearty enjoyment of it, +and at the same time such an absence of any delight in impurity for +impurity's sake, that but little danger can arise from their perusal. +He is so fond of fun that he will drink it out of a cup that is only +indifferently clean. He writes often like Fielding, he never writes as +Smollett sometimes does. These stories, ranging from the noble romance +of Palamon and Arcite to the rude intrigues of Clerk Nicholas,--the one +fitted to draw tears down the cheeks of noble ladies and gentlemen; the +other to convulse with laughter the midriffs of illiterate +clowns,--give one an idea of the astonishing range of Chaucer's powers. +He can suit himself to every company, make himself at home in every +circumstance of life; can mingle in tournaments where beauty is leaning +from balconies, and the knights, with spear in rest, wait for the blast +of the trumpet; and he can with equal ease sit with a couple of drunken +friars in a tavern laughing over the confessions they hear, and singing +questionable catches between whiles. Chaucer's range is wide as that +of Shakspeare,--if we omit that side of Shakspeare's mind which +confronts the other world, and out of which Hamlet sprang,--and his men +and women are even more real, and more easily matched in the living and +breathing world. For in Shakspeare's characters, as in his language, +there is surplusage, superabundance; the measure is heaped and running +over. From his sheer wealth, he is often the most _un_dramatic of +writers. He is so frequently greater than his occasion, he has no +small change to suit emergencies, and we have guineas in place of +groats. Romeo is more than a mortal lover, and Mercutio more than a +mortal wit; the kings in the Shakspearian world are more kingly than +earthly sovereigns; Rosalind's laughter was never heard save in the +Forest of Arden. His madmen seem to have eaten of some "strange root." +No such boon companion as Falstaff ever heard chimes at midnight. His +very clowns are transcendental, with scraps of wisdom springing out of +their foolishest speech. Chaucer, lacking Shakspeare's excess and +prodigality of genius, could not so gloriously err, and his creations +have a harder, drier, more realistic look, are more like the people we +hear uttering ordinary English speech, and see on ordinary country +roads against an ordinary English sky. If need were, any one of them +could drive pigs to market. Chaucer's characters are individual +enough, their idiosyncrasies are sharply enough defined, but they are +to some extent literal and prosaic; they are of the "earth, earthy;" +out of his imagination no Ariel ever sprang, no half-human, +half-brutish Caliban ever crept. He does not effloresce in +illustrations and images, the flowers do not hide the grass; his +pictures are masterpieces, but they are portraits, and the man is +brought out by a multiplicity of short touches,--caustic, satirical, +and matter of fact. His poetry may be said to resemble an English +country road, on which passengers of different degrees of rank are +continually passing,--now knight, now boor, now abbot: Spenser's, for +instance, and all the more fanciful styles, to a tapestry on which a +whole Olympus has been wrought. The figures on the tapestry are much +the more noble-looking, it is true; but then they are dreams and +phantoms, whereas the people on the country road actually exist. + +The "Knight's Tale"--which is the first told on the way to +Canterbury--is a chivalrous legend, full of hunting, battle, and +tournament. Into it, although the scene is laid in Greece, Chaucer +has, with a fine scorn of anachronism, poured all the splendour, +colour, pomp, and circumstance of the fourteenth century. It is +brilliant as a banner displayed to the sunlight. It is real cloth of +gold. Compared with it, "Ivanhoe" is a spectacle at Astley's. The +style is everywhere more adorned than is usual, although even here, and +in the richest parts, the short, homely, caustic Chaucerian line is +largely employed. The "Man of Law's Tale," again, is distinguished by +quite a different merit. It relates the sorrows and patience of +Constance, and is filled with the beauty of holiness. Constance might +have been sister to Cordelia; she is one of the white lilies of +womanhood. Her story is almost the tenderest in our literature. And +Chaucer's art comes out in this, that although she would spread her +hair, nay, put her very heart beneath the feet of those who wrong her, +we do not cease for one moment to respect her. This is a feat which +has but seldom been achieved. It has long been a matter of reproach to +Mr. Thackeray, for instance, that the only faculty with which he gifts +his good women is a supreme faculty of tears. To draw any very high +degree of female patience is one of the most difficult of tasks. If +you represent a woman bearing wrong with a continuous unmurmuring +meekness, presenting to blows, come from what quarter they may, nothing +but a bent neck, and eyelids humbly drooped, you are in nine cases out +of ten painting elaborately the portrait of a fool; and if you miss +making her a fool, you are certain to make her a bore. Your patient +woman, in books and in life, does not draw on our gratitude. When her +goodness is not stupidity,--which it frequently is,--it is insulting. +She walks about an incarnate rebuke. Her silence is an incessant +complaint. A teacup thrown at your head is not half so alarming as her +meek, much-wronged, unretorting face. You begin to suspect that she +consoles herself with the thought that there is another world, where +brutal brothers and husbands are settled with for their behaviour to +their angelic wives and sisters in this. Chaucer's Constance is +neither fool nor bore, although in the hands of anybody else she would +have been one or the other, or both. Like the holy religion which she +symbolises, her sweet face draws blessing and love wherever it goes; it +heals old wounds with its beauty, it carries peace into the heart of +discord, it touches murder itself into soft and penitential tears. In +reading the old tender-hearted poet, we feel that there is something in +a woman's sweetness and forgiveness that the masculine mind cannot +fathom; and we adore the hushed step and still countenance of Constance +almost as if an angel passed. + +Chaucer's orthography is unquestionably uncouth at first sight; but it +is not difficult to read if you keep a good glossary beside you for +occasional reference, and are willing to undergo a little trouble. The +language is antique, but it is full of antique flavour. Wine of +excellent vintage originally, it has improved through all the years it +has been kept. A very little trouble on the reader's part, in the +reign of Anne, would have made him as intelligible as Addison; a very +little more, in the reign of Queen Victoria, will make him more +intelligible than Mr. Browning. Yet somehow it has been a favourite +idea with many poets that he required modernisation, and that they were +the men to do it. Dryden, Pope, and Wordsworth have tried their hands +on him. Wordsworth performed his work in a reverential enough spirit; +but it may be doubted whether his efforts have brought the old poet a +single new reader. Dryden and Pope did not translate or modernise +Chaucer, they committed assault and battery upon him. They turned his +exquisitely _naïve_ humour into their own coarseness, they put _doubles +entendre_ into his mouth, they blurred his female faces,--as a picture +is blurred when the hand of a Vandal is drawn over its yet wet +colours,--and they turned his natural descriptions into the natural +descriptions of "Windsor Forest" and the "Fables." The grand old +writer does not need translation or modernisation; but perhaps, if it +be done at all, it had better be reached in that way. For the benefit +of younger readers, I subjoin short prose versions of two of the +"Canterbury Tales,"--a story-book than which the world does not possess +a better. Listen, then, to the tale the Knight told as the pilgrims +rode to Canterbury:-- + +"There was once, as old stories tell, a certain Duke Theseus, lord and +governor of Athens. The same was a great warrior and conqueror of +realms. He defeated the Amazons, and wedded the queen of that country, +Hypolita. After his marriage, the duke, his wife, and his sister +Emily, with all their host, were riding towards Athens, when they were +aware that a company of ladies, clad in black, were kneeling two by two +on the highway, wringing their hands and filling the air with +lamentations. The duke, beholding this piteous sight, reined in his +steed and inquired the reason of their grief. Whereat one of the +ladies, queen to the slain King Capeneus, told him that at the siege of +Thebes (of which town they were), Creon, the conqueror, had thrown the +bodies of their husbands in a heap, and would on no account allow them +to be buried, so that their limbs were mangled by vultures and wild +beasts. At the hearing of this great wrong, the duke started down from +his horse, took the ladies one by one in his arms and comforted them, +sent Hypolita and Emily home, displayed his great white banner, and +immediately rode towards Thebes with his host. Arriving at the city, +he attacked boldly, slew the tyrant Creon with his own hand, tore down +the houses,--wall, roof, and rafter,--and then gave the bodies to the +weeping ladies that they might be honourably interred. While searching +amongst the slain Thebans, two young knights were found grievously +wounded, and by the richness of their armour they were known to be of +the blood royal. These young knights, Palamon and Arcite by name, the +duke carried to Athens and flung into perpetual prison. Here they +lived year by year in mourning and woe. It happened one May morning +that Palamon, who by the clemency of his keeper was roaming about in an +upper chamber, looked out and beheld Emily singing in the garden and +gathering flowers. At the sight of the beautiful apparition he started +and cried, 'Ha!' Arcite rose up, crying, 'Dear cousin, what is the +matter?' when he too was stricken to the heart by the shaft of her +beauty. Then the prisoners began to dispute as to which had the better +right to love her. Palamon said he had seen her first; Arcite said +that in love each man fought for himself; and so they disputed day by +day. Now, it so happened that at this time the Duke Perotheus came to +visit his old playfellow and friend Theseus, and at his intercession +Arcite was liberated, on the condition that on pain of death he should +never again be found in the Athenian dominions. Then the two knights +grieved in their hearts. 'What matters liberty?' said Arcite,--'I am a +banished man! Palamon in his dungeon is happier than I. He can see +Emily and be gladdened by her beauty!' 'Woe is me!' said Palamon; +'here must I remain in durance. Arcite is abroad; he may make sharp +war on the Athenian border, and win Emily by the sword.' When Arcite +returned to his native city he became so thin and pale with sorrow that +his friends scarcely knew him. One night the god Mercury appeared to +him in a dream and told him to return to Athens, for in that city +destiny had shaped an end of his woes. He arose next morning and went. +He entered as a menial into the service of the Duke Theseus, and in a +short time was promoted to be page of the chamber to Emily the bright. +Meanwhile, by the help of a friend, Palamon, who had drugged his jailer +with spiced wine, made his escape, and, as morning began to dawn, he +hid himself in a grove. That very morning Arcite had ridden from +Athens to gather some green branches to do honour to the month of May, +and entered the grove in which Palamon was concealed. When he had +gathered his green branches he sat down, and, after the manner of +lovers (who have no constancy of spirits), he began to pour forth his +sorrows to the empty air. Palamon, knowing his voice, started up with +a white face: 'False traitor Arcite! now I have found thee. Thou hast +deceived the Duke Theseus! I am the lover of Emily, and thy mortal +foe! Had I a weapon, one of us should never leave this grove alive!' +'By God, who sitteth above!' cried the fierce Arcite, 'were it not that +thou art sick and mad for love, I would slay thee here with my own +hand! Meats, and drinks, and bedding I shall bring thee to-night, +tomorrow swords and two suits of armour: take thou the better, leave me +the worse, and then let us see who can win the lady.' 'Agreed,' said +Palamon; and Arcite rode away in great fierce joy of heart. Next +morning, at the crowing of the cock, Arcite placed two suits of armour +before him on his horse, and rode towards the grove. When they met, +the colour of their faces changed. Each thought, 'Here comes my mortal +enemy; one of us must be dead.' Then, friend-like, as if they had been +brothers, they assisted each the other to rivet on the armour; that +done, the great bright swords went to and fro, and they were soon +standing ankle-deep in blood. That same morning the Duke Theseus, his +wife, and Emily went forth to hunt the hart with hound and horn, and, +as destiny ordered it, the chase led them to the very grove in which +the knights were fighting. Theseus, shading his eyes from the sunlight +with his hand, saw them, and, spurring his horse between them, cried, +'What manner of men are ye, fighting here without judge or officer?' +Whereupon Palamon said, 'I am that Palamon who has broken your prison; +this is Arcite the banished man, who, by returning to Athens, has +forfeited his head. Do with us as you list. I have no more to say.' +'You have condemned yourselves!' cried the duke; 'by mighty Mars the +red, both of you shall die!' Then Emily and the queen fell at his +feet, and, with prayers and tears and white hands lifted up, besought +the lives of the young knights, which was soon granted. Theseus began +to laugh when he thought of his own young days. 'What a mighty god is +Love!' quoth he. 'Here are Palamon and Arcite fighting for my sister, +while they know she can only marry one, Fight they ever so much, she +cannot marry both. I therefore ordain that both of you go away, and +return this day year, each bringing with him a hundred knights; and let +the victor in solemn tournament have Emily for wife.' Who was glad now +but Palamon! who sprang up for joy but Arcite! + +"When the twelve months had nearly passed away, there was in Athens a +great noise of workmen and hammers. The duke was busy with +preparations. He built a large amphitheatre, seated, round and round, +to hold thousands of people. He erected also three temples,--one for +Diana, one for Mars, one for Venus; how rich these were, how full of +paintings and images, the tongue cannot tell! Never was such +preparation made in the world. At last the day arrived in which the +knights were to make their entrance into the city. A noise of trumpets +was heard, and through the city rode Palamon and his train. With him +came Lycurgus, the king of Thrace. He stood in a great car of gold, +drawn by four white bulls, and his face was like a griffin when he +looked about. Twenty or more hounds used for hunting the lion and the +bear ran about the wheels of his car; at his back rode a hundred lords, +stern and stout. Another burst of trumpets, and Arcite entered with +his troop. By his side rode Emetrius, the king of India, on a bay +steed covered with cloth of gold. His hair was yellow, and glittered +like the sun; when he looked upon the people, they thought his face was +like the face of a lion; his voice was like the thunder of a trumpet. +He bore a white eagle on his wrist, and tame lions and leopards ran +among the horses of his train. They came to the city on a Sunday +morning, and the jousts were to begin on Monday. What pricking of +squires backwards and forwards, what clanking of hammers, what baying +of hounds, that day! At last it was noon of Monday. Theseus declared +from his throne that no blood was to be shed, that they should take +prisoners only, and that he who was once taken prisoner should on no +account again mingle in the fray. Then the duke, the queen, Emily, and +the rest, rode to the lists with trumpets and melody. They had no +sooner taken their places than through the gate of Mars rode Arcite and +his hundred, displaying a red banner. At the self-same moment Palamon +and his company entered by the gate of Venus, with a banner white as +milk. They were then arranged in two ranks, their names were called +over, the gates were shut, the herald gave his cry, loud and clear rang +the trumpet, and crash went the spears, as if made of glass, when the +knights met in battle shock. There might you see a knight unhorsed, a +second crushing his way through the press, armed with a mighty mace, a +third hurt and taken prisoner. Many a time that day in the swaying +battle did the two Thebans meet, and thrice were they unhorsed. At +last, near the setting of the sun, when Palamon was fighting with +Arcite, he was wounded by Emetrius, and the battle thickened at the +place. Emetrius, is thrown out of his saddle a spear's length. +Lycurgus is overthrown, and rolls on the ground, horse and man; and +Palamon is dragged by main force to the stake. Then Theseus rose up +where he sat, and cried, 'Ho! no more; Arcite of Thebes hath won +Emily!' at which the people shouted so loudly that it almost seemed the +mighty lists would fall. Arcite now put up his helmet, and, curveting +his horse through the open space, smiled to Emily, when a fire from +Pluto started out of the earth; the horse shied, and his rider was +thrown on his head on the ground. When he was lifted, his breast was +broken, and his face was as black as coal. Then there was grief in +Athens; every one wept. Soon after, Arcite, feeling the cold death +creeping up from his feet and darkening his face and eyes, called +Palamon and Emily to his bedside, when he joined their hands, and died. +The dead body was laid on a pile, dressed in splendid war gear; his +naked sword was placed by his side; the pile was heaped with gums, +frankincense, and odours; a torch was applied; and when the flames rose +up, and the smoky fragrance rolled to heaven, the Greeks galloped round +three times, with a great shouting and clashing of shields." + +The Man of Law's tale runs in this wise: + +"There dwelt in Syria once a company of merchants, who scented every +land with their spices. They dealt in jewels, and cloth of gold, and +sheeny satins. It so happened that while some of them were dwelling in +Rome for traffic, the people talked of nothing save the wonderful +beauty of Constance, the daughter of the emperor. She was so fair that +every one who looked upon her face fell in love with her. In a short +time the ships of the merchants, laden with rich wares, were furrowing +the green sea, going home. When they came to their native city they +could talk of nothing but the marvellous beauty of Constance. Their +words being reported to the Sultan, he determined that none other +should be his wife; and for this purpose he abandoned the religion of +the false prophet, and was baptised in the Christian faith. +Ambassadors passed between the courts, and the day came at length when +Constance was to leave Rome for her husband's palace in Syria. What +kisses and tears and lingering embraces! What blessings on the little +golden head which was so soon to lie in the bosom of a stranger! What +state and solemnity in the procession which wound down from the shore +to the ship! At last it was Syria. Crowds of people were standing on +the beach. The mother of the Sultan was there; and when Constance +stepped ashore, she took her in her arms and kissed her as if she had +been her own child. Soon after, with trumpets and melody and the +trampling of innumerable horses, the Sultan came. Everything was joy +and happiness. But the smiling demoness, his mother, could not forgive +him for changing his faith, and she resolved to slay him that very +night, and seize the government of the kingdom. He and all his lords +were stabbed in the rich hall while they were sitting at their wine. +Constance alone escaped. She was then put into a ship alone, with food +and clothes, and told that she might find her way back to Italy. She +sailed away, and was never seen by that people. For five years she +wandered to and fro upon the sea. Do you ask who preserved her? The +same God who fed Elijah with ravens, and saved Daniel in the horrible +den. At last she floated into the English seas, and was thrown by the +waves on the Northumberland shore, near which stood a great castle. +The constable of the castle came down in the morning to see the woful +woman. She spoke a kind of corrupt Latin, and could neither tell her +name nor the name of the country of which she was a native. She said +she was so bewildered in the sea that she remembered nothing. The man +could not help loving her, and so took her home to live with himself +and his wife. Now, through the example and teaching of Constance, Dame +Hermigild was converted to Christianity. It happened also that three +aged Christian Britons were living near that place in great fear of +their pagan neighbours, and one of these men was blind. One day, as +the constable, his wife, and Constance were walking along the +sea-shore, they were met by the blind man, who called out, 'In the name +of Christ, give me my sight, Dame Hermigild!' At this, on account of +her husband, she was sore afraid; but, encouraged by Constance, she +wrought a great miracle, and gave the blind man his sight. But Satan, +the enemy of all, wanted to destroy Constance, and he employed a young +knight for that purpose. This knight had loved her with a foul +affection, to which she could give no return. At last, wild for +revenge, he crept at night into Hermigild's chamber, slew her, and laid +the bloody knife on the innocent pillow of Constance. The next morning +there was woe and dolour in the house. She was brought before Alla, +the king, charged with the murder. The people could not believe that +she had done this thing; they knew she loved Hermigild so. Constance +fell down on her knees and prayed to God for succour. Have you ever +been in a crowd in which a man is being led to death, and, seeing a +wild, pale face, know by that sign that you are looking upon the doomed +creature?--so wild, so pale looked Constance when she stood before the +king and people. The tears ran down Alla's face. 'Go fetch a book,' +cried he; 'and if this knight swears that the woman is guilty, she +shall surely die.' The book was brought, the knight took the oath, and +that moment an unseen hand smote him on the neck, so that he fell down +on the floor, his eyes bursting out of his head. Then a celestial +voice was heard in the midst, crying, 'Thou hast slandered a daughter +of Holy Church in high presence, and yet I hold my peace.' A great awe +fell on all who heard, and the king and multitudes of his people were +converted. Shortly after this, Alla wedded Constance with great +richness and solemnity. At length he was called to defend his border +against the predatory Scots, and in his absence a man-child was born. +A messenger was sent with the blissful tidings to the king's camp; but, +on his way, the messenger turned aside to the dwelling of Donegild, the +king's mother, and said, 'Be blithe, madam; the queen has given birth +to a son, and joy is in the land. Here is the letter I bear to the +king.' The wicked Donegild said, 'You must be already tired; here are +refreshments.' And while the simple man drank ale and wine, she forged +a letter, saying that the queen had been delivered of a creature so +fiendish and horrible that no one in the castle could bear to look upon +it. This letter the messenger gave to the king; and who can tell his +grief! But he wrote in reply, 'Welcome be the child that Christ sends! +Welcome, O Lord, be thy pleasure! Be careful of my wife and child till +my return.' The messenger on his return slept at Donegild's court, +with the letter under his girdle. It was stolen while in his drunken +sleep, and another put in its place, charging the constable not to let +Constance remain three days in the kingdom, but to send her and her +child away in the same ship in which she had come. The constable could +not help himself. Thousands are gathered on the shore. With a face +wild and pale as when she came from the sea, and bearing her crying +infant in her arms, she comes through the crowd, which shrinks back, +leaving a lane for her sorrow. She takes her seat in the little boat; +and while the cruel people gaze hour by hour from the shore, she passes +into the sunset, and away out into the night under the stars. When +Alla returned from the war, and found how he had been deceived, he slew +his mother, in the bitterness of his heart. + +"News had come to Rome of the cruelty of the Sultan's mother to +Constance, and an army was sent to waste her country. After the land +had been burned and desolated, the commander was crossing the seas in +triumph, when he met the ship sailing in which sat Constance and her +little boy. They were both brought to Rome, and although the +commander's wife and Constance were cousins, the one did not know the +other. By this time, remorse for the slaying of his mother had seized +Alla's mind, and he could find no rest. He resolved to make a +pilgrimage to Rome in search of peace. He crossed the Alps with his +train, and entered the city with great glory and magnificence. One day +he feasted at the commander's house, at which Constance dwelt; and at +her request her little son was admitted, and during the progress of the +feast the child went and stood looking in the king's face. 'What fair +child is that standing yonder?' said the king. 'By St. John; I know +not!' quoth the commander; 'he has a mother, but no father that I know +of.' And then he told the king--who seemed all the while like a man +stunned--how he had found the mother and child floating about on the +sea. The king rose from the table and sent for Constance; and when he +saw her, and thought on all her wrongs, he could not refrain from +tears. 'This is your little son, Maurice,' she said, as she led him in +by the hand. Next day she met the emperor her father in the street, +and, falling down on her knees before him, said, 'Father, has the +remembrance of your young child Constance gone out of your mind? I am +that Constance whom you sent to Syria, and who was thought to be lost +in the sea.' That day there was great joy in Rome; and soon afterwards +Alla, with his wife and child, returned to England, where they lived in +great prosperity till he died." + + + + +BOOKS AND GARDENS + +Most men seek solitude from wounded vanity, from disappointed ambition, +from a miscarriage in the passions; but some others from native +instinct, as a duckling seeks water. I have taken to my solitude, such +as it is, from an indolent turn of mind, and this solitude I sweeten by +an imaginative sympathy which re-creates the past for me,--the past of +the world, as well as the past which belongs to me as an +individual,--and which makes me independent of the passing moment. I +see every one struggling after the unattainable, but I struggle not, +and so spare myself the pangs of disappointment and disgust. I have no +ventures at sea, and, consequently, do not fear the arrival of evil +tidings. I have no desire to act any prominent part in the world, but +I am devoured by an unappeasable curiosity as to the men who do act. I +am not an actor, I am a spectator only. My sole occupation is +sight-seeing. In a certain imperial idleness, I amuse myself with the +world. Ambition! What do I care for ambition? The oyster with much +pain produces its pearl. I take the pearl. Why should I produce one +after this miserable, painful fashion? It would be but a flawed one, +at best. These pearls I can pick up by the dozen. The production of +them is going on all around me, and there will be a nice crop for the +solitary man of the next century. Look at a certain silent emperor, +for instance: a hundred years hence _his_ pearl will be handed about +from hand to hand; will be curiously scrutinised and valued; will be +set in its place in the world's cabinet. I confess I should like to +see the completion of that filmy orb. Will it be pure in colour? Will +its purity be marred by an ominous bloody streak? Of this I am +certain, that in the cabinet in which the world keeps these peculiar +treasures, no one will be looked at more frequently, or will provoke a +greater variety of opinions as to its intrinsic worth. Why should I be +ambitious? Shall I write verses? I am not likely to surpass Mr. +Tennyson or Mr. Browning in that walk. Shall I be a musician? The +blackbird singing this moment somewhere in my garden shrubbery puts me +to instant shame. Shall I paint? The intensest scarlet on an artist's +palette is but ochre to that I saw this morning at sunrise. No, no, +let me enjoy Mr. Tennyson's verse, and the blackbird's song, and the +colours of sunrise, but do not let me emulate them. I am happier as it +is. I do not need to make history,--there are plenty of people willing +to save me trouble on that score. The cook makes the dinner, the guest +eats it; and the last, not without reason, is considered the happier +man. + +In my garden I spend my days; in my library I spend my nights. My +interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the +flower I am in the present; with the book I am in the past. I go into +my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning +air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, +while it vibrated only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and +to the laugh of Eve. I see the Pyramids building; I hear the shoutings +of the armies of Alexander; I feel the ground shake beneath the march +of Cambyses. I sit as in a theatre,--the stage is time, the play is +the play of the world. What a spectacle it is! What kingly pomp, what +processions file past, what cities burn to heaven, what crowds of +captives are dragged at the chariot-wheels of conquerors! I hiss, or +cry "Bravo," when the great actors come on the shaking stage. I am a +Roman emperor when I look at a Roman coin. I lift Homer, and I shout +with Achilles in the trenches. The silence of the unpeopled Syrian +plains, the out-comings and in-goings of the patriarchs, Abraham and +Ishmael, Isaac in the fields at eventide, Rebekah at the well, Jacob's +guile, Esau's face reddened by desert sun-heat, Joseph's splendid +funeral procession,--all these things I find within the boards of my +Old Testament. What a silence in those old books as of a half-peopled +world; what bleating of flocks; what green pastoral rest; what +indubitable human existence! Across brawling centuries of blood and +war I hear the bleating of Abraham's flocks, the tinkling of the bells +of Rebekah's camels. O men and women so far separated yet so near, so +strange yet so well known, by what miraculous power do I know ye all! +Books are the true Elysian fields, where the spirits of the dead +converse; and into these fields a mortal may venture unappalled. What +king's court can boast such company? What school of philosophy such +wisdom? The wit of the ancient world is glancing and flashing there. +There is Pan's pipe, there are the songs of Apollo. Seated in my +library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am +occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural. They are +not collections of printed pages, they are ghosts. I take one down, +and it speaks with me in a tongue not now heard on earth, and of men +and things of which it alone possesses knowledge. I call myself a +solitary, but sometimes I think I misapply the term. No man sees more +company than I do. I travel with mightier cohorts around me than ever +did Timour or Genghis Khan on their fiery marches. I am a sovereign in +my library, but it is the dead, not the living, that attend my levees. + +The house I dwell in stands apart from the little town, and relates +itself to the houses as I do to the inhabitants. It sees everything, +but is itself unseen, or, at all events, unregarded. My study-window +looks down upon Dreamthorp like a meditative eye. Without meaning it, +I feel I am a spy on the on-goings of the quiet place. Around my house +there is an old-fashioned rambling garden, with close-shaven grassy +plots, and fantastically clipped yews which have gathered their +darkness from a hundred summers and winters; and sun-dials in which the +sun is constantly telling his age; and statues green with neglect and +the stains of the weather. The garden I love more than any place on +earth; it is a better study than the room inside the house which is +dignified by that name. I like to pace its gravelled walks, to sit in +the moss-house, which is warm and cosey as a bird's nest, and wherein +twilight dwells at noonday; to enjoy the feast of colour spread for me +in the curiously shaped floral spaces. My garden, with its silence and +the pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, +affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me +wistfully through the bars. Among my flowers and trees Nature takes me +into her own hands, and I breathe freely as the first man. It is +curious, pathetic almost, I sometimes think, how deeply seated in the +human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening. The sickly +seamstress in the narrow city lane tends her box of sicklier +mignonette. The retired merchant is as fond of tulips as ever was +Dutchman during the famous mania. The author finds a garden the best +place to think out his thought. In the disabled statesman every +restless throb of regret or ambition is stilled when he looks upon his +blossomed apple-trees. Is the fancy too far brought that this love for +gardens is a reminiscence haunting the race of that remote time in the +world's dawn when but two persons existed,--a gardener named Adam, and +a gardener's wife called Eve? + +When I walk out of my house into my garden I walk out of my habitual +self, my every-day thoughts, my customariness of joy or sorrow by which +I recognise and assure myself of my own identity. These I leave behind +me for a time, as the bather leaves his garments on the beach. This +piece of garden-ground, in extent barely a square acre, is a kingdom +with its own interests, annals, and incidents. Something is always +happening in it. To-day is always different from yesterday. This +spring a chaffinch built a nest in one of my yew-trees. The particular +yew which the bird did me the honour to select had been clipped long +ago into a similitude of Adam, and, in fact, went by his name. The +resemblance to a human figure was, of course, remote, but the intention +was evident. In the black shock head of our first parent did the birds +establish their habitation. A prettier, rounder, more comfortable nest +I never saw, and many a wild swing it got when Adam bent his back, and +bobbed and shook his head when the bitter east wind was blowing. The +nest interested me, and I visited it every day from the time the first +stained turquoise sphere was laid in the warm lining of moss and +horse-hair, till, when I chirped, four red hungry throats, eager for +worm or slug, opened out of a confused mass of feathery down. What a +hungry brood it was, to be sure, and how often father and mother were +put to it to provide them sustenance! I went but the other day to have +a peep, and, behold! brood and parent-birds were gone, the nest was +empty, Adam's visitors had departed. In the corners of my bedroom +window I have a couple of swallows' nests, and nothing can be +pleasanter in these summer mornings than to lie in a kind of +half-dream, conscious all the time of the chatterings and endearments +of the man-loving creatures. They are beautifully restless, and are +continually darting around their nests in the window-corners. All at +once there is a great twittering and noise; something of moment has +been witnessed, something of importance has occurred in the +swallow-world,--perhaps a fly of unusual size or savour has been +bolted. Clinging with their feet, and with heads turned charmingly +aside, they chatter away with voluble sweetness, then with a gleam of +silver they are gone, and in a trice one is poising itself in the wind +above my tree-tops, while the other dips her wing as she darts after a +fly through the arches of the bridge which lets the slow stream down to +the sea. I go to the southern wall, against which I have trained my +fruit-trees, and find it a sheet of white and vermeil blossom; and as I +know it by heart, I can notice what changes take place on it day by +day, what later clumps of buds have burst into colour and odour. What +beauty in that blooming wall! the wedding-presents of a princess ranged +for admiration would not please me half so much; what delicate +colouring! what fragrance the thievish winds steal from it, without +making it one odour the poorer! with what a complacent hum the bee goes +past! My chaffinch's nest, my swallows,--twittering but a few months +ago around the kraal of the Hottentot, or chasing flies around the six +solitary pillars of Baalbec,--with their nests in the corners of my +bed-room windows, my long-armed fruit-trees flowering against my sunny +wall, are not mighty pleasures, but then they are my own, and I have +not to go in search of them. And so, like a wise man, I am content +with what I have, and make it richer by my fancy, which is as cheap as +sunlight, and gilds objects quite as prettily. It is the coins in my +own pocket, not the coins in the pockets of my neighbour, that are of +use to me. Discontent has never a doit in her purse, and envy is the +most poverty stricken of the passions. + +His own children, and the children he happens to meet on the country +road, a man regards with quite different eyes. The strange, sunburnt +brats returning from a primrose-hunt and laden with floral spoils, may +be as healthy looking, as pretty, as well-behaved, as sweet-tempered, +as neatly dressed as those that bear his name,--may be in every respect +as worthy of love and admiration; but then they have the misfortune not +to belong to him. That little fact makes a great difference. He knows +nothing about them; his acquaintance with them is born and dead in a +moment. I like my garden better than any other garden, for the same +reason. It is my own. And ownership in such a matter implies a great +deal. When I first settled here, the ground around the house was sour +moorland. I made the walk, planted the trees, built the moss-house, +erected the sun-dial, brought home the rhododendrons and fed them with +the mould which they love so well. I am the creator of every blossom, +of every odour that comes and goes in the wind. The rustle of my trees +is to my ear what his child's voice is to my friends the village doctor +or the village clergyman. I know the genealogy of every tree and plant +in my garden. I watch their growth as a father watches the growth of +his children. It is curious enough, as showing from what sources +objects derive their importance, that if you have once planted a tree +for other than commercial purposes,--and in that case it is usually +done by your orders and by the hands of hirelings,--you have always in +it a peculiar interest. You care more for it than you care for all the +forests of Norway or America. _You_ have planted it, and that is +sufficient to make it peculiar amongst the trees of the world. This +personal interest I take in every inmate of my garden, and this +interest I have increased by sedulous watching. But, really, trees and +plants resemble human beings in many ways. You shake a packet of seed +into your forcing-frame; and while some grow, others pine and die, or +struggle on under hereditary defect, showing indifferent blossoms late +in the season, and succumb at length. So far as one could discover, +the seeds were originally alike,--they received the same care, they +were fed by the same moisture and sunlight; but of no two of them are +the issues the same. Do I not see something of this kind in the world +of men, and can I not please myself with quaint analogies? These +plants and trees have their seasons of illness and their sudden deaths. +Your best rose-tree, whose fame has spread for twenty miles, is smitten +by some fell disease; its leaves take an unhealthy hue, and in a day or +so it is sapless,--dead. A tree of mine, the first last spring to put +out its leaves, and which wore them till November, made this spring no +green response to the call of the sunshine. Marvelling what ailed it, +I went to examine, and found it had been dead for months; and yet +during the winter there had been no frost to speak of, and more than +its brothers and sisters it was in no way exposed. These are the +tragedies of the garden, and they shadow forth other tragedies nearer +us. In everything we find a kind of dim mirror of ourselves. Sterne, +if placed in a desert, said he would love a tree; and I can fancy such +a love would not be altogether unsatisfying. Love of trees and plants +is safe. You do not run risk in your affections. They are my +children, silent and beautiful, untouched by any passion, unpolluted by +evil tempers; for me they leaf and flower themselves. In autumn they +put off their rich apparel, but next year they are back again, with +dresses fair as ever; and--one can extract a kind of fanciful +bitterness from the thought--should I be laid in my grave in winter, +they would all in spring be back again, with faces a bright and with +breaths as sweet, missing me not at all. Ungrateful, the one I am +fondest of would blossom very prettily if planted on the soil that +covers me,--where my dog would die, where my best friend would perhaps +raise an inscription! + +I like flowering plants, but I like trees more,--for the reason, I +suppose, that they are slower in coming to maturity, are longer lived, +that you can become better acquainted with them, and that in the course +of years memories and associations hang as thickly on their boughs as +do leaves in summer or fruits in autumn. I do not wonder that great +earls value their trees, and never, save in direst extremity, lift upon +them the axe. Ancient descent and glory are made audible in the proud +murmur of immemorial woods. There are forests in England whose leafy +noises may be shaped into Agincourt and the names of the battle-fields +of the Roses; oaks that dropped their acorns in the year that Henry +VIII. held his Field of the Cloth of Gold, and beeches that gave +shelter to the deer when Shakspeare was a boy. There they stand, in +sun and shower, the broad-armed witnesses of perished centuries; and +sore must his need be who commands a woodland massacre. A great +English tree, the rings of a century in its boll, is one of the noblest +of natural objects; and it touches the imagination no less than the +eye, for it grows out of tradition and a past order of things, and is +pathetic with the suggestions of dead generations. Trees waving a +colony of rooks in the wind to-day, are older than historic lines. +Trees are your best antiques. There are cedars on Lebanon which the +axes of Solomon spared, they say, when he was busy with his Temple; +there are olives on Olivet that might have rustled in the ears of the +Master and the Twelve; there are oaks in Sherwood which have tingled to +the horn of Robin Hood, and have listened to Maid Marian's laugh. +Think of an existing Syrian cedar which is nearly as old as history, +which was middle-aged before the wolf suckled Romulus! Think of an +existing English elm in whose branches the heron was reared which the +hawks of Saxon Harold killed! If you are a notable, and wish to be +remembered, better plant a tree than build a city or strike a medal; it +will outlast both. + +My trees are young enough, and if they do not take me away into the +past, they project me into the future. When I planted them, I knew I +was performing an act, the issues of which would outlast me long. My +oaks are but saplings; but what undreamed-of English kings will they +not outlive! I pluck my apples, my pears, my plums; and I know that +from the same branches other hands will pluck apples, pears, and plums +when this body of mine will have shrunk into a pinch of dust. I cannot +dream with what year these hands will date their letters. A man does +not plant a tree for himself, he plants it for posterity. And, sitting +idly in the sunshine, I think at times of the unborn people who will, +to some small extent, be indebted to me. Remember me kindly, ye future +men and women! When I am dead, the juice of my apples will foam and +spurt in your cider-presses, my plums will gather for you their misty +bloom; and that any of your youngsters should be choked by one of my +cherry-stones, merciful Heaven forfend! + +In this pleasant summer weather I hold my audience in my garden rather +than in my house. In all my interviews the sun is a third party. +Every village has its Fool, and, of course, Dreamthorp is not without +one. Him I get to run my messages for me, and he occasionally turns my +garden borders with a neat hand enough. He and I hold frequent +converse, and people here, I have been told, think we have certain +points of sympathy. Although this is not meant for a compliment, I +take it for one. The poor faithful creature's brain has strange +visitors; now 't is fun, now wisdom, and now something which seems in +the queerest way a compound of both. He lives in a kind of twilight +which obscures objects, and his remarks seem to come from another world +than that in which ordinary people live. He is the only original +person of my acquaintance; his views of life are his own, and form a +singular commentary on those generally accepted. He is dull enough at +times, poor fellow; but anon he startles you with something, and you +think he must have wandered out of Shakspeare's plays into this +out-of-the-way place. Up from the village now and then comes to visit +me the tall, gaunt, atrabilious confectioner, who has a hankering after +Red-republicanism, and the destruction of Queen, Lords, and Commons. +Guy Fawkes is, I believe, the only martyr in his calendar. The +sourest-tempered man, I think, that ever engaged in the manufacture of +sweetmeats. I wonder that the oddity of the thing never strikes +himself. To be at all consistent, he should put poison in his +lozenges, and become the Herod of the village innocents. One of his +many eccentricities is a love for flowers, and he visits me often to +have a look at my greenhouse and my borders. I listen to his truculent +and revolutionary speeches, and take my revenge by sending the gloomy +egotist away with a nosegay in his hand, and a gay-coloured flower +stuck in a button-hole. He goes quite unconscious of my floral satire. + +The village clergyman and the village doctor are great friends of mine; +they come to visit me often, and smoke a pipe with me in my garden. +The twain love and respect each other, but they regard the world from +different points of view, and I am now and again made witness of a +good-humoured passage of arms. The clergyman is old, unmarried, and a +humourist. His sallies and his gentle eccentricities seldom provoke +laughter, but they are continually awakening the pleasantest smiles. +Perhaps what he has seen of the world, its sins, its sorrows, its +death-beds, its widows and orphans, has tamed his spirit and put a +tenderness into his wit. I do not think I have ever encountered a man +who so adorns his sacred profession. His pious, devout nature produces +sermons just as naturally as my apple-trees produce apples. He is a +tree that flowers every Sunday. Very beautiful in his reverence for +the Book, his trust in it; through long acquaintance, its ideas have +come to colour his entire thought, and you come upon its phrases in his +ordinary speech. He is more himself in the pulpit than anywhere else, +and you get nearer him in his sermons than you do sitting with him at +his tea-table, or walking with him on the country roads. He does not +feel confined in his orthodoxy; in it he is free as a bird in the air. +The doctor is, I conceive, as good a Christian as the clergyman, but he +is impatient of pale or limit; he never comes to a fence without +feeling a desire to get over it. He is a great hunter of insects, and +he thinks that the wings of his butterflies might yield very excellent +texts; he is fond of geology, and cannot, especially when he is in the +company of the clergyman, resist the temptation of hurling a fossil at +Moses. He wears his scepticism as a coquette wears her ribbons,--to +annoy if he cannot subdue; and when his purpose is served, he puts his +scepticism aside,--as the coquette puts her ribbons. Great arguments +arise between them, and the doctor loses his field through his loss of +temper,--which, however, he regains before any harm is done; for the +worthy man is irascible withal, and opposition draws fire from him. + +After an outburst, there is a truce between the friends for a while, +till it is broken by theological battle over the age of the world, or +some other the like remote matter, which seems important to me only in +so far as it affords ground for disputation. These truces are broken +sometimes by the doctor, sometimes by the clergyman. T'other evening +the doctor and myself were sitting in the garden, smoking each a +meditative pipe. Dreamthorp lay below, with its old castle and its +lake, and its hundred wreaths of smoke floating upward into the sunset. +Where we sat, the voices of children playing in the street could hardly +reach us. Suddenly a step was heard on the gravel, and the next moment +the clergyman appeared, as it seemed to me, with a peculiar airiness of +aspect, and the light of a humourous satisfaction in his eye. After +the usual salutations, he took his seat beside us, lifted a pipe of the +kind called "churchwarden" from the box on the ground, filled and +lighted it, and for a little while we were silent all three. The +clergyman then drew an old magazine from his side pocket, opened it at +a place where the leaf had been carefully turned down, and drew my +attention to a short poem which had for its title, "Vanity Fair," +imprinted in German text. This poem he desired me to read aloud. +Laying down my pipe carefully beside me, I complied with his request. +It ran thus; for as after my friends went it was left behind, I have +written it down word for word:-- + + "The world-old Fair of Vanity + Since Bunyan's day has grown discreeter + No more it flocks in crowds to see + A blazing Paul or Peter. + + "Not that a single inch it swerves + From hate of saint or love of sinner, + But martyrs shock aesthetic nerves, + And spoil the _goût_ of dinner. + + "Raise but a shout, or flaunt a scarf,-- + Its mobs are all agog and flying; + They 'll cram the levee of a dwarf, + And leave a Haydon dying. + + "They live upon each newest thing, + They fill their idle days with seeing; + Fresh news of courtier and of king + Sustains their empty being. + + "The statelier, from year to year, + Maintain their comfortable stations + At the wide windows that o'erpeer + The public square of nations; + + "While through it heaves, with cheers and groans, + Harsh drums of battle in the distance, + Frightful with gallows, ropes, and thrones, + The medley of existence; + + "Amongst them tongues are wagging much: + Hark to the philosophic sisters! + To his, whose keen satiric touch, + Like the Medusa, blisters! + + "All things are made for talk,--St. Paul; + The pattern of an altar cushion; + A Paris wild with carnival, + Or red with revolution. + + "And much they knew, that sneering crew, + Of things above the world and under: + They search'd the hoary deep; they knew + The secret of the thunder; + + "The pure white arrow of the light + They split into its colours seven; + They weighed the sun; they dwelt, like night, + Among the stars of heaven; + + "They 've found out life and death,--the first + Is known but to the upper classes; + The second, pooh! 't is at the worst + A dissolution into gases. + + "And vice and virtue are akin, + As black and white from Adam issue,-- + One flesh, one blood, though sheeted in + A different coloured tissue. + + "Their science groped from star to star;-- + But then herself found nothing greater. + What wonder?--in a Leyden jar + They bottled the Creator. + + "Fires fluttered on their lightning-rod; + They cleared the human mind from error; + They emptied heaven of its God, + And Tophet of its terror. + + "Better the savage in his dance + Than these acute and syllogistic! + Better a reverent ignorance + Than knowledge atheistic! + + "Have they dispelled one cloud that lowers + So darkly on the human creature? + They with their irreligious powers + Have subjugated nature. + + "But, as a satyr wins the charms + Of maiden in a forest hearted, + He finds, when clasped within his arms, + The outraged soul departed." + + + When I had done reading these verses, +he clergyman glanced slyly along to see the effect of his shot. The +doctor drew two or three hurried whiffs, gave a huge grunt of scorn, +then, turning sharply, asked, "What is 'a reverent ignorance'? What is +'a knowledge atheistic'?" The clergyman, skewered by the sudden +question, wriggled a little, and then began to explain,--with no great +heart, however, for he had had his little joke out, and did not care to +carry it further. The doctor listened for a little, and then, laying +down his pipe, said, with some heat, "It won't do. 'Reverent +ignorance' and such trash is a mere jingle of words; _that_ you know as +well as I. You stumbled on these verses, and brought them up here to +throw them at me. They don't harm me in the least, I can assure you. +There is no use," continued the doctor, mollifying at the sight of his +friend's countenance, and seeing how the land lay,--"there is no use +speaking to our incurious, solitary friend here, who could bask +comfortably in sunshine for a century, without once inquiring whence +came the light and heat. But let me tell you," lifting his pipe and +shaking it across me at the clergyman, "that science has done services +to your cloth which have not always received the most grateful +acknowledgments. Why, man," here he began to fill his pipe slowly, +"the theologian and the man of science, although they seem to diverge +and lose sight of each other, are all the while working to one end. +Two exploring parties in Australia set out from one point; the one goes +east, and the other west. They lose sight of each other, they know +nothing of one another's whereabouts; but they are all steering to one +point,"--the sharp spirt of a fusee on the garden-seat came in here, +followed by an aromatic flavour in the air,--"and when they do meet, +which they are certain to do in the long run,"--here the doctor put the +pipe in his mouth, and finished his speech with it there,--"the figure +of the continent has become known, and may be set down in maps. The +exploring parties have started long ago. What folly in the one to +pooh-pooh or be suspicious of the exertions of the other. That party +deserves the greatest credit which meets the other more than half +way."--"Bravo!" cried the clergyman, when the doctor had finished his +oration; "I don't know that I could fill your place at the bedside, but +I am quite sure that you could fill mine in the pulpit."--"I am not +sure that the congregation would approve of the change,--I might +disturb their slumbers;" and, pleased with his retort, his cheery laugh +rose through a cloud of smoke into the sunset. + +Heigho! mine is a dull life, I fear, when this little affair of the +doctor and the clergyman takes the dignity of an incident, and seems +worthy of being recorded. + +The doctor was anxious that, during the following winter, a short +course of lectures should be delivered in the village schoolroom, and +in my garden he held several conferences on the matter with the +clergyman and myself. It was arranged finally that the lectures should +be delivered, and that one of them should be delivered by me. I need +not say how pleasant was the writing out of my discourse, and how the +pleasure was heightened by the slightest thrill of alarm at my own +temerity. My lecture I copied out in my most careful hand, and, as I +had it by heart, I used to declaim passages of it ensconced in my +moss-house, or concealed behind my shrubbery trees. In these places I +tried it all over, sentence by sentence. The evening came at last +which had been looked forward to for a couple of months or more. The +small schoolroom was filled by forms on which the people sat, and a +small reading-desk, with a tumbler of water on it, at the further end, +waited for me. When I took my seat, the couple of hundred eyes struck +into me a certain awe. I discovered in a moment why the orator of the +hustings is so deferential to the mob. You may despise every +individual member of your audience, but these despised individuals, in +their capacity of a collective body, overpower you. I addressed the +people with the most unfeigned respect. When I began, too, I found +what a dreadful thing it is to hear your own voice inhabiting the +silence. You are related to your voice, and yet divorced from it. It +is you, and yet a thing apart. All the time it is going on, you can be +critical as to its tone, volume, cadence, and other qualities, as if it +was the voice of a stranger. Gradually, however, I got accustomed to +my voice, and the respect which I entertained for my hearers so far +relaxed that I was at last able to look them in the face. I saw the +doctor and the clergyman smile encouragingly, and my half-witted +gardener looking up at me with open mouth, and the atrabilious +confectioner clap his hands, which made me take refuge in my paper +again. I got to the end of my task without any remarkable incident, if +I except the doctor's once calling out "hear" loudly, which brought the +heart into my mouth, and blurred half a sentence. When I sat down, +there were the usual sounds of approbation, and the confectioner +returned thanks, in the name of the audience. + + + + +ON VAGABONDS + +Call it oddity, eccentricity, humour, or what you please, it is evident +that the special flavour of mind or manner which, independently of +fortune, station, or profession, sets a man apart and makes him +distinguishable from his fellows, and which gives the charm of +picturesqueness to society, is fast disappearing from amongst us. A +man may count the odd people of his acquaintance on his fingers; and it +is observable that these odd people are generally well stricken in +years. They belong more to the past generation than to the present. +Our young men are terribly alike. For these many years back, the young +gentlemen I have had the fortune to encounter are clever, knowing, +selfish, disagreeable; the young ladies are of one pattern, like minted +sovereigns of the same reign,--excellent gold, I have no doubt, but +each bearing the same awfully proper image and superscription. There +are no blanks in the matrimonial lottery nowadays, but the prizes are +all of a value, and there is but one kind of article given for the +ticket. Courtship is an absurdity and a sheer waste of time. If a man +could but close his eyes in a ball-room, dash into a bevy of muslin +beauties, carry off the fair one that accident gives to his arms, his +raid would be as reasonable and as likely to produce happiness as the +more ordinary methods of procuring a spouse. If a man has to choose +one guinea out of a bag containing one hundred and fifty, what can he +do? What wonderful wisdom can he display in his choice? There is no +appreciable difference of value in the golden pieces. The latest +coined are a little fresher, that's all. An act of uniformity, with +heavy penalties for recusants, seems to have been passed upon the +English race. That we can quite well account for this state of things, +does not make the matter better, does not make it the less our duty to +fight against it. We are apt to be told that men are too busy and +women too accomplished for humour of speech or originality of character +or manner. In the truth of this lies the pity of it. If, with the +exceptions of hedges that divide fields, and streams that run as +marches between farms, every inch of soil were drained, ploughed, +manured, and under that improved cultivation rushing up into +astonishing wheaten and oaten crops, enriching tenant and proprietor, +the aspect of the country would be decidedly uninteresting, and would +present scant attraction to the man riding or walking through it. In +such a world the tourists would be few. Personally, I should detest a +world all red and ruled with the ploughshare in spring, all covered +with harvest in autumn. I wish a little variety. I desiderate moors +and barren places: the copse where you can flush the woodcock; the +warren where, when you approach, you can see the twinkle of innumerable +rabbit tails; and, to tell the truth, would not feel sorry although +Reynard himself had a hole beneath the wooded bank, even if the demands +of his rising family cost Farmer Yellowleas a fat capon or two in the +season. The fresh, rough, heathery parts of human nature, where the +air is freshest, and where the linnets sing, is getting encroached upon +by cultivated fields. Every one is making himself and herself useful. +Every one is producing something. Everybody is clever. Everybody is a +philanthropist. I don't like it. I love a little eccentricity. I +respect honest prejudices. I admire foolish enthusiasm in a young head +better than a wise scepticism. It is high time, it seems to me, that a +moral game-law were passed for the preservation of the wild and vagrant +feelings of human nature. + +I have advertised myself to speak of _vagabonds_, and I must explain +what I mean by the term. We all know what was the doom of the first +child born of man, and it is needless for me to say that I do not wish +the spirit of Cain more widely diffused amongst my fellow-creatures. +By vagabonds, I do not mean a tramp or a gipsy, or a thimble-rigger, or +a brawler who is brought up with a black eye before a magistrate in the +morning. The vagabond as I have him in my mind's eye, and whom I +dearly love, comes out of quite a different mould. The man I speak of, +seldom, it is true, attains to the dignity of a churchwarden; he is +never found sitting at a reformed town-council board; he has a horror +of public platforms; he never by any chance heads a subscription list +with a donation of fifty pounds. On the other hand, he is very far +from being a "ne'er-do-weel," as the Scotch phrase it, or an imprudent +person. He does not play at "Aunt Sally" on a public race-course, he +does not wrench knockers from the doors of slumbering citizens; he has +never seen the interior of a police-cell. It is quite true, he has a +peculiar way of looking at many things. If, for instance, he is +brought up with cousin Milly, and loves her dearly, and the childish +affection grows up and strengthens in the woman's heart, and there is a +fair chance for them fighting the world side by side, he marries her +without too curiously considering whether his income will permit him to +give dinner-parties, and otherwise fashionably see his friends. Very +imprudent, no doubt. But you cannot convince my vagabond. With the +strangest logical twist, which seems natural to him, he conceives that +he marries for his own sake, and not for the sake of his acquaintances, +and that the possession of a loving heart and a conscience void of +reproach is worth, at any time an odd sovereign in his pocket. The +vagabond is not a favourite with the respectable classes. He is +particularly feared by mammas who have daughters to dispose of,--not +that he is a bad son, or likely to prove a bad husband or a treacherous +friend; but somehow gold does not stick to his fingers as it does to +the fingers of some men. He is regardless of appearances. He chooses +his friends neither for their fine houses nor their rare wines, but for +their humours, their goodness of heart, their capacities of making a +joke and of seeing one, and for their abilities, unknown often as the +woodland violet, but not the less sweet for obscurity. As a +consequence, his acquaintance is miscellaneous, and he is often seen at +other places than rich men's feasts. I do believe he is a gainer by +reason of his vagrant ways. He comes in contact with the queer corners +and the out-of-the-way places of human life. He knows more of our +common nature, just as the man who walks through a country, and who +strikes off the main road now and then to visit a ruin, or a legendary +cairn of stones, who drops into village inns, and talks with the people +he meets on the road, becomes better acquainted with it than the man +who rolls haughtily along the turnpike in a carriage and four. We lose +a great deal by foolish hauteur. No man is worth much who has not a +touch of the vagabond in him. Could I have visited London thirty years +ago, I would rather have spent an hour with Charles Lamb than with any +other of its residents. He was a fine specimen of the vagabond, as I +conceive him. His mind was as full of queer nooks and tortuous +passages as any mansion-house of Elizabeth's day or earlier, where the +rooms are cosey, albeit a little low in the roof; where dusty stained +lights are falling on old oaken panellings; where every bit of +furniture has a reverent flavour of ancientness; where portraits of +noble men and women, all dead long ago, are hanging on the walls; and +where a black-letter Chaucer with silver clasps is lying open on a seat +in the window. There was nothing modern about him. The garden of his +mind did not flaunt in gay parterres; it resembled those that Cowley +and Evelyn delighted in, with clipped trees, and shaven lawns, and +stone satyrs, and dark, shadowing yews, and a sun-dial, with a Latin +motto sculptured on it, standing at the farther end. Lamb was the +slave of quip and whimsey; he stuttered out puns to the detriment of +all serious and improving conversation, and twice or so in the year he +was overtaken in liquor. Well, in spite of these things, perhaps on +account of these things, I love his memory. For love and charity +ripened in that nature as peaches ripen on the wall that fronts the +sun. Although he did not blow his trumpet in the corners of the +streets, he was tried as few men are, and fell not. He jested, that he +might not weep. He wore a martyr's heart beneath his suit of motley. +And only years after his death, when to admiration or censure he was +alike insensible, did the world know his story and that of his sister +Mary. + +Ah, me! what a world this was to live in two or three centuries ago, +when it was getting itself discovered--when the sunset gave up America, +when a steel hand had the spoiling of Mexico and Peru! Then were the +"Arabian Nights" commonplace, enchantments a matter of course, and +romance the most ordinary thing in the world. Then man was courting +Nature; now he has married her. Every mystery is dissipated. The +planet is familiar as the trodden pathway running between towns. We no +longer gaze wistfully to the west, dreaming of the Fortunate Isles. We +seek our wonders now on the ebbed sea-shore; we discover our new worlds +with the microscope. Yet, for all that time has brought and taken +away, I am glad to know that the vagabond sleeps in our blood, and +awakes now and then. Overlay human nature as you please, here and +there some bit of rock, or mound of aboriginal soil, will crop out with +the wild-flowers growing upon it, sweetening the air. When the boy +throws his Delectus or his Euclid aside, and takes passionately to the +reading of "Robinson Crusoe" or Bruce's "African Travels," do not shake +your head despondingly over him and prophesy evil issues. Let the wild +hawk try its wings. It will be hooded, and will sit quietly enough on +the falconer's perch ere long. Let the wild horse career over its +boundless pampas; the jerk of the lasso will bring it down soon enough. +Soon enough will the snaffle in the mouth and the spur of the tamer +subdue the high spirit to the bridle, or the carriage-trace. Perhaps +not; and, if so, the better for all parties. Once more there will be a +new man and new deeds in the world. For Genius is a vagabond, Art is a +vagabond, Enterprise is a vagabond. Vagabonds have moulded the world +into its present shape; they have made the houses in which we dwell, +the roads on which we ride and drive, the very laws that govern us. +Respectable people swarm in the track of the vagabond as rooks in the +track of the ploughshare. Respectable people do little in the world +except storing wine-cellars and amassing fortunes for the benefit of +spendthrift heirs. Respectable well-to-do Grecians shook their heads +over Leonidas and his three hundred when they went down to Thermopylae. +Respectable Spanish churchmen with shaven crowns scouted the dream of +Columbus. Respectable German folks attempted to dissuade Luther from +appearing before Charles and the princes and electors of the Empire, +and were scandalised when he declared that "Were there as many devils +in Worms as there were tiles on the house-tops, still would he on." +Nature makes us vagabonds, the world makes us respectable. + +In the fine sense in which I take the word, the English are the +greatest vagabonds on the earth, and it is the healthiest trait in +their national character. The first fine day in spring awakes the +gipsy in the blood of the English workman, and incontinently he +"babbles of green fields." On the English gentleman lapped, in the +most luxurious civilisation, and with the thousand powers and resources +of wealth at his command, descends oftentimes a fierce unrest, a +Bedouin-like horror of cities and the cry of the money-changer, and in +a month the fiery dust rises in the track of his desert steed, or in +the six months' polar midnight he hears the big wave clashing on the +icy shore. The close presence of the sea feeds the Englishman's +restlessness. She takes possession of his heart like some fair +capricious mistress. Before the boy awakes to the beauty of cousin +Mary, he is crazed by the fascinations of ocean. With her voices of +ebb and flow she weaves her siren song round the Englishman's coasts +day and night. Nothing that dwells on land can keep from her embrace +the boy who has gazed upon her dangerous beauty, and who has heard her +singing songs of foreign shores at the foot of the summer crag. It is +well that in the modern gentleman the fierce heart of the Berserker +lives yet. The English are eminently a nation of vagabonds. The sun +paints English faces with all the colours of his climes. The +Englishman is ubiquitous. He shakes with fever and ague in the swampy +valley of the Mississippi; he is drowned in the sand pillars as they +waltz across the desert on the purple breath of the simoom; he stands +on the icy scalp of Mont Blanc; his fly falls in the sullen Norwegian +fiords; he invades the solitude of the Cape lion; he rides on his +donkey through the uncausewayed Cairo streets. That wealthy people, +under a despotism, should be travellers seems a natural thing enough. +It is a way of escape from the rigours of their condition. But that +England--where activity rages so keenly and engrosses every class; +where the prizes of Parliament, literature, commerce, the bar, the +church, are hungered and thirsted after; where the stress and intensity +of life ages a man before his time; where so many of the noblest break +down in harness hardly halfway to the goal--should, year after year, +send off swarms of men to roam the world, and to seek out danger for +the mere thrill and enjoyment of it, is significant of the indomitable +pluck and spirit of the race. There is scant danger that the rust of +sloth will eat into the virtue of English steel. The English do the +hard work and the travelling of the world. The least revolutionary +nation of Europe, the one with the greatest temptations to stay at +home, with the greatest faculty for work, with perhaps the sincerest +regard for wealth, is also the most nomadic. How is this? It is +because they are a nation of vagabonds; they have the "hungry heart" +that one of their poets speaks about. + +There is an amiability about the genuine vagabond which takes captive +the heart. We do not love a man for his respectability, his prudence +and foresight in business, his capacity of living within his income, or +his balance at his banker's. We all admit that prudence is an +admirable virtue, and occasionally lament, about Christmas, when bills +fall in, that we do not inherit it in a greater degree. But we speak +about it in quite a cool way. It does not touch us with enthusiasm. +If a calculating-machine had a hand to wring, it would find few to +wring it warmly. The things that really move liking in human beings +are the gnarled nodosities of character, vagrant humours, freaks of +generosity, some little unextinguishable spark of the aboriginal +savage, some little sweet savour of the old Adam. It is quite +wonderful how far simple generosity and kindliness of heart go in +securing affection; and, when these exist, what a host of apologists +spring up for faults and vices even. A country squire goes recklessly +to the dogs; yet if he has a kind word for his tenant when he meets +him, a frank greeting for the rustic beauty when she drops a courtesy +to him on the highway, he lives for a whole generation in an odour of +sanctity. If he had been a disdainful, hook-nosed prime minister who +had carried his country triumphantly through some frightful crisis of +war, these people would, perhaps, never have been aware of the fact; +and most certainly never would have tendered him a word of thanks, even +if they had. When that important question, "Which is the greatest foe +to the public weal--the miser or the spendthrift?" is discussed at the +artisans' debating club, the spendthrift has all the eloquence on his +side--the miser all the votes. The miser's advocate is nowhere, and he +pleads the cause of his client with only half his heart. In the +theatre, Charles Surface is applauded, and Joseph Surface is hissed. +The novel-reader's affection goes out to Tom Jones, his hatred to +Blifil. Joseph Surface and Blifil are scoundrels, it is true; but +deduct the scoundrelism, let Joseph be but a stale proverb-monger and +Blifil a conceited prig, and the issue remains the same. Good humour +and generosity carry the day with the popular heart all the world over. +Tom Jones and Charles Surface are not vagabonds to my taste. They were +shabby fellows both, and were treated a great deal too well. But there +are other vagabonds whom I love, and whom I do well to love. With what +affection do I follow little Ishmael and his broken-hearted mother out +into the great and terrible wilderness, and see them faint beneath the +ardours of the sunlight! And we feel it to be strict poetic justice +and compensation that the lad so driven forth from human tents should +become the father of wild Arabian men, to whom the air of cities is +poison, who work without any tool, and on whose limbs no conqueror has +ever yet been able to rivet shackle or chain. Then there are Abraham's +grandchildren, Jacob and Esau--the former, I confess, no favourite of +mine. His, up at least to his closing years, when parental affection +and strong sorrow softened him, was a character not amiable. He lacked +generosity, and had too keen an eye on his own advancement. He did not +inherit the noble strain of his ancestors. He was a prosperous man; +yet in spite of his increase in flocks and herds,--in spite of his +vision of the ladder, with the angels ascending and descending upon +it,--in spite of the success of his beloved son,--in spite of the +weeping and lamentation of the Egyptians at his death,--in spite of his +splendid funeral, winding from the city by the pyramid and the +sphinx,--in spite of all these things, I would rather have been the +hunter Esau, with birthright filched away, bankrupt in the promise, +rich only in fleet foot and keen spear; for he carried into the wilds +with him an essentially noble nature--no brother with his mess of +pottage could mulct him of that. And he had a fine revenge; for when +Jacob, on his journey, heard that his brother was near with four +hundred men, and made division of his flocks and herds, his +man-servants and maid-servants, impetuous as a swollen hill-torrent, +the fierce son of the desert, baked red with Syrian light, leaped down +upon him, and fell on his neck and wept. And Esau said, "What meanest +thou by all this drove which I met?" and Jacob said, "These are to find +grace in the sight of my lord;" then Esau said, "I have enough, my +brother, keep that thou hast unto thyself." O mighty prince, didst +thou remember thy mother's guile, the skins upon thy hands and neck, +and the lie put upon the patriarch, as, blind with years, he sat up in +his bed snuffing the savory meat? An ugly memory, I should fancy! + +Commend me to Shakspeare's vagabonds, the most delightful in the world! +His sweet-blooded and liberal nature blossomed into all fine +generosities as naturally as an apple-bough into pink blossoms and +odours. Listen to Gonsalvo talking to the shipwrecked Milan nobles +camped for the night in Prospero's isle, full of sweet voices, with +Ariel shooting through the enchanted air like a falling star;-- + + "Had I the plantation of this isle, my lord, + I' the commonwealth I would by contraries + Execute all things; for no kind of traffic + Would I admit; no name of magistrate; + Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, + And use of service none; contract, succession, + Bourne, bound of land, tilth, title, vineyard none; + No use of metal coin, or wine, or oil; + No occupation--all men idle--all! + And women too, but innocent and pure; + No sovereignty; + All things in common nature should produce, + Without sweat or endurance; treason, felony, + Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine + Would I not have; but nature would bring forth + Of its own kind all foison, all abundance, + To feed my innocent people. + I would with such perfection govern, sir, + To excel the golden age." + + +What think you of a world after that pattern? "As You Like it" is a +vagabond play, and, verily, if there waved in any wind that blows a +forest peopled like Arden's, with an exiled king drawing the sweetest, +humanest lessons from misfortune; a melancholy Jacques, stretched by +the river bank, moralising on the bleeding deer; a fair Rosalind, +chanting her saucy cuckoo-song; fools like Touchstone--not like those +of our acquaintance, my friends; and the whole place, from centre to +circumference, filled with mighty oak bolls, all carven with lovers' +names,--if such a forest waved in wind, I say, I would, be my worldly +prospects what they might, pack up at once, and cast in my lot with +that vagabond company. For there I should find more gallant +courtesies, finer sentiments, completer innocence and happiness, more +wit and wisdom, than I am like to do here even, though I search for +them from shepherd's cot to king's palace. Just to think how those +people lived! Carelessly as the blossoming trees, happily as the +singing birds, time measured only by the patter of the acorn on the +fruitful soil! A world without debtor or creditor, passing rich, yet +with never a doit in its purse, with no sordid care, no regard for +appearances; nothing to occupy the young but love-making, nothing to +occupy the old but perusing the "sermons in stones" and the musical +wisdom which dwells in "running brooks"! But Arden forest draws its +sustenance from a poet's brain: the light that sleeps on its leafy +pillows is "the light that never was on sea or shore." We but please +and tantalise ourselves with beautiful dreams. + +The children of the brain become to us actual existences, more actual, +indeed, than the people who impinge upon us in the street, or who live +next door. We are more intimate with Shakspeare's men and women than +we are with our contemporaries, and they are, on the whole, better +company. They are more beautiful in form and feature, and they express +themselves in a way that the most gifted strive after in vain. What if +Shakspeare's people could walk out of the play-books and settle down +upon some spot of earth and conduct life there? There would be found +humanity's whitest wheat, the world's unalloyed gold. The very winds +could not visit the place roughly. No king's court could present you +such an array. Where else could we find a philosopher like Hamlet? a +friend like Antonio? a witty fellow like Mercutio? where else Imogen's +piquant's face? Portia's gravity and womanly sweetness? Rosalind's true +heart and silvery laughter? Cordelia's beauty of holiness? These would +form the centre of the court, but the purlieus, how many-coloured! +Malvolio would walk mincingly in the sunshine there; Autolycus would +filch purses. Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch would be eternal +boon companions. And as Falstaff sets out homeward from the tavern, +the portly knight leading the revellers like a three-decker a line of +frigates, they are encountered by Dogberry, who summons them to stand +and answer to the watch as they are honest men. If Mr. Dickens's +characters were gathered together, they would constitute a town +populous enough to send a representative to Parliament. Let us enter. +The style of architecture is unparalleled. There is an individuality +about the buildings. In some obscure way they remind one of human +faces. There are houses sly-looking, houses wicked-looking, houses +pompous-looking. Heaven bless us! what a rakish pump! what a +self-important town-hall! what a hard-hearted prison! The dead walls +are covered with advertisements of Mr. Sleary's circus. Newman Noggs +comes shambling along. Mr. and the Misses Pecksniff come sailing down +the sunny side of the street. Miss Mercy's parasol is gay; papa's +neck-cloth is white, and terribly starched. Dick Swiveller leans +against a wall, his hands in his pockets, a primrose held between his +teeth, contemplating the opera of Punch and Judy, which is being +conducted under the management of Messrs. Codlings and Short. You turn +a corner and you meet the coffin of little Paul Dombey borne along. +Who would have thought of encountering a funeral in this place? In the +afternoon you hear the rich tones of the organ from Miss La Creevy's +first floor, for Tom Pinch has gone to live there now, and as you know +all the people as you know your own brothers and sisters, and +consequently require no letters of introduction, you go up and talk +with the dear old fellow about all his friends and your friends, and +towards evening he takes your arm, and you walk out to see poor Nelly's +grave--a place which he visits often, and which he dresses with flowers +with his own hands. I know this is the idlest dreaming, but all of us +have a sympathy with the creatures of the drama and the novel. Around +the hardest cark and toil lies the imaginative world of the poets and +romancists, and thither we sometimes escape to snatch a mouthful of +serener air. There our best lost feelings have taken a human shape. +We suppose that boyhood with its impulses and enthusiasms has subsided +with the gray cynical man whom we have known these many years. Not a +bit of it. It has escaped into the world of the poet, and walks a +love-flushed Romeo in immortal youth. We suppose that the Mary of +fifty years since, the rose-bud of a girl that crazed our hearts, +blossomed into the spouse of Jenkins, the stockbroker, and is now a +grandmother. Not at all. She is Juliet leaning from the balcony, or +Portia talking on the moonlight lawns at Belmont. There walk the +shadows of our former selves. All that Time steals he takes thither; +and to live in that world is to live in our lost youth, our lost +generosities, illusions, and romances. + +In middle-class life, and in the professions, when a standard or ideal +is tacitly set up, to which every member is expected to conform on pain +of having himself talked about, and wise heads shaken over him, the +quick feelings of the vagabond are not frequently found. Yet, thanks +to Nature, who sends her leafage and flowerage up through all kinds of +_débris_, and who takes a blossomy possession of ruined walls and +desert places, it is never altogether dead! And of vagabonds, not the +least delightful is he who retains poetry and boyish spirits beneath +the crust of a profession. Mr. Carlyle commends "central fire," and +very properly commends it most when "well covered in." In the case of +a professional man, this "central fire" does not manifest itself in +wasteful explosiveness, but in secret genial heat, visible in fruits of +charity and pleasant humour. The physician who is a humourist commends +himself doubly to a sick-bed. His patients are as much indebted for +their cure to his smile, his voice, and a certain irresistible +healthfulness that surrounds him, as they are to his skill and his +prescriptions. The lawyer who is a humourist is a man of ten thousand. +How easily the worldly-wise face, puckered over a stiff brief, relaxes +into the lines of laughter. He sees many an evil side of human nature, +he is familiar with slanders and injustice, all kinds of human +bitterness and falsity; but neither his hand nor his heart becomes +"imbued with that it works in," and the little admixture of acid, +inevitable from his circumstances and mode of life, but heightens the +flavour of his humour. But of all humourists of the professional +class, I prefer the clergyman, especially if he is well stricken in +years, and has been anchored all his life in a country charge. He is +none of your loud wits. There is a lady-like delicacy in his mind, a +constant sense of his holy office, which warn him off dangerous +subjects. This reserve, however, does but improve the quality of his +mirth. What his humour loses in boldness, it gains in depth and +slyness. And as the good man has seldom the opportunity of making a +joke, or of procuring an auditor who can understand one, the dewy +glitter of his eyes, as you sit opposite him, and his heartfelt +enjoyment of the matter in hand, are worth going a considerable way to +witness. It is not, however, in the professions that the vagabond is +commonly found. Over these that awful and ubiquitous female, Mrs. +Grundy--at once Fate, Nemesis, and Fury--presides. The glare of her +eye is professional danger, the pointing of her finger is professional +death. When she utters a man's name, he is lost. The true vagabond is +to be met with in other walks of life,--among actors, poets, painters. +These may grow in any way their nature directs. They are not required +to conform to any traditional pattern. With regard to the +respectabilities and the "minor morals," the world permits them to be +libertines. Besides, it is a temperament peculiarly sensitive, or +generous, or enjoying, which at the beginning impels these to their +special pursuits; and that temperament, like everything else in the +world, strengthens with use, and grows with what it feeds on. We look +upon an actor, sitting amongst ordinary men and women, with a certain +curiosity,--we regard him as a creature from another planet, almost. +His life and his world are quite different from ours. The orchestra, +the foot-lights, and the green baize curtain, divide us. He is a +monarch half his time--his entrance and his exit proclaimed by flourish +of trumpet. He speaks in blank verse, is wont to take his seat at +gilded banquets, to drink nothing out of a pasteboard goblet. The +actor's world has a history amusing to read, and lines of noble and +splendid traditions, stretching back to charming Nelly's time, and +earlier. The actor has strange experiences. He sees the other side of +the moon. We roar at Grimaldi's funny face: he sees the lines of pain +in it. We hear Romeo wish to be "a glove upon that hand that he might +touch that cheek:" three minutes afterwards he beholds Romeo refresh +himself with a pot of porter. We see the Moor, who "loved not wisely, +but too well," smother Desdemona with the nuptial bolster: he sees them +sit down to a hot supper. We always think of the actor as on the +stage: he always thinks of us as in the boxes. In justice to the poets +of the present day, it may be noticed that they have improved on their +brethren in Johnson's time, who were, according to Lord Macaulay, +hunted by bailiffs and familiar with sponging-houses, and who, when +hospitably entertained, were wont to disturb the household of the +entertainer by roaring for hot punch at four o'clock in the morning. +Since that period the poets have improved in the decencies of life: +they wear broadcloth, and settle their tailors' accounts even as other +men. At this present moment Her Majesty's poets are perhaps the most +respectable of Her Majesty's subjects. They are all teetotallers; if +they sin, it is in rhyme, and then only to point a moral. In past days +the poet flew from flower to flower, gathering his honey; but he bore a +sting, too, as the rude hand that touched him could testily. He freely +gathers his honey as of old, but the satiric sting has been taken away. +He lives at peace with all men--his brethren excepted. About the true +poet still there is something of the ancient spirit,--the old "flash +and outbreak of the fiery mind,"--the old enthusiasm and dash of +humourous eccentricity. But he is fast disappearing from the catalogue +of vagabonds--fast getting commonplace, I fear. Many people suspect +him of dulness. Besides, such a crowd of well-meaning, amiable, most +respectable men have broken down of late years the pales of Parnassus, +and become squatters on the sacred mount, that the claim of poets to be +a peculiar people is getting disallowed. Never in this world's history +were they so numerous; and although some people deny that they are +poets, few are cantankerous enough or intrepid enough to assert that +they are vagabonds. The painter is the most agreeable of vagabonds. +His art is a pleasant one: it demands some little manual exertion, and +it takes him at times into the open air. It is pleasant, too, in this, +that lines and colours are so much more palpable than words, and the +appeal of his work to his practised eye has some satisfaction in it. +He knows what he is about. He does not altogether lose his critical +sense, as the poet does, when familiarity stales his subject, and takes +the splendour out of his images. Moreover, his work is more profitable +than the poet's. I suppose there are just as few great painters at the +present day as there are great poets; yet the yearly receipts of the +artists of England far exceed the receipts of the singers. A picture +can usually be painted in less time than a poem can be written. A +second-rate picture has a certain market value,--its frame is at least +something. A second-rate poem is utterly worthless, and no one will +buy it on account of its binding. A picture is your own exclusive +property: it is a costly article of furniture. You hang it on your +walls, to be admired by all the world. Pictures represent wealth: the +possession of them is a luxury. The portrait-painter is of all men the +most beloved. You sit to him willingly, and put on your best looks. +You are inclined to be pleased with his work, on account of the strong +prepossession you entertain for his subject. To sit for one's portrait +is like being present at one's own creation. It is an admirable excuse +for egotism. You would not discourse on the falcon-like curve which +distinguishes your nose, or the sweet serenity of your reposing lips, +or the mildness of the eye that spreads a light over your countenance, +in the presence of a fellow-creature for the whole world; yet you do +not hesitate to express the most favourable opinion of the features +starting out on you from the wet canvas. The interest the painter +takes in his task flatters you. And when the sittings are over, and +you behold yourself hanging on your own wall, looking as it you could +direct kingdoms or lead armies, you feel grateful to the artist. He +ministers to your self-love, and you pay him his hire without wincing. +Your heart warms towards him as it would towards a poet who addresses +you in an ode of panegyric, the kindling terms of which--a little +astonishing to your friends--you believe in your heart of hearts to be +the simple truth, and, in the matter of expression, not over-coloured +in the very least. The portrait-painter has a shrewd eye for +character, and is usually the best anecdote-monger in the world. His +craft brings him into contact with many faces, and he learns to compare +them curiously, and to extract their meanings. He can interpret +wrinkles; he can look through the eyes into the man; he can read a +whole foregone history in the lines about the mouth. Besides, from the +good understanding which usually exists between the artist and his +sitter, the latter is inclined somewhat to unbosom himself; little +things leak out in conversation, not much in themselves, but pregnant +enough to the painter's sense, who pieces them together, and +constitutes a tolerably definite image. The man who paints your face +knows you better than your intimate friends do, and has a clearer +knowledge of your amiable weaknesses, and of the secret motives which +influence your conduct, than you oftentimes have yourself. A good +portrait is a kind of biography, and neither painter nor biographer can +carry out his task satisfactorily unless he be admitted behind the +scenes. I think that the landscape painter, who has acquired +sufficient mastery in his art to satisfy his own critical sense, and +who is appreciated enough to find purchasers, and thereby to keep the +wolf from the door, must be of all mankind the happiest. Other men +live in cities, bound down to some settled task and order of life; but +he is a nomad, and wherever he goes "Beauty pitches her tents before +him." He is smitten by a passionate love for Nature, and is privileged +to follow her into her solitary haunts and recesses. Nature is his +mistress, and he is continually making declarations of his love. When +one thinks of ordinary occupations, how one envies him, flecking his +oak-tree boll with sunlight, tinging with rose the cloud of the morning +in which the lark is hid, making the sea's swift fringe of foaming lace +outspread itself on the level sands, in which the pebbles gleam forever +wet. The landscape painter's memory is inhabited by the fairest +visions,--dawn burning on the splintered peaks that the eagles know, +while the valleys beneath are yet filled with uncertain light; the +bright blue morn stretching over miles of moor and mountain; the slow +up-gathering of the bellied thunder-cloud; summer lakes, and cattle +knee-deep in them; rustic bridges forever crossed by old women in +scarlet cloaks; old-fashioned waggons resting on the scrubby common, +the waggoner lazy and wayworn, the dog couched on the ground, its +tongue hanging out in the heat; boats drawn up on the shore at sunset; +the fisher's children looking seawards, the red light full on their +dresses and faces; farther back, a clump of cottages, with bait-baskets +about the door, and the smoke of the evening meal coiling up into the +coloured air. These things are forever with him. Beauty, which is a +luxury to other men, is his daily food. Happy vagabond, who lives the +whole summer through in the light of his mistress's face, and who does +nothing the whole winter except recall the splendour of her smiles! + +The vagabond, as I have explained and sketched him, is not a man to +tremble at, or avoid as if he wore contagion in his touch. He is +upright, generous, innocent, is conscientious in the performance of his +duties; and if a little eccentric and fond of the open air, he is full +of good nature and mirthful charity. He may not make money so rapidly +as you do, but I cannot help thinking that he enjoys life a great deal +more. The quick feeling of life, the exuberance or animal spirits +which break out in the traveller, the sportsman, the poet, the painter, +should be more generally diffused. We should be all the better and all +the happier for it. Life ought to be freer, heartier, more enjoyable +than it is at present. If the professional fetter must be worn, let it +be worn as lightly as possible. It should never be permitted to canker +the limbs. We are a free people,--we have an unshackled press,--we +have an open platform, and can say our say upon it, no king or despot +making us afraid. We send representatives to Parliament; the franchise +is always going to be extended. All this is very fine, and we do well +to glory in our privileges as Britons. But, although we enjoy greater +political freedom than any other people, we are the victims of a petty +social tyranny. We are our own despots,--we tremble at a neighbour's +whisper. A man may say what he likes on a public platform,--he may +publish whatever opinion he chooses,--but he dare not wear a peculiar +fashion of hat on the street. Eccentricity is an outlaw. Public +opinion blows like the east wind, blighting bud and blossom on the +human bough. As a consequence of all this, society is losing +picturesqueness and variety,--we are all growing up after one pattern. +In other matters than architecture past time may be represented by the +wonderful ridge of the Old Town of Edinburgh, where everything is +individual and characteristic: the present time by the streets and +squares of the New Town, where everything is gray, cold, and +respectable; where every house is the other's _alter ego_. It is true +that life is healthier in the formal square than in the piled-up +picturesqueness of the Canongate,--quite true that sanitary conditions +are better observed,--that pure water flows through every tenement like +blood through a human body,--that daylight has free access, and that +the apartments are larger and higher in the roof. But every gain is +purchased at the expense of some loss; and it is best to combine, if +possible, the excellences of the old and the new. By all means retain +the modern breadth of light, and range of space; by all means have +water plentiful, and bed-chambers ventilated,--but at the same time +have some little freak of fancy without,--some ornament about the door, +some device about the window,--something to break the cold, gray, stony +uniformity; or, to leave metaphor, which is always dangerous +ground,--for I really don't wish to advocate Ruskinism and the +Gothic,--it would be better to have, along with our modern +enlightenment, our higher tastes and purer habits, a greater +individuality of thought and manner; better, while retaining all that +we have gained, that harmless eccentricity should be respected,--that +every man should be allowed to grow in his own way, so long as he does +not infringe on the rights of his neighbour, or insolently thrust +himself between him and the sun. A little more air and light should be +let in upon life. I should think the world has stood long enough under +the drill of Adjutant Fashion. It is hard work; the posture is +wearisome, and Fashion is an awful martinet, and has a quick eye, and +comes down mercilessly on the unfortunate wight who cannot square his +toes to the approved pattern, or who appears upon parade with a darn in +his coat, or with a shoulder-belt insufficiently pipe-clayed. It is +killing work. Suppose we try "standing at ease" for a little! + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMTHORP*** + + +******* This file should be named 18135-8.txt or 18135-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/1/3/18135 + + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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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: Dreamthorp + A Book of Essays Written in the Country + + +Author: Alexander Smith + + + +Release Date: April 9, 2006 [eBook #18135] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMTHORP*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +DREAMTHORP + +A Book of Essays Written in the Country + +by + +ALEXANDER SMITH + + + + + + + +London +George Routledge & Sons, Limited +New York: E. P. Dutton & Co. +First Edition (in this series), July 1905 +Reprinted November, 1907 +Reprinted April, 1912 + + + + +Contents + + + DREAMTHORP + ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS + OF DEATH AND THE FEAR OF DYING + WILLIAM DUNBAR + A LARK'S FLIGHT + CHRISTMAS + MEN OF LETTERS + ON THE IMPORTANCE OF A MAN TO HIMSELF + A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE + GEOFFREY CHAUCER + BOOKS AND GARDENS + ON VAGABONDS + + + + +DREAMTHORP + +It matters not to relate how or when I became a denizen of Dreamthorp; +it will be sufficient to say that I am not a born native, but that I +came to reside in it a good while ago now. The several towns and +villages in which, in my time, I have pitched a tent did not please, +for one obscure reason or another; this one was too large, t'other too +small; but when, on a summer evening about the hour of eight, I first +beheld Dreamthorp, with its westward-looking windows painted by sunset, +its children playing in the single straggling street, the mothers +knitting at the open doors, the fathers standing about in long white +blouses, chatting or smoking; the great tower of the ruined castle +rising high into the rosy air, with a whole troop of swallows--by +distance made as small as gnats--skimming about its rents and +fissures;--when I first beheld all this, I felt instinctively that my +knapsack might be taken off my shoulders, that my tired feet might +wander no more, that at last, on the planet, I had found a home. From +that evening I have dwelt here, and the only journey I am like now to +make, is the very inconsiderable one, so far at least as distance is +concerned, from the house in which I live to the graveyard beside the +ruined castle. There, with the former inhabitants of the place, I +trust to sleep quietly enough, and nature will draw over our heads her +coverlet of green sod, and tenderly tuck us in, as a mother her +sleeping ones, so that no sound from the world shall ever reach us, and +no sorrow trouble us any more. + +The village stands far inland; and the streams that trot through the +soft green valleys all about have as little knowledge of the sea as the +three-years' child of the storms and passions of manhood. The +surrounding country is smooth and green, full of undulations; and +pleasant country roads strike through it in every direction, bound for +distant towns and villages, yet in no hurry to reach them. On these +roads the lark in summer is continually heard; nests are plentiful in +the hedges and dry ditches; and on the grassy banks, and at the feet of +the bowed dikes, the blue-eyed speedwell smiles its benison on the +passing wayfarer. On these roads you may walk for a year and encounter +nothing more remarkable than the country cart, troops of tawny children +from the woods, laden with primroses, and at long intervals--for people +in this district live to a ripe age--a black funeral creeping in from +some remote hamlet; and to this last the people reverently doff their +hats and stand aside. Death does not walk about here often, but when +he does, he receives as much respect as the squire himself. Everything +round one is unhurried, quiet, moss-grown, and orderly. Season follows +in the track of season, and one year can hardly be distinguished from +another. Time should be measured here by the silent dial, rather than +by the ticking clock, or by the chimes of the church. Dreamthorp can +boast of a respectable antiquity, and in it the trade of the builder is +unknown. Ever since I remember, not a single stone has been laid on +the top of another. The castle, inhabited now by jackdaws and +starlings, is old; the chapel which adjoins it is older still; and the +lake behind both, and in which their shadows sleep, is, I suppose, as +old as Adam. A fountain in the market-place, all mouths and faces and +curious arabesques,--as dry, however, as the castle moat,--has a +tradition connected with it; and a great noble riding through the +street one day several hundred years ago, was shot from a window by a +man whom he had injured. The death of this noble is the chief link +which connects the place with authentic history. The houses are old, +and remote dates may yet be deciphered on the stones above the doors; +the apple-trees are mossed and ancient; countless generations of +sparrows have bred in the thatched roofs, and thereon have chirped out +their lives. In every room of the place men have been born, men have +died. On Dreamthorp centuries have fallen, and have left no more trace +than have last winter's snowflakes. This commonplace sequence and +flowing on of life is immeasurably affecting. That winter morning when +Charles lost his head in front of the banqueting-hall of his own +palace, the icicles hung from the eaves of the houses here, and the +clown kicked the snowballs from his clouted shoon, and thought but of +his supper when, at three o'clock, the red sun set in the purple mist. +On that Sunday in June while Waterloo was going on, the gossips, after +morning service, stood on the country roads discussing agricultural +prospects, without the slightest suspicion that the day passing over +their heads would be a famous one in the calendar. Battles have been +fought, kings have died, history has transacted itself; but, all +unheeding and untouched, Dreamthorp has watched apple-trees redden, and +wheat ripen, and smoked its pipe, and quaffed its mug of beer, and +rejoiced over its new-born children, and with proper solemnity carried +its dead to the churchyard. As I gaze on the village of my adoption I +think of many things very far removed, and seem to get closer to them. +The last setting sun that Shakspeare saw reddened the windows here, and +struck warmly on the faces of the hinds coming home from the fields. +The mighty storm that raged while Cromwell lay a-dying made all the +oak-woods groan round about here, and tore the thatch from the very +roofs I gaze upon. When I think of this, I can almost, so to speak, +lay my hand on Shakspeare and on Cromwell. These poor walls were +contemporaries of both, and I find something affecting in the thought. +The mere soil is, of course, far older than either, but _it_ does not +touch one in the same way. A wall is the creation of a human hand, the +soil is not. + +This place suits my whim, and I like it better year after year. As +with everything else, since I began to love it I find it gradually +growing beautiful. Dreamthorp--a castle, a chapel, a lake, a +straggling strip of gray houses, with a blue film of smoke over +all--lies embosomed in emerald. Summer, with its daisies, runs up to +every cottage door. From the little height where I am now sitting, I +see it beneath me. Nothing could be more peaceful. The wind and the +birds fly over it. A passing sunbeam makes brilliant a white +gable-end, and brings out the colours of the blossomed apple-tree +beyond, and disappears. I see figures in the street, but hear them +not. The hands on the church clock seem always pointing to one hour. +Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine. I make a frame of my +fingers, and look at my picture. On the walls of the next Academy's +Exhibition will hang nothing half so beautiful! + +My village is, I think, a special favourite of summer's. Every +window-sill in it she touches with colour and fragrance; everywhere she +wakens the drowsy murmurs of the hives; every place she scents with +apple-blossom. Traces of her hand are to be seen on the weir beside +the ruined mill; and even the canal, along which the barges come and +go, has a great white water-lily asleep on its olive-coloured face. +Never was velvet on a monarch's robe so gorgeous as the green mosses +that be-ruff the roofs of farm and cottage, when the sunbeam slants on +them and goes. The old road out towards the common, and the hoary +dikes that might have been built in the reign of Alfred, have not been +forgotten by the generous adorning season; for every fissure has its +mossy cushion, and the old blocks themselves are washed by the +loveliest gray-green lichens in the world, and the large loose stones +lying on the ground have gathered to themselves the peacefulest mossy +coverings. Some of these have not been disturbed for a century. +Summer has adorned my village as gaily, and taken as much pleasure in +the task, as the people of old, when Elizabeth was queen, took in the +adornment of the May-pole against a summer festival. And, just think, +not only Dreamthorp, but every English village she has made beautiful +after one fashion or another--making vivid green the hill slope on +which straggling white Welsh hamlets hang right opposite the sea; +drowning in apple-blossom the red Sussex ones in the fat valley. And +think, once more, every spear of grass in England she has touched with +a livelier green; the crest of every bird she has burnished; every old +wall between the four seas has received her mossy and licheny +attentions; every nook in every forest she has sown with pale flowers, +every marsh she has dashed with the fires of the marigold. And in the +wonderful night the moon knows, she hangs--the planet on which so many +millions of us fight, and sin, and agonise, and die--a sphere of +glow-worm light. + +Having discoursed so long about Dreamthorp, it is but fair that I +should now introduce you to her lions. These are, for the most part, +of a commonplace kind; and I am afraid that, if you wish to find +romance in them, you must bring it with you. I might speak of the old +church-tower, or of the church-yard beneath it, in which the village +holds its dead, each resting-place marked by a simple stone, on which +is inscribed the name and age of the sleeper, and a Scripture text +beneath, in which live our hopes of immortality. But, on the whole, +perhaps it will be better to begin with the canal, which wears on its +olive-coloured face the big white water-lily already chronicled. Such +a secluded place is Dreamthorp that the railway does not come near, and +the canal is the only thing that connects it with the world. It stands +high, and from it the undulating country may be seen stretching away +into the gray of distance, with hills and woods, and stains of smoke +which mark the sites of villages. Every now and then a horse comes +staggering along the towing-path, trailing a sleepy barge filled with +merchandise. A quiet, indolent life these bargemen lead in the summer +days. One lies stretched at his length on the sun-heated plank; his +comrade sits smoking in the little dog-hutch, which I suppose he calls +a cabin. Silently they come and go; silently the wooden bridge lifts +to let them through. The horse stops at the bridge-house for a drink, +and there I like to talk a little with the men. They serve instead of +a newspaper, and retail with great willingness the news they have +picked up in their progress from town to town. I am told they +sometimes marvel who the old gentleman is who accosts them from beneath +a huge umbrella in the sun, and that they think him either very wise or +very foolish. Not in the least unnatural! We are great friends, I +believe--evidence of which they occasionally exhibit by requesting me +to disburse a trifle for drink-money. This canal is a great haunt of +mine of an evening. The water hardly invites one to bathe in it, and a +delicate stomach might suspect the flavour of the eels caught therein; +yet, to my thinking, it is not in the least destitute of beauty. A +barge trailing up through it in the sunset is a pretty sight; and the +heavenly crimsons and purples sleep quite lovingly upon its glossy +ripples. Nor does the evening star disdain it, for as I walk along I +see it mirrored therein as clearly as in the waters of the +Mediterranean itself. + +The old castle and chapel already alluded to are, perhaps, to a +stranger, the points of attraction in Dreamthorp. Back from the houses +is the lake, on the green sloping banks of which, with broken windows +and tombs, the ruins stand. As it is noon, and the weather is warm, +let us go and sit on a turret. Here, on these very steps, as old +ballads tell, a queen sat once, day after day, looking southward for +the light of returning spears. I bethink me that yesterday, no further +gone, I went to visit a consumptive shoemaker; seated here I can single +out his very house, nay, the very window of the room in which he is +lying. On that straw roof might the raven alight, and flap his sable +wings. There, at this moment, is the supreme tragedy being enacted. A +woman is weeping there, and little children are looking on with a sore +bewilderment. Before nightfall the poor peaked face of the bowed +artisan will have gathered its ineffable peace, and the widow will be +led away from the bedside by the tenderness of neighbours, and the +cries of the orphan brood will be stilled. And yet this present +indubitable suffering and loss does not touch me like the sorrow of the +woman of the ballad, the phantom probably of a minstrel's brain. The +shoemaker will be forgotten--I shall be forgotten; and long after, +visitors will sit here and look out on the landscape and murmur the +simple lines. But why do death and dying obtrude themselves at the +present moment? On the turret opposite, about the distance of a +gun-shot, is as pretty a sight as eye could wish to see. Two young +people, strangers apparently, have come to visit the ruin. Neither the +ballad queen, nor the shoemaker down yonder, whose respirations are +getting shorter and shorter, touches them in the least. They are merry +and happy, and the gray-beard turret has not the heart to thrust a +foolish moral upon them. They would not thank him if he did, I dare +say. Perhaps they could not understand him. Time enough! Twenty +years hence they will be able to sit down at his feet, and count griefs +with him, and tell him tale for tale. Human hearts get ruinous in so +much less time than stone walls and towers. See, the young man has +thrown himself down at the girl's feet on a little space of grass. In +her scarlet cloak she looks like a blossom springing out of a crevice +on the ruined steps. He gives her a flower, and she bows her face down +over it almost to her knees. What did the flower say? Is it to hide a +blush? He looks delighted; and I almost fancy I see a proud colour on +his brow. As I gaze, these young people make for me a perfect idyl. +The generous, ungrudging sun, the melancholy ruin, decked, like mad +Lear, with the flowers and ivies of forgetfulness and grief, and +between them, sweet and evanescent, human truth and love! + +Love!--does it yet walk the world, or is it imprisoned in poems and +romances? Has not the circulating library become the sole home of the +passion? Is love not become the exclusive property of novelists and +playwrights, to be used by them only for professional purposes? +Surely, if the men I see are lovers, or ever have been lovers, they +would be nobler than they are. The knowledge that he is beloved +should--_must_ make a man tender, gentle, upright, pure. While yet a +youngster in a jacket, I can remember falling desperately in love with +a young lady several years my senior,--after the fashion of youngsters +in jackets. Could I have fibbed in these days? Could I have betrayed +a comrade? Could I have stolen eggs or callow young from the nest? +Could I have stood quietly by and seen the weak or the maimed bullied? +Nay, verily! In these absurd days she lighted up the whole world for +me. To sit in the same room with her was like the happiness of +perpetual holiday; when she asked me to run a message for her, or to do +any, the slightest, service for her, I felt as if a patent of nobility +were conferred on me. I kept my passion to myself, like a cake, and +nibbled it in private. Juliet was several years my senior, and had a +lover--was, in point of fact, actually engaged; and, in looking back, I +can remember I was too much in love to feel the slightest twinge of +jealousy. I remember also seeing Romeo for the first time, and +thinking him a greater man than Caesar or Napoleon. The worth I +credited him with, the cleverness, the goodness, the everything! He +awed me by his manner and bearing. He accepted that girl's love coolly +and as a matter of course: it put him no more about than a crown and +sceptre puts about a king. What I would have given my life to +possess--being only fourteen, it was not much to part with after +all--he wore lightly, as he wore his gloves or his cane. It did not +seem a bit too good for him. His self-possession appalled me. If I +had seen him take the sun out of the sky, and put it into his breeches' +pocket, I don't think I should have been in the least degree surprised. +Well, years after, when I had discarded my passion with my jacket, I +have assisted this middle-aged Romeo home from a roystering wine-party, +and heard him hiccup out his marital annoyances, with the strangest +remembrances of old times, and the strangest deductions therefrom. Did +that man with the idiotic laugh and the blurred utterance ever love? +Was he ever capable of loving? I protest I have my doubts. But where +are my young people? Gone! So it is always. We begin to moralise and +look wise, and Beauty, who is something of a coquette, and of an +exacting turn of mind, and likes attentions, gets disgusted with our +wisdom or our stupidity, and goes off in a huff. Let the baggage go! + +The ruined chapel adjoins the ruined castle on which I am now sitting, +and is evidently a building of much older date. It is a mere shell +now. It is quite roofless, ivy covers it in part; the stone tracery of +the great western window is yet intact, but the coloured glass is gone +with the splendid vestments of the abbot, the fuming incense, the +chanting choirs, and the patient, sad-eyed monks, who muttered _Aves_, +shrived guilt, and illuminated missals. Time was when this place +breathed actual benedictions, and was a home of active peace. At +present it is visited only by the stranger, and delights but the +antiquary. The village people have so little respect for it, that they +do not even consider it haunted. There are several tombs in the +interior bearing knights' escutcheons, which time has sadly defaced. +The dust you stand upon is noble. Earls have been brought here in +dinted mail from battle, and earls' wives from the pangs of +child-bearing. The last trumpet will break the slumber of a right +honourable company. One of the tombs--the most perfect of all in point +of preservation--I look at often, and try to conjecture what it +commemorates. With all my fancies, I can get no further than the old +story of love and death. There, on the slab, the white figures sleep; +marble hands, folded in prayer, on marble breasts. And I like to think +that he was brave, she beautiful; that although the monument is worn by +time, and sullied by the stains of the weather, the qualities which it +commemorates--husbandly and wifely affection, courtesy, courage, +knightly scorn of wrong and falsehood, meekness, penitence, +charity--are existing yet somewhere, recognisable by each other. The +man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul, is not likely +to lose it in any other. + +In summer I spend a good deal of time floating about the lake. The +landing-place to which my boat is tethered is ruinous, like the chapel +and palace, and my embarkation causes quite a stir in the sleepy little +village. Small boys leave their games and mud-pies, and gather round +in silence; they have seen me get off a hundred times, but their +interest in the matter seems always new. Not unfrequently an idle +cobbler, in red night-cap and leathern apron, leans on a broken stile, +and honours my proceedings with his attention. I shoot off, and the +human knot dissolves. The lake contains three islands, each with a +solitary tree, and on these islands the swans breed. I feed the birds +daily with bits of bread. See, one comes gliding towards me, with +superbly arched neck, to receive its customary alms! How wildly +beautiful its motions! How haughtily it begs! The green pasture lands +run down to the edge of the water, and into it in the afternoons the +red kine wade and stand knee-deep in their shadows, surrounded by +troops of flies. Patiently the honest creatures abide the attacks of +their tormentors. Now one swishes itself with its tail,--now its +neighbour flaps a huge ear. I draw my oars alongside, and let my boat +float at its own will. The soft blue heavenly abysses, the wandering +streams of vapour, the long beaches of rippled clouds, are glassed and +repeated in the lake. Dreamthorp is silent as a picture, the voices of +the children are mute; and the smoke from the houses, the blue pillars +all sloping in one angle, float upward as if in sleep. Grave and stern +the old castle rises from its emerald banks, which long ago came down +to the lake in terrace on terrace, gay with fruits and flowers, and +with stone nymph and satyrs hid in every nook. Silent and empty enough +to-day! A flock of daws suddenly bursts out from a turret, and round +and round they wheel, as if in panic. Has some great scandal exploded? +Has a conspiracy been discovered? Has a revolution broken out? The +excitement has subsided, and one of them, perched on the old +banner-staff, chatters confidentially to himself as he, sideways, eyes +the world beneath him. Floating about thus, time passes swiftly, for, +before I know where I am, the kine have withdrawn from the lake to +couch on the herbage, while one on a little height is lowing for the +milkmaid and her pails. Along the road I see the labourers coming home +for supper, while the sun setting behind me makes the village windows +blaze; and so I take out my oars, and pull leisurely through waters +faintly flushed with evening colours. + +I do not think that Mr. Buckle could have written his "History of +Civilization" in Dreamthorp, because in it books, conversation, and the +other appurtenances of intellectual life, are not to be procured. I am +acquainted with birds, and the building of nests--with wild-flowers, +and the seasons in which they blow,--but with the big world far away, +with what men and women are thinking, and doing, and saying, I am +acquainted only through the _Times_, and the occasional magazine or +review, sent by friends whom I have not looked upon for years, but by +whom, it seems, I am not yet forgotten. The village has but few +intellectual wants, and the intellectual supply is strictly measured by +the demand. Still there is something. Down in the village, and +opposite the curiously-carved fountain, is a schoolroom which can +accommodate a couple of hundred people on a pinch. There are our +public meetings held. Musical entertainments have been given there by +a single performer. In that schoolroom last winter an American +biologist terrified the villagers, and, to their simple understandings, +mingled up the next world with this. Now and again some rare bird of +an itinerant lecturer covers dead walls with posters, yellow and blue, +and to that schoolroom we flock to hear him. His rounded periods the +eloquent gentleman devolves amidst a respectful silence. His audience +do not understand him, but they see that the clergyman does, and the +doctor does; and so they are content, and look as attentive and wise as +possible. Then, in connexion with the schoolroom, there is a public +library, where books are exchanged once a month. This library is a +kind of Greenwich Hospital for disabled novels and romances. Each of +these books has been in the wars; some are unquestionable antiques. +The tears of three generations have fallen upon their dusky pages. The +heroes and the heroines are of another age than ours. Sir Charles +Grandison is standing with his hat under his arm. Tom Jones plops from +the tree into the water, to the infinite distress of Sophia. Moses +comes home from market with his stock of shagreen spectacles. Lovers, +warriors, and villains,--as dead to the present generation of readers +as Cambyses,--are weeping, fighting, and intriguing. These books, +tattered and torn as they are, are read with delight to-day. The +viands are celestial if set forth on a dingy table-cloth. The gaps and +chasms which occur in pathetic or perilous chapters are felt to be +personal calamities. It is with a certain feeling of tenderness that I +look upon these books; I think of the dead fingers that have turned +over the leaves, of the dead eyes that have travelled along the lines. +An old novel has a history of its own. When fresh and new, and before +it had breathed its secret, it lay on my lady's table. She killed the +weary day with it, and when night came it was placed beneath her +pillow. At the seaside a couple of foolish heads have bent over it, +hands have touched and tingled, and it has heard vows and protestations +as passionate as any its pages contained. Coming down in the world, +Cinderella in the kitchen has blubbered over it by the light of a +surreptitious candle, conceiving herself the while the magnificent +Georgiana, and Lord Mordaunt, Georgiana's lover, the pot-boy round the +corner. Tied up with many a dingy brother, the auctioneer knocks the +bundle down to the bidder of a few pence, and it finds its way to the +quiet cove of some village library, where with some difficulty--as if +from want of teeth--and with numerous interruptions--as if from lack of +memory--it tells its old stories, and wakes tears, and blushes, and +laughter as of yore. Thus it spends its age, and in a few years it +will become unintelligible, and then, in the dust-bin, like poor human +mortals in the grave, it will rest from all its labours. It is +impossible to estimate the benefit which such books have conferred. +How often have they loosed the chain of circumstance! What unfamiliar +tears--what unfamiliar laughter they have caused! What chivalry and +tenderness they have infused into rustic loves! Of what weary hours +they have cheated and beguiled their readers! The big, solemn +history-books are in excellent preservation; the story-books are +defaced and frayed, and their out-of-elbows, condition is their pride, +and the best justification of their existence. They are tashed, as +roses are, by being eagerly handled and smelt. I observe, too, that +the most ancient romances are not in every case the most severely worn. +It is the pace that tells in horses, men, and books. There are Nestors +wonderfully hale; there are juveniles in a state of dilapidation. One +of the youngest books, "The Old Curiosity Shop," is absolutely falling +to pieces. That book, like Italy, is possessor of the fatal gift; but +happily, in its case, every thing can be rectified ay a new edition. +We have buried warriors and poets, princes and queens, but no one of +these was followed to the grave by sincerer mourners than was Little +Nell. + +Besides the itinerant lecturer, and the permanent library, we have the +Sunday sermon. These sum up the intellectual aids and furtherances of +the whole place. We have a church and a chapel, and I attend both. +The Dreamthorp people are Dissenters, for the most part; why, I never +could understand; because dissent implies a certain intellectual +effort. But Dissenters they are, and Dissenters they are likely to +remain. In an ungainly building, filled with hard gaunt pews, without +an organ, without a touch of colour in the windows, with nothing to +stir the imagination or the devotional sense, the simple people +worship. On Sunday, they are put upon a diet of spiritual bread and +water. Personally, I should desire more generous food. But the +labouring people listen attentively, till once they fall asleep, and +they wake up to receive the benediction with a feeling of having done +their duty. They know they ought to go to chapel, and they go. I go +likewise, from habit, although I have long ago lost the power of +following a discourse. In my pew, and whilst the clergyman is going +on, I think of the strangest things--of the tree at the window, of the +congregation of the dead outside, of the wheat-fields and the +corn-fields beyond and all around. And the odd thing is, that it is +during sermon only that my mind flies off at a tangent and busies +itself with things removed from the place and the circumstances. +Whenever it is finished fancy returns from her wanderings, and I am +alive to the objects around me. The clergyman knows my humour, and is +good Christian enough to forgive me; and he smiles good-humouredly when +I ask him to let me have the chapel keys, that I may enter, when in the +mood, and preach a sermon to myself. To my mind, an empty chapel is +impressive; a crowded one, comparatively a commonplace affair. Alone, +I could choose my own text, and my silent discourse would not be +without its practical applications. + +An idle life I live in this place, as the world counts it; but then I +have the satisfaction of differing from the world as to the meaning of +idleness. A windmill twirling its arms all day is admirable only when +there is corn to grind. Twirling its arms for the mere barren pleasure +of twirling them, or for the sake of looking busy, does not deserve any +rapturous paean of praise. I must be made happy after my own fashion, +not after the fashion of other people. Here I can live as I please, +here I can throw the reins on the neck of my whim. Here I play with my +own thoughts; here I ripen for the grave. + + + + +ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS + +I have already described my environments and my mode of life, and out +of both I contrive to extract a very tolerable amount of satisfaction. +Love in a cottage, with a broken window to let in the rain, is not my +idea of comfort; no more is Dignity, walking forth richly clad, to whom +every head uncovers, every knee grows supple. Bruin in winter-time +fondly sucking his own paws, loses flesh; and love, feeding upon +itself, dies of inanition. Take the candle of death in your hand, and +walk through the stately galleries of the world, and their splendid +furniture and array are as the tinsel armour and pasteboard goblets of +a penny theatre; fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the +melancholy blazon on a coffin lid. We argue fiercely about happiness. +One insists that she is found in the cottage which the hawthorn shades. +Another that she is a lady of fashion, and treads on cloth of gold. +Wisdom, listening to both, shakes a white head, and considers that "a +good deal may be said on both sides." + +There is a wise saying to the effect that "a man can eat no more than +he can hold." Every man gets about the same satisfaction out of life. +Mr. Suddlechops, the barber of Seven Dials, is as happy as Alexander at +the head of his legions. The business of the one is to depopulate +kingdoms, the business of the other to reap beards seven days old; but +their relative positions do not affect the question. The one works +with razors and soap-lather the other with battle-cries and +well-greaved Greeks. The one of a Saturday night counts up his shabby +gains and grumbles; the other on _his_ Saturday night sits down and +weeps for other worlds to conquer. The pence to Mr. Suddlechops are as +important as are the worlds to Alexander. Every condition of life has +its peculiar advantages, and wisdom points these out and is contented +with them. The varlet who sang-- + + "A king cannot swagger + Or get drunk like a beggar, + Nor be half so happy as I"-- + +had the soul of a philosopher in him. The harshness of the parlour is +revenged at night in the servants' hall. The coarse rich man rates his +domestic, but there is a thought in the domestic's brain, docile and +respectful as he looks, which makes the matter equal, which would +madden the rich man if he knew it--make him wince as with a shrewdest +twinge of hereditary gout. For insult and degradation are not without +their peculiar solaces. You may spit upon Shylock's gaberdine, but the +day comes when he demands his pound of flesh; every blow, every insult, +not without a certain satisfaction, he adds to the account running up +against you in the day-book and ledger of his hate--which at the proper +time he will ask you to discharge. Every way we look we see +even-handed nature administering her laws of compensation. Grandeur +has a heavy tax to pay. The usurper rolls along like a god, surrounded +by his guards. He dazzles the crowd--all very fine; but look beneath +his splendid trappings and you see a shirt of mail, and beneath _that_ +a heart cowering in terror of an air-drawn dagger. Whom did the memory +of Austerlitz most keenly sting? The beaten emperor? or the mighty +Napoleon, dying like an untended watch-fire on St. Helena? + +Giddy people may think the life I lead here staid and humdrum, but they +are mistaken. It is true, I hear no concerts, save those in which the +thrushes are performers in the spring mornings. I see no pictures, +save those painted on the wide sky-canvas with the colours of sunrise +and sunset. I attend neither rout nor ball; I have no deeper +dissipation than the tea-table; I hear no more exciting scandal than +quiet village gossip. Yet I enjoy my concerts more than I would the +great London ones. I like the pictures I see, and think them better +painted, too, than those which adorn the walls of the Royal Academy; +and the village gossip is more after my turn of mind than the scandals +that convulse the clubs. It is wonderful how the whole world reflects +itself in the simple village life. The people around me are full of +their own affairs and interests; were they of imperial magnitude, they +could not be excited more strongly. Farmer Worthy is anxious about the +next market; the likelihood of a fall in the price of butter and eggs +hardly allows him to sleep o' nights. The village doctor--happily we +have only one--skirrs hither and thither in his gig, as if man could +neither die nor be born without his assistance. He is continually +standing on the confines of existence, welcoming the new-comer, bidding +farewell to the goer-away. And the robustious fellow who sits at the +head of the table when the Jolly Swillers meet at the Blue Lion on +Wednesday evenings is a great politician, sound of lung metal, and +wields the village in the taproom, as my Lord Palmerston wields the +nation in the House. His listeners think him a wiser personage than +the Premier, and he is inclined to lean to that opinion himself. I +find everything here that other men find in the big world. London is +but a magnified Dreamthorp. + +And just as the Rev. Mr. White took note of the ongoings of the seasons +in and around Hampshire Selborne, watched the colonies of the rooks in +the tall elms, looked after the swallows in the cottage and rectory +eaves, played the affectionate spy on the private lives of chaffinch +and hedge-sparrow, was eaves-dropper to the solitary cuckoo; so here I +keep eye and ear open; take note of man, woman, and child; find many a +pregnant text imbedded in the commonplace of village life; and, out of +what I see and hear, weave in my own room my essays as solitary as the +spider weaves his web in the darkened corner. The essay, as a literary +form, resembles the lyric, in so far as it is moulded by some central +mood--whimsical, serious, or satirical. Give the mood, and the essay, +from the first sentence to the last, grows around it as the cocoon +grows around the silkworm. The essay-writer is a chartered libertine, +and a law unto himself. A quick ear and eye, an ability to discern the +infinite suggestiveness of common things, a brooding meditative spirit, +are all that the essayist requires to start business with. Jacques, in +"As You Like It," had the makings of a charming essayist. It is not +the essayist's duty to inform, to build pathways through metaphysical +morasses, to cancel abuses, any more than it is the duty of the poet to +do these things. Incidentally he may do something in that way, just as +the poet may, but it is not his duty, and should not be expected of +him. Skylarks are primarily created to sing, although a whole choir of +them may be baked in pies and brought to table; they were born to make +music, although they may incidentally stay the pangs of vulgar hunger. +The essayist is a kind of poet in prose, and if questioned harshly as +to his uses, he might be unable to render a better apology for his +existence than a flower might. The essay should be pure literature as +the poem is pure literature. The essayist wears a lance, but he cares +more for the sharpness of its point than for the pennon that flutters +on it, than for the banner of the captain under whom he serves. He +plays with death as Hamlet plays with Yorick's skull, and he reads the +morals--strangely stern, often, for such fragrant lodging--which are +folded up in the bosoms of roses. He has no pride, and is deficient in +a sense of the congruity and fitness of things. He lifts a pebble from +the ground, and puts it aside more carefully than any gem; and on a +nail in a cottage-door he will hang the mantle of his thought, heavily +brocaded with the gold of rhetoric. He finds his way into the Elysian +fields through portals the most shabby and commonplace. + +The essayist plays with his subject, now whimsical, now in grave, now +in melancholy mood. He lies upon the idle grassy bank, like Jacques, +letting the world flow past him, and from this thing and the other he +extracts his mirth and his moralities. His main gift is an eye to +discover the suggestiveness of common things; to find a sermon in the +most unpromising texts. Beyond the vital hint, the first step, his +discourses are not beholden to their titles. Let him take up the most +trivial subject, and it will lead him away to the great questions over +which the serious imagination loves to brood,--fortune, mutability, +death,--just as inevitably as the runnel, trickling among the summer +hills, on which sheep are bleating, leads you to the sea; or as, +turning down the first street you come to in the city, you are led +finally, albeit by many an intricacy, out into the open country, with +its waste places and its woods, where you are lost in a sense of +strangeness and solitariness. The world is to the meditative man what +the mulberry plant is to the silkworm. The essay-writer has no lack of +subject-matter. He has the day that is passing over his head; and, if +unsatisfied with that, he has the world's six thousand years to +depasture his gay or serious humour upon. I idle away my time here, +and I am finding new subjects every hour. Everything I see or hear is +an essay in bud. The world is everywhere whispering essays, and one +need only be the world's amanuensis. The proverbial expression which +last evening the clown dropped as he trudged homeward to supper, the +light of the setting sun on his face, expands before me to a dozen +pages. The coffin of the pauper, which to-day I saw carried carelessly +along, is as good a subject as the funeral procession of an emperor. +Craped drum and banner add nothing to death; penury and disrespect take +nothing away. Incontinently my thought moves like a slow-paced hearse +with sable nodding plumes. Two rustic lovers, whispering between the +darkening hedges, is as potent to project my mind into the tender +passion as if I had seen Romeo touch the cheek of Juliet in the +moon-light garden. Seeing a curly-headed child asleep in the sunshine +before a cottage door is sufficient excuse for a discourse on +childhood; quite as good as if I had seen infant Cain asleep in the lap +of Eve with Adam looking on. A lark cannot rise to heaven without +raising as many thoughts as there are notes in its song. Dawn cannot +pour its white light on my village without starting from their dim lair +a hundred reminiscences; nor can sunset burn above yonder trees in the +west without attracting to itself the melancholy of a lifetime. When +spring unfolds her green leaves I would be provoked to indite an essay +on hope and youth, were it not that it is already writ in the carols of +the birds; and I might be tempted in autumn to improve the occasion, +were it not for the rustle of the withered leaves as I walk through the +woods. Compared with that simple music, the saddest-cadenced words +have but a shallow meaning. + +The essayist who feeds his thoughts upon the segment of the world which +surrounds him cannot avoid being an egotist; but then his egotism is +not unpleasing. If he be without taint of boastfulness, of +self-sufficiency, of hungry vanity, the world will not press the charge +home. If a man discourses continually of his wines, his plate, his +titled acquaintances, the number and quality of his horses, his +men-servants and maid-servants, he must discourse very skilfully indeed +if he escapes being called a coxcomb. If a man speaks of death--tells +you that the idea of it continually haunts him, that he has the most +insatiable curiosity as to death and dying, that his thought mines in +churchyards like a "demon-mole"--no one is specially offended, and that +this is a dull fellow is the hardest thing likely to be said of him. +Only, the egotism that overcrows you is offensive, that exalts trifles +and takes pleasure in them, that suggests superiority in matters of +equipage and furniture; and the egotism is offensive, because it runs +counter to and jostles your self-complacency. The egotism which rises +no higher than the grave is of a solitary and a hermit kind--it crosses +no man's path, it disturbs no man's _amour propre_. You may offend a +man if you say you are as rich as he, as wise as he, as handsome as he. +You offend no man if you tell him that, like him, you have to die. The +king, in his crown and coronation robes, will allow the beggar to claim +that relationship with him. To have to die is a distinction of which +no man is proud. The speaking about one's self is not necessarily +offensive. A modest, truthful man speaks better about himself than +about anything else, and on that subject his speech is likely to be +most profitable to his hearers. Certainly, there is no subject with +which he is better acquainted, and on which he has a better title to be +heard. And it is this egotism, this perpetual reference to self, in +which the charm of the essayist resides. If a man is worth knowing at +all, he is worth knowing well. The essayist gives you his thoughts, +and lets you know, in addition, how he came by them. He has nothing to +conceal; he throws open his doors and windows, and lets him enter who +will. You like to walk round peculiar or important men as you like to +walk round a building, to view it from different points, and in +different lights. Of the essayist, when his mood is communicative, you +obtain a full picture. You are made his contemporary and familiar +friend. You enter into his humours and his seriousness. You are made +heir of his whims, prejudices, and playfulness. You walk through the +whole nature of him, as you walk through the streets of Pompeii, +looking into the interior of stately mansions, reading the satirical +scribblings on the walls. And the essayist's habit of not only giving +you his thoughts, but telling you how he came by them, is interesting, +because it shows you by what alchemy the ruder world becomes transmuted +into the finer. We like to know the lineage of ideas, just as we like +to know the lineage of great earls and swift race-horses. We like to +know that the discovery of the law of gravitation was born of the fall +of an apple in an English garden on a summer afternoon. Essays written +after this fashion are racy of the soil in which they grow, as you +taste the larva in the vines grown on the slopes of Etna, they say. +There is a healthy Gascon flavour in Montaigne's Essays; and Charles +Lamb's are scented with the primroses of Covent Garden. + +The essayist does not usually appear early in the literary history of a +country: he comes naturally after the poet and the chronicler. His +habit of mind is leisurely; he does not write from any special stress +of passionate impulse; he does not create material so much as he +comments upon material already existing. It is essential for him that +books should have been written, and that they should, at least to some +extent, have been read and digested. He is usually full of allusions +and references, and these his reader must be able to follow and +understand. And in this literary walk, as in most others, the giants +came first: Montaigne and Lord Bacon were our earliest essayists, and, +as yet, they are our best. In point of style, these essays are +different from anything that could now be produced. Not only is the +thinking different--the manner of setting forth the thinking is +different also. We despair of reaching the thought, we despair equally +of reaching the language. We can no more bring back their turns of +sentence than we can bring back their tournaments. Montaigne, in his +serious moods, has a curiously rich and intricate eloquence; and +Bacon's sentence bends beneath the weight of his thought, like a branch +beneath the weight of its fruit. Bacon seems to have written his +essays with Shakspeare's pen. There is a certain want of ease about +the old writers which has an irresistible charm. The language flows +like a stream over a pebbled bed, with propulsion, eddy, and sweet +recoil--the pebbles, if retarding movement, giving ring and dimple to +the surface, and breaking the whole into babbling music. There is a +ceremoniousness in the mental habits of these ancients. Their +intellectual garniture is picturesque, like the garniture of their +bodies. Their thoughts are courtly and high mannered. A singular +analogy exists between the personal attire of a period and its written +style. The peaked beard, the starched collar, the quilted doublet, +have their correspondences in the high sentence and elaborate ornament +(worked upon the thought like figures upon tapestry) of Sidney and +Spenser. In Pope's day men wore rapiers, and their weapons they +carried with them into literature, and frequently unsheathed them too. +They knew how to stab to the heart with an epigram. Style went out +with the men who wore knee-breeches and buckles in their shoes. We +write more easily now; but in our easy writing there is ever a taint of +flippancy: our writing is to theirs, what shooting-coat and wide-awake +are to doublet and plumed hat. + +Montaigne and Bacon are our earliest and greatest essayists, and +likeness and unlikeness exist between the men. Bacon was +constitutionally the graver nature. He writes like one on whom presses +the weight of affairs, and he approaches a subject always on its +serious side. He does not play with it fantastically. He lives +amongst great ideas, as with great nobles, with whom he dare not be too +familiar. In the tone of his mind there is ever something imperial. +When he writes on building, he speaks of a palace with spacious +entrances, and courts, and banqueting-halls; when he writes on gardens, +he speaks of alleys and mounts, waste places and fountains, of a garden +"which is indeed prince-like." To read over his table of contents, is +like reading over a roll of peers' names. We have, taking them as they +stand, essays treating _Of Great Place, Of Boldness, Of Goodness, and +Goodness of Nature, Of Nobility, Of Seditions and Troubles, Of Atheism, +Of Superstition, Of Travel, Of Empire, Of Counsel_,--a book plainly to +lie in the closets of statesmen and princes, and designed to nurture +the noblest natures. Bacon always seems to write with his ermine on. +Montaigne was different from all this. His table of contents reads, in +comparison, like a medley, or a catalogue of an auction. He was quite +as wise as Bacon; he could look through men quite as clearly, and +search them quite as narrowly; certain of his moods were quite as +serious, and in one corner of his heart he kept a yet profounder +melancholy; but he was volatile, a humourist, and a gossip. He could +be dignified enough on great occasions, but dignity and great occasions +bored him. He could stand in the presence with propriety enough, but +then he got out of the presence as rapidly as possible. When, in the +thirty-eighth year of his age, he--somewhat world-weary, and with more +scars on his heart than he cared to discover--retired to his chateau, +he placed his library "in the great tower overlooking the entrance to +the court," and over the central rafter he inscribed in large letters +the device--"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND; I PAUSE; I EXAMINE." When he began +to write his Essays he had no great desire to shine as an author; he +wrote simply to relieve teeming heart and brain. The best method to +lay the spectres of the mind is to commit them to paper. Speaking of +the Essays, he says, "This book has a domestic and private object. It +is intended for the use of my relations and friends; so that, when they +have lost me, which they will soon do, they may find in it some +features of my condition and humours; and by this means keep up more +completely, and in a more lively manner, the knowledge they have of +me." In his Essays he meant to portray himself, his habits, his modes +of thought, his opinions, what fruit of wisdom he had gathered from +experience sweet and bitter; and the task he has executed with +wonderful fidelity. He does not make himself a hero. Cromwell would +have his warts painted; and Montaigne paints his, and paints them too +with a certain fondness. He is perfectly tolerant of himself and of +everybody else. Whatever be the subject, the writing flows on easy, +equable, self-satisfied, almost always with a personal anecdote +floating on the surface. Each event of his past life he considers a +fact of nature; creditable or the reverse, there it is; sometimes to be +speculated upon, not in the least to be regretted. If it is worth +nothing else, it may be made the subject of an essay, or, at least, be +useful as an illustration. We have not only his thoughts, we see also +how and from what they arose. When he presents you with a bouquet, you +notice that the flowers have been plucked up by the roots, and to the +roots a portion of the soil still adheres. On his daily life his +Essays grew like lichens upon rocks. If a thing is useful to him, he +is not squeamish as to where he picks it up. In his eye there is +nothing common or unclean; and he accepts a favour as willingly from a +beggar as from a prince. When it serves his purpose, he quotes a +tavern catch, or the smart saying of a kitchen wench, with as much +relish as the fine sentiment of a classical poet, or the gallant _bon +mot_ of a king. Everything is important which relates to himself. +That his mustache, if stroked with his perfumed glove, or handkerchief, +will retain the odour a whole day, is related with as much gravity as +the loss of a battle, or the march of a desolating plague. Montaigne, +in his grave passages, reaches an eloquence intricate and highly +wrought; but then his moods are Protean, and he is constantly +alternating his stateliness with familiarity, anecdote, humour, +coarseness. His Essays are like a mythological landscape--you hear the +pipe of Pan in the distance, the naked goddess moves past, the satyr +leers from the thicket. At the core of him profoundly melancholy, and +consumed by a hunger for truth, he stands like Prospero in the +enchanted island, and he has Ariel and Caliban to do his behests and +run his errands. Sudden alternations are very characteristic of him. +Whatever he says suggests its opposite. He laughs at himself and his +reader. He builds his castle of cards for the mere pleasure of +knocking it down again. He is ever unexpected and surprising. And +with this curious mental activity, this play and linked dance of +discordant elements, his page is alive and restless, like the constant +flicker of light and shadow in a mass of foliage which the wind is +stirring. + +Montaigne is avowedly an egotist; and by those who are inclined to make +this a matter of reproach, it should be remembered that the value of +egotism depends entirely on the egotist. If the egotist is weak, his +egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of +distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a +possession of the race. If Shakspeare had left personal revelations, +how we should value them; if, indeed, he has not in some sense left +them--if the tragedies and comedies are not personal revelations +altogether--the multiform nature of the man rushing towards the sun at +once in Falstaff, Hamlet, and Romeo. But calling Montaigne an egotist +does not go a great way to decipher him. No writer takes the reader so +much into his confidence, and no one so entirely escapes the penalty of +confidence. He tells us everything about himself, we think; and when +all is told, it is astonishing how little we really know. The +esplanades of Montaigne's palace are thoroughfares, men from every +European country rub clothes there, but somewhere in the building there +is a secret room in which the master sits, of which no one but himself +wears the key. We read in the Essays about his wife, his daughter, his +daughter's governess, of his cook, of his page, "who was never found +guilty of telling the truth," of his library, the Gascon harvest +outside his chateau, his habits of composition, his favourite +speculations; but somehow the man himself is constantly eluding us. +His daughter's governess, his page, the ripening Gascon fields, are +never introduced for their own sakes; they are employed to illustrate +and set off the subject on which he happens to be writing. A brawl in +his own kitchen he does not consider worthy of being specially set +down, but he has seen and heard everything: it comes in his way when +travelling in some remote region, and accordingly it finds a place. He +is the frankest, most outspoken of writers; and that very frankness. +and outspokenness puts the reader off his guard. If you wish to +preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness. The Essays are full of +this trick. The frankness is as well simulated as the grape-branches +of the Grecian artist which the birds flew towards and pecked. When +Montaigne retreats, he does so like a skilful general, leaving his +fires burning. In other ways, too, he is an adept in putting his +reader out. He discourses with the utmost gravity, but you suspect +mockery or banter in his tones. He is serious with the most trifling +subjects, and he trifles with the most serious. "He broods eternally +over his own thought," but who can tell what his thought may be for the +nonce? He is of all writers the most vagrant, surprising, and, to many +minds, illogical. His sequences are not the sequences of other men. +His writings are as full of transformations as a pantomime or a fairy +tale. His arid wastes lead up to glittering palaces, his +banqueting-halls end in a dog-hutch. He begins an essay about +trivialities, and the conclusion is in the other world. And the +peculiar character of his writing, like the peculiar character of all +writing which is worth anything, arises from constitutional turn of +mind. He is constantly playing at fast and loose with himself and his +reader. He mocks and scorns his deeper nature; and, like Shakspeare in +Hamlet, says his deepest things in a jesting way. When he is gayest, +be sure there is a serious design in his gaiety. Singularly shrewd and +penetrating--sad, not only from sensibility of exquisite nerve and +tissue, but from meditation, and an eye that pierced the surfaces of +things--fond of pleasure, yet strangely fascinated by death--sceptical, +yet clinging to what the Church taught and believed--lazily possessed +by a high ideal of life, yet unable to reach it, careless perhaps often +to strive after it, and with no very high opinion of his own goodness, +or of the goodness of his fellows--and with all these serious elements, +an element of humour mobile as flame, which assumed a variety of forms, +now pure fun, now mischievous banter, now blistering scorn--humour in +all its shapes, carelessly exercised on himself and his readers--with +all this variety, complexity, riot, and contradiction almost of +intellectual forces within, Montaigne wrote his bewildering +Essays--with the exception of Rabelais, the greatest Modern +Frenchman--the creator of a distinct literary form, and to whom, down +even to our own day, even in point of subject-matter, every essayist +has been more or less indebted. + +Bacon is the greatest of the serious and stately essayists,--Montaigne +the greatest of the garrulous and communicative. The one gives you his +thoughts on Death, Travel, Government, and the like, and lets you make +the best of them; the other gives you his on the same subjects, but he +wraps them up in personal gossip and reminiscence. With the last it is +never Death or Travel alone: it is always Death one-fourth, and +Montaigne three-fourths; or Travel one-fourth, and Montaigne +three-fourths. He pours his thought into the water of gossip, and +gives you to drink. He gilds his pill always, and he always gilds it +with himself. The general characteristics of his Essays have been +indicated, and it is worth while inquiring what they teach, what +positive good they have done, and why for three centuries they have +charmed, and still continue to charm. + +The Essays contain a philosophy of life, which is not specially high, +yet which is certain to find acceptance more or less with men who have +passed out beyond the glow of youth, and who have made trial of the +actual world. The essence of his philosophy is a kind of cynical +common-sense. He will risk nothing in life; he will keep to the beaten +track; he will not let passion blind or enslave him; he will gather +round him what good he can, and will therewith endeavour to be content. +He will be, as far as possible, self-sustained; he will not risk his +happiness in the hands of man, or of woman either. He is shy of +friendship, he fears love, for he knows that both are dangerous. He +knows that life is full of bitters, and he holds it wisdom that a man +should console himself, as far as possible, with its sweets, the +principal of which are peace, travel, leisure, and the writing of +essays. He values obtainable Gascon bread and cheese more than the +unobtainable stars. He thinks crying for the moon the foolishest thing +in the world. He will remain where he is. He will not deny that a new +world may exist beyond the sunset, but he knows that to reach the new +world there is a troublesome Atlantic to cross; and he is not in the +least certain that, putting aside the chance of being drowned on the +way, he will be one whit happier in the new world than he is in the +old. For his part he will embark with no Columbus. He feels that life +is but a sad thing at best; but as he has little hope of making it +better, he accepts it, and will not make it worse by murmuring. When +the chain galls him, he can at least revenge himself by making jests on +it. He will temper the despotism of nature by epigrams. He has read +Aesop's fable, and is the last man in the world to relinquish the +shabbiest substance to grasp at the finest shadow. + +Of nothing under the sun was Montaigne quite certain, except that every +man--whatever his station--might travel farther and fare worse; and +that the playing with his own thoughts, in the shape of essay-writing, +was the most harmless of amusements. His practical acquiescence in +things does not promise much fruit, save to himself; yet in virtue of +it he became one of the forces of the world--a very visible agent in +bringing about the Europe which surrounds us today. He lived in the +midst of the French religious wars. The rulers of his country were +execrable Christians, but most orthodox Catholics. The burning of +heretics was a public amusement, and the court ladies sat out the play. +On the queen-mother and on her miserable son lay all the blood of the +St. Bartholomew. The country was torn asunder; everywhere was battle, +murder, pillage, and such woeful partings as Mr. Millais has +represented in his incomparable picture. To the solitary humourous +essayist this state of things was hateful. He was a good Catholic in +his easy way; he attended divine service regularly; he crossed himself +when he yawned. He conformed in practice to every rule of the Church; +but if orthodox in these matters, he was daring in speculation. There +was nothing he was not bold enough to question. He waged war after his +peculiar fashion with every form of superstition. He worked under the +foundations of priestcraft. But while serving the Reformed cause, he +had no sympathy with Reformers. If they would but remain quiet, but +keep their peculiar notions to themselves, France would rest! That a +man should go to the stake for an opinion, was as incomprehensible to +him as that a priest or king should send him there for an opinion. He +thought the persecuted and the persecutors fools about equally matched. +He was easy-tempered and humane--in the hunting-field he could not bear +the cry of a dying hare with composure--martyr-burning had consequently +no attraction for such a man. His scepticism came into play, his +melancholy humour, his sense of the illimitable which surrounds man's +life, and which mocks, defeats, flings back his thought upon himself. +Man is here, he said, with bounded powers, with limited knowledge, with +an unknown behind, an unknown in front, assured of nothing but that he +was born, and that he must die; why, then, in Heaven's name should he +burn his fellow for a difference of opinion in the matter of surplices, +or as to the proper fashion of conducting devotion? Out of his +scepticism and his merciful disposition grew, in that fiercely +intolerant age, the idea of toleration, of which he was the apostle. +Widely read, charming every one by his wit and wisdom, his influence +spread from mind to mind, and assisted in bringing about the change +which has taken place in European thought. His ideas, perhaps, did not +spring from the highest sources. He was no ascetic, he loved pleasure, +he was tolerant of everything except cruelty; but on that account we +should not grudge him his meed. It is in this indirect way that great +writers take their place among the forces of the world. In the long +run, genius and wit side with the right cause. And the man fighting +against wrong to-day is assisted, in a greater degree than perhaps he +is himself aware, by the sarcasm of this writer, the metaphor of that, +the song of the other, although the writers themselves professed +indifference, or were even counted as belonging to the enemy. + +Montaigne's hold on his readers arises from many causes. There is his +frank and curious self-delineation; _that_ interests, because it is the +revelation of a very peculiar nature. Then there is the positive value +of separate thoughts imbedded in his strange whimsicality and humour. +Lastly, there is the perennial charm of style, which is never a +separate quality, but rather the amalgam and issue of all the mental +and moral qualities in a man's possession, and which bears the same +relation to these that light bears to the mingled elements that make up +the orb of the sun. And style, after all, rather than thought, is the +immortal thing in literature. In literature, the charm of style is +indefinable, yet all-subduing, just as fine manners are in social life. +In reality, it is not of so much consequence what you say, as how you +say it. Memorable sentences are memorable on account of some single +irradiating word. "But Shadwell never _deviates_ into sense," for +instance. Young Roscius, in his provincial barn, will repeat you the +great soliloquy of Hamlet, and although every word may be given with +tolerable correctness, you find it just as commonplace as himself; the +great actor speaks it, and you "read Shakspeare as by a flash of +lightning." And it is in Montaigne's style, in the strange freaks and +turnings of his thought, his constant surprises, his curious +alternations of humour and melancholy, his careless, familiar form of +address, and the grace with which everything is done, that his charm +lies, and which makes the hundredth perusal of him as pleasant as the +first. + +And on style depends the success of the essayist. Montaigne said the +most familiar things in the finest way. Goldsmith could not be termed +a thinker; but everything he touched he brightened, as after a month of +dry weather, the shower brightens the dusty shrubbery of a suburban +villa. The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when +thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be +called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new. Love +is an old story enough, but in every generation it is re-born, in the +downcast eyes and blushes of young maidens. And so, although he +fluttered in Eden, Cupid is young to-day. If Montaigne had lived in +Dreamthorp, as I am now living, had he written essays as I am now +writing them, his English Essays would have been as good as his Gascon +ones. Looking on, the country cart would not for nothing have passed +him on the road to market, the setting sun would be arrested in its +splendid colours, the idle chimes of the church would be translated +into a thoughtful music. As it is, the village life goes on, and there +is no result. My sentences are not much more brilliant than the +speeches of the clowns; in my book there is little more life than there +is in the market-place on the days when there is no market. + + + + +OF DEATH AND THE FEAR OF DYING + +Let me curiously analyse eternal farewells, and the last pressures of +loving hands. Let me smile at faces bewept, and the nodding plumes and +slow paces of funerals. Let me write down brave heroical +sentences--sentences that defy death, as brazen Goliath the hosts of +Israel. + +"When death waits for us is uncertain, let us everywhere look for him. +The premeditation of death is the premeditation of liberty; who has +learnt to die, has forgot to serve. There is nothing of evil in life +for him who rightly comprehends that death is no evil; to know how to +die delivers us from all subjection and constraint. _Paulus Aemilius_ +answered him whom the miserable _king of Macedon_, his prisoner, sent +to entreat him that he would not lead him in his triumph, '_Let him +make that request to himself_.' In truth, in all things, if nature do +not help a little, it is very hard for art and industry to perform +anything to purpose. I am, in my own nature, not melancholy, but +thoughtful; and there is nothing I have more continually entertained +myself withal than the imaginations of death, even in the gayest and +most wanton time of my age. In the company of ladies, and in the +height of mirth, some have perhaps thought me possessed of some +jealousy, or meditating upon the uncertainty of some imagined hope, +whilst I was entertaining myself with the remembrance of some one +surprised a few days before with a burning fever, of which he died, +returning from an entertainment like this, with his head full of idle +fancies of love and jollity, as mine was then; and for aught I knew, +the same destiny was attending me. Yet did not this thought wrinkle my +forehead any more than any other." . . . . "Why dost thou fear this +last day? It contributes no more to thy destruction than every one of +the rest. The last step is not the cause of lassitude, it does but +confer it. Every day travels toward death; the last only arrives at +it. These are the good lessons our mother nature teaches. I have +often considered with myself whence it should proceed, that in war the +image of death--whether we look upon it as to our own particular +danger, or that of another--should, without comparison, appear less +dreadful than at home in our own houses, (for if it were not so, it +would be an army of whining milksops,) and that being still in all +places the same, there should be, notwithstanding, much more assurance +in peasants and the meaner sort of people, than others of better +quality and education; and I do verily believe, that it is those +terrible ceremonies and preparations wherewith we set it out, that more +terrify us than the thing itself; a new, quite contrary way of living, +the cries of mothers, wives and children, the visits of astonished and +affected friends, the attendance of pale and blubbered servants, a dark +room set round with burning tapers, our beds environed with physicians +and divines; in fine, nothing but ghostliness and horror round about +us, render it so formidable, that a man almost fancies himself dead and +buried already. Children are afraid even of those they love best, and +are best acquainted with, when disguised in a vizor, and so are we; the +vizor must be removed as well from things as persons; which being taken +away, we shall find nothing underneath but the very same death that a +mean servant, or a poor chambermaid, died a day or two ago, without any +manner of apprehension or concern." [1] + +"Men feare _death_ as children feare to goe in the darke; and as that +natural feare in children is increased with tales, so in the other. +Certainly the contemplation of _death_ as the _wages of sinne_, and +passage to another world, is holy and religious; but the feare of it as +a tribute unto nature, is weake. Yet in religious meditations there is +sometimes mixture of vanitie and of superstition. You shal reade in +some of the friars' books of _mortification_, that a man should thinke +unto himself what the paine is if he have but his finger-end pressed or +tortured; and thereby imagine what the pains of _death_ are when the +whole body is corrupted and dissolved; when many times _death_ passeth +with lesse paine than the torture of a Lemme. For the most vitall +parts are not the quickest of sense. Groanes and convulsions, and a +discoloured face, and friends weeping, and blackes and obsequies, and +the like, shew _death_ terrible. It is worthy the observing, that +there is no passion in the minde of man so weake but it mates and +masters the feare of _death_; and therefore death is no such terrible +enemy when a man hath so many attendants about him that can winne the +combat of him. _Revenge_ triumphs over _death_, love subjects it, +honour aspireth to it, _griefe_ fleeth to it, _feare_ pre-occupieth it; +nay, we read, after _Otho_ the emperour had slaine himselfe, _pitty_, +(which is the tenderest of affections,) provoked many to die, out of +meer compassion to their soveraigne, and as the truest sort of +followers. . . . . It is as naturall to die as to be born; and to a +little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful as the other. He that +dies in an earnest pursuit is like one that is wounded in hot blood, +who for the time scarce feels the hurt; and, therefore, a minde mixt +and bent upon somewhat that is good, doth avert the sadness of _death_. +But above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is _Nunc Dimittis_, +when a man hath obtained worthy ends and expectations. Death hath this +also; that it openeth the gate to good fame, and extinguisheth envie." +[2] + +These sentences of the great essayists are brave and ineffectual as +Leonidas and his Greeks. Death cares very little for sarcasm or trope; +hurl at him a javelin or a rose, it is all one. We build around +ourselves ramparts of stoical maxims, edifying to witness, but when the +terror comes these yield as the knots of river flags to the shoulder of +Behemoth. + +Death is terrible only in presence. When distant, or supposed to be +distant, we can call him hard or tender names, nay, even poke our poor +fun at him. _Mr. Punch_, on one occasion, when he wished to ridicule +the useful-information leanings of a certain periodical publication, +quoted from its pages the sentence, "Man is mortal," and people were +found to grin broadly over the exquisite stroke of humour. Certainly +the words, and the fact they contain, are trite enough. Utter the +sentence gravely in any company, and you are certain to provoke +laughter. And yet some subtile recognition of the fact of death runs +constantly through the warp and woof of the most ordinary human +existence. And this recognition does not always terrify. The spectre +has the most cunning disguises, and often when near us we are unaware +of the fact of proximity. Unsuspected, this idea of death lurks in the +sweetness of music; it has something to do with the pleasures with +which we behold the vapours of morning; it comes between the passionate +lips of lovers; it lives in the thrill of kisses. "An inch deeper, and +you will find the emperor." Probe joy to its last fibre, and you will +find death. And it is the most merciful of all the merciful provisions +of nature, that a haunting sense of insecurity should deepen the +enjoyment of what we have secured; that the pleasure of our warm human +day and its activities should to some extent arise from a vague +consciousness of the waste night which environs it, in which no arm is +raised, in which no voice is ever heard. Death is the ugly fact which +nature has to hide, and she hides it well. Human life were otherwise +an impossibility. The pantomime runs on merrily enough; but when once +Harlequin lifts his vizor, Columbine disappears, the jest is frozen on +the Clown's lips, and the hand of the filching Pantaloon is arrested in +the act. Wherever death looks, _there_ is silence and trembling. But +although on every man he will one day or another look, he is coy of +revealing himself till the appointed time. He makes his approaches +like an Indian warrior, under covers and ambushes. We have our parts +to play, and he remains hooded till they are played out. We are +agitated by our passions, we busily pursue our ambitions, we are +acquiring money or reputation, and all at once, in the centre of our +desires, we discover the "Shadow feared of man." And so nature fools +the poor human mortal evermore. When she means to be deadly, she +dresses her face in smiles; when she selects a victim, she sends him a +poisoned rose. There is no pleasure, no shape of good fortune, no form +of glory in which death has not hid himself, and waited silently for +his prey. + +And death is the most ordinary thing in the world. It is as common as +births; it is of more frequent occurrence than marriages and the +attainment of majorities. But the difference between death and other +forms of human experience lies in this, that we can gain no information +about it. The dead man is wise, but he is silent. We cannot wring his +secret from him. We cannot interpret the ineffable calm which gathers +on the rigid face. As a consequence, when our thought rests on death +we are smitten with isolation and loneliness. We are without company +on the dark road; and we have advanced so far upon it that we cannot +hear the voices of our friends. It is in this sense of loneliness, +this consciousness of identity and nothing more, that the terror of +dying consists. And yet, compared to that road, the most populous +thoroughfare of London or Pekin is a desert. What enumerator will take +for us the census of dead? And this matter of death and dying, like +most things else in the world, may be exaggerated by our own fears and +hopes. Death, terrible to look forward to, may be pleasant even to +look back at. Could we be admitted to the happy fields, and hear the +conversations which blessed spirits hold, one might discover that to +conquer death a man has but to die; that by that act terror is softened +into familiarity, and that the remembrance of death becomes but as the +remembrance of yesterday. To these fortunate ones death may be but a +date, and dying a subject fruitful in comparisons, a matter on which +experiences may be serenely compared. Meantime, however, _we_ have not +yet reached that measureless content, and death scares, piques, +tantalises, as mind and nerve are built. Situated as we are, knowing +that it is inevitable, we cannot keep our thoughts from resting on it +curiously, at times. Nothing interests us so much. The Highland seer +pretended that he could see the winding-sheet high upon the breast of +the man for whom death was waiting. Could we behold any such visible +sign, the man who bore it, no matter where he stood--even if he were a +slave watching Caesar pass--would usurp every eye. At the coronation +of a king, the wearing of that order would dim royal robe, quench the +sparkle of the diadem, and turn to vanity the herald's cry. Death +makes the meanest beggar august, and that augustness would assert +itself in the presence of a king. And it is this curiosity with regard +to everything related to death and dying which makes us treasure up the +last sayings of great men, and attempt to wring out of them tangible +meanings. Was Goethe's "Light--light, more light!" a prayer, or a +statement of spiritual experience, or simply an utterance of the fact +that the room in which he lay was filling with the last twilight? In +consonance with our own natures, we interpret it the one way or the +other--_he_ is beyond our questioning. For the same reason it is that +men take interest in executions--from Charles I. on the scaffold at +Whitehall, to Porteous in the Grassmarket execrated by the mob. These +men are not dulled by disease, they are not delirious with fever; they +look death in the face, and what in these circumstances they say and do +has the strangest fascination for us. + +What does the murderer think when his eyes are forever blinded by the +accursed nightcap? In what form did thought condense itself between +the gleam of the lifted axe and the rolling of King Charles's head in +the saw-dust? This kind of speculation may be morbid, but it is not +necessarily so. All extremes of human experience touch us; and we have +all the deepest personal interest in the experience of death. Out of +all we know about dying we strive to clutch something which may break +its solitariness, and relieve us by a touch of companionship. + +To denude death of its terrible associations were a vain attempt. The +atmosphere is always cold around an iceberg. In the contemplation of +dying the spirit may not flinch, but pulse and heart, colour and +articulation, are always cowards. No philosophy will teach them +bravery in the stern presence. And yet there are considerations which +rob death of its ghastliness, and help to reconcile us to it. The +thoughtful happiness of a human being is complex, and in certain moved +moments, which, after they have gone, we can recognise to have been our +happiest, some subtle thought of death has been curiously intermixed. +And this subtle intermixture it is which gives the happy moment its +character--which makes the difference between the gladness of a child, +resident in mere animal health and impulse, and too volatile to be +remembered, and the serious joy of a man, which looks before and after, +and takes in both this world and the next. Speaking broadly, it may be +said that it is from some obscure recognition of the fact of death that +life draws its final sweetness. An obscure, haunting recognition, of +course; for if more than that, if the thought becomes palpable, +defined, and present, it swallows up everything. The howling of the +winter wind outside increases the warm satisfaction of a man in bed; +but this satisfaction is succeeded by quite another feeling when the +wind grows into a tempest, and threatens to blow the house down. And +this remote recognition of death may exist almost constantly in a man's +mind, and give to his life keener zest and relish. His lights may burn +the brighter for it, and his wines taste sweeter. For it is on the +tapestry or a dim ground that the figures come out in the boldest +relief and the brightest colour. + +If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, +clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It +is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death. The brutes die +even as we; but it is our knowledge that we have to die that makes us +human. If nature cunningly hides death, and so permits us to play out +our little games, it is easily seen that our knowing it to be +inevitable, that to every one of us it will come one day or another, is +a wonderful spur to action. We really do work while it is called +to-day, because the night cometh when no man can work. We may not +expect it soon--it may not have sent us a single _avant-courier_--yet +we all know that every day brings it nearer. On the supposition that +we were to live here always, there would be little inducement to +exertion. But, having some work at heart, the knowledge that we may +be, any day, finally interrupted, is an incentive to diligence. We +naturally desire to have it completed, or at least far advanced toward +completion, before that final interruption takes place. And knowing +that his existence here is limited, a man's workings have reference to +others rather than to himself, and thereby into his nature comes a new +influx of nobility. If a man plants a tree, he knows that other hands +than his will gather the fruit; and when he plants it, he thinks quite +as much of those other hands as of his own. Thus to the poet there is +the dearer life after life; and posterity's single laurel leaf is +valued more than a multitude of contemporary bays. Even the man +immersed in money-making does not make money so much for himself as for +those who may come after him. Riches in noble natures have a double +sweetness. The possessor enjoys his wealth, and he heightens that +enjoyment by the imaginative entrance into the pleasure which his son +or his nephew may derive from it when he is away, or the high uses to +which he may turn it. Seeing that we have no perpetual lease of life +and its adjuncts, we do not live for ourselves. And thus it is that +death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us +the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence. My +life, and your life, flowing on thus day by day, is a vapid enough +piece of business; but when we think that it must _close_, a multitude +of considerations, not connected with ourselves but with others, rush +in, and vapidity vanishes at once. Life, if it were to flow on forever +and _thus_, would stagnate and rot. The hopes, and fears, and regrets, +which move and trouble it, keep it fresh and healthy, as the sea is +kept alive by the trouble of its tides. In a tolerably comfortable +world, where death is not, it is difficult to see from what quarter +these healthful fears, regrets, and hopes could come. As it is, there +are agitations and sufferings in our lots enough; but we must remember +that it is on account of these sufferings and agitations that we become +creatures breathing thoughtful breath. As has already been said, death +takes away the commonplace of life. And positively, when one looks on +the thousand and one poor, foolish, ignoble faces of this world, and +listens to the chatter as poor and foolish as the faces, one, in order +to have any proper respect for them, is forced to remember that +solemnity of death, which is silently waiting. The foolishest person +will look grand enough one day. The features are poor now, but the +hottest tears and the most passionate embraces will not seem out of +place _then_. If you wish to make a man look noble, your best course +is to kill him. What superiority he may have inherited from his race, +what superiority nature may have personally gifted him with, comes out +in death. The passions which agitate, distort, and change, are gone +away forever, and the features settle back into a marble calm, which is +the man's truest image. Then the most affected look sincere, the most +volatile, serious--all noble, more or less. And nature will not be +surprised into disclosures. The man stretched out there may have been +voluble as a swallow, but now--when he could speak to some +purpose--neither pyramid nor sphinx holds a secret more tenaciously. + +Consider, then, how the sense of impermanence brightens beauty and +elevates happiness. Melancholy is always attendant on beauty, and that +melancholy brings out its keenness as the dark green corrugated leaf +brings out the wan loveliness of the primrose. The spectator enjoys +the beauty, but his knowledge that _it_ is fleeting, and that _he_ +fleeting, adds a pathetic something to it; and by that something the +beautiful object and the gazer are alike raised. + +Everything is sweetened by risk. The pleasant emotion is mixed and +deepened by a sense of mortality. Those lovers who have never +encountered the possibility of last embraces and farewells are novices +in the passion. Sunset affects us more powerfully than sunrise, simply +because it is a setting sun, and suggests a thousand analogies. A +mother is never happier than when her eyes fill over her sleeping +child, never does she kiss it more fondly, never does she pray for it +more fervently; and yet there is more in her heart than visible red +cheek and yellow curl; possession and bereavement are strangely mingled +in the exquisite maternal mood, the one heightening the other. All +great joys are serious; and emotion must be measured by its complexity +and the deepness of its reach. A musician may draw pretty notes enough +from a single key, but the richest music is that in which the whole +force of the instrument is employed, in the production of which every +key is vibrating; and, although full of solemn touches and majestic +tones, the final effect may be exuberant and gay. Pleasures which rise +beyond the mere gratification of the senses are dependant for their +exquisiteness on the number and variety of the thoughts which they +evoke. And that joy is the greatest which, while felt to be joy, can +include the thought of death and clothe itself with that crowning +pathos. And in the minds of thoughtful persons every joy does, more or +less, with the crowning pathos clothe itself. + +In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the +arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place +to-day, it is vain to seek it there to-morrow. You cannot lay a trap +for it. It will fall into no ambuscade, concert it ever so cunningly. +Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps. Into our +commonplace existence it comes with a surprise, like a pure white swan +from the airy void into the ordinary village lake; and just as the +swan, for no reason that can be discovered, lifts itself on its wings +and betakes itself to the void again, _it_ leaves us, and our sole +possession is its memory. And it is characteristic of pleasure that we +can never recognise it to be pleasure till after it is gone. Happiness +never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse +of its features it disappears. It is a gleam of unreckoned gold. From +the nature of the case, our happiness, such as in its degree it has +been, lives in memory. We have not the voice itself; we have only its +echo. We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once. +And while in the very heart and structure of the happy moment there +lurked an obscure consciousness of death, the memory in which past +happiness dwells is always a regretful memory. This is why the tritest +utterance about the past, youth, early love, and the like, has always +about it an indefinable flavour of poetry, which pleases and affects. +In the wake of a ship there is always a melancholy splendour. The +finest set of verses of our modern time describes how the poet gazed on +the "happy autumn fields," and remembered the "days that were no more." +After all, a man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is +he rich, in nothing else is he poor. + +In our warm imaginative youth, death is far removed from us, and +attains thereby a certain picturesqueness. The grim thought stands in +the ideal world as a ruin stands in a blooming landscape. The thought +of death sheds a pathetic charm over everything then. The young man +cools himself with a thought of the winding-sheet and the charnel, as +the heated dancer cools himself on the balcony with the night-air. The +young imagination plays with the idea of death, makes a toy of it, just +as a child plays with edge-tools till once it cuts its fingers. The +most lugubrious poetry is written by very young and tolerably +comfortable persons. When a man's mood becomes really serious he has +little taste for such foolery. The man who has a grave or two in his +heart, does not need to haunt churchyards. The young poet uses death +as an antithesis; and when he shocks his reader by some flippant use of +it in that way, he considers he has written something mightily fine. +In his gloomiest mood he is most insincere, most egotistical, most +pretentious. The older and wiser poet avoids the subject as he does +the memory of pain; or when he does refer to it, he does so in a +reverential manner, and with some sense of its solemnity and of the +magnitude of its issues. It was in that year of revelry, 1814, and +while undressing from balls, that Lord Byron wrote his "Lara," as he +informs us. Disrobing, and haunted, in all probability, by eyes in +whose light he was happy enough, the spoiled young man, who then +affected death-pallors, and wished the world to believe that he felt +his richest wines powdered with the dust of graves,--of which wine, +notwithstanding, he frequently took more than was good for him,--wrote, + + "That sleep the loveliest, since it dreams the least." + +The sleep referred to being death. This was meant to take away the +reader's breath; and after performing the feat, Byron betook himself to +his pillow with a sense of supreme cleverness. Contrast with this +Shakspeare's far out-looking and thought-heavy lines--lines which, +under the same image, represent death-- + + "To die--to sleep;-- + To sleep! perchance to dream;--ay, there's the rub: + For in that sleep of death what dreams may come!" + +And you see at once how a man's notions of death and dying are deepened +by a wider experience. Middle age may fear death quite as little as +youth fears it; but it has learned seriousness, and it has no heart to +poke fun at the lean ribs, or to call it fond names like a lover, or to +stick a primrose in its grinning chaps, and draw a strange pleasure +from the irrelevancy. + +The man who has reached thirty, feels at times as if he had come out of +a great battle. Comrade after comrade has fallen; his own life seems +to have been charmed. And knowing how it fared with his +friends--perfect health one day, a catarrh the next, blinds drawn down, +silence in the house, blubbered faces of widow and orphans, intimation +of the event in the newspapers, with a request that friends will accept +of it, the day after--a man, as he draws near middle age, begins to +suspect every transient indisposition; to be careful of being caught in +a shower, to shudder at sitting in wet shoes; he feels his pulse, he +anxiously peruses his face in a mirror, he becomes critical as to the +colour of his tongue. In early life illness is a luxury, and draws out +toward the sufferer curious and delicious tendernesses, which are felt +to be a full over-payment of pain and weakness; then there is the +pleasant period of convalescence, when one tastes a core and marrow of +delight in meats, drinks, sleep, silence; the bunch of newly-plucked +flowers on the table, the sedulous attentions and patient forbearance +of nurses and friends. Later in life, when one occupies a post, and is +in discharge of duties which are accumulating against recovery, illness +and convalescence cease to be luxuries. Illness is felt to be a cruel +interruption of the ordinary course of things, and the sick person is +harassed by a sense of the loss of time and the loss of strength. He +is placed _hors de combat_; all the while he is conscious that the +battle is going on around him, and he feels his temporary withdrawal a +misfortune. Of course, unless a man is very unhappily circumstanced, +he has in his later illnesses all the love, patience, and attention +which sweetened his earlier ones; but then he cannot rest in them, and +accept them as before as compensation in full. The world is ever with +him; through his interests and his affections he has meshed himself in +an intricate net-work of relationships and other dependences, and a +fatal issue--which in such cases is ever on the cards--would destroy +all these, and bring about more serious matters than the shedding of +tears. In a man's earlier illnesses, too, he had not only no such +definite future to work out, he had a stronger spring of life and hope; +he was rich in time, and could wait; and lying in his chamber now, he +cannot help remembering that, as Mr. Thackeray expresses it, there +comes at last an illness to which there may be no convalescence. What +if that illness be already come? And so there is nothing left for him, +but to bear the rod with patience, and to exercise a humble faith in +the Ruler of all. If he recovers, some half-dozen people will be made +happy; if he does not recover, the same number of people will be made +miserable for a little while, and, during the next two or three days, +acquaintances will meet in the street--"You've heard of poor So-and-so? +Very sudden! Who would have thought it? Expect to meet you at ----'s +on Thursday. Good-bye." And so to the end. Your death and my death +are mainly of importance to ourselves. The black plumes will be +stripped off our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt hearts +close again, our graves grow level with the church-yard, and although +we are away, the world wags on. It does not miss us; and those who are +near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss +us much either. + +We are curious as to death-beds and death-bed sayings; we wish to know +how the matter stands; how the whole thing looks to the dying. +Unhappily--perhaps, on the whole, happily--we can gather no information +from these. The dying are nearly as reticent as the dead. The +inferences we draw from the circumstances of death, the pallor, the +sob, the glazing eye, are just as likely to mislead us as not. Manfred +exclaims, "Old man, 'tis not so difficult to die!" Sterling wrote +Carlyle "that it was all very strange, yet not so strange as it seemed +to the lookers on." And so, perhaps, on the whole it is. The world +has lasted six thousand years now, and, with the exception of those at +present alive, the millions who have breathed upon it--splendid +emperors, horny-fisted clowns, little children, in whom thought has +never stirred--_have_ died, and what they have done, we also shall be +able to do. It may not be so difficult, may not be so terrible, as our +fears whisper. The dead keep their secrets, and in a little while we +shall be as wise as they--and as taciturn. + + +[1] Montaigne. + +[2] Bacon. + + + + +WILLIAM DUNBAR + +If it be assumed that the North Briton is, to an appreciable extent, a +different creature from the Englishman, the assumption is not likely to +provoke dispute. No one will deny us the prominence of our cheek-bones, +and our pride in the same. How far the difference extends, whether it +involves merit or demerit, are questions not now sought to be settled. +Nor is it important to discover how the difference arose; how far chiller +climate and sourer soil, centuries of unequal yet not inglorious +conflict, a separate race of kings, a body of separate traditions, and a +peculiar crisis of reformation issuing in peculiar forms of religious +worship, confirmed and strengthened the national idiosyncrasy. If a +difference between the races be allowed, it is sufficient for the present +purpose. _That_ allowed, and Scot and Southern being fecund in literary +genius, it becomes an interesting inquiry to what extent the great +literary men of the one race have influenced the great literary men of +the other. On the whole, perhaps, the two races may fairly cry quits. +Not unfrequently, indeed, have literary influences arisen in the north +and travelled southwards. There were the Scottish ballads, for instance, +there was Burns, there was Sir Walter Scott, there is Mr. Carlyle. The +literary influence represented by each of these arose in Scotland, and +has either passed or is passing "in music out of sight" in England. The +energy of the northern wave has rolled into the southern waters. On the +other hand, we can mark the literary influences travelling from the south +northward. The English Chaucer rises, and the current of his influence +is long afterwards visible in the Scottish King James, and the Scottish +poet Dunbar. That which was Prior and Gay in London, became Allan Ramsay +when it reached Edinburgh. Inspiration, not unfrequently, has travelled, +like summer, from the south northwards; just as, when the day is over, +and the lamps are lighted in London, the radiance of the setting sun is +lingering on the splintered peaks and rosy friths of the Hebrides. All +this, however, is a matter of the past; literary influence can no longer +be expected to travel leisurely from south to north, or from north to +south. In times of literary activity, as at the beginning of the present +century, the atmosphere of passion or speculation envelop the entire +island, and Scottish and English writers simultaneously draw from it what +their peculiar natures prompt--just as in the same garden the rose drinks +crimson and the convolvulus azure from the superincumbent air. + +Chaucer must always remain a name in British literary history. He +appeared at a time when the Saxon and Norman races had become fused, and +when ancient bitternesses were lost in the proud title of Englishman. He +was the first great poet the island produced; and he wrote for the most +part in the language of the people, with just the slightest infusion of +the courtlier Norman element, which gives to his writings something of +the high-bred air that the short upper-lip gives to the human +countenance. In his earlier poems he was under the influence of the +Provencal Troubadours, and in his "Flower and the Leaf," and other works +of a similar class, he riots in allegory; he represents the cardinal +virtues walking about in human shape; his forests are full of beautiful +ladies with coronals on their heads; courts of love are held beneath the +spreading elm, and metaphysical goldfinches and nightingales, perched +among the branches green, wrangle melodiously about the tender passion. +In these poems he is fresh, charming, fanciful as the spring-time itself: +ever picturesque, ever musical, and with a homely touch and stroke of +irony here and there, suggesting a depth of serious matter in him which +it needed years only to develop. He lived in a brilliant and stirring +time; he was connected with the court; he served in armies; he visited +the Continent; and, although a silent man, he carried with him, wherever +he went, and into whatever company he was thrown, the most observant eyes +perhaps that ever looked curiously out upon the world. There was nothing +too mean or too trivial for his regard. After parting with a man, one +fancies that he knew every line and wrinkle of his face, had marked the +travel-stains on his boots, and had counted the slashes of his doublet. +And so it was that, after mixing in kings' courts, and sitting with +friars in taverns, and talking with people on country roads, and +travelling in France and Italy, and making himself master of the +literature, science, and theology of his time, and when perhaps touched +with misfortune and sorrow, he came to see the depth of interest that +resides in actual life,--that the rudest clown even, with his sordid +humours and coarse speech, is intrinsically more valuable than a whole +forest full of goddesses, or innumerable processions of cardinal virtues, +however well mounted and splendidly attired. It was in some such mood of +mind that Chaucer penned those unparalleled pictures of contemporary life +that delight yet, after five centuries have come and gone. It is +difficult to define Chaucer's charm. He does not indulge in fine +sentiment; he has no bravura passages; he is ever master of himself and +of his subject. The light upon his page is the light of common day. +Although powerful delineations of passion may be found in his "Tales," +and wonderful descriptions of nature, and although certain of the +passages relating to Constance and Griselda in their deep distresses are +unrivalled in tenderness, neither passion, nor natural description, nor +pathos, are his striking characteristics. It is his shrewdness, his +conciseness, his ever-present humour, his frequent irony, and his short, +homely line--effective as the play of the short Roman sword--which +strikes the reader most. In the "Prologue to the Canterbury Tales"--by +far the ripest thing he has done--he seems to be writing the easiest, +most idiomatic prose, but it is poetry all the while. He is a poet of +natural manner, dealing with out-door life. Perhaps, on the whole, the +writer who most resembles him--superficial differences apart--is +Fielding. In both there is constant shrewdness and common-sense, a +constant feeling of the comic side of things, a moral instinct which +escapes in irony, never in denunciation or fanaticism; no remarkable +spirituality of feeling, an acceptance of the world as a pleasant enough +place, provided good dinners and a sufficiency of cash are to be had, and +that healthy relish for fact and reality, and scorn of humbug of all +kinds, especially of that particular phase of it which makes one appear +better than one is, which--for want of a better term--we are accustomed +to call _English_. Chaucer was a Conservative in all his feelings; he +liked to poke his fun at the clergy, but he was not of the stuff of which +martyrs are made. He loved good eating and drinking, and studious +leisure and peace; and although in his ordinary moods shrewd, and +observant, and satirical, his higher genius would now and then splendidly +assert itself--and behold the tournament at Athens, where kings are +combatants and Emily the prize; or the little boat, containing the +brain-bewildered Constance and her child, wandering hither and thither on +the friendly sea. + +Chaucer was born about 1328, and died about 1380; and although he had, +both in Scotland and England, contemporaries and immediate successors, no +one of them can be compared with him for a moment. The "Moral Gower" was +his friend, and inherited his tediousness and pedantry without a sparkle +of his fancy, passion, humour, wisdom, and good spirits. Occleve and +Lydgate followed in the next generation; and although their names are +retained in literary histories, no line or sentence of theirs has found a +place in human memory. The Scottish contemporary of Chaucer was Barbour, +who although deficient in tenderness and imagination, deserves praise for +his sinewy and occasionally picturesque verse. "The Bruce" is really a +fine poem. The hero is noble, resolute, and wise. Sir James Douglas is +a very perfect, gentle knight. The old Churchman had the true poetic +fire in him. He rises into eloquence in an apostrophe to Freedom, and he +fights the battle of Bannockburn over again with great valour, shouting, +and flapping of standards. In England, nature seemed to have exhausted +herself in Chaucer, and she lay quiescent till Lord Surrey and Sir Thomas +Wyatt came, the immediate precursors of Spenser, Shakspeare, and their +companions. + +While in England the note of the nightingale suddenly ceased, to be +succeeded by the mere chirping of the barn-door sparrows, the divine and +melancholy voice began to be heard further north. It was during that +most barren period of English poetry--extending from Chaucer's death till +the beginning of Elizabeth's reign--that Scottish poetry arose, suddenly, +splendidly--to be matched only by that other uprising nearer our own +time, equally unexpected and splendid, of Burns and Scott. And it is +curious to notice in this brilliant outburst of northern genius how much +is owing to Chaucer; the cast of language is identical, the literary form +is the same, there is the same way of looking at nature, the same +allegorical forests, the troops of ladies, the same processions of +cardinal virtues. James I., whose long captivity in England made him +acquainted with Chaucer's works was the leader of the poetic movement +which culminated in Dunbar, and died away in Sir David Lindsay just +before the noise and turmoil of the Reformation set in. In the +concluding stanza of the "Quair," James records his obligation to those-- + + "Masters dear, + Gower and Chaucer, that on the steppes sate + Of retorick, while they were livand here, + Superlative as poets laureate + Of morality and eloquence ornate." + +But while, during the reigns of the Jameses, Scottish genius was being +acted upon by the broader and deeper genius of England, Scotland, quite +unconsciously to herself, was preparing a liquidation in full of all +spiritual obligations. For even then, in obscure nooks and corners, the +Scottish ballads were growing up, quite uncontrolled by critical rules, +rude in structure and expression, yet, at the same time, full of +vitality, retaining in all their keenness the mirth of rustic festivals, +and the piteousness of domestic tragedies. The stormy feudal time out of +which they arose crumbled by process of gradual decay, but they remained, +made brighter by each succeeding summer, like the wildflowers that blow +in the chinks of ruins. And when English poetry had become artificial +and cold, the lucubrations of forgotten Scottish minstrels, full of the +touches that make the whole world kin, brought new life with them. +Scotland had invaded England more than once, but the blue bonnets never +went over the border so triumphantly as when they did so in the shape of +songs and ballads. + +James IV., if not the wisest, was certainly the most brilliant monarch of +his name; and he was fortunate beyond the later Stuarts in this, that +during his lifetime no new popular tide had set in which it behooved him +to oppose or to float upon. For him in all its essentials to-day had +flowed quietly out of yesterday, and he lived unperplexed by fear of +change. With something of a Southern gaiety of spirit, he was a merrier +monarch than his dark-featured and saturnine descendant who bore the +appellation. He was fond of martial sports, he loved to glitter at +tournaments, his court was crowded with singing men and singing women. +Yet he had his gloomy moods and superstitious despondencies. He could +not forget that he had appeared in arms against his father; even while he +whispered in the ear of beauty the iron belt of penance was fretting his +side, and he alternated the splendid revel with the cell of the monk. In +these days, and for long after, the Borders were disturbed, and the +Highland clans, setting royal authority at defiance, were throttling each +other in their mists. The Catholic religion was yet unsapped, and the +wealth of the country resided in the hands of the nobles and the +churchmen. Edinburgh towered high on the ridge between Holyrood and the +Castle, its streets reddened with feud at intervals, and its merchants +clustering round the Cathedral of St. Giles like bees in a honeycomb; and +the king, when he looked across the faint azure of the Forth, beheld the +long coast of Fife dotted with little towns, where ships were moored that +traded with France and Holland, and brought with them cargoes of silk and +wines. James was a popular monarch; he was beloved by the nobles and by +the people. He loved justice, he cultivated his marine, and he built the +_Great Michael_--the _Great Eastern_ of that day. He had valiant seamen, +and more than once Barton sailed into Leith with a string of English +prizes. When he fell with all his nobility at Flodden, there came upon +Scotland the woe with which she was so familiar-- + + "Woe to that realme that haith an ower young king." + + +A long regency followed; disturbing elements of religion entered into the +life of the nation, and the historical stream which had flowed smoothly +for a series of years became all at once convulsed and turbulent, as if +it had entered upon a gorge of rapids. It was in this pleasant +interregnum of the reign of the fourth James, when ancient disorders had +to a certain extent been repressed, and when religious difficulties ahead +were yet undreamed of, that the poet Dunbar flourished--a nightingale +singing in a sunny lull of the Scottish historical storm. + +Modern readers are acquainted with Dunbar chiefly through the medium of +Mr. David Laing's beautiful edition of his works published in 1834, and +by good Dr. Irving's intelligent and admirable compacted "History of +Scottish Poetry," published the other day. Irving's work, if deficient +somewhat in fluency and grace of style, is characterised by +conscientiousness of statement and by the ripest knowledge. Yet, despite +the researches of these competent writers, of the events of the poet's +life not much is known. He was born about 1460, and from an unquotable +allusion in one of his poems, he is supposed to have been a native of the +Lothians. His name occurs in the register of the University of St. +Andrews as a Bachelor of Arts. With the exception of these entries in +the college register, there is nothing authentically known of his early +life. We have no portrait of him, and cannot by that means decipher him. +We do not know with certainty from what family he sprang. Beyond what +light his poems may throw on them, we have no knowledge of his habits and +personal tastes. He exists for the most part in rumour, and the vague +shadows of things. It appears that in early life he became a friar of +the order of St. Francis; and in the capacity of a travelling priest +tells us that "he preached in Derntown kirk and in Canterbury;" that he +"passed at Dover across the Channel, and went through Picardy teaching +the people." He does not seem to have taken kindly to his profession. +His works are full of sarcastic allusions to the clergy, and in no +measured terms he denounces their luxury, their worldly-mindedness, and +their desire for high place and fat livings. Yet these denunciations +have no very spiritual origin. His rage is the rage of a disappointed +candidate, rather than of a prophet; and, to the last, he seems to have +expected preferment in the Church. Not without a certain pathos he +writes, when he had become familiar with disappointment, and the sickness +of hope deferred-- + + "I wes in youth an nureiss knee, + Dandely! bischop, dandely! + And quhen that age now dois me greif, + Ane sempill vicar I can nocht be." + + +It is not known when he entered the service of King James. From his +poems it appears that he was employed as a clerk or secretary in several +of the missions despatched to foreign courts. It is difficult to guess +in what capacity Dunbar served at Holyrood. He was all his life a +priest, and expected preferment from his royal patron. We know that he +performed mass in the presence. Yet when the king in one of his dark +moods had withdrawn from the gaieties of the capital to the religious +gloom of the convent of Franciscans at Stirling, we find the poet +inditing a parody on the machinery of the Church, calling on Father, Son, +and Holy Spirit, and on all the saints of the calendar, to transport the +princely penitent from Stirling, "where ale is thin and small," to +Edinburgh, where there is abundance of swans, cranes, and plovers, and +the fragrant clarets of France. And in another of his poems, he +describes himself as dancing in the queen's chamber so zealously that he +lost one of his slippers, a mishap which provoked her Majesty to great +mirth. Probably, as the king was possessed of considerable literary +taste, and could appreciate Dunbar's fancy and satire, he kept him +attached to his person, with the intention of conferring a benefice on +him when one fell vacant; and when a benefice _did_ fall vacant, felt +compelled to bestow it on the cadet of some powerful family in the +state,--for it was always the policy of James to stand well with his +nobles. He remembered too well the deaths of his father and +great-grandfather to give unnecessary offense to his great barons. From +his connexion with the court, the poet's life may be briefly epitomised. +In August, 1500, his royal master granted Dunbar an annual pension of 10 +pounds for life, or till such time as he should be promoted to a benefice +of the annual value of 40 pounds. In 1501, he visited England in the +train of the ambassadors sent thither to negotiate the king's marriage. +The marriage took place in May, 1503, on which occasion the high-piled +capital wore holiday attire, balconies blazed with scarlet cloth, and the +loyal multitude shouted as bride and bridegroom rode past, with the +chivalry of two kingdoms in their train. Early in May, Dunbar composed +his most celebrated poem in honour of the event. Next year he said mass +in the king's presence for the first time, and received a liberal reward. +In 1505, he received a sum in addition to his stated pension, and two +years thereafter his pension was doubled. In August, 1510, his pension +was increased to 80 pounds per annum, until he became possessed of a +benefice of the annual value of 10 pounds or upwards. In 1513, Flodden +was fought, and in the confusion consequent on the king's death, Dunbar +and his slowly-increasing pensions disappear from the records of things. +We do not know whether he received his benefice; we do not know the date +of his death, and to this day his grave is secret as the grave of Moses. + +Knowing but little of Dunbar's life, our interest is naturally +concentrated on what of his writings remain to us. And to modern eyes +the old poet is a singular spectacle. His language is different than +ours; his mental structure and modes of thought are unfamiliar; in his +intellectual world, as we map it out to ourselves, it is difficult to +conceive how a comfortable existence could be attained. Times, manners, +and ideas have changed, and we look upon Dunbar with a certain +reverential wonder and curiosity as we look upon Tantallon, standing up, +grim and gray, in the midst of the modern landscape. The grand old +fortress is a remnant of a state of things which have utterly passed +away. Curiously, as we walk beside it, we think of the actual human life +its walls contained. In those great fire-places logs actually burned +once, and in winter nights men-at-arms spread out big palms against the +grateful heat. In those empty apartments was laughter, and feasting, and +serious talk enough in troublous times, and births, and deaths, and the +bringing home of brides in their blushes. This empty moat was filled +with water, to keep at bay long-forgotten enemies, and yonder loop-hole +was made narrow, as a protection from long-moulded arrows. In Tantallon +we know the Douglasses lived in state, and bearded kings, and hung out +banners to the breeze; but a sense of wonder is mingled with our +knowledge, for the bothy of the Lothian farmer is even more in accordance +with our methods of conducting life. Dunbar affects us similarly. We +know that he possessed a keen intellect, a blossoming fancy, a satiric +touch that blistered, a melody that enchanted Northern ears; but then we +have lost the story of his life, and from his poems, with their wonderful +contrasts, the delicacy and spring-like flush of feeling, the piety, the +freedom of speech, the irreverent use of the sacredest names, the +"Flyting" and the "Lament for the Makars," there is difficulty in making +one's ideas of him cohere. He is present to the imagination, and yet +remote. Like Tantallon, he is a portion of the past. We are separated +from him by centuries, and that chasm we are unable to bridge properly. + +The first thing that strikes the reader of these poems is their variety +and intellectual range. It may be said that--partly from constitutional +turn of thought, partly from the turbulent and chaotic time in which he +lived, when families rose to splendour and as suddenly collapsed, when +the steed that bore his rider at morning to the hunting-field returned at +evening masterless to the castle-gate--Dunbar's prevailing mood of mind +is melancholy; that he, with a certain fondness for the subject, as if it +gave him actual relief, moralised over the sandy foundations of mortal +prosperity, the advance of age putting out the lights of youth, and +cancelling the rapture of the lover, and the certainty of death. This is +a favourite path of contemplation with him, and he pursues it with a +gloomy sedateness of acquiescence, which is more affecting than if he +raved and foamed against the inevitable. But he has the mobility of the +poetic nature, and the sad ground-tone is often drowned in the ecstasy of +lighter notes. All at once the "bare ruined choirs" are covered with the +glad light-green of spring. His genius combined the excellencies of many +masters. His "Golden Targe" and "The Thistle and the Rose" are +allegorical poems, full of colour, fancy, and music. His "Two Married +Women and the Widow" has a good deal of Chaucer's slyness and humour. +"The Dance of the Deadly Sins," with its fiery bursts of imaginative +energy, its pictures finished at a stroke, is a prophecy of Spenser and +Collins, and as fine as anything they have accomplished; while his +"Flytings" are torrents of the coarsest vituperation. And there are +whole flights of occasional poems, many of them sombre-coloured enough, +with an ever-recurring mournful refrain, others satirical, but all flung +off, one can see, at a sitting; in the few verses the mood is exhausted, +and while the result remains, the cause is forgotten even by himself. +Several of these short poems are almost perfect in feeling and execution. +The melancholy ones are full of a serious grace, while in the satirical a +laughing devil of glee and malice sparkles in every line. Some of these +latter are dangerous to touch as a thistle--all bristling and angry with +the spikes of satiric scorn. + +In his allegorical poems--"The Golden Targe," "The Merle and the +Nightingale," "The Thistle and the Rose"--Dunbar's fancy has full scope. +As allegories, they are, perhaps, not worth much; at all events, modern +readers do not care for the adventures of "Quaking Dread and Humble +Obedience"; nor are they affected by descriptions of Beauty, attended by +her fair damsels, Fair Having, Fine Portraiture, Pleasance, and Lusty +Cheer. The whole conduct and machinery of such things are too artificial +and stilted for modern tastes. Stately masques are no longer performed +in earls' mansions; and when a sovereign enters a city, a fair lady, with +wings, representing Loyalty, does not burst out of a pasteboard cloud and +recite a poetical address to Majesty. In our theatres the pantomime, +which was originally an adumbration of human life, has become degraded. +Symbolism has departed from the boards, and burlesque reigns in its +stead. The Lord Mavor's Show, the last remnant of the antique +spectacular taste, does not move us now; it is held a public nuisance; it +provokes the rude "chaff" of the streets. Our very mobs have become +critical. Gog and Magog are dethroned. The knight feels the satiric +comments through his armour. The very steeds are uneasy, as if ashamed. +But in Dunbar the allegorical machinery is saved from contempt by colour, +poetry, and music. + +Quick surprises of beauty, and a rapid succession of pictures, keep the +attention awake. Now it is-- + + "May, of mirthful monethis queen, + Betwixt April and June, her sisters sheen, + Within the garden walking up and down." + +Now-- + + "The god of windis, Eolus, + With variand look, richt like a lord unstable." + +Now the nightingale-- + + "Never sweeter noise was heard with livin' man, + Nor made this merry, gentle nightingale; + Her sound went with the river as it ran + Out throw the fresh and flourished lusty vale." + +And now a spring morning-- + + "Ere Phoebus was in purple cape revest, + Up raise the lark, the heaven's minstrel fine + In May, in till a morrow mirthfullest. + + "Full angel-like thir birdis sang their hours + Within their curtains green, in to their hours + Apparelled white and red with bloomes sweet; + Enamelled was the field with all colours, + The pearly droppis shook in silver shours; + While all in balm did branch and leavis fleet. + To part fra Phoebus did Aurora greet, + Her crystal tears I saw hing on the flours, + Whilk he for love all drank up with his heat. + + "For mirth of May, with skippis and with hops, + The birdis sang upon the tender crops, + With curious notes, as Venus' chapel clerks; + The roses young, new spreading of their knops, + Were powderit bricht with heavenly beriall drops, + Through beams red, burning as ruby sparks; + The skies rang for shouting of the larks, + The purple heaven once scal't in silver slops, + Oure gilt the trees, branches, leaves, and barks." + + +The finest of Dunbar's poems in this style is "The Thistle and the Rose." +It was written in celebration of the marriage of James with the Princess +Margaret of England, and the royal pair are happily represented as the +national emblems. It, of course, opens with a description of a spring +morning. Dame Nature resolves that every bird, beast, and flower should +compeer before her highness; the roe is commanded to summon the animals, +the restless swallow the birds, and the "conjured" yarrow the herbs and +flowers. In the twinkling of an eye they stand before the queen. The +lion and the eagle are crowned, and are instructed to be humble and just, +and to exercise their powers mercifully:-- + + "Then callit she all flouris that grew in field, + Discerning all their seasons and effeirs, + Upon the awful thistle she beheld + And saw him keepit with a bush of spears: + Consid'ring him so able for the weirs, + A radius crown of rubies she him gave, + And said, 'In field, go forth and fend the lave.'" + +The rose, also, is crowned, and the poet gives utterance to the universal +joy on occasion of the marriage--type of peace between two kingdoms. +Listen to the rich music of according voices:-- + + "Then all the birds sang with voice on hicht, + Whose mirthful soun' was marvellous to hear; + The mavis sang, Hail Rose, most rich and richt, + That does up flourish under Phoebus' sphere, + Hail, plant of youth, hail Princess, dochter dear; + Hail blosom breaking out of the bluid royal, + Whose precious virtue is imperial. + + "The merle she sang, Hail, Rose of most delight, + Hail, of all floris queen an' sovereign! + The lark she sang, Hail, Rose both red and white; + Most pleasant flower, of michty colours twane: + The nichtingale sang, Hail, Nature's suffragane, + In beauty, nurture, and every nobleness, + In rich array, renown, and gentleness. + + "The common voice up raise of birdes small, + Upon this wise, Oh, blessit be the hour + That thou was chosen to be our principal! + Welcome to be our Princess of honour, + Our pearl, our pleasance, and our paramour, + Our peace, our play, our plain felicity; + Christ thee comfort from all adversity." + + +But beautiful as these poems are, it is as a satirist that Dunbar has +performed his greatest feats. He was by nature "dowered with the scorn +of scorn," and its edge was whetted by life-long disappointment. Like +Spenser, he knew-- + + "What Hell it is in suing long to bide." + + +And even in poems where the mood is melancholy, where the burden is the +shortness of life and the unpermanence of felicity, his satiric rage +breaks out in single lines of fire. And although his satire is often +almost inconceivably coarse, the prompting instinct is healthy at bottom. +He hates Vice, although his hand is too often in the kennel to pelt her +withal. He lays his grasp on the bridle-rein of the sleek prelate, and +upbraids him with his secret sins in language unsuited to modern ears. +His greater satires have a wild sheen of imagination about them. They +are far from being cold, moral homilies. His wrath or his contempt +breaks through the bounds of time and space, and brings the spiritual +world on the stage. He wishes to rebuke the citizens of Edinburgh for +their habits of profane swearing, and the result is a poem, which +probably gave Coleridge the hint of his "Devil's Walk." Dunbar's satire +is entitled the "Devil's Inquest." He represents the Fiend passing up +through the market, and chuckling as he listens to the strange oaths of +cobbler, maltman, tailor, courtier, and minstrel. He comments on what he +hears and sees with great pleasantry and satisfaction. Here is the +conclusion of the piece:-- + + "Ane thief said, God that ever I chaip, + Nor ane stark widdy gar me gaip, + But I in hell for geir wald be. + The Devil said, 'Welcome in a raip: + Renounce thy God, and cum to me.' + + "The fishwives net and swore with granes, + And to the Fiend saul flesh and banes; + They gave them, with ane shout on hie. + The Devil said, 'Welcome all at anes; + Renounce your God, and cum to me.' + + "The rest of craftis great aiths swair, + Their wark and craft had nae compair, + Ilk ane unto their qualitie. + The Devil said then, withouten mair, + 'Renounce your God, and cum to me.'" + + +But the greatest of Dunbar's satires--in fact, the greatest of all his +poems--is that entitled "The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins." It is +short, but within its compass most swift, vivid, and weird. The pictures +rise on the reader's eye, and fade at once. It is a singular compound of +farce and earnest. It is Spenser and Hogarth combined--the wildest +grotesquerie wrought on a background of penal flame. The poet conceives +himself in a dream, on the evening preceding Lent, and in his vision he +heard Mahoun command that the wretched who "had ne'er been shriven" +should dance before him. Immediately a hideous rout present themselves; +"holy harlots" appear in their finery, and never a smile wrinkles the +faces of the onlookers; but when a string of "priests with their shaven +necks" come in, the arches of the unnameable place shakes with the +laughter of all the fiends. Then "The Seven Deadly Sins" begin to leap +at once:-- + + "And first of all the dance was Pride, + With hair wyld back and bonnet on side." + +He, with all his train, came skipping through the fire. + + "Then Ire came in with sturt and strife; + His hand was aye upon his knife;" + +and with him came armed boasters and braggarts, smiting each other with +swords, jagging each other with knives. Then Envy, trembling with secret +hatred, accompanied by his court of flatterers, backbiters, calumniators +and all the human serpentry that lurk in the palaces of kings. Then came +Covetousness, with his hoarders and misers, and these the fiends gave to +drink of newly-molten gold. + + "Syne Swearness, at the second bidding, + Came like a sow out of a midding:" + +and with him danced a sleepy crew, and Belial lashed them with a +bridle-rein, and the fiends gave them a turn in the fire to make them +nimbler. Then came Lechery, led by Idleness, with a host of evil +companions, "full strange of countenance, like torches burning bright." +Then came Gluttony, so unwieldy that he could hardly move:-- + + "Him followed mony foul drunkart + With can and callop, cup and quart, + In surfeit and excess." + +"Drink, aye they cried," with their parched lips; and the fiends gave +them hot lead to lap. Minstrels, it appears, are not to be found in that +dismal place:-- + + "Nae minstrels played to them but doubt, + For gleemen there were halden out + By day and eik by nicht: + Except a minstrel that slew a man, + So to his heritage he wan, + And entered by brieve of richt." + +And to the music of the solitary poet in hell, the strange shapes pass. +The conclusion of this singular poem is entirely farcical. The devil is +resolved to make high holiday: + + "Then cried Mahoun for a Hielan Padyane, + Syne ran a fiend to fetch Makfadyane, + Far north-wast in a neuck; + Be he the coronach had done shout, + Ersche men so gatherit him about, + In hell great room they took. + Thae tarmigants, with tag and tatter, + Full loud in Ersche begoud to clatter, + And roup like raven and rook. + The Devil sae deaved was with their yell, + That in the deepest pot of hell + He smorit them with smook." + + +There is one other poem of Dunbar's which may be quoted as a contrast to +what has been already given. It is remarkable as being the only one in +which he assumes the character of a lover. The style of thought is quite +modern; bereave it of its uncouth orthography, and it might have been +written to-day. It is turned with much skill and grace. The +constitutional melancholy of the man comes out in it; as, indeed, it +always does when he finds a serious topic. It possesses more tenderness +and sentiment than is his usual. It is the night-flower among his poems, +breathing a mournful fragrance:-- + + "Sweit rose of vertew and of gentilnes, + Delytsum lyllie of everie lustynes, + Richest in bontie, and in beutie cleir, + And every vertew that to hevin is dear, + Except onlie that ye ar mercyles, + + "Into your garthe this day I did persew: + Thair saw I flowris that fresche wer of dew, + Baith quhyte and reid most lustye wer to seyne, + And halsum herbis upone stalkis grene: + Yet leif nor flour fynd could I nane of rew. + + "I doute that March, with his cauld blastis keyne, + Hes slane this gentill herbe, that I of mene; + Quhois pitewous deithe dois to my hart sic pane, + That I wald mak to plant his rute agane, + So comfortand his levis unto me bene." + + +The extracts already given will enable the reader to form some idea of +the old poet's general power--his music, his picturesque faculty, his +colour, his satire. Yet it is difficult from what he has left to form +any very definite image of the man. Although his poems are for the most +part occasional, founded upon actual circumstances, or written to relieve +him from the over-pressure of angry or melancholy moods, and although the +writer is by no means shy or indisposed to speak of himself, his +personality is not made clear to us. There is great gap of time between +him and the modern reader; and the mixture of gold and clay in the +products of his genius, the discrepancy of elements, beauty and +coarseness, Apollo's cheek, and the satyr's shaggy limbs, are explainable +partly from a want of harmony and completeness in himself, and partly +from the pressure of the half-barbaric time. His rudeness offends, his +narrowness astonishes. But then we must remember that our advantages in +these respects do not necessarily arise from our being of a purer and +nobler essence. We have these things by inheritance; they have been +transmitted to us along a line of ancestors. Five centuries share with +us the merit of the result. Modern delicacy of taste and intellectual +purity--although we hold them in possession, and may add to their sheen +before we hand them on to our children--are no more to be placed to our +personal credits than Dryden's satire, Pope's epigram, Marlborough's +battles, Burke's speeches, and the victories of Trafalgar and Waterloo. +Intellectual delicacy has grown like our political constitution. The +English duke is not the creator of his own wealth, although in his +keeping it makes the earth around him a garden, and the walls of his +house bright with pictures. But our inability to conceive satisfactorily +of Dunbar does not arise from this alone. We have his works, but then +they are not supplemented by personal anecdote and letters, and the +reminiscences of contemporaries. Burns, for instance,--if limited to his +works for our knowledge of him,--would be a puzzling phenomenon. He was +in his poems quite as spoken as Dunbar, but then they describe so wide an +area, they appear so contradictory, they seem often to lead in opposite +directions. It is, to a large extent, through his letters that Burns is +known, through his short, careless, pithy sayings, which imbedded +themselves in the memories of his hearers, from the recollections of his +contemporaries and their expressed judgments, and the multiform +reverberations of fame lingering around such a man--these fill up +interstices between works, bring apparent opposition into intimate +relationship, and make wholeness out of confusion. Not on the stage +alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his +asides. With Dunbar there is nothing of this. He is a name, and little +more. He exists in a region to which rumour and conjecture have never +penetrated. He was long neglected by his countrymen, and was brought to +light as if by accident. He is the Pompeii of British poetry. We have +his works, but they are like the circumvallations of a Roman camp on the +Scottish hillside. We see lines stretching hither and thither, but we +cannot make out the plan, or divine what purposes were served. We only +know that every crumpled rampart was once a defence; that every +half-obliterated fosse once swarmed with men; that it was once a station +and abiding-place of human life, although for centuries now remitted to +silence and blank summer sunshine. + + + + +A LARK'S FLIGHT + +Rightly or wrongly, during the last twenty or thirty years a strong +feeling has grown up in the public mind against the principle, and a +still stronger feeling against the practice, of capital punishments. +Many people who will admit that the execution of the murderer may be, +abstractly considered, just enough, sincerely doubt whether such +execution be expedient, and are in their own minds perfectly certain +that it cannot fail to demoralise the spectators. In consequence of +this, executions have become rare; and it is quite clear that many +scoundrels, well worthy of the noose, contrive to escape it. When, on +the occasion of a wretch being turned off, the spectators are few, it +is remarked by the newspapers that the mob is beginning to lose its +proverbial cruelty, and to be stirred by humane pulses; when they are +numerous, and especially when girls and women form a majority, the +circumstance is noticed and deplored. It is plain enough that, if the +newspaper considered such an exhibition beneficial, it would not lament +over a few thousand eager witnesses: if the sermon be edifying, you +cannot have too large a congregation; if you teach a moral lesson in a +grand, impressive way, it is difficult to see how you can have too many +pupils. Of course, neither the justice nor the expediency of capital +punishments falls to be discussed here. This, however, may be said, +that the popular feeling against them may not be so admirable a proof +of enlightenment as many believe. It is true that the spectacle is +painful, horrible; but in pain and horror there is often hidden a +certain salutariness, and the repulsion of which we are conscious is as +likely to arise from debilitation of public nerve, as from a higher +reach of public feeling. To my own thinking, it is out of this pain +and hatefulness that an execution becomes invested with an ideal +grandeur. It is sheer horror to all concerned--sheriffs, halbertmen, +chaplain, spectators, Jack Ketch, and culprit; but out of all this, and +towering behind the vulgar and hideous accessories of the scaffold, +gleams the majesty of implacable law. When every other fine morning a +dozen cut-purses were hanged at Tyburn, and when such sights did not +run very strongly against the popular current, the spectacle was +vulgar, and could be of use only to the possible cut-purses congregated +around the foot of the scaffold. Now, when the law has become so far +merciful; when the punishment of death is reserved for the murderer; +when he can be condemned only on the clearest evidence; when, as the +days draw slowly on to doom, the frightful event impending over one +stricken wretch throws its shadow over the heart of every man, woman, +and child in the great city; and when the official persons whose duty +it is to see the letter of the law carried out perform that duty at the +expense of personal pain,--a public execution is not vulgar, it becomes +positively sublime. It is dreadful, of course; but its dreadfulness +melts into pure awfulness. The attention is taken off the criminal, +and is lost in a sense of the grandeur of justice; and the spectator +who beholds an execution, solely as it appears to the eye, without +recognition of the idea which towers behind it, must be a very +unspiritual and unimaginative spectator indeed. + +It is taken for granted that the spectators of public executions--the +artisans and country people who take up their stations overnight as +close to the barriers as possible, and the wealthier classes who occupy +hired windows and employ opera-glasses--are merely drawn together by a +morbid relish for horrible sights. He is a bold man who will stand +forward as the advocate of such persons--so completely is the popular +mind made up as to their tastes and motives. It is not disputed that +the large body of the mob, and of the occupants at windows, have been +drawn together by an appetite for excitement; but it is quite possible +that many come there from an impulse altogether different. Just +consider the nature of the expected sight,--a man in tolerable health +probably, in possession of all his faculties, perfectly able to realise +his position, conscious that for him this world and the next are so +near that only a few seconds divide them--such a man stands in the +seeing of several thousand eyes. He is so peculiarly circumstanced, so +utterly lonely,--hearing the tolling of his own death-bell, yet living, +wearing the mourning clothes for his own funeral,--that he holds the +multitude together by a shuddering fascination. The sight is a +peculiar one, you must admit, and every peculiarity has its +attractions. Your volcano is more attractive than your ordinary +mountain. Then consider the unappeasable curiosity as to death which +haunts every human being, and how pathetic that curiosity is, in so far +as it suggests our own ignorance and helplessness, and we see at once +that people _may_ flock to public executions for other purposes than +the gratification of morbid tastes: that they would pluck if they could +some little knowledge of what death is; that imaginatively they attempt +to reach to it, to touch and handle it through an experience which is +not their own. It is some obscure desire of this kind, a movement of +curiosity not altogether ignoble, but in some degree pathetic; some +rude attempt of the imagination to wrest from the death of the criminal +information as to the great secret in which each is profoundly +interested, which draws around the scaffold people from the country +harvest-fields, and from the streets and alleys of the town. Nothing +interests men so much as death. Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale +it. "A greater crowd would come to see me hanged," Cromwell is +reported to have said when the populace came forth on a public +occasion. The Lord Protector was right in a sense of which, perhaps, +at the moment he was not aware. Death is greater than official +position. When a man has to die, he may safely dispense with stars and +ribbands. He is invested with a greater dignity than is held in the +gift of kings. A greater crowd _would_ have gathered to see Cromwell +hanged, but the compliment would have been paid to death rather than to +Cromwell. Never were the motions of Charles I. so scrutinised as when +he stood for a few moments on the scaffold that winter morning at +Whitehall. King Louis was no great orator usually, but when on the 2d +January, 1793, he attempted to speak a few words in the Place De la +Revolution, it was found necessary to drown his voice in a harsh roll +of soldiers' drums. Not without a meaning do people come forth to see +men die. We stand in the valley, they on the hill-top, and on their +faces strikes the light of the other world, and from some sign or +signal of theirs we attempt to discover or extract a hint of what it is +all like. + +To be publicly put to death, for whatever reason, must ever be a +serious matter. It is always bitter, but there are degrees in its +bitterness. It is easy to die like Stephen with an opened heaven above +you, crowded with angel faces. It is easy to die like Balmerino with a +chivalrous sigh for the White Rose, and an audible "God bless King +James." Such men die for a cause in which they glory, and are +supported thereby; they are conducted to the portals of the next world +by the angels, Faith, Pity, Admiration. But it is not easy to die in +expiation of a crime like murder, which engirdles you with trembling +and horror even in the loneliest places, which cuts you off from the +sympathies of your kind, which reduces the universe to two elements--a +sense of personal identity, and a memory of guilt. In so dying, there +must be inconceivable bitterness; a man can have no other support than +what strength he may pluck from despair, or from the iron with which +nature may have originally braced heart and nerve. Yet, taken as a +whole, criminals on the scaffold comport themselves creditably. They +look Death in the face when he wears his cruelest aspect, and if they +flinch somewhat, they can at least bear to look. I believe that, for +the criminal, execution within the prison walls, with no witnesses save +some half-dozen official persons, would be infinitely more terrible +than execution in the presence of a curious, glaring mob. The daylight +and the publicity are alien elements, which wean the man a little from +himself. He steadies his dizzy brain on the crowd beneath and around +him. He has his last part to play, and his manhood rallies to play it +well. Nay, so subtly is vanity intertwined with our motives, the +noblest and the most ignoble, that I can fancy a poor wretch with the +noose dangling at his ear, and with barely five minutes to live, +soothed somewhat with the idea that his firmness and composure will +earn him the approbation, perhaps the pity, of the spectators. He +would take with him, if he could, the good opinion of his fellows. +This composure of criminals puzzles one. Have they looked at death so +long and closely, that familiarity has robbed it of terror? Has life +treated them so harshly, that they are tolerably well pleased to be +quit of it on any terms? Or is the whole thing mere blind stupor and +delirium, in which thought is paralysed, and the man an automaton? +Speculation is useless. The fact remains that criminals for the most +part die well and bravely. It is said that the championship of England +was to be decided at some little distance from London on the morning of +the day on which Thurtell was executed, and that, when he came out on +the scaffold, he inquired privily of the executioner if the result had +yet become known. Jack Ketch was not aware, and Thurtell expressed his +regret that the ceremony in which he was chief actor should take place +so inconveniently early in the day. Think of a poor Thurtell forced to +take his long journey an hour, perhaps, before the arrival of +intelligence so important! + +More than twenty years ago I saw two men executed, and the impression +then made remains fresh to this day. For this there were many reasons. +The deed for which the men suffered created an immense sensation. They +were hanged on the spot where the murder was committed--on a rising +ground, some four miles north-east of the city; and as an attempt at +rescue was apprehended, there was a considerable display of military +force on the occasion. And when, in the dead silence of thousands, the +criminals stood beneath the halters, an incident occurred, quite +natural and slight in itself, but when taken in connection with the +business then proceeding, so unutterably tragic, so overwhelming in its +pathetic suggestion of contrast, that the feeling of it has never +departed, and never will. At the time, too, I speak of, I was very +young; the world was like a die newly cut, whose every impression is +fresh and vivid. + +While the railway which connects two northern capitals was being built, +two brothers from Ireland, named Doolan, were engaged upon it in the +capacity of navvies. For some fault or negligence, one of the brothers +was dismissed by the overseer--a Mr. Green--of that particular portion +of the line on which they were employed. The dismissed brother went +off in search of work, and the brother who remained--Dennis was the +Christian name of him--brooded over this supposed wrong, and in his +dull, twilighted brain revolved projects of vengeance. He did not +absolutely mean to take Green's life, but he meant to thrash him within +an inch of it. Dennis, anxious to thrash Green, but not quite seeing +his way to it, opened his mind one afternoon, when work was over, to +his friends--fellow-Irishmen and navvies--Messrs. Redding and Hickie. +These took up Doolan's wrong as their own, and that evening, by the +dull light of a bothy fire, they held a rude parliament, discussing +ways and means of revenge. It was arranged that Green should be +thrashed--the amount of thrashing left an open question, to be decided, +unhappily, when the blood was up and the cinder of rage blown into a +flame. Hickie's spirit was found not to be a mounting one, and it was +arranged that the active partners in the game should be Doolan and +Redding. Doolan, as the aggrieved party, was to strike the first blow, +and Redding, as the aggrieved party's particular friend, asked and +obtained permission to strike the second. The main conspirators, with +a fine regard for the feelings of the weaker Hickie, allowed him to +provide the weapons of assault,--so that by some slight filament of aid +he might connect himself with the good cause. The unambitious Hickie +at once applied himself to his duty. He went out, and in due time +returned with two sufficient iron pokers. The weapons were examined, +approved of, and carefully laid aside. Doolan, Redding, and Hickie ate +their suppers, and retired to their several couches to sleep, +peacefully enough no doubt. About the same time, too, Green, the +English overseer, threw down his weary limbs, and entered on his last +sleep--little dreaming what the morning had in store for him. + +Uprose the sun, and uprose Doolan and Redding, and dressed, and thrust +each his sufficient iron poker up the sleeve of his blouse, and went +forth. They took up their station on a temporary wooden bridge which +spanned the line, and waited there. Across the bridge, as was +expected, did Green ultimately come. He gave them good morning; asked, +"why they were loafing about?" received no very pertinent answer, +perhaps did not care to receive one; whistled--the unsuspecting +man!--thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, turned his back on +them, and leaned over the railing of the bridge, inspecting the +progress of the works beneath. The temptation was really too great. +What could wild Irish flesh and blood do? In a moment out from the +sleeve of Doolan's blouse came the hidden poker, and the first blow was +struck, bringing Green to the ground. The friendly Redding, who had +bargained for the second, and who, naturally enough, was in fear of +being cut out altogether, jumped on the prostrate man, and fulfilled +his share of the bargain with a will. It was Redding it was supposed +who sped the unhappy Green. They overdid their work--like young +authors--giving many more blows than were sufficient, and then fled. +The works, of course, were that morning in consternation. Redding and +Hickie were, if I remember rightly, apprehended in the course of the +day. Doolan got off, leaving no trace of his whereabouts. + +These particulars were all learned subsequently. The first intimation +which we schoolboys received of anything unusual having occurred, was +the sight of a detachment of soldiers with fixed bayonets, trousers +rolled up over muddy boots, marching past the front of the Cathedral +hurriedly home to barracks. This was a circumstance somewhat unusual. +We had, of course, frequently seen a couple of soldiers trudging along +with sloped muskets, and that cruel glitter of steel which no one of us +could look upon quite unmoved; but in such cases, the deserter walking +between them in his shirt-sleeves, his pinioned hands covered from +public gaze by the loose folds of his great-coat, explained everything. +But from the hurried march of these mud-splashed men, nothing could be +gathered, and we were left to speculate upon its meaning. Gradually, +however, before the evening fell, the rumour of a murder having been +committed spread through the city, and with that I instinctively +connected the apparition of the file of muddy soldiers. Next day, +murder was in every mouth. My school-fellows talked of it to the +detriment of their lessons; it flavoured the tobacco of the fustian +artisan as he smoked to work after breakfast; it walked on 'Change +amongst the merchants. It was known that two of the persons implicated +had been captured, but that the other, and guiltiest, was still at +large; and in a few days out on every piece of boarding and blank wall +came the "Hue and cry"--describing Doolan like a photograph, to the +colour and cut of his whiskers, and offering 100 pounds as reward for +his apprehension, or for such information as would lead to his +apprehension--like a silent, implacable bloodhound following close on +the track of the murderer. This terrible broadsheet I read, was +certain that _he_ had read it also, and fancy ran riot over the ghastly +fact. For him no hope, no rest, no peace, no touch of hands gentler +than the hangman's; all the world is after him like a roaring prairie +of flame! I thought of Doolan, weary, foot-sore, heart-sore, entering +some quiet village of an evening; and to quench his thirst, going up to +the public well, around which the gossips are talking, and hearing that +they were talking of _him_; and seeing from the well itself IT glaring +upon him, as if conscious of his presence, with a hundred eyes of +vengeance. I thought of him asleep in out-houses, and starting up in +wild dreams of the policeman's hand upon his shoulder fifty times ere +morning. He had committed the crime of Cain, and the weird of Cain he +had to endure. But yesterday innocent, how unimportant; to-day +bloody-handed, the whole world is talking of him, and everything he +touches, the very bed he sleeps on, steals from him his secret, and is +eager to betray! + +Doolan was finally captured in Liverpool, and in the Spring Assize the +three men were brought to trial. The jury found them guilty, but +recommended Hickie to mercy on account of some supposed weakness of +mind on his part. Sentence was, of course, pronounced with the usual +solemnities. They were set apart to die; and when snug abed o' +nights--for imagination is most mightily moved by contrast--I crept +into their desolate hearts, and tasted a misery which was not my own. +As already said, Hickie was recommended to mercy, and the +recommendation was ultimately in the proper quarter given effect to. + +The evening before the execution has arrived, and the reader has now to +imagine the early May sunset falling pleasantly on the outskirts of the +city. The houses looking out upon an open square or space, have little +plots of garden-ground in their fronts, in which mahogany-coloured +wall-flowers and mealy auriculas are growing. The side of this square, +along which the City Road stretches northward, is occupied by a +blind-asylum, a brick building, the bricks painted red and picked out +with white, after the tidy English fashion, and a high white cemetery +wall, over which peers the spire of the Gothic Cathedral; and beyond +that, on the other side of the ravine, rising out of the populous city +of the dead, a stone John Knox looks down on the Cathedral, a Bible +clutched in his outstretched and menacing hand. On all this the May +sunset is striking, dressing everything in its warm, pleasant pink, +lingering in the tufts of foliage that nestle around the asylum, and +dipping the building itself one half in light, one half in tender +shade. This open space or square is an excellent place for the games +of us boys, and "Prisoner's Base" is being carried out with as much +earnestness as the business of life now by those of us who are left. +The girls, too, have their games of a quiet kind, which we held in huge +scorn and contempt. In two files, linked arm-in-arm, they alternately +dance towards each other and then retire, singing the while, in their +clear, girlish treble, verses, the meaning and pertinence of which time +has worn away-- + + "The Campsie Duke's a-riding, a-riding, a-riding," + +being the oft-recurring "owercome," or refrain. All this is going on +in the pleasant sunset light, when by the apparition of certain waggons +coming up from the city, piled high with blocks and beams, and guarded +by a dozen dragoons, on whose brazen helmets the sunset danced, every +game is dismembered, and we are in a moment a mere mixed mob of boys +and girls, flocking around to stare and wonder. Just at this place +something went wrong with one of the waggon wheels, and the procession +came to a stop. A crowd collected, and we heard some of the grown-up +people say, that the scaffold was being carried out for the ceremony of +to-morrow. Then, more intensely than ever, one realised the condition +of the doomed men. _We_ were at our happy games in the sunset, _they_ +were entering on their last night on earth. After hammering and delay +the wheel was put to rights, the sunset died out, waggons and dragoons +got into motion and disappeared; and all the night through, whether +awake or asleep, I saw the torches burning, and heard the hammers +clinking, and witnessed as clearly as if I had been an onlooker, the +horrid structure rising, till it stood complete, with a huge cross-beam +from which two empty halters hung, in the early morning light. + +Next morning the whole city was in commotion. Whether the authorities +were apprehensive that a rescue would be attempted, or were anxious +merely to strike terror into the hundreds of wild Irishry engaged on +the railway, I cannot say: in any case, there was a display of military +force quite unusual. The carriage in which the criminals--Catholics +both--and their attendant priests were seated, was guarded by soldiers +with fixed bayonets; indeed, the whole regiment then lying in the city +was massed in front and behind, with a cold, frightful glitter of +steel. Besides the foot soldiers, there were dragoons, and two pieces +of cannon; a whole little army, in fact. With a slenderer force +battles have been won which have made a mark in history. What did the +prisoners think of their strange importance, and of the tramp and +hurly-burly all around? When the procession moved out of the city, it +seemed to draw with it almost the entire population; and when once the +country roads were reached, the crowds spread over the fields on either +side, ruthlessly treading down the tender wheat braird. I got a +glimpse of the doomed, blanched faces which had haunted me so long, at +the turn of the road, where, for the first time, the black cross-beam +with its empty halters first became visible to them. Both turned and +regarded it with a long, steady look; that done, they again bent their +heads attentively to the words of the clergyman. I suppose in that +long, eager, fascinated gaze they practically _died_--that for them +death had no additional bitterness. When the mound was reached on +which the scaffold stood, there was immense confusion. Around it a +wide space was kept clear by the military; the cannon were placed in +position; out flashed the swords of the dragoons; beneath and around on +every side was the crowd. Between two brass helmets I could see the +scaffold clearly enough, and when in a little while the men, bareheaded +and with their attendants, appeared upon it, the surging crowd became +stiffened with fear and awe. And now it was that the incident so +simple, so natural, so much in the ordinary course of things, and yet +so frightful in its tragic suggestions, took place. Be it remembered +that the season was early May, that the day was fine, that the +wheat-fields were clothing themselves in the green of the young crop, +and that around the scaffold, standing on a sunny mound, a wide space +was kept clear. When the men appeared beneath the beam, each under his +proper halter, there was a dead silence,--every one was gazing too +intently to whisper to his neighbour even. Just then, out of the +grassy space at the foot of the scaffold, in the dead silence audible +to all, a lark rose from the side of its nest, and went singing upward +in its happy flight. O heaven! how did that song translate itself into +dying ears? Did it bring, in one wild burning moment, father and +mother, and poor Irish cabin, and prayers said at bed-time, and the +smell of turf fires, and innocent sweethearting, and rising and setting +suns? Did it--but the dragoon's horse has become restive, and his +brass helmet bobs up and down and blots everything; and there is a +sharp sound, and I feel the great crowd heave and swing, and hear it +torn by a sharp shiver of pity, and the men whom I saw so near but a +moment ago are at immeasurable distance, and have solved the great +enigma,--and the lark has not yet finished his flight: you can see and +hear him yonder in the fringe of a white May cloud. + +This ghastly lark's flight, when the circumstances are taken in +consideration, is, I am inclined to think, more terrible than anything +of the same kind which I have encountered in books. The artistic uses +of contrast as background and accompaniment, are well known to nature +and the poets. Joy is continually worked on sorrow, sorrow on joy; +riot is framed in peace, peace in riot. Lear and the Fool always go +together. Trafalgar is being fought while Napoleon is sitting on +horseback watching the Austrian army laying down its arms at Ulm. In +Hood's poem, it is when looking on the released schoolboys at their +games that Eugene Aram remembers he is a murderer. And these two poor +Irish labourers could not die without hearing a lark singing in their +ears. It is nature's fashion. She never quite goes along with us. +She is sombre at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on +ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics. + +There is a stronger element of terror in this incident of the lark than +in any story of a similar kind I can remember. + +A good story is told of an Irish gentleman--still known in London +society--who inherited the family estates and the family banshee. The +estates he lost--no uncommon circumstance in the history of Irish +gentlemen,--but the banshee, who expected no favours, stuck to him in +his adversity, and crossed the channel with him, making herself known +only on occasions of death-beds and sharp family misfortunes. This +gentleman had an ear, and, seated one night at the opera, the +_keen_--heard once or twice before on memorable occasions--thrilled +through the din of the orchestra and the passion of the singers. He +hurried home, of course, found his immediate family well, but on the +morrow a telegram arrived with the announcement of a brother's death. +Surely of all superstitions that is the most imposing which makes the +other world interested in the events which befall our mortal lot. For +the mere pomp and pride of it, your ghost is worth a dozen retainers, +and it is entirely inexpensive. The peculiarity and supernatural worth +of this story lies in the idea of the old wail piercing through the +sweet entanglement of stringed instruments and extinguishing Grisi. +Modern circumstances and luxury crack, as it were, and reveal for a +moment misty and aboriginal time big with portent. There is a +ridiculous Scotch story in which one gruesome touch lives. A +clergyman's female servant was seated in the kitchen one Saturday night +reading the Scriptures, when she was somewhat startled by hearing at +the door the tap and voice of her sweetheart. Not expecting him, and +the hour being somewhat late, she opened it in astonishment, and was +still more astonished to hear him on entering abuse Scripture-reading. +He behaved altogether in an unprecedented manner, and in many ways +terrified the poor girl. Ultimately he knelt before her, and laid his +head on her lap. You can fancy her consternation when glancing down +she discovered that, _instead of hair, the head was covered with the +moss of the moorland_. By a sacred name she adjured him to tell who he +was, and in a moment the figure was gone. It was the Fiend, of +course--diminished sadly since Milton saw him bridge chaos--fallen from +worlds to kitchen-wenches. But just think how in the story, in +half-pity, in half-terror, the popular feeling of homelessness, of +being outcast, of being unsheltered as waste and desert places, has +incarnated itself in that strange covering of the head. It is a true +supernatural touch. One other story I have heard in the misty +Hebrides: A Skye gentleman was riding along an empty moorland road. +All at once, as if it had sprung from the ground, the empty road was +crowded by a funeral procession. Instinctively he drew his horse to a +side to let it pass, which it did without sound of voice, without tread +of foot. Then he knew it was an apparition. Staring on it, he knew +every person who either bore the corpse or walked behind as mourners. +There were the neighbouring proprietors at whose houses he dined, there +were the members of his own kirk-session, there were the men to whom he +was wont to give good-morning when he met them on the road or at +market. Unable to discover his own image in the throng, he was +inwardly marvelling whose funeral it _could_ be, when the troop of +spectres vanished, and the road was empty as before. Then, remembering +that the coffin had an invisible occupant, he cried out, "It is my +funeral!" and, with all his strength taken out of him, rode home to +die. All these stories have their own touches of terror; yet I am +inclined to think that my lark rising from the scaffold foot, and +singing to two such auditors, is more terrible than any one of them. + + + + +CHRISTMAS + +Over the dial-face of the year, on which the hours are months, the apex +resting in sunshine, the base in withered leaves and snows, the finger of +time does not travel with the same rapidity. Slowly it creeps up from +snow to sunshine; when it has gained the summit it seems almost to rest +for a little; rapidly it rushes down from sunshine to the snow. Judging +from my own feelings, the distance from January to June is greater than +from June to January--the period from Christmas to Midsummer seems longer +than the period from Midsummer to Christmas. This feeling arises, I +should fancy, from the preponderance of _light_ on that half of the dial +on which the finger seems to be travelling upwards, compared with the +half on which it seems to be travelling downwards. This light to the +eye, the mind translates into time. Summer days are long, often +wearisomely so. The long-lighted days are bracketed together by a little +bar of twilight, in which but a star or two find time to twinkle. +Usually one has less occupation in summer than in winter, and the +surplusage of summer light, a stage too large for the play, wearies, +oppresses, sometimes appalls. From the sense of time we can only shelter +ourselves by occupation; and when occupation ceases while yet some three +or four hours of light remain, the burden falls down, and is often +greater than we can bear. Personally, I have a certain morbid fear of +those endless summer twilights. A space of light stretching from +half-past 2 A.M. to 11 P.M. affects me with a sense of infinity, of +horrid sameness, just as the sea or the desert would do. I feel that for +too long a period I am under the eye of the taskmaster. Twilight is +always in itself, or at least in its suggestions, melancholy; and these +midsummer twilights are so long, they pass through such series of lovely +change, they are throughout so mournfully beautiful, that in the brain +they beget strange thoughts, and in the heart strange feelings. We see +too much of the sky, and the long, lovely, pathetic, lingering evening +light, with its suggestions of eternity and death, which one cannot for +the soul of one put into words, is somewhat too much for the comfort of a +sensitive human mortal. The day dies, and makes no apology for being +such an unconscionable time in dying; and all the while it colours our +thoughts with its own solemnity. There is no relief from this kind of +thing at midsummer. You cannot close your shutters and light your +candles; that in the tone of mind which circumstances superinduce would +be brutality. You cannot take Pickwick to the window and read it by the +dying light; that is profanation. If you have a friend with you, you +can't talk; the hour makes you silent. You are driven in on your +self-consciousness. The long light wearies the eye, a sense of time +disturbs and saddens the spirit; and that is the reason, I think, that +one half of the year seems so much longer than the other half; that on +the dial-plate whose hours are months, the restless finger _seems_ to +move more slowly when travelling upward from autumn leaves and snow to +light, than when it is travelling downward from light to snow and +withered leaves. + +Of all the seasons of the year, I like winter best. That peculiar burden +of time I have been speaking of, does not affect me now. The day is +short, and I can fill it with work; when evening comes, I have my lighted +room and my books. Should black care haunt me, I throw it off the scent +in Spenser's forests, or seek refuge from it among Shakspeare's men and +women, who are by far the best company I have met with, or am like to +meet with, on earth. I am sitting at this present moment with my +curtains drawn; the cheerful fire is winking at all the furniture in the +room, and from every leg and arm the furniture is winking to the fire in +return. I put off the outer world with my great-coat and boots, and put +on contentment and idleness with my slippers. On the hearth-rug, Pepper, +coiled in a shaggy ball, is asleep in the ruddy light and heat. An +imaginative sense of the cold outside increases my present comfort--just +as one never hugs one's own good luck so affectionately as when listening +to the relation of some horrible misfortune which has overtaken others. +Winter has fallen on Dreamthorp, and it looks as pretty when covered with +snow as when covered with apple blossom. Outside, the ground is hard as +iron; and over the low dark hill, lo! the tender radiance that precedes +the morn. Every window in the little village has its light, and to the +traveller coming on, enveloped in his breath, the whole place shines like +a congregation of glow-worms. A pleasant enough sight to him if his home +be there! At this present season, the canal is not such a pleasant +promenade as it was in summer. The barges come and go as usual, but at +this time I do not envy the bargemen quite so much. The horse comes +smoking along; the tarpaulin which covers the merchandise is sprinkled +with hoar-frost; and the helmsman, smoking his short pipe for the mere +heat of it, cowers over a few red cinders contained in a framework of +iron. The labour of the poor fellows will soon be over for a time; for +if this frost continues, the canal will be sheathed in a night, and next +day stones will be thrown upon it, and a daring urchin venturing upon it +will go souse head over heels, and run home with his teeth in a chatter; +and the day after, the lake beneath the old castle will be sheeted, and +the next, the villagers will be sliding on its gleaming face from ruddy +dawn at nine to ruddy eve at three; and hours later, skaters yet +unsatisfied will be moving ghost-like in the gloom--now one, now another, +shooting on sounding irons into a clear space of frosty light, chasing +the moon, or the flying image of a star! Happy youths leaning against +the frosty wind! + +I am a Christian, I hope, although far from a muscular one--consequently +I cannot join the skaters on the lake. The floor of ice, with the people +upon it, will be but a picture to me. And, in truth, it is in its +pictorial aspect that I chiefly love the bleak season. As an artist, +winter can match summer any day. The heavy, feathery flakes have been +falling all the night through, we shall suppose, and when you get up in +the morning the world is draped in white. What a sight it is! It is the +world you knew, but yet a different one. The familiar look has gone, and +another has taken its place; and a not unpleasant puzzlement arises in +your mind, born of the patent and the remembered aspect. It reminds you +of a friend who has been suddenly placed in new circumstances, in whom +there is much that you recognise, and much that is entirely strange. How +purely, divinely white when the last snowflake has just fallen! How +exquisite and virginal the repose! It touches you like some perfection +of music. And winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful +in trifles. Pluck a single ivy leaf from the old wall, and see what a +jeweller he is! How he has silvered over the dark-green reticulations +with his frosts! The faggot which the Tramp gathers for his fire is +thicklier incrusted with gems than ever was sceptre of the Moguls. Go +into the woods, and behold on the black boughs his glories of pearl and +diamond--pendant splendours that, smitten by the noon-ray, melt into +tears and fall but to congeal into splendours again. Nor does he work in +black and white alone. He has on his palette more gorgeous colours than +those in which swim the summer setting suns; and with these, about three +o'clock, he begins to adorn his west, sticking his red hot ball of a sun +in the very midst; and a couple of hours later, when the orb has fallen, +and the flaming crimson has mellowed into liquid orange, you can see the +black skeletons of trees scribbled upon the melancholy glory. Nor need I +speak of the magnificence of a winter midnight, when space, sombre blue, +crowded with star and planet, "burnished by the frost," is glittering +like the harness of an archangel full panoplied against a battle day. + +For years and years now I have watched the seasons come and go around +Dreamthorp, and each in its turn interests me as if I saw it for the +first time. But the other week it seems that I saw the grain ripen; then +by day a motley crew of reapers were in the fields, and at night a big +red moon looked down upon the stocks of oats and barley; then in mighty +wains the plenteous harvest came swaying home, leaving a largess on the +roads for every bird; then the round, yellow, comfortable-looking stacks +stood around the farm-houses, hiding them to the chimneys; then the woods +reddened, the beech hedges became russet, and every puff of wind made +rustle the withered leaves; then the sunset came before the early dark, +and in the east lay banks of bleak pink vapour, which are ever a prophecy +of cold; then out of a low dingy heaven came all day, thick and silent, +the whirling snow,--and so by exquisite succession of sight and sound +have I been taken from the top of the year to the bottom of it, from +midsummer, with its unreaped harvests, to the night on which I am sitting +here--Christmas, 1862. + +Sitting here, I incontinently find myself holding a levee of departed +Christmas nights. Silently, and without special call, into my study of +imagination come these apparitions, clad in snowy mantles, brooched and +gemmed with frosts. Their numbers I do not care to count, for I know +they are the numbers of my years. The visages of two or three are sad +enough, but on the whole 'tis a congregation of jolly ghosts. The +nostrils of my memory are assailed by a faint odour of plum-pudding and +burnt brandy. I hear a sound as of light music, a whisk of women's +dresses whirled round in dance, a click as of glasses pledged by friends. +Before one of these apparitions is a mound, as of a new-made grave, on +which the snow is lying. I know, I know! Drape thyself not in white +like the others, but in mourning stole of crape; and instead of dance +music, let there haunt around thee the service for the dead! I know that +sprig of Mistletoe, O Spirit in the midst! Under it I swung the girl I +loved--girl no more now than I am a boy--and kissed her spite of blush +and pretty shriek. And thee, too, with fragrant trencher in hand, over +which blue tongues of flame are playing, do I know--most ancient +apparition of them all. I remember thy reigning night. Back to very +days of childhood am I taken by the ghostly raisins simmering in a +ghostly brandy flame. Where now the merry boys and girls that thrust +their fingers in thy blaze? And now, when I think of it, thee also would +I drape in black raiment, around thee also would I make the burial +service murmur. + +Men hold the anniversaries of their birth, of their marriage, of the +birth of their first-born, and they hold--although they spread no feast, +and ask no friends to assist--many another anniversary besides. On many +a day in every year does a man remember what took place on that self-same +day in some former year, and chews the sweet or bitter herb of memory, as +the case may be. Could I ever hope to write a decent Essay, I should +like to write one "On the Revisiting of Places." It is strange how +important the poorest human being is to himself! how he likes to double +back on his experiences, to stand on the place he has stood on before, to +meet himself face to face, as it were! I go to the great city in which +my early life was spent, and I love to indulge myself in this whim. The +only thing I care about is that portion of the city which is connected +with myself. I don't think this passion of reminiscence is debased by +the slightest taint of vanity. The lamp-post, under the light of which +in the winter rain there was a parting so many years ago, I contemplate +with the most curious interest. I stare on the windows of the houses in +which I once lived, with a feeling which I should find difficult to +express in words. I think of the life I led there, of the good and the +bad news that came, of the sister who died, of the brother who was born; +and were it at all possible, I should like to knock at the once familiar +door, and look at the old walls--which could speak to me so +strangely--once again. To revisit that city is like walking away back +into my yesterdays. I startle myself with myself at the corners of +streets, I confront forgotten bits of myself at the entrance to houses. +In windows which to another man would seem blank and meaningless, I find +personal poems too deep to be ever turned into rhymes--more pathetic, +mayhap, than I have ever found on printed page. The spot of ground on +which a man has stood is for ever interesting to him. Every experience +is an anchor holding him the more firmly to existence. It is for this +reason that we hold our sacred days, silent and solitary anniversaries of +joy and bitterness, renewing ourselves thereby, going back upon +ourselves, living over again the memorable experience. The full yellow +moon of next September will gather into itself the light of the full +yellow moons of Septembers long ago. In this Christmas night all the +other Christmas nights of my life live. How warm, breathing, full of +myself is the year 1862, now almost gone! How bare, cheerless, unknown, +the year 1863, about to come in! It stretches before me in imagination +like some great, gaunt untenanted ruin of a Colosseum, in which no +footstep falls, no voice is heard; and by this night year its naked +chambers and windows, three hundred and sixty-five in number, will be +clothed all over, and hidden by myself as if with covering ivies. +Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, +because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a +friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and +all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices. + +This, then, is Christmas, 1862. Everything is silent in Dreamthorp. The +smith's hammer reposes beside the anvil. The weaver's flying shuttle is +at rest. Through the clear wintry sunshine the bells this morning rang +from the gray church tower amid the leafless elms, and up the walk the +villagers trooped in their best dresses and their best faces--the latter +a little reddened by the sharp wind: mere redness in the middle aged; in +the maids, wonderful bloom to the eyes of their lovers--and took their +places decently in the ancient pews. The clerk read the beautiful +prayers of our Church, which seem more beautiful at Christmas than at any +other period. For that very feeling which breaks down at this time the +barriers which custom, birth, or wealth have erected between man and man, +strikes down the barrier of time which intervenes between the worshipper +of to-day and the great body of worshippers who are at rest in their +graves. On such a day as this, hearing these prayers, we feel a kinship +with the devout generations who heard them long ago. The devout lips of +the Christian dead murmured the responses which we now murmur; along this +road of prayer did their thoughts of our innumerable dead, our brothers +and sisters in faith and hope, approach the Maker, even as ours at +present approach Him. Prayers over, the clergyman--who is no Boanerges, +or Chrysostom, golden-mouthed, but a loving, genial-hearted, pious man, +the whole extent of his life from boyhood until now, full of charity and +kindly deeds, as autumn fields with heavy wheaten ears; the clergyman, I +say--for the sentence is becoming unwieldy on my hands, and one must +double back to secure connexion--read out in that silvery voice of his, +which is sweeter than any music to my ear, those chapters of the New +Testament that deal with the birth of the Saviour. And the red-faced +rustic congregation hung on the good man's voice as he spoke of the +Infant brought forth in a manger, of the shining angels that appeared in +mid-air to the shepherds, of the miraculous star that took its station in +the sky, and of the wise men who came from afar and laid their gifts of +frankincense and myrrh at the feet of the child. With the story every +one was familiar, but on that day, and backed by the persuasive melody of +the reader's voice, it seemed to all quite new--at least, they listened +attentively as if it were. The discourse that followed possessed no +remarkable thoughts; it dealt simply with the goodness of the Maker of +heaven and earth, and the shortness of time, with the duties of +thankfulness and charity to the poor; and I am persuaded that every one +who heard returned to his house in a better frame of mind. And so the +service remitted us all to our own homes, to what roast-beef and +plum-pudding slender means permitted, to gatherings around cheerful +fires, to half-pleasant, half-sad remembrances of the dead and the absent. + +From sermon I have returned like the others, and it is my purpose to hold +Christmas alone. I have no one with me at table, and my own thoughts +must be my Christmas guests. Sitting here, it is pleasant to think how +much kindly feeling exists this present night in England. By imagination +I can taste of every table, pledge every toast, silently join in every +roar of merriment. I become a sort of universal guest. With what +propriety is this jovial season, placed amid dismal December rains and +snows! How one pities the unhappy Australians, with whom everything is +turned topsy-turvy, and who hold Christmas at midsummer! The face of +Christmas glows all the brighter for the cold. The heart warms as the +frost increases. Estrangements which have embittered the whole year, +melt in to-night's hospitable smile. There are warmer hand-shakings on +this night than during the by-past twelve months. Friend lives in the +mind of friend. There is more charity at this time than at any other. +You get up at midnight and toss your spare coppers to the half-benumbed +musicians whiffling beneath your windows, although at any other time you +would consider their performance a nuisance, and call angrily for the +police. Poverty, and scanty clothing, and fireless grates, come home at +this season to the bosoms of the rich, and they give of their abundance. +The very red-breast of the woods enjoys his Christmas feast. Good +feeling incarnates itself in plum-pudding. The Master's words, "The poor +ye have always with you," wear at this time a deep significance. For at +least one night on each year over all Christendom there is brotherhood. +And good men, sitting amongst their families, or by a solitary fire like +me, when they remember the light that shone over the poor clowns huddling +on the Bethlehem plains eighteen hundred years ago, the apparition of +shining angels overhead, the song "Peace on earth and good-will toward +men," which for the first time hallowed the midnight air,--pray for that +strain's fulfilment, that battle and strife may vex the nations no more, +that not only on Christmas-eve, but the whole year round, men shall be +brethren owning one Father in heaven. + +Although suggested by the season, and by a solitary dinner, it is not my +purpose to indulge in personal reminiscence and talk. Let all that pass. +This is Christmas-day, the anniversary of the world's greatest event. To +one day all the early world looked forward; to the same day the later +world looks back. That day holds time together. Isaiah, standing on the +peaks of prophecy, looked across ruined empires and the desolations of +many centuries, and saw on the horizon the new star arise, and was glad. +On this night eighteen hundred years ago, Jove was discrowned, the Pagan +heaven emptied of its divinities, and Olympus left to the solitude of its +snows. On this night, so many hundred years bygone, the despairing voice +was heard shrieking on the Aegean, "Pan is dead, great Pan is dead!" On +this night, according to the fine reverence of the poets, all things that +blast and blight are powerless, disarmed by sweet influence:-- + + "Some say that ever 'gainst the season comes + Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated + The bird of dawning singeth all night long; + And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad; + The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike; + No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm: + So hallowed and so gracious is the time." + + +The flight of the Pagan mythology before the new faith has been a +favourite subject with the poets; and it has been my custom for many +seasons to read Milton's "Hymn to the Nativity" on the evening of +Christmas-day. The bass of heaven's deep organ seems to blow in the +lines, and slowly and with many echoes the strain melts into silence. To +my ear the lines sound like the full-voiced choir and the rolling organ +of a cathedral, when the afternoon light streaming through the painted +windows fills the place with solemn colours and masses of gorgeous gloom. +To-night I shall float my lonely hours away on music:-- + + "The oracles are dumb, + No voice or hideous hum + Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving: + Apollo from his shrine + Can no more divine + With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. + No nightly trance or breathed spell + Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. + + "The lonely mountains o'er, + And the resounding shore, + A voice of weeping heard and loud lament: + From haunted spring, and dale + Edged with poplars pale, + The parting genius is with sighing sent: + With flower-enwoven tresses torn + The nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn. + + "Peor and Baalim + Forsake their temples dim + With that twice-battered god of Palestine; + And mooned Ashtaroth, + Heaven's queen and mother both, + Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine! + The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, + In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. + + "And sullen Moloch, fled, + Hath left in shadows dread + His burning idol, all of blackest hue: + In vain with cymbals' ring + They call the grisly king + In dismal dance about the furnace blue: + The Brutish gods of Nile as fast, + Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. + + "He feels from Juda's land + The dreaded Infant's hand, + The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne: + Nor all the gods beside + Dare longer there abide, + Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine. + Our Babe to shew His Godhead true + Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew." + + +These verses, as if loath to die, linger with a certain persistence in +mind and ear. This is the "mighty line" which critics talk about! And +just as in an infant's face you may discern the rudiments of the future +man, so in the glorious hymn may be traced the more majestic lineaments +of the "Paradise Lost." + +Strangely enough, the next noblest dirge for the unrealmed divinities +which I can call to remembrance, and at the same time the most eloquent +celebration of the new power and prophecy of its triumph, has been +uttered by Shelley, who cannot in any sense be termed a Christian poet. +It is one of the choruses in "Hellas," and perhaps had he lived longer +amongst us, it would have been the prelude to higher strains. Of this I +am certain, that before his death the mind of that brilliant genius was +rapidly changing,--that for him the cross was gathering attractions round +it,--that the wall which he complained had been built up between his +heart and his intellect was being broken down, and that rays of a strange +splendour were already streaming upon him through the interstices. What +a contrast between the darkened glory of "Queen Mab"--of which in +afterlife he was ashamed, both as a literary work and as an expression of +opinion--and the intense, clear, lyrical light of this triumphant poem!-- + + "A power from the unknown God, + A Promethean conqueror came: + Like a triumphal path he trod + The thorns of death and shame. + A mortal shape to him + Was like the vapour dim + Which the orient planet animates with light. + Hell, sin, and slavery came + Like bloodhounds mild and tame, + Nor prey'd until their lord had taken flight. + The moon of Mahomet + Arose, and it shall set; + While blazon'd, as on heaven's immortal noon, + The Cross leads generations on. + + "Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep, + From one whose dreams are paradise, + Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep, + And day peers forth with her blank eyes: + So fleet, so faint, so fair, + The powers of earth and air + Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem. + Apollo, Pan, and Love, + And even Olympian Jove, + Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them. + Our hills, and seas, and streams, + Dispeopled of their dreams, + Their water turned to blood, their dew to tears, + Wailed for the golden years." + + +For my own part, I cannot read these lines without emotion--not so much +for their beauty as for the change in the writer's mind which they +suggest. The self-sacrifice which lies at the centre of Christianity +should have touched this man more deeply than almost any other. That it +was beginning to touch and mould him, I verily believe. He died and made +_that_ sign. Of what music did that storm in Spezia Bay rob the world! + +"The Cross leads generations on." Believing as I do that my own personal +decease is not more certain than that our religion will subdue the world, +I own that it is with a somewhat saddened heart that I pass my thoughts +around the globe, and consider how distant is yet that triumph. There +are the realms on which the crescent beams, the monstrous many-headed +gods of India, the Chinaman's heathenism, the African's devil-rites. +These are, to a large extent, principalities and powers of darkness with +which our religion has never been brought into collision, save at trivial +and far separated points, and in these cases the attack has never been +made in strength. But what of our own Europe--the home of philosophy, of +poetry, and painting? Europe, which has produced Greece, and Rome, and +England's centuries of glory; which has been illumined by the fires of +martyrdom; which has heard a Luther preach; which has listened to Dante's +"mystic unfathomable song"; to which Milton has opened the door of +heaven--what of it? And what, too, of that younger America, starting in +its career with all our good things, and enfranchised of many of our +evils? Did not the December sun now shining look down on thousands +slaughtered at Fredericksburg, in a most mad, most incomprehensible +quarrel? And is not the public air which European nations breathe at +this moment, as it has been for several years back, charged with thunder? +Despots are plotting, ships are building, man's ingenuity is bent, as it +never was bent before, on the invention and improvement of instruments of +death; Europe is bristling with five millions of bayonets: and this is +the condition of a world for which the Son of God died eighteen hundred +and sixty-two years ago! There is no mystery of Providence so +inscrutable as this; and yet, is not the very sense of its mournfulness a +proof that the spirit of Christianity is living in the minds of men? +For, of a verity, military glory is becoming in our best thoughts a +bloody rag, and conquest the first in the catalogue of mighty crimes, and +a throned tyrant, with armies, and treasures, and the cheers of millions +rising up like a cloud of incense around him, but a mark for the +thunderbolt of Almighty God--in reality poorer than Lazarus stretched at +the gate of Dives. Besides, all these things are getting themselves to +some extent mitigated. Florence Nightingale--for the first time in the +history of the world--walks through the Scutari hospitals, and "poor, +noble, wounded and sick men," to use her Majesty's tender phrases, kiss +her shadow as it falls on them. The Emperor Napoleon does not make war +to employ his armies, or to consolidate his power; he does so for the +sake of an "idea," more or less generous and disinterested. The soul of +mankind would revolt at the blunt, naked truth; and the taciturn emperor +knows this, as he knows most things. This imperial hypocrisy, like every +other hypocrisy, is a homage which vice pays to virtue. There cannot be +a doubt that when the political crimes of kings and governments, the +sores that fester in the heart of society, and all "the burden of the +unintelligible world," weigh heaviest on the mind, we have to thank +Christianity for it. That pure light makes visible the darkness. The +Sermon on the Mount makes the morality of the nations ghastly. The +Divine love makes human hate stand out in dark relief. This sadness, in +the essence of it nobler than any joy, is the heritage of the Christian. +An ancient Roman could not have felt so. Everything runs on smoothly +enough so long as Jove wields the thunder. But Venus, Mars, and Minerva +are far behind us now; the Cross is before us; and self-denial and sorrow +for sin, and the remembrance of the poor, and the cleansing of our own +hearts, are duties incumbent upon every one of us. If the Christian is +less happy than the Pagan, and at times I think he is so, it arises from +the reproach of the Christian's unreached ideal, and from the stings of +his finer and more scrupulous conscience. His whole moral organisation +is finer, and he must pay the noble penalty of finer organisations. + +Once again, for the purpose of taking away all solitariness of feeling, +and of connecting myself, albeit only in fancy, with the proper gladness +of the time, let me think of the comfortable family dinners now being +drawn to a close, of the good wishes uttered, and the presents made, +quite valueless in themselves, yet felt to be invaluable from the +feelings from which they spring; of the little children, by sweetmeats +lapped in Elysium; and of the pantomime, pleasantest Christmas sight of +all, with the pit a sea of grinning delight, the boxes a tier of beaming +juvenility, the galleries, piled up to the far-receding roof, a mass of +happy laughter which a clown's joke brings down in mighty avalanches. In +the pit, sober people relax themselves, and suck oranges, and quaff +ginger-pop; in the boxes, Miss, gazing through her curls, thinks the +Fairy Prince the prettiest creature she ever beheld, and Master, that to +be a clown must be the pinnacle of human happiness: while up in the +galleries the hard literal world is for an hour sponged out and +obliterated; the chimney-sweep forgets, in his delight when the policeman +comes to grief, the harsh call of his master, and Cinderella, when the +demons are foiled, and the long parted lovers meet and embrace in a +paradise of light and pink gauze, the grates that must be scrubbed +tomorrow. All bands and trappings of toil are for one hour loosened by +the hands of imaginative sympathy. What happiness a single theatre can +contain! And those of maturer years, or of more meditative temperament, +sitting at the pantomime, can extract out of the shifting scenes meanings +suitable to themselves; for the pantomime is a symbol or adumbration of +human life. Have we not all known Harlequin, who rules the roast, and +has the pretty Columbine to himself? Do we not all know that rogue of a +clown with his peculating fingers, who brazens out of every scrape, and +who conquers the world by good humour and ready wit? And have we not +seen Pantaloons not a few, whose fate it is to get all the kicks and lose +all the halfpence, to fall through all the trap doors, break their shins +over all the barrows, and be forever captured by the policeman, while the +true pilferer, the clown, makes his escape with the booty in his +possession? Methinks I know the realities of which these things are but +the shadows; have met with them in business, have sat with them at +dinner. But to-night no such notions as these intrude; and when the +torrent of fun, and transformation, and practical joking which rushed out +of the beautiful fairy world gathered up again, the high-heaped happiness +of the theatre will disperse itself, and the Christmas pantomime will be +a pleasant memory the whole year through. Thousands on thousands of +people are having their midriffs tickled at this moment; in fancy I see +their lighted faces, in memory I hear their mirth. + +By this time I should think every Christmas dinner at Dreamthorp or +elsewhere has come to an end. Even now in the great cities the theatres +will be dispersing. The clown has wiped the paint off his face. +Harlequin has laid aside his wand, and divested himself of his glittering +raiment; Pantaloon, after refreshing himself with a pint of porter, is +rubbing his aching joints; and Columbine, wrapped up in a shawl, and with +sleepy eyelids, has gone home in a cab. Soon, in the great theatre, the +lights will be put out, and the empty stage will be left to ghosts. +Hark! midnight from the church tower vibrates through the frosty air. I +look out on the brilliant heaven, and see a milky way of powdery +splendour wandering through it, and clusters and knots of stars and +planets shining serenely in the blue frosty spaces; and the armed +apparition of Orion, his spear pointing away into immeasurable space, +gleaming overhead; and the familiar constellation of the Plough dipping +down into the west; and I think when I go in again that there is one +Christmas the less between me and my grave. + + + + +MEN OF LETTERS + +Mr. Hazlitt has written many essays, but none pleasanter than that +entitled "My First Acquaintance with Poets," which, in the edition edited +by his son, opens the _Wintersloe_ series. It relates almost entirely to +Coleridge; containing sketches of his personal appearance, fragments of +his conversation, and is filled with a young man's generous enthusiasm, +belief, admiration, as with sunrise. He had met Coleridge, walked with +him, talked with him, and the high intellectual experience not only made +him better acquainted with his own spirit and its folded powers, but--as +is ever the case with such spiritual encounters--it touched and +illuminated the dead outer world. The road between Wem and Shrewsbury +was familiar enough to Hazlitt, but as the twain passed along it on that +winter day, it became etherealised, poetic--wonderful, as if leading +across the Delectable Mountains to the Golden City, whose gleam is +discernible on the horizon. The milestones were mute with attention, the +pines upon the hill had ears for the stranger as he passed. Eloquence +made the red leaves rustle on the oak; made the depth of heaven seem as +if swept by a breath of spring; and when the evening star appeared, +Hazlitt saw it as Adam did while in Paradise and but one day old. "As we +passed along," writes the essayist, "between Wem and Shrewsbury, and I +eyed the blue hill tops seen through the wintry branches, or the red, +rustling leaves of the sturdy oak-trees by the wayside, a sound was in my +ears as of a siren's song. I was stunned, startled with it as from deep +sleep; but I had no notion that I should ever be able to express my +admiration to others in motley imagery or quaint allusion, till the light +of his genius shone into my soul, like the sun's rays glittering in the +puddles of the road. I was at that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless, +like a worm by the wayside, crushed, bleeding, lifeless; but now, +bursting from the deadly bands that bound them, my ideas float on winged +words, and as they expand their plumes, catch the golden light of other +years. My soul has indeed remained in its original bondage, dark, +obscure, with longings infinite and unsatisfied; my heart, shut up in the +prison-house of this rude clay, has never found, nor will it ever find, a +heart to speak to; but that my understanding also did not remain dumb and +brutish, or at length found a language to express itself, I owe to +Coleridge." Time and sorrow, personal ambition thwarted and fruitlessly +driven back on itself, hopes for the world defeated and unrealised, +changed the enthusiastic youth into a petulant, unsocial man; yet ever as +he remembered that meeting and his wintry walk from Wem to Shrewsbury, +the early glow came back, and a "sound was in his ears as of a siren's +song." + +We are not all hero-worshippers like Hazlitt, but most of us are so to a +large extent. A large proportion of mankind feel a quite peculiar +interest in famous writers. They like to read about them, to know what +they said on this or the other occasion, what sort of house they +inhabited, what fashion of dress they wore, if they liked any particular +dish for dinner, what kind of women they fell in love with, and whether +their domestic atmosphere was stormy or the reverse. Concerning such men +no bit of information is too trifling; everything helps to make out the +mental image we have dimly formed for ourselves. And this kind of +interest is heightened by the artistic way in which time occasionally +groups them. The race is gregarious, they are visible to us in clumps +like primroses, they are brought into neighbourhood and flash light on +each other like gems in a diadem. We think of the wild geniuses who came +up from the universities to London in the dawn of the English drama. +Greene, Nash, Marlowe--our first professional men of letters--how they +cracked their satirical whips, how they brawled in taverns, how pinched +they were at times, how, when they possessed money, they flung it from +them as if it were poison, with what fierce speed they wrote, how they +shook the stage. Then we think of the "Mermaid" in session, with +Shakspeare's bland, oval face, the light of a smile spread over it, and +Ben Jonson's truculent visage, and Beaumont and Fletcher sitting together +in their beautiful friendship, and fancy as best we can the drollery, the +repartee, the sage sentences, the lightning gleams of wit, the +thunder-peals of laughter. + + "What things have we seen + Done at the Mermaid? Heard words that hath been + So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, + As if that every one from whence they came + Had meant to put his whole soul in a jest, + And had resolved to live a fool the rest + Of his dull life." + +Then there is the "Literary Club," with Johnson, and Garrick, and Burke, +and Reynolds, and Goldsmith sitting in perpetuity in Boswell. The Doctor +has been talking there for a hundred years, and there will he talk for +many a hundred more. And we of another generation, and with other things +to think about, can enter any night we please, and hear what is going on. +Then we have the swarthy ploughman from Ayrshire sitting at Lord +Monboddo's with Dr. Blair, Dugald Stewart, Henry Mackenzie, and the rest. +These went into the presence of the wonderful rustic thoughtlessly +enough, and now they cannot return even if they would. They are +defrauded of oblivion. Not yet have they tasted forgetfulness and the +grave. The day may come when Burns will be forgotten, but till that day +arrives--and the eastern sky as yet gives no token of its approach--_him_ +they must attend as satellites the sun, as courtiers their king. Then +there are the Lakers,--Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, De Quincey +burdened with his tremendous dream, Wilson in his splendid youth. What +talk, what argument, what readings of lyrical and other ballads, what +contempt of critics, what a hail of fine things! Then there is Charles +Lamb's room in Inner Temple Lane, the hush of a whist table in one +corner, the host stuttering puns as he deals the cards; and sitting round +about. Hunt, whose every sentence is flavoured with the hawthorn and the +primrose, and Hazlitt maddened by Waterloo and St. Helena, and Godwin +with his wild theories, and Kemble with his Roman look. And before the +morning comes, and Lamb stutters yet more thickly--for there is a slight +flavour of punch in the apartment--what talk there has been of Hogarth's +prints, of Izaak Walton, of the old dramatists, of Sir Thomas Browne's +"Urn Burial," with Elia's quaint humour breaking through every +interstice, and flowering in every fissure and cranny of the +conversation! One likes to think of these social gatherings of wit and +geniuses; they are more interesting than conclaves of kings or +convocations of bishops. One would like to have been the waiter at the +"Mermaid," and to have stood behind Shakspeare's chair. What was that +functionary's opinion of his guests? Did he listen and become witty by +infection? or did he, when his task was over, retire unconcernedly to +chalk up the tavern score? One envies somewhat the damsel who brought +Lamb the spirit-case and the hot water. I think of these meetings, and, +in lack of companionship, frame for myself imaginary conversations--not +so brilliant, of course, as Mr. Landor's, but yet sufficient to make +pleasant for me the twilight hour while the lamp is yet unlit, and my +solitary room is filled with ruddy lights and shadows of the fire. + +Of human notabilities men of letters are the most interesting, and this +arises mainly from their outspokenness as a class. The writer makes +himself known in a way that no other man makes himself known. The +distinguished engineer may be as great a man as the distinguished writer, +but as a rule we know little about him. We see him invent a locomotive, +or bridge a strait, but there our knowledge stops; we look at the engine, +we walk across the bridge, we admire the ingenuity of the one, we are +grateful for the conveniency of the other, but to our apprehensions the +engineer is undeciphered all the while. Doubtless he reveals himself in +his work as the poet reveals himself in his song, but then this +revelation is made in a tongue unknown to the majority. After all, we do +not feel that we get nearer him. The man of letters, on the other hand, +is outspoken, he takes you into his confidence, he keeps no secret from +you. Be you beggar, be you king, you are welcome. He is no respecter of +persons. He gives without reserve his fancies, his wit, his wisdom; he +makes you a present of all that the painful or the happy years have +brought him. The writer makes his reader heir in full. Men of letters +are a peculiar class. They are never commonplace or prosaic--at least +those of them that mankind care for. They are airy, wise, gloomy, +melodious spirits. They give us the language we speak, they furnish the +subjects of our best talk. They are full of generous impulses and +sentiments, and keep the world young. They have said fine things on +every phase of human experience. The air is full of their voices. Their +books are the world's holiday and playground, and into these neither +care, nor the dun, nor despondency can follow the enfranchised man. Men +of letters forerun science as the morning star the dawn. Nothing has +been invented, nothing has been achieved, but has gleamed a +bright-coloured Utopia in the eyes of one or the other of these men. +Several centuries before the Great Exhibition of 1851 rose in Hyde Park, +a wondrous hall of glass stood, radiant in sunlight, in the verse of +Chaucer. The electric telegraph is not so swift as the flight of Puck. +We have not yet realised the hippogriff of Ariosto. Just consider what a +world this would be if ruled by the best thoughts of men of letters! +Ignorance would die at once, war would cease, taxation would be +lightened, not only every Frenchman, but every man in the world, would +have his hen in the pot. May would not marry January. The race of +lawyers and physicians would be extinct. Fancy a world the affairs of +which are directed by Goethe's wisdom and Goldsmith's heart! In such a +case, methinks the millennium were already come. Books are a finer world +within the world. With books are connected all my desires and +aspirations. When I go to my long sleep, on a book will my head be +pillowed. I care for no other fashion of greatness. I'd as lief not be +remembered at all as remembered in connection with anything else. I +would rather be Charles Lamb than Charles XII. I would rather be +remembered by a song than by a victory. I would rather build a fine +sonnet than have built St. Paul's. I would rather be the discoverer of a +new image than the discoverer of a new planet. Fine phrases I value more +than bank notes. I have ear for no other harmony than the harmony of +words. To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for. + +But what of the literary life? How fares it with the men whose days and +nights are devoted to the writing of books? We know the famous men of +letters; we give them the highest place in our regards; we crown them +with laurels so thickly that we hide the furrows on their foreheads. Yet +we must remember that there are men of letters who have been equally +sanguine, equally ardent, who have pursued perfection equally +unselfishly, but who have failed to make themselves famous. We know the +ships that come with streaming pennons into the immortal ports; we know +but little of the ships that have gone on fire on the way thither,--that +have gone down at sea. Even with successful men we cannot know precisely +how matters have gone. We read the fine raptures of the poet, but we do +not know into what kind of being he relapses when the inspiration is +over, any more than, seeing and hearing the lark shrilling at the gate of +heaven, we know with what effort it has climbed thither, or into what +kind of nest it must descend. The lark is not always singing; no more is +the poet. The lark is only interesting _while_ singing; at other times +it is but a plain brown bird. We may not be able to recognise the poet +when he doffs his singing robes; he may then sink to the level of his +admirers. We laugh at the fancies of the humourists, but he may have +written his brilliant things in a dismal enough mood. The writer is not +continually dwelling amongst the roses and lilies of life, he is not +continually uttering generous sentiments, and saying fine things. On +him, as on his brethren, the world presses with its prosaic needs. He +has to make love and marry, and run the usual matrimonial risks. The +income-tax collector visits him as well as others. Around his head at +Christmas-times drives a snow-storm of bills. He must keep the wolf from +the door, and he has only his goose-quills to confront it with. And here +it is, having to deal with alien powers, that his special temperament +comes into play, and may work him evil. Wit is not worldly wisdom. A +man gazing on the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles on +the road. A man may be able to disentangle intricate problems, be able +to recall the past, and yet be cozened by an ordinary knave. The finest +expression will not liquidate a butcher's account. If Apollo puts his +name to a bill, he must meet it when it becomes due, or go into the +gazette. Armies are not always cheering on the heights which they have +won; there are forced marches, occasional shortness of provisions, +bivouacs on muddy plains, driving in of pickets, and the like, although +these inglorious items are forgotten when we read the roll of victories +inscribed on their banners. The books of the great writer are only +portions of the great writer. His life acts on his writings; his +writings react on his life. His life may impoverish his books; his books +may impoverish his life. + + "Apollo's branch that might have grown full straight," + +may have the worm of a vulgar misery gnawing at its roots. The heat of +inspiration may be subtracted from the household fire; and those who sit +by it may be the colder in consequence. A man may put all his good +things in his books, and leave none for his life, just as a man may +expend his fortune on a splendid dress, and carry a pang of hunger +beneath it. + +There are few less exhilarating books than the biographies of men of +letters, and of artists generally; and this arises from the pictures of +comparative defeat which, in almost every instance, such books contain. +In these books we see failure more or less,--seldom clear, victorious +effort. If the art is exquisite, the marble is flawed; if the marble is +pure, there is defect in art. There is always something lacking in the +poem; there is always irremediable defect in the picture. In the +biography we see persistent, passionate effort, and almost constant +repulse. If, on the whole, victory is gained, one wing of the army has +been thrown into confusion. In the life of a successful farmer, for +instance, one feels nothing of this kind; his year flows on harmoniously, +fortunately; through ploughing, seed-time, growth of grain, the yellowing +of it beneath meek autumn suns and big autumn moons, the cutting of it +down, riotous harvest-home, final sale, and large balance at the +banker's. From the point of view of almost unvarying success the +farmer's life becomes beautiful, poetic. Everything is an aid and help +to him. Nature puts her shoulder to his wheel. He takes the winds, the +clouds, the sunbeams, the rolling stars into partnership, and, asking no +dividend, they let him retain the entire profits. As a rule, the lives +of men of letters do not flow on in this successful way. In their case +there is always either defect in the soil or defect in the husbandry. +Like the Old Guard at Waterloo, they are fighting bravely on a lost +field. In literary biography there is always an element of tragedy, and +the love we bear the dead is mingled with pity. Of course the life of a +man of letters is more perilous than the life of a farmer; more perilous +than almost any other kind of life which it is given a human being to +conduct. It is more difficult to obtain the mastery over spiritual ways +and means than over material ones, and he must command _both_. Properly +to conduct his life he must not only take large crops off his fields, he +must also leave in his fields the capacity of producing large crops. It +is easy to drive in your chariot two horses of one breed; not so easy +when the one is of terrestrial stock, the other of celestial; in every +respect different--in colour, temper, and pace. + +At the outset of his career, the man of letters is confronted by the fact +that he must live. The obtaining of a livelihood is preliminary to +everything else. Poets and cobblers are placed on the same level so far. +If the writer can barter MSS. for sufficient coin, he may proceed to +develop himself; if he cannot so barter it, there is a speedy end of +himself, and of his development also. Literature has become a +profession; but it is in several respects different from the professions +by which other human beings earn their bread. The man of letters, unlike +the clergyman, the physician, or the lawyer, has to undergo no special +preliminary training for his work, and while engaged in it, unlike the +professional persons named, he has no accredited status. Of course, to +earn any success, he must start with as much special knowledge, with as +much dexterity in his craft, as your ordinary physician; but then he is +not recognised till once he is successful. When a man takes a +physician's degree, he has done something; when a man betakes himself to +literary pursuits, he has done nothing--till once he is lucky enough to +make his mark. There is no special preliminary training for men of +letters, and as a consequence, their ranks are recruited from the vagrant +talent of the world. Men that break loose from the professions, who +stray from the beaten tracks of life, take refuge in literature. In it +are to be found doctors, lawyers, clergymen, and the motley nation of +Bohemians. Any one possessed of a nimble brain, a quire of paper, a +steel-pen and ink-bottle, can start business. Any one who chooses may +enter the lists, and no questions are asked concerning his antecedents. +The battle is won by sheer strength of brain. From all this it comes +that the man of letters has usually a history of his own: his +individuality is more pronounced than the individuality of other men; he +has been knocked about by passion and circumstance. All his life he has +had a dislike for iron rules and common-place maxims. There is something +of the gipsy in his nature. He is to some extent eccentric, and he +indulges his eccentricity. And the misfortunes of men of letters--the +vulgar and patent misfortunes, I mean--arise mainly from the want of +harmony between their impulsiveness and volatility, and the staid +unmercurial world with which they are brought into conflict. They are +unconventional in a world of conventions; they are fanciful, and are +constantly misunderstood in prosaic relations. They are wise enough in +their books, for there they are sovereigns, and can shape everything to +their own likings; out of their books, they are not unfrequently +extremely foolish, for they exist then in the territory of an alien +power, and are constantly knocking their heads against existing orders of +things. Men of letters take prosaic men out of themselves; but they are +weak where the prosaic men are strong. They have their own way in the +world of ideas, prosaic men in the world of facts. From his practical +errors the writer learns something, if not always humility and amendment. +A memorial flower grows on every spot where he has come to grief; and the +chasm he cannot over-leap he bridges with a rainbow. + +But the man of letters has not only to live, he has to develop himself; +and his earning of money and his intellectual development should proceed +simultaneously and in proportionate degrees. Herein lies the main +difficulty of the literary life. Out of his thought the man must bring +fire, food, clothing; and fire, food, clothing must in their turns +subserve thought. It is necessary, for the proper conduct of such a +life, that while the balance at the banker's increases, intellectual +resource should increase at the same ratio. Progress should not be made +in the faculty of expression alone,--progress at the same time should be +made in thought; for thought is the material on which expression feeds. +Should sufficient advance not be made in this last direction, in a short +time the man feels that he has expressed himself,--that now he can only +more or less dexterously repeat himself,--more or less prettily become +his own echo. It is comparatively easy to acquire facility in writing; +but it is an evil thing for the man of letters when such facility is the +only thing he has acquired,--when it has been, perhaps, the only thing he +has striven to acquire. Such miscalculation of ways and means suggests +vulgarity of aspiration, and a fatal material taint. In the life in +which this error has been committed there can be no proper harmony, no +satisfaction, no spontaneous delight in effort. The man does not +create,--he is only desperately keeping up appearances. He has at once +become "a base mechanical," and his successes are not much higher than +the successes of the acrobat or the rope-dancer. This want of proper +relationship between resources of expression and resources of thought, or +subject-matter for expression, is common enough, and some slight +suspicion of it flashes across the mind at times in reading even the best +authors. It lies at the bottom of every catastrophe in the literary +life. Frequently a man's first book is good, and all his after +productions but faint and yet fainter reverberations of the first. The +men who act thus are in the long run deserted like worked-out mines. A +man reaches his limits as to thought long before he reaches his limits as +to expression; and a haunting suspicion of this is one of the peculiar +bitters of the literary life. Hazlitt tells us that, after one of his +early interviews with Coleridge, he sat down to his Essay on the Natural +Disinterestedness of the Human Mind. "I sat down to the task shortly +afterwards for the twentieth time, got new pens and paper, determined to +make clean work of it, wrote a few sentences in the skeleton style of a +mathematical demonstration, stopped half-way down the second page, and, +after trying in vain to pump up any words, images, notions, +apprehensions, facts, or observations, from that gulf of abstraction in +which I had plunged myself for four, or five years preceding, gave up the +attempt as labour in vain, and shed tears of hopeless despondency on the +blank unfinished paper. I can write fast enough now. Am I better than I +was then? oh, no! One truth discovered, one pang of regret at not being +able to express it, is worth all the fluency and flippancy in the world." +This regretful looking back to the past, when emotions were keen and +sharp, and when thought wore the novel dress of a stranger, and this +dissatisfaction with the acquirements of the present, is common enough +with the man of letters. The years have come and gone, and he is +conscious that he is not intrinsically richer,--he has only learned to +assort and display his riches to advantage. His wares have neither +increased in quantity nor improved in quality,--he has only procured a +window in a leading thoroughfare. He can catch his butterflies more +cunningly, he can pin them on his cards more skilfully, but their wings +are fingered and tawdry compared with the time when they winnowed before +him in the sunshine over the meadows of youth. This species of regret is +peculiar to the class of which I am speaking, and they often discern +failure in what the world counts success. The veteran does not look back +to the time when he was in the awkward squad; the accountant does not +sigh over the time when he was bewildered by the mysteries of +double-entry. And the reason is obvious. The dexterity which time and +practice have brought to the soldier and the accountant is pure gain: the +dexterity of expression which time and practice have brought to the +writer is gain too, in its way, but not quite so pure. It may have been +cultivated and brought to its degree of excellence at the expense of +higher things. The man of letters lives by thought and expression, and +his two powers may not be perfectly balanced. And, putting aside its +effect on the reader, and through that, on the writer's pecuniary +prosperity, the tragedy of want of equipoise lies in this. When the +writer expresses his thought, it is immediately dead to him, however +life-giving it may be to others; he pauses midway in his career, he looks +back over his uttered past--brown desert to him, in which there is no +sustenance--he looks forward to the green _un_uttered future, and +beholding its narrow limits, knows it is all that he can call his +own,--on that vivid strip he must pasture his intellectual life. + +Is the literary life, on the whole, a happy one? Granted that the writer +is productive, that he possesses abundance of material, that he has +secured the ear of the world, one is inclined to fancy that no life could +be happier. Such a man seems to live on the finest of the wheat. If a +poet, he is continually singing; if a novelist, he is supreme in his +ideal world; if a humourist, everything smiles back upon his smile; if an +essayist, he is continually saying the wisest, most memorable things. He +breathes habitually the serener air which ordinary mortals can only at +intervals respire, and in their happiest moments. Such conceptions of +great writers are to some extent erroneous. Through the medium of their +books we know them only in their active mental states,--in their +triumphs; we do not see them when sluggishness has succeeded the effort +which was delight. The statue does not come to her white limbs all at +once. It is the bronze wrestler, not the flesh and blood one, that +stands forever over a fallen adversary with pride of victory on his face. +Of the labour, the weariness, the self-distrust, the utter despondency of +the great writer, we know nothing. Then, for the attainment of mere +happiness or contentment, any high faculty of imagination is a +questionable help. Of course imagination lights the torch of joy, it +deepens the carmine on the sleek cheek of the girl, it makes wine +sparkle, makes music speak, gives rays to the rising sun. But in all its +supreme sweetnesses there is a perilous admixture of deceit, which is +suspected even at the moment when the senses tingle keenliest. And it +must be remembered that this potent faculty can darken as well as +brighten. It is the very soul of pain. While the trumpets are blowing +in Ambition's ear, it whispers of the grave. It drapes Death in austere +solemnities, and surrounds him with a gloomy court of terrors. The life +of the imaginative man is never a commonplace one: his lights are +brighter, his glooms are darker, than the lights and gloom of the vulgar. +His ecstasies are as restless as his pains. The great writer has this +perilous faculty in excess; and through it he will, as a matter of +course, draw out of the atmosphere of circumstance surrounding him the +keenness of pleasure and pain. To my own notion, the best gifts of the +gods are neither the most glittering nor the most admired. These gifts I +take to be, a moderate ambition, a taste for repose with circumstances +favourable thereto, a certain mildness of passion, an even-beating pulse, +an even-beating heart. I do not consider heroes and celebrated persons +the happiest of mankind. I do not envy Alexander the shouting of his +armies, nor Dante his laurel wreath. Even were I able, I would not +purchase these at the prices the poet and the warrior paid. So far, +then, as great writers--great poets, especially--are of imagination all +compact--a peculiarity of mental constitution which makes a man go shares +with every one he is brought into contact with; which makes him enter +into Romeo's rapture when he touches Juliet's cheek among cypresses +silvered by the Verona moonlight, and the stupor of the blinded and +pinioned wretch on the scaffold before the bolt is drawn--so far as this +special gift goes, I do not think the great poet,--and by virtue of it he +_is_ a poet,--is likely to be happier than your more ordinary mortal. On +the whole, perhaps, it is the great readers rather than the great writers +who are entirely to be envied. They pluck the fruits, and are spared the +trouble of rearing them. Prometheus filched fire from heaven, and had +for reward the crag of Caucasus, the chain, the vulture; while they for +whom he stole it cook their suppers upon it, stretch out benumbed hands +towards it, and see its light reflected in their children's faces. They +are comfortable: he, roofed by the keen crystals of the stars, groans +above. + +Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life. The majority +of men slip into their graves without having encountered on their way +thither any signal catastrophe or exaltation of fortune or feeling. +Collect a thousand ignited sticks into a heap, and you have a bonfire +which may be seen over three counties. If, during thirty years, the +annoyances connected with shirt-buttons found missing when you are +hurriedly dressing for dinner, were gathered into a mass and endured at +once, it would be misery equal to a public execution. If, from the same +space of time, all the little titillations of a man's vanity were +gathered into one lump of honey and enjoyed at once, the pleasure of +being crowned would not perhaps be much greater. If the equanimity of an +ordinary man be at the mercy of trifles, how much more will the +equanimity of the man of letters, who is usually the most sensitive of +the race, and whose peculiar avocation makes sad work with the fine +tissues of the nerves. Literary composition is, I take it, with the +exception of the crank, in which there is neither hope nor result, the +most exhausting to which a human being can apply himself. Just consider +the situation. Here is your man of letters, tender-hearted as Cowper, +who would not count upon his list of friends the man who tramples +heedlessly upon a worm; as light of sleep and abhorrent of noise as +Beattie, who denounces chanticleer for his lusty proclamation of morning +to his own and the neighbouring farmyards in terms that would be +unmeasured if applied to Nero; as alive to blame as Byron, who declared +that the praise of the greatest of the race could not take the sting from +the censure of the meanest. Fancy the sufferings of a creature so built +and strung in a world which creaks so vilely on its hinges as this! Will +such a man confront a dun with an imperturbable countenance? Will he +throw himself back in his chair and smile blandly when his chamber is +lanced through and through by the notes of a street bagpiper? When his +harrassed brain should be solaced by music, will he listen patiently to +stupid remarks? I fear not. The man of letters suffers keenlier than +people suspect from sharp, cruel noises, from witless observations, from +social misconceptions of him of every kind, from hard utilitarian wisdom, +and from his own good things going to the grave unrecognised and +unhonoured. And, forced to live by his pen, to extract from his brain +bread and beer, clothing, lodging, and income-tax, I am not surprised +that he is oftentimes nervous, querulous, impatient. Thinking of these +things, I do not wonder at Hazlitt's spleen, at Charles Lamb's punch, at +Coleridge's opium. I think of the days spent in writing, and of the +nights which repeat the day in dream, and in which there is no +refreshment. I think of the brain which must be worked out at length; of +Scott, when the wand of the enchanter was broken, writing poor romances; +of Southey sitting vacantly in his library, and drawing a feeble +satisfaction from the faces of his books. And for the man of letters +there is more than the mere labour: he writes his book, and has +frequently the mortification of seeing it neglected or torn to pieces. +Above all men, he longs for sympathy, recognition, applause. He respects +his fellow-creatures, because he beholds in him a possible reader. To +write a book, to send it forth to the world and the critics, is to a +sensitive person like plunging mother-naked into tropic waters where +sharks abound. It is true that, like death, the terror of criticism +lives most in apprehension; still, to have been frequently criticised, +and to be constantly liable to it, are disagreeable items in a man's +life. Most men endure criticism with commendable fortitude, just as most +criminals when under the drop conduct themselves with calmness. They +bleed, but they bleed inwardly. To be flayed in the _Saturday Review_, +for instance,--a whole amused public looking on,--is far from pleasant; +and, after the operation, the ordinary annoyances of life probably +magnify themselves into tortures. The grasshopper becomes a burden. +Touch a flayed man ever so lightly, and with ever so kindly an intention, +and he is sure to wince. The skin of the man of letters is peculiarly +sensitive to the bite of the critical mosquito; and he lives in a climate +in which such mosquitoes swarm. He is seldom stabbed to the heart--he is +often killed by pin-pricks. + +But, to leave palisade and outwork, and come to the interior of the +citadel, it may be said that great writers, although they must ever +remain shining objects of regard to us, are not exempted from ordinary +limitations and conditions. They are cabined, cribbed, confined, even as +their more prosaic brethren. It is in the nature of every man to be +endued with that he works in. Thus, in course of time, the merchant +becomes bound up in his ventures and his ledger; an indefinable flavour +of the pharmacopoeia lingers about the physician; the bombasine and +horse-hair of the lawyer eat into his soul--his experiences are docketed +in a clerkly hand, bound together with red tape, and put away in +professional pigeon-holes. A man naturally becomes leavened by the +profession which he has adopted. He thinks, speaks, and dreams "shop," +as the colloquial phrase has it. Men of letters are affected by their +profession just as merchants, physicians, and lawyers are. In course of +time the inner man becomes stained with ink, like blotting-paper. The +agriculturist talks constantly of bullocks--the man of letters constantly +of books. The printing-press seems constantly in his immediate +neighbourhood. He is stretched on the rack of an unfavourable +review,--he is lapped in the Elysium of a new edition. The narrowing +effect of a profession is in every man a defect, albeit an inevitable +one. Byron, who had a larger amount of common sense than any poet of his +day, tells us, in "Beppo," + + "One hates an author that's _all author_; fellows + In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink." + +And his lordship's "hate" in the matter is understandable enough. In his +own day, Scott and himself were almost the only distinguished authors who +were not "all authors," just as Mr. Helps and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton +are almost the only representatives of the class in ours. This +professional taint not only resides in the writer, impairing his fulness +and completion; it flows out of him into his work, and impairs it also. +It is the professional character which authorship has assumed which has +taken individuality and personal flavour from so much of our writing, and +prevented to a large extent the production of enduring books. Our +writing is done too hurriedly, and to serve a purpose too immediate. +Literature is not so much an art as a manufacture. There is a demand, +and too many crops are taken off the soil; it is never allowed to lie +fallow, and to nourish itself in peacefulness and silence. When so many +cups are to be filled, too much water is certain to be put into the +teapot. Letters have become a profession, and probably of all +professions it is, in the long run, the least conducive to personal +happiness. It is the most precarious. In it, above all others, to be +weak is to be miserable. It is the least mechanical, consequently the +most exhausting; and in its higher walks it deals with a man's most vital +material--utilises his emotions, trades on his faculties of love and +imagination, uses for its own purposes the human heart by which he lives. +These things a man requires for himself; and when they are in a large +proportion transported to an ideal world, they make the ideal world all +the more brilliant and furnished, and leave his ordinary existence all +the more arid and commonplace. You cannot spend money and have it; you +cannot use emotion and possess it. The poet who sings loudly of love and +love's delights, may in the ordinary intercourse of life be all the +colder for his singing. The man who has been moved while describing an +imaginary death-bed to-day, is all the more likely to be unmoved while +standing by his friend's grave to-morrow. Shakspeare, after emerging +from the moonlight in the Verona orchard, and Romeo and Juliet's silvery +interchange of vows, was, I fear me, not marvellously enamoured of the +autumn on Ann Hathaway's cheek. It is in some such way as this that a +man's books may impoverish his life; that the fire and heat of his genius +may make his hearth all the colder. From considerations like these, one +can explain satisfactorily enough to one's self the domestic +misadventures of men of letters--of poets especially. We know the poets +only in their books; their wives know them out of them. Their wives see +the other side of the moon; and we have been made pretty well aware how +they have appreciated _that_. + +The man engaged in the writing of books is tempted to make such writing +the be-all and end-all of his existence--to grow his literature out of +his history, experience, or observation, as the gardener grows out of +soils brought from a distance the plants which he intends to exhibit. +The cup of life foams fiercely over into first books; materials for the +second, third, and fourth must be carefully sought for. The man of +letters, as time passes on, and the professional impulse works deeper, +ceases to regard the world with a single eye. The man slowly merges into +the artist. He values new emotions and experiences, because he can turn +these into artistic shapes. He plucks "copy" from rising and setting +suns. He sees marketable pathos in his friend's death-bed. He carries +the peal of his daughter's marriage-bells into his sentences or his +rhymes; and in these the music sounds sweeter to him than in the sunshine +and the wind. If originally of a meditative, introspective mood, his +profession can hardly fail to confirm and deepen his peculiar +temperament. He begins to feel his own pulse curiously, and for a +purpose. As a spy in the service of literature, he lives in the world +and its concerns. Out of everything he seeks thoughts and images, as out +of everything the bee seeks wax and honey. A curious instance of this +mode of looking at things occurs in Goethe's "Letters from Italy," with +whom, indeed, it was fashion, and who helped himself out of the teeming +world to more effect than any man of his time:-- + +"From Botzen to Trent the stage is nine leagues, and runs through a +valley which constantly increases in fertility. All that merely +struggles into vegetation on the higher mountains has here more strength +and vitality. The sun shines with warmth, and there is once more belief +in a Deity. + +"A poor woman cried out to me to take her child into my vehicle, as the +soil was burning its feet. I did her this service out of honour to the +strong light of Heaven. The child was strangely decked out, _but I could +get nothing from it in any way_." + +It is clear that out of all this the reader gains; but I cannot help +thinking that for the writer it tends to destroy entire and simple +living--all hearty and final enjoyment in life. Joy and sorrow, death +and marriage, the comic circumstance and the tragic, what befalls him, +what he observes, what he is brought into contact with, do not affect him +as they affect other men; they are secrets to be rifled, stones to be +built with, clays to be moulded into artistic shape. In giving emotional +material artistic form, there is indisputably a certain noble pleasure; +but it is of a solitary and severe complexion, and takes a man out of the +circle and sympathies of his fellows. I do not say that this kind of +life makes a man selfish, but it often makes him _seem_ so; and the +results of this seeming, on friendship and the domestic relationships, +for instance, are as baleful as if selfishness really existed. The +peculiar temptation which besets men of letters, the curious playing with +thought and emotion, the tendency to analyse and take everything to +pieces, has two results, and neither aids his happiness nor even his +literary success. On the one hand, and in relation to the social +relations, it gives him somewhat of an icy aspect, and so breaks the +spring and eagerness of affectionate response. For the best affection is +shy, reticent, undemonstrative, and needs to be drawn out by its like. +If unrecognised, like an acquaintance on the street, it passes by, making +no sign, and is for the time being a stranger. On the other hand, the +desire to say a fine thing about a phenomenon, whether natural or moral, +prevents a man from reaching the inmost core of the phenomenon. Entrance +into these matters will never be obtained by the most sedulous seeking. +The man who has found an entrance cannot tell how he came there, and he +will never find his way back again by the same road. From this law +arises all the dreary conceits and artifices of the poets; it is through +the operation of the same law that many of our simple songs and ballads +are inexpressibly affecting, because in them there is no consciousness of +authorship; emotion and utterance are twin born, consentaneous--like +sorrow and tears, a blow and its pain, a kiss and its thrill. When a man +is happy, every effort to express his happiness mars its completeness. I +am not happy at all unless I am happier than I know. When the tide is +full there is silence in channel and creek. The silence of the lover +when he clasps the maid is better than the passionate murmur of the song +which celebrates her charms. If to be near the rose makes the +nightingale tipsy with delight, what must it be to be the rose herself? +One feeling of the "wild joys of living--the leaping from rock to rock," +is better than the "muscular-Christianity" literature which our time has +produced. I am afraid that the profession of letters interferes with the +elemental feelings of life; and I am afraid, too, that in the majority of +cases this interference is not justified by its results. The entireness +and simplicity of life is flawed by the intrusion of an inquisitive +element, and this inquisitive element never yet found anything which was +much worth the finding. Men live by the primal energies of love, faith, +imagination; and happily it is not given to every one to _live_, in the +pecuniary sense, by the artistic utilisation and sale of these. You +cannot make ideas; they must come unsought if they come at all. + + "From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine" + +is a profitable occupation enough, if you stumble on the little +churchyard covered over with silence, and folded among the hills. If you +go to the churchyard with intent to procure thought, as you go into the +woods to gather anemones, you are wasting your time. Thoughts must come +naturally, like wild flowers; they cannot be forced in a hot-bed--even +although aided by the leaf-mould of your past--like exotics. And it is +the misfortune of men of letters of our day that they cannot afford to +wait for this natural flowering of thought, but are driven to the forcing +process, with the results which were to be expected. + + + + +ON THE IMPORTANCE OF A MAN TO HIMSELF + +The present writer remembers to have been visited once by a strange +feeling of puzzlement; and the puzzled feeling arose out of the +following circumstance:--He was seated in a railway-carriage, five +minutes or so before starting, and had time to contemplate certain +waggons or trucks filled with cattle, drawn up on a parallel line, and +quite close to the window at which he sat. The cattle wore a +much-enduring aspect; and, as he looked into their large, patient, +melancholy eyes,--for, as before mentioned, there was no space to speak +of intervening,--the feeling of puzzlement alluded to arose in his +mind. And it consisted in an attempt to solve the existence before +him, to enter into it, to understand it, and his inability to +accomplish it, or indeed to make any way toward the accomplishment of +it. The much-enduring animals in the trucks opposite had +unquestionably some rude twilight of a notion of a world; of objects +they had some unknown cognisance; but he could get behind the +melancholy eye within a yard of him, and look through it. How, from +that window, the world shaped itself, he could not discover, could not +even fancy; and yet, staring on the animals, he was conscious of a +certain fascination in which there lurked an element of terror. These +wild, unkempt brutes, with slavering muzzles, penned together, lived, +could choose between this thing and the other, could be frightened, +could be enraged, could even love or hate; and gazing into a placid, +heavy countenance, and the depths of a patient eye, not a yard away, he +was conscious of an obscure and shuddering recognition, of a life akin +so far with his own. But to enter into that life imaginatively, and to +conceive it, he found impossible. Eye looked upon eye, but the one +could not flash recognition on the other; and, thinking of this, he +remembers, with what a sense of ludicrous horror, the idea came,--what, +if looking on one another thus, some spark of recognition could be +elicited; if some rudiment of thought could be detected; if there were +indeed a point at which man and ox could not compare notes? Suppose +some gleam or scintillation of humour had lighted up the unwinking, +amber eye? Heavens, the bellow of the weaning calf would be pathetic, +shoe-leather would be forsworn, the eating of roast meat, hot or cold, +would be cannibalism, the terrified world would make a sudden dash into +vegetarianism! Happily before fancy had time to play another vagary, +with a snort and pull the train moved on, and my truckful of horned +friends were left gazing into empty space, with the same wistful, +patient, and melancholy expression with which, for the space of five +minutes or so, they had surveyed and bewildered me. + +A similar feeling of puzzlement to that which I have indicated, besets +one not unfrequently in the contemplation of men and women. You are +brought in contact with a person, you attempt to comprehend him, to +enter into him, in a word to _be_ him, and, if you are utterly foiled +in the attempt, you cannot flatter yourself that you have been +successful to the measure of your desire. A person interests, or +piques, or tantalises you, you do your best to make him out; yet strive +as you will, you cannot read the riddle of his personality. From the +invulnerable fortress of his own nature he smiles contemptuously on the +beleaguering armies of your curiosity and analysis. And it is not only +the stranger that thus defeats you; it may be the brother brought up by +the same fireside with you, the best friend whom you have known from +early school and college days, the very child, perhaps, that bears your +name, and with whose moral and mental apparatus you think you are as +familiar as with your own. In the midst of the most amicable +relationships and the best understandings, human beings are, at times, +conscious of a cold feeling of strangeness--the friend is actuated by a +feeling which never could actuate you, some hitherto unknown part of +his character becomes visible, and while at one moment you stood in +such close neighbourhood, that you could feel his arm touch your own, +in the next there is a feeling of removal, of distance, of empty space +betwixt him and you in which the wind is blowing. You and he become +separate entities. He is related to you as Border peel is related to +Border peel on Tweedside, or as ship is related to ship on the sea. It +is not meant that any quarrel or direct misunderstanding should have +taken place, simply that feeling of foreignness is meant to be +indicated which occurs now and then in the intercourse of the most +affectionate; which comes as a harsh reminder to friends and lovers +that with whatsoever flowery bands they may be linked, they are +separated persons, who understand, and can only understand, each other +partially. It is annoying to be put out in our notions of men and +women thus, and to be forced to rearrange them. It is a misfortune to +have to manoeuvre one's heart as a general has to manoeuvre his army. +The globe has been circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has; you may +survey a kingdom and note the result in maps, but all the servants in +the world could not produce a reliable map of the poorest human +personality. And the worst of all this is, that love and friendship +may be the outcome of a certain condition of knowledge; increase the +knowledge, and love and friendship beat their wings and go. Every +man's road in life is marked by the graves of his personal likings. +Intimacy is frequently the road to indifference, and marriage a +parricide. From these accidents to the affections, and from the +efforts to repair them, life has in many a patched and tinkered look. + +Love and friendship are the discoveries of ourselves in others, and our +delight in the recognition; and in men, as in books, we only know that, +the parallel of which we have in ourselves. We know only that portion +of the world which we have travelled over; and we are never a whit +wiser than our own experiences. Imagination, the falcon, sits on the +wrist of Experience, the falconer; she can never soar beyond the reach +of his whistle, and when tired she must return to her perch. Our +knowledge is limited by ourselves, and so also are our imaginations. +And so it comes about, that a man measures everything by his own +foot-rule; that if he is ignoble, all the ignobleness that is in the +world looks out upon him, and claims kindred with him; if noble, all +the nobleness in the world does the like. Shakspeare is always the +same height with his reader; and when a thousand Christians subscribe +to one Confession of Faith, hardly to two of them does it mean the same +thing. The world is a great warehouse of raiment, to which every one +has access and is allowed free use; and the remarkable thing is, what +coarse stuffs are often chosen, and how scantily some people are +attired. + +We never get quit of ourselves. While I am writing, the spring is +outside, and this season of the year touches my spirit always with a +sense of newness, of strangeness, of resurrection. It shoots boyhood +again into the blood of middle age. That tender greening of the black +bough and the red field,--that coming again of the new-old +flowers,--that re-birth of love in all the family of birds, with +cooings, and caressings, and building of nests in wood and brake,--that +strange glory of sunshine in the air,--that stirring of life in the +green mould, making even churchyards beautiful,--seems like the +creation of a new world. And yet--and yet, even with the lamb in the +sunny field, the lark mile-high in the blue, Spring has her melancholy +side, and bears a sadder burden to the heart than Autumn, preaching of +decay with all his painted woods. For the flowers that make sweet the +moist places in the forest are not the same that bloomed the year +before. Another lark sings above the furrowed field. Nature rolls on +in her eternal course, repeating her tale of spring, summer, autumn, +winter; but life in man and beast is transitory, and other living +creatures take their places. It is quite certain that one or other of +the next twenty springs will come unseen by me, will awake no throb of +transport in my veins. But will it be less bright on that account? +Will the lamb be saddened in the field? Will the lark be less happy in +the air? The sunshine will draw the daisy from the mound under which I +sleep, as carelessly as she draws the cowslip from the meadow by the +riverside. The seasons have no ruth, no compunction. They care not +for our petty lives. The light falls sweetly on graveyards, and on +brown labourers among the hay-swaths. Were the world depopulated +to-morrow, next spring would break pitilessly bright, flowers would +bloom, fruit-tree boughs wear pink and white; and although there would +be no eye to witness, Summer would not adorn herself with one blossom +the less. It is curious to think how important a creature a man is to +himself. We cannot help thinking that all things exist for our +particular selves. The sun, in whose light a system lives, warms me; +makes the trees grow for me; paints the evening sky in gorgeous colours +for me. The mould I till, produced from the beds of extinct oceans and +the grating of rock and mountain during countless centuries, exists +that I may have muffins to breakfast. Animal life, with its strange +instincts and affections, is to be recognised and cherished,--for does +it not draw my burdens for me, and carry me from place to place, and +yield me comfortable broadcloth, and succulent joints to dinner? I +think it matter of complaint that Nature, like a personal friend to +whom I have done kind services, will not wear crape at my funeral. I +think it cruel that the sun should shine, and birds sing, and I lying +in my grave. People talk of the age of the world! So far as I am +concerned, it began with my consciousness, and will end with my decease. + +And yet, this self-consciousness, which so continually besets us, is in +itself a misery and a galling chain. We are never happy till by +imagination we are taken out of the pales and limits of self. We +receive happiness at second hand: the spring of it may be in ourselves, +but we do not know it to be happiness, till, like the sun's light from +the moon, it is reflected on us from an object outside. The admixture +of a foreign element sweetens and unfamiliarises it. Sheridan prepared +his good things in solitude, but he tasted for the first time his +jest's prosperity when it came back to him in illumined faces and a +roar of applause. Your oldest story becomes new when you have a new +auditor. A young man is truth-loving and amiable, but it is only when +these fair qualities shine upon him from a girl's face that he is +smitten by transport--only then is he truly happy. In that junction of +hearts, in that ecstasy of mutual admiration and delight, the finest +epithalamium ever writ by poet is hardly worthy of the occasion. The +countryman purchases oranges at a fair for his little ones; and when he +brings them home in the evening, and watches his chubby urchins, +sitting up among the bed-clothes, peel and devour the fruit, he is for +the time-being richer than if he drew the rental of the orange-groves +of Seville. To eat an orange himself is nothing; to see _them_ eat it +is a pleasure worth the price of the fruit a thousand times over. +There is no happiness in the world in which love does not enter; and +love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in +the recognition. Apart from others no man can make his happiness; just +as, apart from a mirror of one kind or another, no man can become +acquainted with his own lineaments. + +The accomplishment of a man is the light by which we are enabled to +discover the limits of his personality. Every man brings into the +world with him a certain amount of pith and force, and to that pith or +force his amount of accomplishment is exactly proportioned. It is in +this way that every spoken word, every action of a man, becomes +biographical. Everything a man says or does is in consistency with +himself; and it is by looking back on his sayings and doings that we +arrive at the truth concerning him. A man is one; and every outcome of +him has a family resemblance. Goldsmith did _not_ "write like an angel +and talk like poor Poll," as we may in part discern from Boswell's +"Johnson." Strange, indeed, if a man talked continually the sheerest +nonsense, and wrote continually the gracefulest humours; if a man was +lame on the street, and the finest dancer in the ball-room. To +describe a character by antithesis is like painting a portrait in black +and white--all the curious intermixtures and gradations of colour are +lost. The accomplishment of a human being is measured by his strength, +or by his nice tact in using his strength. The distance to which your +gun, whether rifled or smooth-bored, will carry its shot, depends upon +the force of its charge. A runner's speed and endurance depends upon +his depth of chest and elasticity of limb. If a poet's lines lack +harmony, it instructs us that there is a certain lack of harmony in +himself. We see why Haydon failed as an artist when we read his life. +No one can dip into the "Excursion" without discovering that Wordsworth +was devoid of humour, and that he cared more for the narrow Cumberland +vale than he did for the big world. The flavour of opium can be +detected in the "Ancient Mariner" and "Christabel." A man's word or +deed takes us back to himself, as the sunbeam takes us back to the sun. +It is the sternest philosophy, but on the whole the truest, that, in +the wide arena of the world, failure and success are not accidents as +we so frequently suppose, but the strictest justice. If you do your +fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage--in praise +or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste. You may have seen at +country fairs a machine by which the rustics test their strength of +arm. A country fellow strikes vigorously a buffer, which recoils, and +the amount of the recoil--dependent, of course, on the force with which +it is struck--is represented by a series of notches or marks. The +world is such a buffer. A man strikes it with all his might; his mark +may be 40,000 pounds, a peerage, and Westminster Abbey, a name in +literature or art; but in every case his mark is nicely determined by +the force or the art with which the buffer is struck. Into the world a +man brings his personality, and his biography is simply a catalogue of +its results. + +There are some men who have no individuality, just as there are some +men who have no face. These are to be described by generals, not by +particulars. They are thin, vapid, inconclusive. They are important +solely on account of their numbers. For them the census enumerator +labours; they form majorities; they crowd voting booths; they make the +money; they do the ordinary work of the world. They are valuable when +well officered. They are plastic matter to be shaped by a workman's +hand; and are built with as bricks are built with. In the aggregate, +they form public opinion; but then, in every age, public opinion is the +disseminated thoughts of some half a dozen men, who are in all +probability sleeping quietly in their graves. They retain dead men's +ideas, just as the atmosphere retains the light and heat of the set +sun. They are not light--they are twilight. To know how to deal with +such men--to know how to use them--is the problem which ambitious force +is called upon to solve. Personality, individuality, force of +character, or by whatever name we choose to designate original and +vigourous manhood, is the best thing which nature has in her gift. The +forceful man is a prophecy of the future. The wind blows here, but +long after it is spent the big wave which is its creature, breaks on a +shore a thousand miles away. It is curious how swiftly influences +travel from centre to circumference. A certain empress invents a +gracefully pendulous crinoline, and immediately, from Paris to the +pole, the female world is behooped; and neither objurgation of brother, +lover, or husband, deaths by burning or machinery, nor all the wit of +the satirists, are likely to affect its vitality. Never did an idea go +round civilisation so rapidly. Crinoline has already a heavier +martyrology than many a creed. The world is used easily, if one can +only hit on the proper method; and force of character, originality, of +whatever kind, is always certain to make its mark. It is a diamond, +and the world is its pane of glass. In a world so commonplace as this, +the peculiar man even should be considered a blessing. Humorousness, +eccentricity, the habit of looking at men and things from an odd angle, +are valuable, because they break the dead level of society and take +away its sameness. It is well that a man should be known by something +else than his name; there are few of us who can be known by anything +else, and Brown, Jones, and Robinson are the names of the majority. + +In literature and art, this personal outcome is of the highest value; +in fact, it is the only thing truly valuable. The greatness of an +artist or a writer does not depend on what he has in common with other +artists and writers, but on what he has peculiar to himself. The great +man is the man who does a thing for the first time. It was a difficult +thing to discover America; since it has been discovered, it has been +found an easy enough task to sail thither. It is this peculiar +something resident in a poem or a painting which is its final test,--at +all events, possessing it, it has the elements of endurance. Apart +from its other values, it has, in virtue of that, a biographical one; +it becomes a study of character; it is a window through which you can +look into a human interior. There is a cleverness in the world which +seems to have neither father nor mother. It exists, but it is +impossible to tell from whence it comes,--just as it is impossible to +lift the shed apple-blossom of an orchard, and to discover, from its +bloom and odour, to what branch it belonged. Such cleverness +illustrates nothing: it is an anonymous letter. Look at it ever so +long, and you cannot tell its lineage. It lives in the catalogue of +waifs and strays. On the other hand, there are men whose every +expression is characteristic, whose every idea seems to come out of a +mould. In the short sentence, or curt, careless saying of such when +laid bare, you can read their histories so far, as in the smallest +segment of a tree you can trace the markings of its rings. The first +dies, because it is shallow-rooted, and has no vitality beyond its own; +the second lives, because it is related to and fed by something higher +than itself. The famous axiom of Mrs. Glass, that in order to make +hare-soup you "must first catch your hare," has a wide significance. +In art, literature, social life, morals even, you must first catch your +man: that done, everything else follows as a matter of course. A man +may learn much; but for the most important thing of all he can find +neither teachers nor schools. + +Each man is the most important thing in the world to himself; but why +is he to himself so important? Simply because he is a personality with +capacities of pleasure, of pain, who can be hurt, who can be pleased, +who can be disappointed, who labours and expects his hire, in whose +consciousness, in fact, for the time being, the whole universe lives. +He is, and everything else is relative. Confined to his own +personality, making it his tower of outlook, from which only he can +survey the outer world, he naturally enough forms a rather high +estimate of its value, of its dignity, of its intrinsic worth. This +high estimate is useful in so far as it makes his condition pleasant, +and it--or rather our proneness to form it--we are accustomed to call +vanity. Vanity--which really helps to keep the race alive--has been +treated harshly by the moralists and satirists. It does not quite +deserve the hard names it has been called. It interpenetrates +everything a man says or does, but it inter-penetrates for a useful +purpose. If it is always an alloy in the pure gold of virtue, it at +least does the service of an alloy--making the precious metal workable. +Nature gave man his powers, appetites, aspirations, and along with +these a pan of incense, which fumes from the birth of consciousness to +its decease, making the best part of life rapture, and the worst part +endurable. But for vanity the race would have died out long ago. +There are some men whose lives seem to us as undesirable as the lives +of toads or serpents; yet these men breathe in tolerable content and +satisfaction. If a man could hear all that his fellows say of +him--that he is stupid, that he is henpecked, that he will be in the +_Gazette_ in a week, that his brain is softening, that he has said all +his best things--and if he could believe that these pleasant things are +true, he would be in his grave before the month was out. Happily no +man does hear these things; and if he did, they would only provoke +inextinguishable wrath or inextinguishable laughter. A man receives +the shocks of life on the buffer of his vanity. Vanity acts as his +second and bottleholder in the world's prize-ring, and it fights him +well, bringing him smilingly up to time after the fiercest knock-down +blows. Vanity is to a man what the oily secretion is to a bird, with +which it sleeks and adjusts the plumage ruffled by whatever causes. +Vanity is not only instrumental in keeping a man alive and in heart, +but, in its lighter manifestations, it is the great sweetener of social +existence. It is the creator of dress and fashion; it is the inventor +of forms and ceremonies, to it we are indebted for all our traditions +of civility. For vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as +willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts as sufficient +reward for its services a kind word or an approving smile. It delights +to bask in the sunshine of approbation. Out of man vanity makes +_gentle_man. The proud man is cold, the selfish man hard and +griping--the vain man desires to shine, to please, to make himself +agreeable; and this amiable feeling works to the outside of suavity and +charm of manner. The French are the vainest people in Europe, and the +most polite. + +As each man is to himself the most important thing in the world, each +man is an egotist in his thinkings, in his desires, in his fears. It +does not, however, follow that each man must be an egotist--as the word +is popularly understood--in his speech. But even although this were +the case, the world would be divided into egotists, likable and +unlikable. There are two kinds of egotism, a trifling vainglorious +kind, a mere burning of personal incense, in which the man is at once +altar, priest, censer, and divinity; a kind which deals with the +accidents and wrappages of the speaker, his equipage, his riches, his +family, his servants, his furniture and array. The other kind has no +taint of self-aggrandisement, but is rooted in the faculties of love +and humour, and this latter kind is never offensive, because it +includes others, and knows no scorn or exclusiveness. The one is the +offspring of a narrow and unimaginative personality; the other of a +large and genial one. There are persons who are the terrors of +society. Perfectly innocent of evil intention, they are yet, with a +certain brutal unconsciousness, continually trampling on other people's +corns. They touch you every now and again like a red-hot iron. You +wince, acquit them of any desire to wound, but find forgiveness a hard +task. These persons remember everything about themselves, and forget +everything about you. They have the instinct of a flesh-fly for a raw. +Should your great-grandfather have had the misfortune to be hanged, +such a person is certain, on some public occasion, to make allusion to +your pedigree. He will probably insist on your furnishing him with a +sketch of your family tree. If your daughter has made a runaway +marriage--on which subject yourself and friends maintain a judicious +silence--he is certain to stumble upon it, and make the old sore smart +again. In all this there is no malice, no desire to wound; it arises +simply from want of imagination, from profound immersion in self. An +imaginative man recognises at once a portion of himself in his fellow, +and speaks to that. To hurt you is to hurt himself. Much of the +rudeness we encounter in life cannot be properly set down to cruelty or +badness of heart. The unimaginative man is callous, and although he +hurts easily, he cannot be easily hurt in return. The imaginative man +is sensitive, and merciful to others, out of the merest mercy to +himself. + +In literature, as in social life, the attractiveness of egotism depends +entirely upon the egotist. If he be a conceited man, full of +self-admirations and vainglories, his egotism will disgust and repel. +When he sings his own praises, his reader feels that reflections are +being thrown on himself, and in a natural revenge he calls the writer a +coxcomb. If, on the other hand, he be loving, genial, humourous, with +a sympathy for others, his garrulousness and his personal allusions are +forgiven, because while revealing himself, he is revealing his reader +as well. A man may write about himself during his whole life without +once tiring or offending; but to accomplish this, he must be +interesting in himself--be a man of curious and vagrant moods, gifted +with the cunningest tact and humour; and the experience which he +relates must at a thousand points touch the experiences of his readers, +so that they, as it were, become partners in his game. When X. tells +me, with an evident swell of pride, that he dines constantly with +half-a-dozen men-servants in attendance, or that he never drives abroad +save in a coach-and-six, I am not conscious of any special gratitude to +X. for the information. Possibly, if my establishments boast only of +Cinderella, and if a cab is the only vehicle in which I can afford to +ride, and all the more if I can indulge in _that_ only on occasions of +solemnity, I fly into a rage, pitch the book to the other end of the +room, and may never afterwards be brought to admit that X. is possessor +of a solitary ounce of brains. If, on the other hand, Z. informs me +that every February he goes out to the leafless woods to hunt early +snowdrops, and brings home bunches of them in his hat; or that he +prefers in woman a brown eye to a blue, and explains by early love +passages his reasons for the preference, I do not get angry; on the +contrary, I feel quite pleased; perhaps, if the matter is related with +unusual grace and tenderness, it is read with a certain moisture and +dimness of eye. And the reason is obvious. The egotistical X. is +barren, and suggests nothing beyond himself, save that he is a good +deal better off than I am--a reflection much pleasanter to him than it +is to me; whereas the equally egotistical Z., with a single sentence +about his snowdrops, or his liking for brown eyes rather than for blue, +sends my thoughts wandering away back among my dead spring-times, or +wafts me the odours of the roses of those summers when the colour of an +eye was of more importance than it now is. X.'s men-servants and +coach-and-six do not fit into the life of his reader, because in all +probability his reader knows as much about these things as he knows +about Pharaoh; Z.'s snowdrops and preferences of colour do, because +every one knows what the spring thirst is, and every one in his time +has been enslaved by eyes whose colour he could not tell for his life, +but which he knew were the tenderest that ever looked love, the +brightest that ever flashed sunlight. Montaigne and Charles Lamb are +egotists of the Z. class, and the world never wearies reading them: nor +are egotists of the X. school absolutely without entertainment. +Several of these the world reads assiduously too, although for another +reason. The avid vanity of Mr. Pepys would be gratified if made aware +of the success of his diary; but curiously to inquire into the reason +of that success, _why_ his diary has been found so amusing, would not +conduce to his comfort. + +After all, the only thing a man knows is himself. The world outside he +can know only by hearsay. His shred of personality is all he has; than +that, he is nothing richer nothing poorer. Everything else is mere +accident and appendage. Alexander must not be measured by the +shoutings of his armies, nor Lazarus at Dives' gates by his sores. And +a man knows himself only in part. In every nature, as in Australia, +there is an unexplored territory--green, well-watered regions or mere +sandy deserts; and into that territory experience is making progress +day by day. We can remember when we knew only the outer childish +rim--and from the crescent guessed the sphere; whether, as we advanced, +these have been realised, each knows for himself. + + + + +A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE + +When a man glances critically through the circle of his intimate friends, +he is obliged to confess that they are far from being perfect. They +possess neither the beauty of Apollo, nor the wisdom of Solon, nor the +wit of Mercutio, nor the reticence of Napoleon III. If pushed hard he +will be constrained to admit that he has known each and all get angry +without sufficient occasion, make at times the foolishest remarks, and +act as if personal comfort were the highest thing in their estimation. +Yet, driven thus to the wall, forced to make such uncomfortable +confessions, our supposed man does not like his friends one whit the +less; nay, more, he is aware that if they were very superior and +faultless persons he would not be conscious of so much kindly feeling +towards them. The tide of friendship does not rise high on the bank of +perfection. Amiable weaknesses and shortcomings are the food of love. +It is from the roughnesses and imperfect breaks in a man that you are +able to lay hold of him. If a man be an entire and perfect chrysolite, +you slide off him and fall back into ignorance. My friends are not +perfect--no more am I--and so we suit each other admirably. Their +weaknesses keep mine in countenance, and so save me from humiliation and +shame. We give and take, bear and forbear; the stupidity they utter +to-day salves the recollection of the stupidity I uttered yesterday; in +their want of wit I see my own, and so feel satisfied and kindly +disposed. It is one of the charitable dispensations of Providence that +perfection is not essential to friendship. If I had to seek my perfect +man, I should wander the world a good while, and when I found him, and +was down on my knees before him, he would, to a certainty, turn the cold +shoulder on me--and so life would be an eternal search, broken by the +coldness of repulse and loneliness. Only to the perfect being in an +imperfect world, or the imperfect being in a perfect world, is everything +irretrievably out of joint. + +On a certain shelf in the bookcase which stands in the room in which I am +at present sitting--bookcase surmounted by a white Dante, looking out +with blind, majestic eyes--are collected a number of volumes which look +somewhat the worse for wear. Those of them which originally possessed +gilding have had it fingered off, each of them has leaves turned down, +and they open of themselves at places wherein I have been happy, and with +whose every word I am familiar as with the furniture of the room in which +I nightly slumber, each of them has remarks relevant and irrelevant +scribbled on their margins. These favourite volumes cannot be called +peculiar glories of literature; but out of the world of books have I +singled them, as I have singled my intimates out of the world of men. I +am on easy terms with them, and feel that they are no higher than my +heart. Milton is not there, neither is Wordsworth; Shakspeare, if he had +written comedies only, would have been there to a certainty, but the +presence of the _five_ great tragedies,--Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Lear, +Antony and Cleopatra--for this last should be always included among his +supreme efforts--has made me place him on the shelf where the mighty men +repose, himself the mightiest of all. Reading Milton is like dining off +gold plate in a company of kings; very splendid, very ceremonious, and +not a little appalling. Him I read but seldom, and only on high days and +festivals of the spirit. Him I never lay down without feeling my +appreciation increased for lesser men--never without the same kind of +comfort that one returning from the presence feels when he doffs +respectful attitude and dress of ceremony, and subsides into old coat, +familiar arm-chair, and slippers. After long-continued organ-music, the +jangle of the jews-harp is felt as an exquisite relief. With the volumes +on the special shelf I have spoken of, I am quite at home, and I feel +somehow as if they were at home with me. And as to-day the trees bend to +the blast, and the rain comes in dashes against my window, and as I have +nothing to do and cannot get out, and wish to kill the hours in as +pleasant a manner as I can, I shall even talk about them, as in sheer +liking a man talks about the trees in his garden, or the pictures on his +wall. I can't expect to say anything very new or striking, but I can +give utterance to sincere affection, and that is always pleasant to one's +self and generally not ungrateful to others. + +First; then, on this special shelf stands Nathaniel Hawthorne's +"Twice-Told Tales." + +It is difficult to explain why I like these short sketches and essays, +written in the author's early youth, better than his later, more +finished, and better-known novels and romances. The world sets greater +store by "The Scarlet Letter" and "Transformation" than by this little +book--and, in such matters of liking against the judgment of the world, +there is no appeal. I think the reason of my liking consists in +this--that the novels were written for the world, while the tales seem +written for the author; in these he is actor and audience in one. +Consequently, one gets nearer him, just as one gets nearer an artist in +his first sketch than in his finished picture. And after all, one takes +the greatest pleasure in those books in which a peculiar personality is +most clearly revealed. A thought may be very commendable as a thought, +but I value it chiefly as a window through which I can obtain insight on +the thinker; and Mr. Hawthorne's personality is peculiar, and specially +peculiar in a new country like America. He is quiet, fanciful, quaint, +and his humour is shaded by a meditativeness of spirit. Although a +Yankee, he partakes of none of the characteristics of a Yankee. His +thinking and his style have an antique air. His roots strike down +through the visible mould of the present, and draw sustenance from the +generations under ground. The ghosts that haunt the chamber of his mind +are the ghosts of dead men and women. He has a strong smack of the +Puritan; he wears around him, in the New England town, something of the +darkness and mystery of the aboriginal forest. He is a shy, silent, +sensitive, much ruminating man, with no special overflow of animal +spirits. He loves solitude, and the things which age has made reverent. +There is nothing modern about him. Emerson's writing has a cold +cheerless glitter, like the new furniture in a warehouse, which will come +of use by and by; Hawthorne's, the rich, subdued colour of furniture in a +Tudor mansion-house--which has winked to long-extinguished fires, which +has been toned by the usage of departed generations. In many of the +"Twice-Told Tales" this peculiar personality is charmingly exhibited. He +writes of the street or the sea-shore, his eye takes in every object, +however trifling, and on these he hangs comments, melancholy and +humourous. He does not require to go far for a subject; he will stare on +the puddle in the street of a New England village, and immediately it +becomes a Mediterranean Sea with empires lying on its muddy shores. If +the sermon be written out fully in your heart, almost any text will be +suitable--if you have to find your sermon _in_ your text, you may search +the Testament, New and Old, and be as poor at the close of Revelation as +when you started at the first book of Genesis. Several of the papers +which I like best are monologues, fanciful, humourous, or melancholy; and +of these, my chief favourites are "Sunday at Home," "Night Sketches," +"Footprints on the Seashore," and "The Seven Vagabonds." This last seems +to me almost the most exquisite thing which has flowed from its author's +pen--a perfect little drama, the place, a showman's waggon, the time, the +falling of a summer shower, full of subtle suggestions which, if +followed, will lead the reader away out of the story altogether; and +illuminated by a grave, wistful kind of humour, which plays in turns upon +the author's companions and upon the author himself. Of all Mr. +Hawthorne's gifts, this gift of humour--which would light up the skull +and cross-bones of a village churchyard, which would be silent at a +dinner-table--is to me the most delightful. + +Then this writer has a strangely weird power. He loves ruins like the +ivy, he skims the twilight like the bat, he makes himself a familiar of +the phantoms of the heart and brain. He is fascinated by the jarred +brain and the ruined heart. Other men collect china, books, pictures, +jewels; this writer collects singular human experiences, ancient wrongs +and agonies, murders done on unfrequented roads, crimes that seem to have +no motive, and all the dreary mysteries of the world of will. To his +chamber of horrors Madame Tussaud's is nothing. With proud, prosperous, +healthy men, Mr. Hawthorne has little sympathy; he prefers a cracked +piano to a new one; he likes cobwebs in the corners of his rooms. All +this peculiar taste comes out strongly in the little book in whose praise +I am writing. I read "The Minister's Black Veil," and find it the first +sketch of "The Scarlet Letter." In "Wakefield,"--the story of the man +who left his wife, remaining away twenty years, but who yet looked upon +her every day to appease his burning curiosity as to her manner of +enduring his absence--I find the keenest analysis of an almost +incomprehensible act. + +And then Mr. Hawthorne has a skill in constructing allegories which no +one of his contemporaries, either English or American, possesses. These +allegorical papers may be read with pleasure for their ingenuity, their +grace, their poetical feeling; but just as, gazing on the surface of a +stream, admiring the ripples and eddies, and the widening rings made by +the butterfly falling into it, you begin to be conscious that there is +something at the bottom, and gradually a dead face wavers upwards from +the oozy weeds, becoming every moment more clearly defined, so through +Mr. Hawthorne's graceful sentences, if read attentively, begins to flash +the hidden meaning, a meaning, perhaps, the writer did not care to +express formally and in set terms, and which he merely suggests and +leaves the reader to make out for himself. If you have the book I am +writing about, turn up "David Swan," "The Great Carbuncle," "The Fancy +Show-box," and after you have read these, you will understand what I mean. + +The next two books on my shelf--books at this moment leaning on the +"Twice-Told Tales"--are Professor Aytoun's "Ballads of Scotland," and the +"Lyra Germanica." These books I keep side by side with a purpose. The +forms of existence with which they deal seem widely separated; but a +strong kinship exists between them, for all that. I open Professor +Aytoun's book, and all this modern life--with its railways, its +newspapers, its crowded cities, its Lancashire distresses, its debates in +Parliament--fades into nothingness and silence. Scotland, from Edinburgh +rock to the Tweed, stretches away in rude spaces of moor and forest. The +wind blows across it, unpolluted by the smoke of towns. That which lives +now has not yet come into existence; what are to-day crumbling and ivied +ruins, are warm with household fires, and filled with human activities. +Every Border keep is a home: brides are taken there in their blushes; +children are born there; gray men, the crucifix held over them, die +there. The moon dances on a plump of spears, as the moss-troopers, by +secret and desert paths, ride over into England to lift a prey, and the +bale-fire on the hill gives the alarm to Cumberland. Men live and marry, +and support wife and little ones by steel-jacket and spear; and the +Flower of Yarrow, when her larder is empty, claps a pair of spurs in her +husband's platter. A time of strife and foray, of plundering and +burning, of stealing and reaving; when hate waits half a lifetime for +revenge, and where difficulties are solved by the slash of a sword-blade. +I open the German book, and find a warfare conducted in a different +manner. Here the Devil rides about wasting and destroying. Here +temptations lie in wait for the soul; here pleasures, like glittering +meteors, lure it into marshes and abysses. Watch and ward are kept here, +and to sleep at the post is death. Fortresses are built on the rock of +God's promises--inaccessible to the arrows of the wicked,--and therein +dwell many trembling souls. Conflict rages around, not conducted by +Border spear on barren moorland, but by weapons of faith and prayer in +the devout German heart;--a strife earnest as the other, with issues of +life and death. And the resemblance between the books lies in this, that +when we open them these past experiences and conditions of life gleam +visibly to us far down like submerged cities--all empty and hollow now, +though once filled with life as real as our own--through transparent +waters. + +In glancing over these German hymns, one is struck by their adaptation to +the seasons and occurrences of ordinary life. Obviously, too, the +writer's religion was not a Sunday matter only, it had its place in +week-days as well. In these hymns there is little gloom, a healthy human +cheerfulness pervades many of them, and this is surely as it ought to be. +These hymns, as I have said, are adapted to the occasions of ordinary +life; and this speaks favourably of the piety which produced them. I do +not suppose that we English are less religious than other nations, but we +are undemonstrative in this, as in most things. We have the sincerest +horror of over-dressing ourselves in fine sentiments. We are a little +shy of religion. We give it a day entirely to itself, and make it a +stranger to the other six. We confine it in churches, or in the closet +at home, and never think of taking it with us to the street, or into our +business, or with us to the festival, or the gathering of friends. Dr. +Arnold used to complain that he could get religious subjects treated in a +masterly way, but could not get common subjects treated in a religious +spirit. The Germans have done better; they have melted down the Sunday +into the week. They have hymns embodying confessions of sin, hymns in +the near prospect of death: and they have--what is more +important--spiritual songs that may be sung by soldiers on the march, by +the artisan at the loom, by the peasant following his team, by the mother +among her children, and by the maiden sitting at her wheel listening for +the step of her lover. Religion is thus brought in to refine and hallow +the sweet necessities and emotions of life, to cheer its weariness, and +to exalt its sordidness. The German life revolves like the village +festival with the pastor in the midst--joy and laughter and merry games +do not fear the holy man, for he wears no unkindness in his eye, but his +presence checks everything boisterous or unseemly,--the rude word, the +petulant act,--and when it has run its course, he uplifts his hands and +leaves his benediction on his children. + +The "Lyra Germanica" contains the utterances of pious German souls in all +conditions of life during many centuries. In it hymns are to be found +written not only by poor clergymen, and still poorer precentors, by +ribbon-manufacturers and shoemakers, who, amid rude environments, had a +touch of celestial melody in their hearts, but by noble ladies and +gentlemen, and crowned kings. The oldest in the collection is one +written by King Robert of France about the year 1000. It is beautifully +simple and pathetic. State is laid aside with the crown, pride with the +royal robe, and Lazarus at Dives' gate could not have written out of a +lowlier heart. The kingly brow may bear itself high enough before men, +the voice may be commanding and imperious enough, cutting through +contradiction as with a sword; but before the Highest all is humbleness +and bended knees. Other compositions there are, scattered through the +volume, by great personages, several by Louisa Henrietta, Electress of +Brandenburg, and Anton Ulrich, Duke of Brunswick,--all written two +hundred years ago. These are genuine poems, full of faith and charity, +and calm trust in God. They are all dead now, these noble gentlemen and +gentlewomen; their warfare, successful or adverse, has been long closed; +but they gleam yet in my fancy, like the white effigies on tombs in dim +cathedrals, the marble palms pressed together on the marble breast, the +sword by the side of the knight, the psalter by the side of the lady, and +flowing around them the scrolls on which are inscribed the texts of +resurrection. + +This book contains surely one of the most touching of human +compositions,--a song of Luther's. The great Reformer's music resounds +to this day in our churches; and one of the rude hymns he wrote has such +a step of thunder in it that the father of Frederick the Great, Mr. +Carlyle tells us, used to call it "God Almighty's Grenadier March." This +one I speak of is of another mood, and is soft as tears. To appreciate +it thoroughly, one must think of the burly, resolute, humourous, and +withal tender-hearted man, and of the work he accomplished. He it was, +the Franklin's kite, led by the highest hand, that went up into the papal +thundercloud hanging black over Europe; and the angry fire that broke +upon it burned it not, and in roars of boltless thunder the apparition +collapsed, and the sun of truth broke through the inky fragments on the +nations once again. He it was who, when advised not to trust himself in +Worms, declared, "Although there be as many devils in Worms as there are +tiles on the house-tops, I will go." He it was who, when brought to bay +in the splendid assemblage, said, "It is neither safe nor prudent to do +aught against conscience. Here stand I--I cannot do otherwise. God help +me. Amen." The rock cannot move--the lightnings may splinter it. Think +of these things, and then read Luther's "Christmas Carol," with its +tender inscription, "Luther--written for his little son Hans, 1546." +Coming from another pen, the stanzas were perhaps not much; coming from +_his_, they move one like the finest eloquence. This song sunk deep into +the hearts of the common people, and is still sung from the dome of the +Kreuz Kirche in Dresden before daybreak on Christmas morning. + +There is no more delightful reading in the world than these Scottish +ballads. The mailed knight, the Border peel, the moonlight raid, the +lady at her bower window--all these have disappeared from the actual +world, and lead existence now as songs. Verses and snatches of these +ballads are continually haunting and twittering about my memory, as in +summer the swallows haunt and twitter about the eaves of my dwelling. I +know them so well, and they meet a mortal man's experience so fully, that +I am sure--with, perhaps, a little help from Shakspeare--I could conduct +the whole of my business by quotation,--do all its love-making, pay all +its tavern-scores, quarrel and make friends again, in their words, far +better than I could in my own. If you know these ballads, you will find +that they mirror perfectly your every mood. If you are weary and +down-hearted, behold, a verse starts to your memory trembling with the +very sigh you have heaved. If you are merry, a stanza is dancing to the +tune of your own mirth. If you love, be you ever so much a Romeo, here +is the finest language for your using. If you hate, here are words which +are daggers. If you like battle, here for two hundred years have +trumpets been blowing and banners flapping. If you are dying, plentiful +are the broken words here which have hovered on failing lips. Turn where +you will, some fragment of a ballad is sure to meet you. Go into the +loneliest places of experience and passion, and you discover that you are +walking in human footprints. If you should happen to lift the first +volume of Professor Aytoun's "Ballads of Scotland," the book of its own +accord will open at "Clerk Saunders," and by that token you will guess +that the ballad has been read and re-read a thousand times. And what a +ballad it is! The story in parts is somewhat perilous to deal with, but +with what instinctive delicacy the whole matter is managed! Then what +tragic pictures, what pathos, what manly and womanly love! Just fancy +how the sleeping lovers, the raised torches, and the faces of the seven +brothers looking on, would gleam on the canvas of Mr. Millais!-- + + "'For in may come my seven bauld brothers, + Wi' torches burning bright.' + + "It was about the midnight hour, + And they were fa'en asleep, + When in and came her seven brothers, + And stood at her bed feet. + + "Then out and spake the first o' them, + 'We 'll awa' and let them be.' + Then out and spake the second o' them, + 'His father has nae mair than he.' + + "Then out and spake the third o' them, + 'I wot they are lovers dear.' + Then out and spake the fourth o' them, + 'They ha'e lo'ed for mony a year.' + + "Then out and spake the fifth o' them, + 'It were sin true love to twain.' + ''Twere shame,' out spake the sixth o' them, + 'To slay a sleeping man!' + + "Then up and gat the seventh o' them, + And never word spake he, + But he has striped his bright-brown brand + Through Saunders's fair bodie. + + "Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd + Into his arms as asleep she lay, + And sad and silent was the night + That was atween thir twae." + + +Could a word be added or taken from these verses without spoiling the +effect? You never think of the language, so vividly is the picture +impressed on the imagination. I see at this moment the sleeping pair, +the bright burning torches, the lowering faces of the brethren, and the +one fiercer and darker than the others. + +Pass we now to the Second Part-- + + "Sae painfully she clam' the wa', + She clam' the wa' up after him; + Hosen nor shoon upon her feet + She had na time to put them on. + + "'Is their ony room at your head, Saunders? + Is there ony room at your feet? + Or ony room at your side, Saunders, + Where fain, fain I wad sleep?'" + + +In that last line the very heart-strings crack. She is to be pitied far +more than Clerk Saunders, lying stark with the cruel wound beneath his +side, the love-kisses hardly cold yet upon his lips. + +It may be said that the books of which I have been speaking attain to the +highest literary excellence by favour of simplicity and unconsciousness. +Neither the German nor the Scotsman considered himself an artist. The +Scot sings a successful foray, in which perhaps he was engaged, and he +sings as he fought. In combat he did not dream of putting himself in a +heroic position, or of flourishing his blade in a manner to be admired. +A thrust of a lance would soon have finished him if he had. The pious +German is over-laden with grief, or touched by some blessing into sudden +thankfulness, and he breaks into song as he laughs from gladness or +groans from pain. This directness and naturalness give Scottish ballad +and German hymn their highest charm. The poetic gold, if rough and +unpolished, and with no elaborate devices carved upon it, is free at +least from the alloy of conceit and simulation. Modern writers might, +with benefit to themselves, barter something of their finish and +dexterity for that pure innocence of nature, and child-like simplicity +and fearlessness, full of its own emotion, and unthinking of others or of +their opinions, which characterise these old writings. + +The eighteenth century must ever remain the most brilliant and +interesting period of English literary history. It is interesting not +only on account of its splendour, but because it is so well known. We +are familiar with the faces of its great men by portraits, and with the +events of their lives by innumerable biographies. Every reader is +acquainted with Pope's restless jealousy, Goldsmith's pitted countenance +and plum-coloured coat, Johnson's surly manners and countless +eccentricities, and with the tribe of poets who lived for months ignorant +of clean linen, who were hunted by bailiffs, who smelt of stale punch, +and who wrote descriptions of the feasts of the gods in twopenny +cook-shops. Manners and modes of thought had greatly changed since the +century before. Macbeth, in silk stockings and scarlet coat, slew King +Duncan, and the pit admired the wild force occasionally exhibited by the +barbarian Shakspeare. In those days the Muse wore patches, and sat in a +sumptuous boudoir, and her worshippers surrounded her in high-heeled +shoes, ruffles, and powdered wigs. When the poets wished to paint +nature, they described Chloe sitting on a green bank watching her sheep, +or sighing when Strephon confessed his flame. And yet, with all this +apparent shallowness, the age was earnest enough in its way. It was a +good hater. It was filled with relentless literary feuds. Just recall +the lawless state of things on the Scottish Border in the olden +time,--the cattle-lifting, the house-burning, the midnight murders, the +powerful marauders, who, safe in numerous retainers and moated keep, bade +defiance to law; recall this state of things, and imagine the quarrels +and raids literary, the weapons satire and wit, and you have a good idea +of the darker aspect of the time. There were literary reavers, who laid +desolate at a foray a whole generation of wits. There were literary +duels, fought out in grim hate to the very death. It was dangerous to +interfere in the literary _melee_. Every now and then a fine gentleman +was run through with a jest, or a foolish Maecenas stabbed to the heart +with an epigram, and his foolishness settled for ever. + +As a matter of course, on this special shelf of books will be found +Boswell's "Life of Johnson"--a work in our literature unique, priceless. +That altogether unvenerable yet profoundly venerating Scottish +gentleman,--that queerest mixture of qualities, of force and weakness, +blindness and insight, vanity and solid worth,--has written the finest +book of its kind which our nation possesses. It is quite impossible to +over-state its worth. You lift it, and immediately the intervening years +disappear, and you are in the presence of the Doctor. You are made free +of the last century, as you are free of the present. You double your +existence. The book is a letter of introduction to a whole knot of +departed English worthies. In virtue of Boswell's labours, we know +Johnson--the central man of his time--better than Burke did, or +Reynolds,--far better even than Boswell did. We know how he expressed +himself, in what grooves his thoughts ran, how he ate, drank, and slept. +Boswell's unconscious art is wonderful, and so is the result attained. +This book has arrested, as never book did before, time and decay. Bozzy +is really a wizard: he makes the sun stand still. Till his work is done, +the future stands respectfully aloof. Out of ever-shifting time he has +made fixed and permanent certain years, and in these Johnson talks and +argues, while Burke listens, and Reynolds takes snuff, and Goldsmith, +with hollowed hand, whispers a sly remark to his neighbour. There have +they sat, these ghosts, for seventy years now, looked at and listened to +by the passing generations; and there they still sit, the one voice going +on! Smile at Boswell as we may, he was a spiritual phenomenon quite as +rare as Johnson. More than most he deserves our gratitude. Let us hope +that when next Heaven sends England a man like Johnson, a companion and +listener like Boswell will be provided. The Literary Club sits forever. +What if the Mermaid were in like eternal session, with Shakspeare's +laughter ringing through the fire and hail of wit! + +By the strangest freak of chance or liking, the next book on my shelf +contains the poems of Ebenezer Elliott, the Corn-law Rhymer. This +volume, adorned by a hideous portrait of the author, I can well remember +picking up at a bookstall for a few pence many years ago. It seems +curious to me that this man is not in these days better known. A more +singular man has seldom existed,--seldom a more genuine. His first +business speculation failed, but when about forty he commenced again, and +this time fortune made amends for her former ill-treatment. His +warehouse was a small, dingy place, filled with bars of iron, with a bust +of Shakspeare looking down on the whole. His country-house contained +busts; of Achilles, Ajax, and Napoleon. Here is a poet who earned a +competence as an iron-merchant; here is a monomaniac on the Corn-laws, +who loved nature as intensely as ever did Burns or Wordsworth. Here is a +John Bright uttering himself in fiery and melodious verse,--Apollo with +iron dust on his face, wandering among the Sheffield knife-grinders! If +you wish to form some idea of the fierce discontent which thirty years +ago existed amongst the working men of England, you should read the +Corn-law Rhymes. The Corn-laws are to him the twelve plagues of Egypt +rolled together. On account of them he denounces his country as the +Hebrew prophets were wont to denounce Tyre and Sidon. His rage breaks +out into curses, which are _not_ forgiveness. He is maddened by the +memory of Peterloo. Never, perhaps, was a sane human being so tyrannised +over by a single idea. A skeleton was found on one of the Derbyshire +hills. Had the man been crossed in love? had he crept up there to die in +the presence of the stars? "Not at all," cries Elliott; "he was a victim +of the Corn-laws, who preferred dying on the mountain-top to receiving +parish pay." In his wild poem all the evil kings in Hades descend from +their thrones when King George enters. They only let slip the dogs of +war; he taxed the people's bread. "Sleep on, proud Britoness!" he +exclaims over a woman at rest in the grave she had purchased. In one of +his articles in _Tait's Magazine_, he seriously proposed that tragedies +should be written showing the evils of the Corn-laws, and that on a given +night they should be performed in every theatre of the kingdom, so that +the nation might, by the speediest possible process, be converted to the +gospel of Free-trade. In his eyes the Corn-laws had gathered into their +black bosoms every human wrong: repeal them, and lo! the new heavens and +the new earth! A poor and shallow theory of the universe, you will say; +but it is astonishing what poetry he contrives to extract out of it. It +is hardly possible, without quotation, to give an idea of the rage and +fury which pervade these poems. He curses his political opponents with +his whole heart and soul. He pillories them, and pelts them with dead +cats and rotten eggs. The earnestness of his mood has a certain terror +in it for meek and quiet people. His poems are of the angriest, but +their anger is not altogether undivine. His scorn blisters and scalds, +his sarcasm flays; but then outside nature is constantly touching him +with a summer breeze or a branch of pink and white apple-blossom, and his +mood becomes tenderness itself. He is far from being lachrymose; and +when he is pathetic, he affects one as when a strong man sobs. His anger +is not nearly so frightful as his tears. I cannot understand why Elliott +is so little read. Other names not particularly remarkable I meet in the +current reviews--his never. His book stands on my shelf, but on no other +have I seen it. This I think strange, because, apart from the intrinsic +value of his verse as verse, it has an historical value. Evil times and +embittered feelings, now happily passed away, are preserved in his books, +like Pompeii and Herculaneum in Vesuvian lava. He was a poet of the +poor, but in a quite peculiar sense. Burns, Crabbe, Wordsworth, were +poets of the poor, but mainly of the peasant poor. Elliott is the poet +of the English artisans,--men who read newspapers and books, who are +members of mechanics' institutes, who attend debating societies, who +discuss political measures and political men, who are tormented by +ideas,--a very different kind of persons altogether. It is easier to +find poetry beneath the blowing hawthorn than beneath the plumes of +factory or furnace smoke. In such uninviting atmospheres Ebenezer +Elliott found his; and I am amazed that the world does not hold it in +greater regard, if for nothing else than for its singularity. + + +There is many another book on my shelf on which I might dilate, but this +gossiping must be drawn to a close. When I began, the wind was bending +the trees, and the rain came against the window in quick, petulant +dashes. For hours now, wind and rain have ceased, the trees are +motionless, the garden walk is dry. The early light of wintry sunset is +falling across my paper, and, as I look up, the white Dante opposite is +dipped in tender rose. Less stern he looks, but not less sad, than he +did in the morning. The sky is clear, and an arm of bleak pink vapour +stretches up into its depths. The air is cold with frost, and the rain +which those dark clouds in the east hold will fall during the night in +silent, feathery flakes. When I wake to-morrow, the world will be +changed, frosty forests will cover my bedroom panes, the tree branches +will be furred with snows; and to the crumbs which it is my daily custom +to sprinkle on the shrubbery walk will come the lineal descendant of the +charitable redbreast that covered up with leaves the sleeping children in +the wood. + + + + +GEOFFREY CHAUCER + +Chaucer is admitted on all hands to be a great poet, but, by the +general public at least, he is not frequently read. He is like a +cardinal virtue, a good deal talked about, a good deal praised, +honoured by a vast amount of distant admiration, but with little +practical acquaintance. And for this there are many and obvious +reasons. He is an ancient, and the rich old mahogany is neglected for +the new and glittering veneer. He is occasionally gross; often tedious +and obscure; he frequently leaves a couple of lovers, to cite the +opinions of Greek and Roman authors; and practice and patience are +required to melt the frost of his orthography, and let his music flow +freely. In the conduct of his stories he is garrulous, homely, and +slow-paced. He wrote in a leisurely world, when there was plenty of +time for writing and reading, long before the advent of the printer's +devil or of Mr. Mudie. There is little of the lyrical element in him. +He does not dazzle by sentences. He is not quotable. He does not +shine in extracts so much as in entire poems. There is a pleasant +equality about his writing; he advances through a story at an even +pace, glancing round him on everything with curious, humourous eyes, +and having his say about everything. He is the prince of +story-tellers, and however much he may move others, he is not moved +himself. His mood is so kindly that he seems always to have written +after dinner, or after hearing good news,--that he had received from +the king another grant of wine, for instance,--and he discourses of +love and lovers' raptures, and the disappointments of life, half +sportively, half sadly, like one who has passed through all, felt the +sweetness and the bitterness of it, and been able to strike a balance. +He had his share of crosses and misfortune, but his was a nature which +time and sorrow could only mellow and sweeten; and for all that had +come and gone, he loved his "books clothed in black and red," to sit at +good men's feasts; and if silent at table, as the Countess of Pembroke +reported, the "stain upon his lip was wine." Chaucer's face is to his +writings the best preface and commentary; it is contented-looking, like +one familiar with pleasant thoughts, shy and self-contained somewhat, +as if he preferred his own company to the noisy and rude companionship +of his fellows; and the outlines are bland, fleshy, voluptuous, as of +one who had a keen relish for the pleasures that leave no bitter +traces. Tears and mental trouble, and the agonies of doubt, you cannot +think of in connexion with it; laughter is sheathed in it, the light of +a smile is diffused over it. In face and turn of genius he differs in +every respect from his successor, Spenser; and in truth, in Chaucer and +Spenser we see the fountains of the two main streams of British song: +the one flowing through the drama and the humourous narrative, the +other through the epic and the didactic poem. Chaucer rooted himself +firmly in fact, and looked out upon the world in a half-humourous, +half-melancholy mood. Spenser had but little knowledge of men as +_men_; the cardinal virtues were the personages he was acquainted with; +in everything he was "high fantastical," and, as a consequence, he +exhibits neither humour nor pathos. Chaucer was thoroughly national; +his characters, place them where he may,--in Thebes or Tartary,--are +natives of one or other of the English shires. Spenser's genius was +country-less as Ariel; search ever so diligently, you will not find an +English daisy in all his enchanted forests. Chaucer was tolerant of +everything, the vices not excepted; morally speaking, an easy-going +man, he took the world as it came, and did not fancy himself a whit +better than his fellows. Spenser was a Platonist, and fed his grave +spirit on high speculations and moralities. Severe and chivalrous, +dreaming of things to come, unsuppled by luxury, unenslaved by passion, +somewhat scornful and self-sustained, it needed but a tyrannous king, +an electrical political atmosphere, and a deeper interest in theology +to make a Puritan of him, as these things made a Puritan of Milton. +The differences between Chaucer and Spenser are seen at a glance in +their portraits. Chaucer's face is round, good-humoured, +constitutionally pensive, and thoughtful. You see in it that he has +often been amused, and that he may easily be amused again. Spenser's +is of sharper and keener feature, disdainful, and breathing that +severity which appertains to so many of the Elizabethan men. A +fourteenth-century child, with delicate prescience, would have asked +Chaucer to assist her in a strait, and would not have been +disappointed. A sixteenth-century child in like circumstances would +have shrunk from drawing on herself the regards of the sterner-looking +man. We can trace the descent of the Chaucerian face and genius in +Shakspeare and Scott, of the Spenserian in Milton and Wordsworth. In +our day, Mr. Browning takes after Chaucer, Mr. Tennyson takes after +Spenser. + +Hazlitt, writing of the four great English poets, tells us, Chaucer's +characteristic is intensity, Spenser's remoteness, Milton's sublimity, +and Shakspeare's everything. The sentence is epigrammatic and +memorable enough; but so far as Chaucer is concerned, it requires a +little explanation. He is not intense, for instance, as Byron is +intense, or as Wordsworth is intense. He does not see man like the +one, nor nature like the other. He would not have cared much for +either of these poets. And yet, so far as straightforwardness in +dealing with a subject, and complete though quiet realisation of it +goes to make up intensity of poetic mood, Chaucer amply justifies his +critic. There is no wastefulness or explosiveness about the old +writer. He does his work silently, and with no appearance of effort. +His poetry shines upon us like a May morning; but the streak over the +eastern hill, the dew on the grass, the wind that bathes the brows of +the wayfarer, are not there by haphazard: they are the results of +occult forces, a whole solar system has had a hand in their production. +From the apparent ease with which an artist works, one does not readily +give him credit for the mental force he is continuously putting forth. +To many people, a chaotic "Festus" is more wonderful than a rounded, +melodious "Princess." The load which a strong man bears gracefully +does not seem so heavy as the load which the weaker man staggers under. +Incompletion is force fighting; completion is force quiescent, its work +done. Nature's forces are patent enough in some scarred volcanic moon +in which no creature can breathe; only the sage, in some soft green +earth, can discover the same forces reft of fierceness and terror, and +translated into sunshine, and falling dew, and the rainbow gleaming on +the shower. It is somewhat in this way that the propriety of Hazlitt's +criticism is to be vindicated. Chaucer is the most simple, natural, +and homely of our poets, and whatever he attempts he does thoroughly. +The Wife of Bath is so distinctly limned that she could sit for her +portrait. You can count the embroidered sprigs in the jerkin of the +squire. You hear the pilgrims laugh as they ride to Canterbury. The +whole thing is admirably life-like and seems easy, and in the seeming +easiness we are apt to forget the imaginative sympathy which bodies +forth the characters, and the joy and sorrow from which that sympathy +has drawn nurture. Unseen by us, the ore has been dug, and smelted in +secret furnaces, and when it is poured into perfect moulds, we are apt +to forget by what potency the whole thing has been brought about. + +And, with his noticing eyes, into what a brilliant, many tinted world +was Chaucer born! In his day life had a certain breadth, colour, and +picturesqueness which it does not possess now. It wore a braver dress, +and flaunted more in the sun. Five centuries effect a great change on +manners. A man may nowadays, and without the slightest suspicion of +the fact, brush clothes with half the English peerage on a sunny +afternoon in Pall Mall. Then it was quite different. The fourteenth +century loved magnificence and show. Great lords kept princely state +in the country; and when they came abroad, what a retinue, what waving +of plumes, and shaking of banners, and glittering of rich dresses! +Religion was picturesque, with dignitaries, and cathedrals, and fuming +incense, and the Host carried through the streets. The franklin kept +open house, the city merchant feasted kings, the outlaw roasted his +venison beneath the greenwood tree. There was a gallant monarch and a +gallant court. The eyes of the Countess of Salisbury shed influence; +Maid Marian laughed in Sherwood. London is already a considerable +place, numbering, perhaps, two hundred thousand inhabitants, the houses +clustering close and high along the river banks; and on the beautiful +April nights the nightingales are singing round the suburban villages +of Strand, Holborn, and Charing. It is rich withal; for after the +battle of Poitiers, Harry Picard, wine-merchant and Lord Mayor, +entertained in the city four kings,--to wit, Edward, king of England, +John, king of France, David, king of Scotland, and the king of Cyprus; +and the last-named potentate, slightly heated with Harry's wine, +engaged him at dice, and being nearly ruined thereby, the honest +wine-merchant returned the poor king his money, which was received with +all thankfulness. There is great stir on a summer's morning in that +Warwickshire castle,--pawing of horses, tossing of bridles, clanking of +spurs. The old lord climbs at last into his saddle and rides off to +court, his favourite falcon on his wrist, four squires in immediate +attendance carrying his arms; and behind these stretches a merry +cavalcade, on which the chestnuts shed their milky blossoms. In the +absence of the old peer, young Hopeful spends his time as befits his +rank and expectations. He grooms his steed, plays with his hawks, +feeds his hounds, and labours diligently to acquire grace and dexterity +in the use of arms. At noon the portcullis is lowered, and out shoots +a brilliant array of ladies and gentlemen, and falconers with hawks. +They bend their course to the river, over which a rainbow is rising +from a shower. Yonder young lady is laughing at our stripling squire, +who seems half angry, half pleased: they are lovers, depend upon it. A +few years, and the merry beauty will have become a noble, gracious +woman, and the young fellow, sitting by a watch-fire on the eve of +Cressy, will wonder if she is thinking of him. But the river is +already reached. Up flies the alarmed heron, his long blue legs +trailing behind him; a hawk is let loose; the young lady's laugh has +ceased as, with gloved hand shading fair forehead and sweet gray eye, +she watches hawk and heron lessening in heaven. The Crusades are now +over, but the religious fervour which inspired them lingered behind; so +that, even in Chaucer's day, Christian kings, when their consciences +were oppressed by a crime more than usually weighty, talked of making +an effort before they died to wrest Jerusalem and the sepulchre of +Christ from the grasp of the infidel. England had at this time several +holy shrines, the most famous being that of Thomas a Becket at +Canterbury, which attracted crowds of pilgrims. The devout travelled +in large companies: and, in the May mornings, a merry sight it was as, +with infinite clatter and merriment, with bells, minstrels, and +buffoons, they passed through thorp and village, bound for the tomb of +St. Thomas. The pageant of events, which seems enchantment when +chronicled by Froissart's splendid pen, was to Chaucer contemporaneous +incident; the chivalric richness was the familiar and every-day dress +of his time. Into this princely element he was endued, and he saw +every side of it,--the frieze as well as the cloth of gold. In the +"Canterbury Tales" the fourteenth century murmurs, as the sea murmurs +in the pink-mouthed shells upon our mantelpieces. + +Of his life we do not know much. In his youth he studied law and +disliked it,--a circumstance common enough in the lives of men of +letters, from his time to that of Shirley Brooks. How he lived, what +he did when he was a student, we are unable to discover. Only for a +moment is the curtain lifted, and we behold, in the old quaint peaked +and gabled Fleet Street of that day, Chaucer thrashing a Franciscan +friar (friar's offence unknown), for which amusement he was next +morning fined two shillings. History has preserved this for us, but +has forgotten all the rest of his early life, and the chronology of all +his poems. What curious flies are sometimes found in the historic +amber! On Chaucer's own authority, we know that he served under Edward +III. in his French campaign, and that he for some time lay in a French +prison. On his return from captivity he married; he was valet in the +king's household, he was sent on an embassy to Genoa, and is supposed +to have visited Petrarch, then resident at Padua, and to have heard +from his lips the story of "Griselda,"--a tradition which one would +like to believe. He had his share of the sweets and the bitters of +life. He enjoyed offices and gifts of wine, and he felt the pangs of +poverty and the sickness of hope deferred. He was comptroller of the +customs for wools; from which post he was dismissed,--why, we know not; +although one cannot help remembering that Edward made the writing out +of the accounts in Chaucer's own hand the condition of his holding +office, and having one's surmises. Foreign countries, strange manners, +meetings with celebrated men, love of wife and children, and their +deaths, freedom and captivity, the light of a king's smile and its +withdrawal, furnished ample matter of meditation to his humane and +thoughtful spirit. In his youth he wrote allegories full of ladies and +knights dwelling in impossible forests and nursing impossible passions; +but in his declining years, when fortune had done all it could for him +and all it could against him, he discarded these dreams, and betook +himself to the actual stuff of human nature. Instead of the "Romance +of the Rose," we have the "Canterbury Tales" and the first great +English poet. One likes to fancy Chaucer in his declining days living +at Woodstock, with his books about him, and where he could watch the +daisies opening themselves at sunrise, shutting themselves at sunset, +and composing his wonderful stories, in which the fourteenth century +lives,--riding to battle in iron gear, hawking in embroidered jerkin +and waving plume, sitting in rich and solemn feast, the monarch on the +dais. + +Chaucer's early poems have music and fancy, they are full of a natural +delight in sunshine and the greenness of foliage; but they have little +human interest. They are allegories for the most part, more or less +satisfactorily wrought out. The allegorical turn of thought, the +delight in pageantry, the "clothing upon" of abstractions with human +forms, flowered originally out of chivalry and the feudal times. +Chaucer imported it from the French, and was proud of it in his early +poems, as a young fellow of that day might be proud of his horse +furniture, his attire, his waving plume. And the poetic fashion thus +set retained its vitality for a long while,--indeed, it was only +thoroughly made an end of by the French Revolution, which made an end +of so much else. About the last trace of its influence is to be found +in Burns' sentimental correspondence with Mrs. M'Lehose, in which the +lady is addressed as Clarinda, and the poet signs himself Sylvander. +It was at best a mere beautiful gauze screen drawn between the poet and +nature; and passion put his foot through it at once. After Chaucer's +youth was over, he discarded somewhat scornfully these abstractions and +shows of things. The "Flower and the Leaf" is a beautiful-tinted +dream; the "Canterbury Tales" are as real as anything in Shakspeare or +Burns. The ladies in the earlier poems dwell in forests, and wear +coronals on their heads; the people in the "Tales" are engaged in the +actual concerns of life, and you can see the splashes of mire upon +their clothes. The separate poems which make up the "Canterbury Tales" +were probably written at different periods, after youth was gone, and +when he had fallen out of love with florid imagery and allegorical +conceits; and we can fancy him, perhaps fallen on evil days and in +retirement, anxious to gather up these loose efforts into one +consummate whole. If of his flowers he would make a bouquet for +posterity, it was of course necessary to procure a string to tie them +together. These necessities, which ruin other men, are the fortunate +chances of great poets. Then it was that the idea arose of a meeting +of pilgrims at the Tabard in Southwark, of their riding to Canterbury, +and of the different personages relating stories to beguile the tedium +of the journey. The notion was a happy one, and the execution is +superb. In those days, as we know, pilgrimages were of frequent +occurrence; and in the motley group that congregated on such occasions, +the painter of character had full scope. All conditions of people are +comprised in the noisy band issuing from the courtyard of the Southwark +inn on that May morning in the fourteenth century. Let us go nearer, +and have a look at them. + +There is a grave and gentle Knight, who has fought in many wars, and +who has many a time hurled his adversary down in tournament before the +eyes of all the ladies there, and who has taken the place of honour at +many a mighty feast. There, riding beside him, is a blooming Squire, +his son, fresh as the month of May, singing day and night from very +gladness of heart,--an impetuous young fellow, who is looking forward +to the time when he will flesh his maiden sword, and shout his first +war-cry in a stricken field. There is an Abbot, mounted on a brown +steed. He is middle-aged, his bald crown shines like glass, and his +face looks as if it were anointed with oil. He has been a valiant +trencher-man at many a well-furnished feast. Above all things, he +loves hunting; and when he rides, men can hear his bridle ringing in +the whistling wind loud and clear as a chapel bell. There is a thin, +ill-conditioned Clerk, perched perilously on a steed as thin and +ill-conditioned as himself. He will never be rich, I fear. He is a +great student, and would rather have a few books bound in black and red +hanging above his bed than be sheriff of the county. There is a +Prioress, so gentle and tender-hearted that she weeps if she hears the +whimper of a beaten hound, or sees a mouse caught in a trap. There +rides the laughing Wife of Bath, bold-faced and fair. She is an adept +in love-matters. Five husbands already "she has fried in their own +grease" till they were glad to get into their graves to escape the +scourge of her tongue. Heaven rest their souls, and swiftly send a +sixth! She wears a hat large as a targe or buckler, brings the +artillery of her eyes to bear on the young Squire, and jokes him about +his sweetheart. Beside her is a worthy Parson, who delivers faithfully +the message of his Master. Although he is poor, he gives away the half +of his tithes in charity. His parish is waste and wide, yet if +sickness or misfortune should befall one of his flock, he rides, in +spite of wind, or rain, or thunder, to administer consolation. Among +the crowd rides a rich Franklin, who sits in the Guildhall on the dais. +He is profuse and hospitable as summer. All day his table stands in +the hall covered with meats and drinks, and every one who enters is +welcome. There is a Ship-man, whose beard has been shaken by many a +tempest, whose cheek knows the kiss of the salt sea spray; a Merchant, +with a grave look, clean and neat in his attire, and with plenty of +gold in his purse. There is a Doctor of Physic, who has killed more +men than the Knight, talking to a Clerk of Laws. There is a merry +Friar, a lover of good cheer; and when seated in a tavern among his +companions, singing songs it would be scarcely decorous to repeat, you +may see his eyes twinkling in his head for joy, like stars on a frosty +night. Beside him is a ruby-faced Sompnour, whose breath stinks of +garlic and onions, who is ever roaring for wine,--strong wine, wine red +as blood; and when drunk, he disdains English,--nothing but Latin will +serve his turn. In front of all is a Miller, who has been drinking +over-night, and is now but indifferently sober. There is not a door in +the country that he cannot break by running at it with his head. The +pilgrims are all ready, the host gives the word, and they defile +through the arch. The Miller blows his bagpipes as they issue from the +town; and away they ride to Canterbury, through the boon sunshine, and +between the white hedges of the English May. + +Had Chaucer spent his whole life in seeking, he could not have selected +a better contemporary circumstance for securing variety of character +than a pilgrimage to Canterbury. It comprises, as we see, all kinds +and conditions of people. It is the fourteenth-century England in +little. In our time, the only thing that could match it in this +respect is Epsom down on the great race-day. But then Epsom down is +too unwieldy; the crowd is too great, and it does not cohere, save for +the few seconds when gay jackets are streaming towards the +winning-post. The Prologue to the "Canterbury Tales," in which we make +the acquaintance of the pilgrims, is the ripest, most genial and +humourous, altogether the most masterly thing which Chaucer has left +us. In its own way, and within its own limits, it is the most +wonderful thing in the language. The people we read about are as real +as the people we brush clothes with in the street,--nay, much _more_ +real; for we not only see their faces, and the fashion and texture of +their garments, we know also what they think, how they express +themselves, and with what eyes they look out on the world. Chaucer's +art in this Prologue is simple perfection. He indulges in no +irrelevant description, he airs no fine sentiments, he takes no special +pains as to style or poetic ornament; but every careless touch tells, +every sly line reveals character; the description of each man's +horse-furniture and array reads like a memoir. The Nun's pretty oath +bewrays her. We see the bold, well-favoured countenance of the Wife of +Bath beneath her hat, as "broad as a buckler or a targe"; and the horse +of the Clerk, "as lean as is a rake," tells tales of his master's +cheer. Our modern dress is worthless as an indication of the +character, or even of the social rank, of the wearer; in the olden time +it was significant of personal tastes and appetites, of profession, and +condition of life generally. See how Chaucer brings out a character by +touching merely on a few points of attire and personal appearance:-- + + "I saw his sleeves were purfiled at the hand + With fur, and that the finest of the land; + And for to fasten his hood under his chin + He had of gold ywrought a curious pin. + A love-knot in the greater end there was; + His head was bald, and shone as any glass, + And eke his face as if it was anoint." + +What more would you have? You could not have known the monk better if +you had lived all your life in the monastery with him. The sleeves +daintly purfiled with fur give one side of him, the curious pin with +the love-knot another, and the shining crown and face complete the +character and the picture. The sun itself could not photograph more +truly. + +On their way the pilgrims tell tales, and these are as various as their +relaters; in fact, the Prologue is the soil out of which they all grow. +Dramatic propriety is everywhere instinctively preserved. "The +Knight's Tale" is noble, splendid, and chivalric as his own nature; the +tale told by the Wife of Bath is exactly what one would expect. With +what good-humour the rosy sinner confesses her sins! how hilarious she +is in her repentance! "The Miller's Tale" is coarse and +full-flavoured,--just the kind of thing to be told by a rough, +humourous fellow who is hardly yet sober. And here it may be said that +although there is a good deal of coarseness in the "Canterbury Tales," +there is not the slightest tinge of pruriency. There is such a +single-heartedness and innocence in Chaucer's vulgarest and broadest +stories, such a keen eye for humour, and such a hearty enjoyment of it, +and at the same time such an absence of any delight in impurity for +impurity's sake, that but little danger can arise from their perusal. +He is so fond of fun that he will drink it out of a cup that is only +indifferently clean. He writes often like Fielding, he never writes as +Smollett sometimes does. These stories, ranging from the noble romance +of Palamon and Arcite to the rude intrigues of Clerk Nicholas,--the one +fitted to draw tears down the cheeks of noble ladies and gentlemen; the +other to convulse with laughter the midriffs of illiterate +clowns,--give one an idea of the astonishing range of Chaucer's powers. +He can suit himself to every company, make himself at home in every +circumstance of life; can mingle in tournaments where beauty is leaning +from balconies, and the knights, with spear in rest, wait for the blast +of the trumpet; and he can with equal ease sit with a couple of drunken +friars in a tavern laughing over the confessions they hear, and singing +questionable catches between whiles. Chaucer's range is wide as that +of Shakspeare,--if we omit that side of Shakspeare's mind which +confronts the other world, and out of which Hamlet sprang,--and his men +and women are even more real, and more easily matched in the living and +breathing world. For in Shakspeare's characters, as in his language, +there is surplusage, superabundance; the measure is heaped and running +over. From his sheer wealth, he is often the most _un_dramatic of +writers. He is so frequently greater than his occasion, he has no +small change to suit emergencies, and we have guineas in place of +groats. Romeo is more than a mortal lover, and Mercutio more than a +mortal wit; the kings in the Shakspearian world are more kingly than +earthly sovereigns; Rosalind's laughter was never heard save in the +Forest of Arden. His madmen seem to have eaten of some "strange root." +No such boon companion as Falstaff ever heard chimes at midnight. His +very clowns are transcendental, with scraps of wisdom springing out of +their foolishest speech. Chaucer, lacking Shakspeare's excess and +prodigality of genius, could not so gloriously err, and his creations +have a harder, drier, more realistic look, are more like the people we +hear uttering ordinary English speech, and see on ordinary country +roads against an ordinary English sky. If need were, any one of them +could drive pigs to market. Chaucer's characters are individual +enough, their idiosyncrasies are sharply enough defined, but they are +to some extent literal and prosaic; they are of the "earth, earthy;" +out of his imagination no Ariel ever sprang, no half-human, +half-brutish Caliban ever crept. He does not effloresce in +illustrations and images, the flowers do not hide the grass; his +pictures are masterpieces, but they are portraits, and the man is +brought out by a multiplicity of short touches,--caustic, satirical, +and matter of fact. His poetry may be said to resemble an English +country road, on which passengers of different degrees of rank are +continually passing,--now knight, now boor, now abbot: Spenser's, for +instance, and all the more fanciful styles, to a tapestry on which a +whole Olympus has been wrought. The figures on the tapestry are much +the more noble-looking, it is true; but then they are dreams and +phantoms, whereas the people on the country road actually exist. + +The "Knight's Tale"--which is the first told on the way to +Canterbury--is a chivalrous legend, full of hunting, battle, and +tournament. Into it, although the scene is laid in Greece, Chaucer +has, with a fine scorn of anachronism, poured all the splendour, +colour, pomp, and circumstance of the fourteenth century. It is +brilliant as a banner displayed to the sunlight. It is real cloth of +gold. Compared with it, "Ivanhoe" is a spectacle at Astley's. The +style is everywhere more adorned than is usual, although even here, and +in the richest parts, the short, homely, caustic Chaucerian line is +largely employed. The "Man of Law's Tale," again, is distinguished by +quite a different merit. It relates the sorrows and patience of +Constance, and is filled with the beauty of holiness. Constance might +have been sister to Cordelia; she is one of the white lilies of +womanhood. Her story is almost the tenderest in our literature. And +Chaucer's art comes out in this, that although she would spread her +hair, nay, put her very heart beneath the feet of those who wrong her, +we do not cease for one moment to respect her. This is a feat which +has but seldom been achieved. It has long been a matter of reproach to +Mr. Thackeray, for instance, that the only faculty with which he gifts +his good women is a supreme faculty of tears. To draw any very high +degree of female patience is one of the most difficult of tasks. If +you represent a woman bearing wrong with a continuous unmurmuring +meekness, presenting to blows, come from what quarter they may, nothing +but a bent neck, and eyelids humbly drooped, you are in nine cases out +of ten painting elaborately the portrait of a fool; and if you miss +making her a fool, you are certain to make her a bore. Your patient +woman, in books and in life, does not draw on our gratitude. When her +goodness is not stupidity,--which it frequently is,--it is insulting. +She walks about an incarnate rebuke. Her silence is an incessant +complaint. A teacup thrown at your head is not half so alarming as her +meek, much-wronged, unretorting face. You begin to suspect that she +consoles herself with the thought that there is another world, where +brutal brothers and husbands are settled with for their behaviour to +their angelic wives and sisters in this. Chaucer's Constance is +neither fool nor bore, although in the hands of anybody else she would +have been one or the other, or both. Like the holy religion which she +symbolises, her sweet face draws blessing and love wherever it goes; it +heals old wounds with its beauty, it carries peace into the heart of +discord, it touches murder itself into soft and penitential tears. In +reading the old tender-hearted poet, we feel that there is something in +a woman's sweetness and forgiveness that the masculine mind cannot +fathom; and we adore the hushed step and still countenance of Constance +almost as if an angel passed. + +Chaucer's orthography is unquestionably uncouth at first sight; but it +is not difficult to read if you keep a good glossary beside you for +occasional reference, and are willing to undergo a little trouble. The +language is antique, but it is full of antique flavour. Wine of +excellent vintage originally, it has improved through all the years it +has been kept. A very little trouble on the reader's part, in the +reign of Anne, would have made him as intelligible as Addison; a very +little more, in the reign of Queen Victoria, will make him more +intelligible than Mr. Browning. Yet somehow it has been a favourite +idea with many poets that he required modernisation, and that they were +the men to do it. Dryden, Pope, and Wordsworth have tried their hands +on him. Wordsworth performed his work in a reverential enough spirit; +but it may be doubted whether his efforts have brought the old poet a +single new reader. Dryden and Pope did not translate or modernise +Chaucer, they committed assault and battery upon him. They turned his +exquisitely _naive_ humour into their own coarseness, they put _doubles +entendre_ into his mouth, they blurred his female faces,--as a picture +is blurred when the hand of a Vandal is drawn over its yet wet +colours,--and they turned his natural descriptions into the natural +descriptions of "Windsor Forest" and the "Fables." The grand old +writer does not need translation or modernisation; but perhaps, if it +be done at all, it had better be reached in that way. For the benefit +of younger readers, I subjoin short prose versions of two of the +"Canterbury Tales,"--a story-book than which the world does not possess +a better. Listen, then, to the tale the Knight told as the pilgrims +rode to Canterbury:-- + +"There was once, as old stories tell, a certain Duke Theseus, lord and +governor of Athens. The same was a great warrior and conqueror of +realms. He defeated the Amazons, and wedded the queen of that country, +Hypolita. After his marriage, the duke, his wife, and his sister +Emily, with all their host, were riding towards Athens, when they were +aware that a company of ladies, clad in black, were kneeling two by two +on the highway, wringing their hands and filling the air with +lamentations. The duke, beholding this piteous sight, reined in his +steed and inquired the reason of their grief. Whereat one of the +ladies, queen to the slain King Capeneus, told him that at the siege of +Thebes (of which town they were), Creon, the conqueror, had thrown the +bodies of their husbands in a heap, and would on no account allow them +to be buried, so that their limbs were mangled by vultures and wild +beasts. At the hearing of this great wrong, the duke started down from +his horse, took the ladies one by one in his arms and comforted them, +sent Hypolita and Emily home, displayed his great white banner, and +immediately rode towards Thebes with his host. Arriving at the city, +he attacked boldly, slew the tyrant Creon with his own hand, tore down +the houses,--wall, roof, and rafter,--and then gave the bodies to the +weeping ladies that they might be honourably interred. While searching +amongst the slain Thebans, two young knights were found grievously +wounded, and by the richness of their armour they were known to be of +the blood royal. These young knights, Palamon and Arcite by name, the +duke carried to Athens and flung into perpetual prison. Here they +lived year by year in mourning and woe. It happened one May morning +that Palamon, who by the clemency of his keeper was roaming about in an +upper chamber, looked out and beheld Emily singing in the garden and +gathering flowers. At the sight of the beautiful apparition he started +and cried, 'Ha!' Arcite rose up, crying, 'Dear cousin, what is the +matter?' when he too was stricken to the heart by the shaft of her +beauty. Then the prisoners began to dispute as to which had the better +right to love her. Palamon said he had seen her first; Arcite said +that in love each man fought for himself; and so they disputed day by +day. Now, it so happened that at this time the Duke Perotheus came to +visit his old playfellow and friend Theseus, and at his intercession +Arcite was liberated, on the condition that on pain of death he should +never again be found in the Athenian dominions. Then the two knights +grieved in their hearts. 'What matters liberty?' said Arcite,--'I am a +banished man! Palamon in his dungeon is happier than I. He can see +Emily and be gladdened by her beauty!' 'Woe is me!' said Palamon; +'here must I remain in durance. Arcite is abroad; he may make sharp +war on the Athenian border, and win Emily by the sword.' When Arcite +returned to his native city he became so thin and pale with sorrow that +his friends scarcely knew him. One night the god Mercury appeared to +him in a dream and told him to return to Athens, for in that city +destiny had shaped an end of his woes. He arose next morning and went. +He entered as a menial into the service of the Duke Theseus, and in a +short time was promoted to be page of the chamber to Emily the bright. +Meanwhile, by the help of a friend, Palamon, who had drugged his jailer +with spiced wine, made his escape, and, as morning began to dawn, he +hid himself in a grove. That very morning Arcite had ridden from +Athens to gather some green branches to do honour to the month of May, +and entered the grove in which Palamon was concealed. When he had +gathered his green branches he sat down, and, after the manner of +lovers (who have no constancy of spirits), he began to pour forth his +sorrows to the empty air. Palamon, knowing his voice, started up with +a white face: 'False traitor Arcite! now I have found thee. Thou hast +deceived the Duke Theseus! I am the lover of Emily, and thy mortal +foe! Had I a weapon, one of us should never leave this grove alive!' +'By God, who sitteth above!' cried the fierce Arcite, 'were it not that +thou art sick and mad for love, I would slay thee here with my own +hand! Meats, and drinks, and bedding I shall bring thee to-night, +tomorrow swords and two suits of armour: take thou the better, leave me +the worse, and then let us see who can win the lady.' 'Agreed,' said +Palamon; and Arcite rode away in great fierce joy of heart. Next +morning, at the crowing of the cock, Arcite placed two suits of armour +before him on his horse, and rode towards the grove. When they met, +the colour of their faces changed. Each thought, 'Here comes my mortal +enemy; one of us must be dead.' Then, friend-like, as if they had been +brothers, they assisted each the other to rivet on the armour; that +done, the great bright swords went to and fro, and they were soon +standing ankle-deep in blood. That same morning the Duke Theseus, his +wife, and Emily went forth to hunt the hart with hound and horn, and, +as destiny ordered it, the chase led them to the very grove in which +the knights were fighting. Theseus, shading his eyes from the sunlight +with his hand, saw them, and, spurring his horse between them, cried, +'What manner of men are ye, fighting here without judge or officer?' +Whereupon Palamon said, 'I am that Palamon who has broken your prison; +this is Arcite the banished man, who, by returning to Athens, has +forfeited his head. Do with us as you list. I have no more to say.' +'You have condemned yourselves!' cried the duke; 'by mighty Mars the +red, both of you shall die!' Then Emily and the queen fell at his +feet, and, with prayers and tears and white hands lifted up, besought +the lives of the young knights, which was soon granted. Theseus began +to laugh when he thought of his own young days. 'What a mighty god is +Love!' quoth he. 'Here are Palamon and Arcite fighting for my sister, +while they know she can only marry one, Fight they ever so much, she +cannot marry both. I therefore ordain that both of you go away, and +return this day year, each bringing with him a hundred knights; and let +the victor in solemn tournament have Emily for wife.' Who was glad now +but Palamon! who sprang up for joy but Arcite! + +"When the twelve months had nearly passed away, there was in Athens a +great noise of workmen and hammers. The duke was busy with +preparations. He built a large amphitheatre, seated, round and round, +to hold thousands of people. He erected also three temples,--one for +Diana, one for Mars, one for Venus; how rich these were, how full of +paintings and images, the tongue cannot tell! Never was such +preparation made in the world. At last the day arrived in which the +knights were to make their entrance into the city. A noise of trumpets +was heard, and through the city rode Palamon and his train. With him +came Lycurgus, the king of Thrace. He stood in a great car of gold, +drawn by four white bulls, and his face was like a griffin when he +looked about. Twenty or more hounds used for hunting the lion and the +bear ran about the wheels of his car; at his back rode a hundred lords, +stern and stout. Another burst of trumpets, and Arcite entered with +his troop. By his side rode Emetrius, the king of India, on a bay +steed covered with cloth of gold. His hair was yellow, and glittered +like the sun; when he looked upon the people, they thought his face was +like the face of a lion; his voice was like the thunder of a trumpet. +He bore a white eagle on his wrist, and tame lions and leopards ran +among the horses of his train. They came to the city on a Sunday +morning, and the jousts were to begin on Monday. What pricking of +squires backwards and forwards, what clanking of hammers, what baying +of hounds, that day! At last it was noon of Monday. Theseus declared +from his throne that no blood was to be shed, that they should take +prisoners only, and that he who was once taken prisoner should on no +account again mingle in the fray. Then the duke, the queen, Emily, and +the rest, rode to the lists with trumpets and melody. They had no +sooner taken their places than through the gate of Mars rode Arcite and +his hundred, displaying a red banner. At the self-same moment Palamon +and his company entered by the gate of Venus, with a banner white as +milk. They were then arranged in two ranks, their names were called +over, the gates were shut, the herald gave his cry, loud and clear rang +the trumpet, and crash went the spears, as if made of glass, when the +knights met in battle shock. There might you see a knight unhorsed, a +second crushing his way through the press, armed with a mighty mace, a +third hurt and taken prisoner. Many a time that day in the swaying +battle did the two Thebans meet, and thrice were they unhorsed. At +last, near the setting of the sun, when Palamon was fighting with +Arcite, he was wounded by Emetrius, and the battle thickened at the +place. Emetrius, is thrown out of his saddle a spear's length. +Lycurgus is overthrown, and rolls on the ground, horse and man; and +Palamon is dragged by main force to the stake. Then Theseus rose up +where he sat, and cried, 'Ho! no more; Arcite of Thebes hath won +Emily!' at which the people shouted so loudly that it almost seemed the +mighty lists would fall. Arcite now put up his helmet, and, curveting +his horse through the open space, smiled to Emily, when a fire from +Pluto started out of the earth; the horse shied, and his rider was +thrown on his head on the ground. When he was lifted, his breast was +broken, and his face was as black as coal. Then there was grief in +Athens; every one wept. Soon after, Arcite, feeling the cold death +creeping up from his feet and darkening his face and eyes, called +Palamon and Emily to his bedside, when he joined their hands, and died. +The dead body was laid on a pile, dressed in splendid war gear; his +naked sword was placed by his side; the pile was heaped with gums, +frankincense, and odours; a torch was applied; and when the flames rose +up, and the smoky fragrance rolled to heaven, the Greeks galloped round +three times, with a great shouting and clashing of shields." + +The Man of Law's tale runs in this wise: + +"There dwelt in Syria once a company of merchants, who scented every +land with their spices. They dealt in jewels, and cloth of gold, and +sheeny satins. It so happened that while some of them were dwelling in +Rome for traffic, the people talked of nothing save the wonderful +beauty of Constance, the daughter of the emperor. She was so fair that +every one who looked upon her face fell in love with her. In a short +time the ships of the merchants, laden with rich wares, were furrowing +the green sea, going home. When they came to their native city they +could talk of nothing but the marvellous beauty of Constance. Their +words being reported to the Sultan, he determined that none other +should be his wife; and for this purpose he abandoned the religion of +the false prophet, and was baptised in the Christian faith. +Ambassadors passed between the courts, and the day came at length when +Constance was to leave Rome for her husband's palace in Syria. What +kisses and tears and lingering embraces! What blessings on the little +golden head which was so soon to lie in the bosom of a stranger! What +state and solemnity in the procession which wound down from the shore +to the ship! At last it was Syria. Crowds of people were standing on +the beach. The mother of the Sultan was there; and when Constance +stepped ashore, she took her in her arms and kissed her as if she had +been her own child. Soon after, with trumpets and melody and the +trampling of innumerable horses, the Sultan came. Everything was joy +and happiness. But the smiling demoness, his mother, could not forgive +him for changing his faith, and she resolved to slay him that very +night, and seize the government of the kingdom. He and all his lords +were stabbed in the rich hall while they were sitting at their wine. +Constance alone escaped. She was then put into a ship alone, with food +and clothes, and told that she might find her way back to Italy. She +sailed away, and was never seen by that people. For five years she +wandered to and fro upon the sea. Do you ask who preserved her? The +same God who fed Elijah with ravens, and saved Daniel in the horrible +den. At last she floated into the English seas, and was thrown by the +waves on the Northumberland shore, near which stood a great castle. +The constable of the castle came down in the morning to see the woful +woman. She spoke a kind of corrupt Latin, and could neither tell her +name nor the name of the country of which she was a native. She said +she was so bewildered in the sea that she remembered nothing. The man +could not help loving her, and so took her home to live with himself +and his wife. Now, through the example and teaching of Constance, Dame +Hermigild was converted to Christianity. It happened also that three +aged Christian Britons were living near that place in great fear of +their pagan neighbours, and one of these men was blind. One day, as +the constable, his wife, and Constance were walking along the +sea-shore, they were met by the blind man, who called out, 'In the name +of Christ, give me my sight, Dame Hermigild!' At this, on account of +her husband, she was sore afraid; but, encouraged by Constance, she +wrought a great miracle, and gave the blind man his sight. But Satan, +the enemy of all, wanted to destroy Constance, and he employed a young +knight for that purpose. This knight had loved her with a foul +affection, to which she could give no return. At last, wild for +revenge, he crept at night into Hermigild's chamber, slew her, and laid +the bloody knife on the innocent pillow of Constance. The next morning +there was woe and dolour in the house. She was brought before Alla, +the king, charged with the murder. The people could not believe that +she had done this thing; they knew she loved Hermigild so. Constance +fell down on her knees and prayed to God for succour. Have you ever +been in a crowd in which a man is being led to death, and, seeing a +wild, pale face, know by that sign that you are looking upon the doomed +creature?--so wild, so pale looked Constance when she stood before the +king and people. The tears ran down Alla's face. 'Go fetch a book,' +cried he; 'and if this knight swears that the woman is guilty, she +shall surely die.' The book was brought, the knight took the oath, and +that moment an unseen hand smote him on the neck, so that he fell down +on the floor, his eyes bursting out of his head. Then a celestial +voice was heard in the midst, crying, 'Thou hast slandered a daughter +of Holy Church in high presence, and yet I hold my peace.' A great awe +fell on all who heard, and the king and multitudes of his people were +converted. Shortly after this, Alla wedded Constance with great +richness and solemnity. At length he was called to defend his border +against the predatory Scots, and in his absence a man-child was born. +A messenger was sent with the blissful tidings to the king's camp; but, +on his way, the messenger turned aside to the dwelling of Donegild, the +king's mother, and said, 'Be blithe, madam; the queen has given birth +to a son, and joy is in the land. Here is the letter I bear to the +king.' The wicked Donegild said, 'You must be already tired; here are +refreshments.' And while the simple man drank ale and wine, she forged +a letter, saying that the queen had been delivered of a creature so +fiendish and horrible that no one in the castle could bear to look upon +it. This letter the messenger gave to the king; and who can tell his +grief! But he wrote in reply, 'Welcome be the child that Christ sends! +Welcome, O Lord, be thy pleasure! Be careful of my wife and child till +my return.' The messenger on his return slept at Donegild's court, +with the letter under his girdle. It was stolen while in his drunken +sleep, and another put in its place, charging the constable not to let +Constance remain three days in the kingdom, but to send her and her +child away in the same ship in which she had come. The constable could +not help himself. Thousands are gathered on the shore. With a face +wild and pale as when she came from the sea, and bearing her crying +infant in her arms, she comes through the crowd, which shrinks back, +leaving a lane for her sorrow. She takes her seat in the little boat; +and while the cruel people gaze hour by hour from the shore, she passes +into the sunset, and away out into the night under the stars. When +Alla returned from the war, and found how he had been deceived, he slew +his mother, in the bitterness of his heart. + +"News had come to Rome of the cruelty of the Sultan's mother to +Constance, and an army was sent to waste her country. After the land +had been burned and desolated, the commander was crossing the seas in +triumph, when he met the ship sailing in which sat Constance and her +little boy. They were both brought to Rome, and although the +commander's wife and Constance were cousins, the one did not know the +other. By this time, remorse for the slaying of his mother had seized +Alla's mind, and he could find no rest. He resolved to make a +pilgrimage to Rome in search of peace. He crossed the Alps with his +train, and entered the city with great glory and magnificence. One day +he feasted at the commander's house, at which Constance dwelt; and at +her request her little son was admitted, and during the progress of the +feast the child went and stood looking in the king's face. 'What fair +child is that standing yonder?' said the king. 'By St. John; I know +not!' quoth the commander; 'he has a mother, but no father that I know +of.' And then he told the king--who seemed all the while like a man +stunned--how he had found the mother and child floating about on the +sea. The king rose from the table and sent for Constance; and when he +saw her, and thought on all her wrongs, he could not refrain from +tears. 'This is your little son, Maurice,' she said, as she led him in +by the hand. Next day she met the emperor her father in the street, +and, falling down on her knees before him, said, 'Father, has the +remembrance of your young child Constance gone out of your mind? I am +that Constance whom you sent to Syria, and who was thought to be lost +in the sea.' That day there was great joy in Rome; and soon afterwards +Alla, with his wife and child, returned to England, where they lived in +great prosperity till he died." + + + + +BOOKS AND GARDENS + +Most men seek solitude from wounded vanity, from disappointed ambition, +from a miscarriage in the passions; but some others from native +instinct, as a duckling seeks water. I have taken to my solitude, such +as it is, from an indolent turn of mind, and this solitude I sweeten by +an imaginative sympathy which re-creates the past for me,--the past of +the world, as well as the past which belongs to me as an +individual,--and which makes me independent of the passing moment. I +see every one struggling after the unattainable, but I struggle not, +and so spare myself the pangs of disappointment and disgust. I have no +ventures at sea, and, consequently, do not fear the arrival of evil +tidings. I have no desire to act any prominent part in the world, but +I am devoured by an unappeasable curiosity as to the men who do act. I +am not an actor, I am a spectator only. My sole occupation is +sight-seeing. In a certain imperial idleness, I amuse myself with the +world. Ambition! What do I care for ambition? The oyster with much +pain produces its pearl. I take the pearl. Why should I produce one +after this miserable, painful fashion? It would be but a flawed one, +at best. These pearls I can pick up by the dozen. The production of +them is going on all around me, and there will be a nice crop for the +solitary man of the next century. Look at a certain silent emperor, +for instance: a hundred years hence _his_ pearl will be handed about +from hand to hand; will be curiously scrutinised and valued; will be +set in its place in the world's cabinet. I confess I should like to +see the completion of that filmy orb. Will it be pure in colour? Will +its purity be marred by an ominous bloody streak? Of this I am +certain, that in the cabinet in which the world keeps these peculiar +treasures, no one will be looked at more frequently, or will provoke a +greater variety of opinions as to its intrinsic worth. Why should I be +ambitious? Shall I write verses? I am not likely to surpass Mr. +Tennyson or Mr. Browning in that walk. Shall I be a musician? The +blackbird singing this moment somewhere in my garden shrubbery puts me +to instant shame. Shall I paint? The intensest scarlet on an artist's +palette is but ochre to that I saw this morning at sunrise. No, no, +let me enjoy Mr. Tennyson's verse, and the blackbird's song, and the +colours of sunrise, but do not let me emulate them. I am happier as it +is. I do not need to make history,--there are plenty of people willing +to save me trouble on that score. The cook makes the dinner, the guest +eats it; and the last, not without reason, is considered the happier +man. + +In my garden I spend my days; in my library I spend my nights. My +interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the +flower I am in the present; with the book I am in the past. I go into +my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning +air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, +while it vibrated only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and +to the laugh of Eve. I see the Pyramids building; I hear the shoutings +of the armies of Alexander; I feel the ground shake beneath the march +of Cambyses. I sit as in a theatre,--the stage is time, the play is +the play of the world. What a spectacle it is! What kingly pomp, what +processions file past, what cities burn to heaven, what crowds of +captives are dragged at the chariot-wheels of conquerors! I hiss, or +cry "Bravo," when the great actors come on the shaking stage. I am a +Roman emperor when I look at a Roman coin. I lift Homer, and I shout +with Achilles in the trenches. The silence of the unpeopled Syrian +plains, the out-comings and in-goings of the patriarchs, Abraham and +Ishmael, Isaac in the fields at eventide, Rebekah at the well, Jacob's +guile, Esau's face reddened by desert sun-heat, Joseph's splendid +funeral procession,--all these things I find within the boards of my +Old Testament. What a silence in those old books as of a half-peopled +world; what bleating of flocks; what green pastoral rest; what +indubitable human existence! Across brawling centuries of blood and +war I hear the bleating of Abraham's flocks, the tinkling of the bells +of Rebekah's camels. O men and women so far separated yet so near, so +strange yet so well known, by what miraculous power do I know ye all! +Books are the true Elysian fields, where the spirits of the dead +converse; and into these fields a mortal may venture unappalled. What +king's court can boast such company? What school of philosophy such +wisdom? The wit of the ancient world is glancing and flashing there. +There is Pan's pipe, there are the songs of Apollo. Seated in my +library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am +occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural. They are +not collections of printed pages, they are ghosts. I take one down, +and it speaks with me in a tongue not now heard on earth, and of men +and things of which it alone possesses knowledge. I call myself a +solitary, but sometimes I think I misapply the term. No man sees more +company than I do. I travel with mightier cohorts around me than ever +did Timour or Genghis Khan on their fiery marches. I am a sovereign in +my library, but it is the dead, not the living, that attend my levees. + +The house I dwell in stands apart from the little town, and relates +itself to the houses as I do to the inhabitants. It sees everything, +but is itself unseen, or, at all events, unregarded. My study-window +looks down upon Dreamthorp like a meditative eye. Without meaning it, +I feel I am a spy on the on-goings of the quiet place. Around my house +there is an old-fashioned rambling garden, with close-shaven grassy +plots, and fantastically clipped yews which have gathered their +darkness from a hundred summers and winters; and sun-dials in which the +sun is constantly telling his age; and statues green with neglect and +the stains of the weather. The garden I love more than any place on +earth; it is a better study than the room inside the house which is +dignified by that name. I like to pace its gravelled walks, to sit in +the moss-house, which is warm and cosey as a bird's nest, and wherein +twilight dwells at noonday; to enjoy the feast of colour spread for me +in the curiously shaped floral spaces. My garden, with its silence and +the pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, +affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me +wistfully through the bars. Among my flowers and trees Nature takes me +into her own hands, and I breathe freely as the first man. It is +curious, pathetic almost, I sometimes think, how deeply seated in the +human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening. The sickly +seamstress in the narrow city lane tends her box of sicklier +mignonette. The retired merchant is as fond of tulips as ever was +Dutchman during the famous mania. The author finds a garden the best +place to think out his thought. In the disabled statesman every +restless throb of regret or ambition is stilled when he looks upon his +blossomed apple-trees. Is the fancy too far brought that this love for +gardens is a reminiscence haunting the race of that remote time in the +world's dawn when but two persons existed,--a gardener named Adam, and +a gardener's wife called Eve? + +When I walk out of my house into my garden I walk out of my habitual +self, my every-day thoughts, my customariness of joy or sorrow by which +I recognise and assure myself of my own identity. These I leave behind +me for a time, as the bather leaves his garments on the beach. This +piece of garden-ground, in extent barely a square acre, is a kingdom +with its own interests, annals, and incidents. Something is always +happening in it. To-day is always different from yesterday. This +spring a chaffinch built a nest in one of my yew-trees. The particular +yew which the bird did me the honour to select had been clipped long +ago into a similitude of Adam, and, in fact, went by his name. The +resemblance to a human figure was, of course, remote, but the intention +was evident. In the black shock head of our first parent did the birds +establish their habitation. A prettier, rounder, more comfortable nest +I never saw, and many a wild swing it got when Adam bent his back, and +bobbed and shook his head when the bitter east wind was blowing. The +nest interested me, and I visited it every day from the time the first +stained turquoise sphere was laid in the warm lining of moss and +horse-hair, till, when I chirped, four red hungry throats, eager for +worm or slug, opened out of a confused mass of feathery down. What a +hungry brood it was, to be sure, and how often father and mother were +put to it to provide them sustenance! I went but the other day to have +a peep, and, behold! brood and parent-birds were gone, the nest was +empty, Adam's visitors had departed. In the corners of my bedroom +window I have a couple of swallows' nests, and nothing can be +pleasanter in these summer mornings than to lie in a kind of +half-dream, conscious all the time of the chatterings and endearments +of the man-loving creatures. They are beautifully restless, and are +continually darting around their nests in the window-corners. All at +once there is a great twittering and noise; something of moment has +been witnessed, something of importance has occurred in the +swallow-world,--perhaps a fly of unusual size or savour has been +bolted. Clinging with their feet, and with heads turned charmingly +aside, they chatter away with voluble sweetness, then with a gleam of +silver they are gone, and in a trice one is poising itself in the wind +above my tree-tops, while the other dips her wing as she darts after a +fly through the arches of the bridge which lets the slow stream down to +the sea. I go to the southern wall, against which I have trained my +fruit-trees, and find it a sheet of white and vermeil blossom; and as I +know it by heart, I can notice what changes take place on it day by +day, what later clumps of buds have burst into colour and odour. What +beauty in that blooming wall! the wedding-presents of a princess ranged +for admiration would not please me half so much; what delicate +colouring! what fragrance the thievish winds steal from it, without +making it one odour the poorer! with what a complacent hum the bee goes +past! My chaffinch's nest, my swallows,--twittering but a few months +ago around the kraal of the Hottentot, or chasing flies around the six +solitary pillars of Baalbec,--with their nests in the corners of my +bed-room windows, my long-armed fruit-trees flowering against my sunny +wall, are not mighty pleasures, but then they are my own, and I have +not to go in search of them. And so, like a wise man, I am content +with what I have, and make it richer by my fancy, which is as cheap as +sunlight, and gilds objects quite as prettily. It is the coins in my +own pocket, not the coins in the pockets of my neighbour, that are of +use to me. Discontent has never a doit in her purse, and envy is the +most poverty stricken of the passions. + +His own children, and the children he happens to meet on the country +road, a man regards with quite different eyes. The strange, sunburnt +brats returning from a primrose-hunt and laden with floral spoils, may +be as healthy looking, as pretty, as well-behaved, as sweet-tempered, +as neatly dressed as those that bear his name,--may be in every respect +as worthy of love and admiration; but then they have the misfortune not +to belong to him. That little fact makes a great difference. He knows +nothing about them; his acquaintance with them is born and dead in a +moment. I like my garden better than any other garden, for the same +reason. It is my own. And ownership in such a matter implies a great +deal. When I first settled here, the ground around the house was sour +moorland. I made the walk, planted the trees, built the moss-house, +erected the sun-dial, brought home the rhododendrons and fed them with +the mould which they love so well. I am the creator of every blossom, +of every odour that comes and goes in the wind. The rustle of my trees +is to my ear what his child's voice is to my friends the village doctor +or the village clergyman. I know the genealogy of every tree and plant +in my garden. I watch their growth as a father watches the growth of +his children. It is curious enough, as showing from what sources +objects derive their importance, that if you have once planted a tree +for other than commercial purposes,--and in that case it is usually +done by your orders and by the hands of hirelings,--you have always in +it a peculiar interest. You care more for it than you care for all the +forests of Norway or America. _You_ have planted it, and that is +sufficient to make it peculiar amongst the trees of the world. This +personal interest I take in every inmate of my garden, and this +interest I have increased by sedulous watching. But, really, trees and +plants resemble human beings in many ways. You shake a packet of seed +into your forcing-frame; and while some grow, others pine and die, or +struggle on under hereditary defect, showing indifferent blossoms late +in the season, and succumb at length. So far as one could discover, +the seeds were originally alike,--they received the same care, they +were fed by the same moisture and sunlight; but of no two of them are +the issues the same. Do I not see something of this kind in the world +of men, and can I not please myself with quaint analogies? These +plants and trees have their seasons of illness and their sudden deaths. +Your best rose-tree, whose fame has spread for twenty miles, is smitten +by some fell disease; its leaves take an unhealthy hue, and in a day or +so it is sapless,--dead. A tree of mine, the first last spring to put +out its leaves, and which wore them till November, made this spring no +green response to the call of the sunshine. Marvelling what ailed it, +I went to examine, and found it had been dead for months; and yet +during the winter there had been no frost to speak of, and more than +its brothers and sisters it was in no way exposed. These are the +tragedies of the garden, and they shadow forth other tragedies nearer +us. In everything we find a kind of dim mirror of ourselves. Sterne, +if placed in a desert, said he would love a tree; and I can fancy such +a love would not be altogether unsatisfying. Love of trees and plants +is safe. You do not run risk in your affections. They are my +children, silent and beautiful, untouched by any passion, unpolluted by +evil tempers; for me they leaf and flower themselves. In autumn they +put off their rich apparel, but next year they are back again, with +dresses fair as ever; and--one can extract a kind of fanciful +bitterness from the thought--should I be laid in my grave in winter, +they would all in spring be back again, with faces a bright and with +breaths as sweet, missing me not at all. Ungrateful, the one I am +fondest of would blossom very prettily if planted on the soil that +covers me,--where my dog would die, where my best friend would perhaps +raise an inscription! + +I like flowering plants, but I like trees more,--for the reason, I +suppose, that they are slower in coming to maturity, are longer lived, +that you can become better acquainted with them, and that in the course +of years memories and associations hang as thickly on their boughs as +do leaves in summer or fruits in autumn. I do not wonder that great +earls value their trees, and never, save in direst extremity, lift upon +them the axe. Ancient descent and glory are made audible in the proud +murmur of immemorial woods. There are forests in England whose leafy +noises may be shaped into Agincourt and the names of the battle-fields +of the Roses; oaks that dropped their acorns in the year that Henry +VIII. held his Field of the Cloth of Gold, and beeches that gave +shelter to the deer when Shakspeare was a boy. There they stand, in +sun and shower, the broad-armed witnesses of perished centuries; and +sore must his need be who commands a woodland massacre. A great +English tree, the rings of a century in its boll, is one of the noblest +of natural objects; and it touches the imagination no less than the +eye, for it grows out of tradition and a past order of things, and is +pathetic with the suggestions of dead generations. Trees waving a +colony of rooks in the wind to-day, are older than historic lines. +Trees are your best antiques. There are cedars on Lebanon which the +axes of Solomon spared, they say, when he was busy with his Temple; +there are olives on Olivet that might have rustled in the ears of the +Master and the Twelve; there are oaks in Sherwood which have tingled to +the horn of Robin Hood, and have listened to Maid Marian's laugh. +Think of an existing Syrian cedar which is nearly as old as history, +which was middle-aged before the wolf suckled Romulus! Think of an +existing English elm in whose branches the heron was reared which the +hawks of Saxon Harold killed! If you are a notable, and wish to be +remembered, better plant a tree than build a city or strike a medal; it +will outlast both. + +My trees are young enough, and if they do not take me away into the +past, they project me into the future. When I planted them, I knew I +was performing an act, the issues of which would outlast me long. My +oaks are but saplings; but what undreamed-of English kings will they +not outlive! I pluck my apples, my pears, my plums; and I know that +from the same branches other hands will pluck apples, pears, and plums +when this body of mine will have shrunk into a pinch of dust. I cannot +dream with what year these hands will date their letters. A man does +not plant a tree for himself, he plants it for posterity. And, sitting +idly in the sunshine, I think at times of the unborn people who will, +to some small extent, be indebted to me. Remember me kindly, ye future +men and women! When I am dead, the juice of my apples will foam and +spurt in your cider-presses, my plums will gather for you their misty +bloom; and that any of your youngsters should be choked by one of my +cherry-stones, merciful Heaven forfend! + +In this pleasant summer weather I hold my audience in my garden rather +than in my house. In all my interviews the sun is a third party. +Every village has its Fool, and, of course, Dreamthorp is not without +one. Him I get to run my messages for me, and he occasionally turns my +garden borders with a neat hand enough. He and I hold frequent +converse, and people here, I have been told, think we have certain +points of sympathy. Although this is not meant for a compliment, I +take it for one. The poor faithful creature's brain has strange +visitors; now 't is fun, now wisdom, and now something which seems in +the queerest way a compound of both. He lives in a kind of twilight +which obscures objects, and his remarks seem to come from another world +than that in which ordinary people live. He is the only original +person of my acquaintance; his views of life are his own, and form a +singular commentary on those generally accepted. He is dull enough at +times, poor fellow; but anon he startles you with something, and you +think he must have wandered out of Shakspeare's plays into this +out-of-the-way place. Up from the village now and then comes to visit +me the tall, gaunt, atrabilious confectioner, who has a hankering after +Red-republicanism, and the destruction of Queen, Lords, and Commons. +Guy Fawkes is, I believe, the only martyr in his calendar. The +sourest-tempered man, I think, that ever engaged in the manufacture of +sweetmeats. I wonder that the oddity of the thing never strikes +himself. To be at all consistent, he should put poison in his +lozenges, and become the Herod of the village innocents. One of his +many eccentricities is a love for flowers, and he visits me often to +have a look at my greenhouse and my borders. I listen to his truculent +and revolutionary speeches, and take my revenge by sending the gloomy +egotist away with a nosegay in his hand, and a gay-coloured flower +stuck in a button-hole. He goes quite unconscious of my floral satire. + +The village clergyman and the village doctor are great friends of mine; +they come to visit me often, and smoke a pipe with me in my garden. +The twain love and respect each other, but they regard the world from +different points of view, and I am now and again made witness of a +good-humoured passage of arms. The clergyman is old, unmarried, and a +humourist. His sallies and his gentle eccentricities seldom provoke +laughter, but they are continually awakening the pleasantest smiles. +Perhaps what he has seen of the world, its sins, its sorrows, its +death-beds, its widows and orphans, has tamed his spirit and put a +tenderness into his wit. I do not think I have ever encountered a man +who so adorns his sacred profession. His pious, devout nature produces +sermons just as naturally as my apple-trees produce apples. He is a +tree that flowers every Sunday. Very beautiful in his reverence for +the Book, his trust in it; through long acquaintance, its ideas have +come to colour his entire thought, and you come upon its phrases in his +ordinary speech. He is more himself in the pulpit than anywhere else, +and you get nearer him in his sermons than you do sitting with him at +his tea-table, or walking with him on the country roads. He does not +feel confined in his orthodoxy; in it he is free as a bird in the air. +The doctor is, I conceive, as good a Christian as the clergyman, but he +is impatient of pale or limit; he never comes to a fence without +feeling a desire to get over it. He is a great hunter of insects, and +he thinks that the wings of his butterflies might yield very excellent +texts; he is fond of geology, and cannot, especially when he is in the +company of the clergyman, resist the temptation of hurling a fossil at +Moses. He wears his scepticism as a coquette wears her ribbons,--to +annoy if he cannot subdue; and when his purpose is served, he puts his +scepticism aside,--as the coquette puts her ribbons. Great arguments +arise between them, and the doctor loses his field through his loss of +temper,--which, however, he regains before any harm is done; for the +worthy man is irascible withal, and opposition draws fire from him. + +After an outburst, there is a truce between the friends for a while, +till it is broken by theological battle over the age of the world, or +some other the like remote matter, which seems important to me only in +so far as it affords ground for disputation. These truces are broken +sometimes by the doctor, sometimes by the clergyman. T'other evening +the doctor and myself were sitting in the garden, smoking each a +meditative pipe. Dreamthorp lay below, with its old castle and its +lake, and its hundred wreaths of smoke floating upward into the sunset. +Where we sat, the voices of children playing in the street could hardly +reach us. Suddenly a step was heard on the gravel, and the next moment +the clergyman appeared, as it seemed to me, with a peculiar airiness of +aspect, and the light of a humourous satisfaction in his eye. After +the usual salutations, he took his seat beside us, lifted a pipe of the +kind called "churchwarden" from the box on the ground, filled and +lighted it, and for a little while we were silent all three. The +clergyman then drew an old magazine from his side pocket, opened it at +a place where the leaf had been carefully turned down, and drew my +attention to a short poem which had for its title, "Vanity Fair," +imprinted in German text. This poem he desired me to read aloud. +Laying down my pipe carefully beside me, I complied with his request. +It ran thus; for as after my friends went it was left behind, I have +written it down word for word:-- + + "The world-old Fair of Vanity + Since Bunyan's day has grown discreeter + No more it flocks in crowds to see + A blazing Paul or Peter. + + "Not that a single inch it swerves + From hate of saint or love of sinner, + But martyrs shock aesthetic nerves, + And spoil the _gout_ of dinner. + + "Raise but a shout, or flaunt a scarf,-- + Its mobs are all agog and flying; + They 'll cram the levee of a dwarf, + And leave a Haydon dying. + + "They live upon each newest thing, + They fill their idle days with seeing; + Fresh news of courtier and of king + Sustains their empty being. + + "The statelier, from year to year, + Maintain their comfortable stations + At the wide windows that o'erpeer + The public square of nations; + + "While through it heaves, with cheers and groans, + Harsh drums of battle in the distance, + Frightful with gallows, ropes, and thrones, + The medley of existence; + + "Amongst them tongues are wagging much: + Hark to the philosophic sisters! + To his, whose keen satiric touch, + Like the Medusa, blisters! + + "All things are made for talk,--St. Paul; + The pattern of an altar cushion; + A Paris wild with carnival, + Or red with revolution. + + "And much they knew, that sneering crew, + Of things above the world and under: + They search'd the hoary deep; they knew + The secret of the thunder; + + "The pure white arrow of the light + They split into its colours seven; + They weighed the sun; they dwelt, like night, + Among the stars of heaven; + + "They 've found out life and death,--the first + Is known but to the upper classes; + The second, pooh! 't is at the worst + A dissolution into gases. + + "And vice and virtue are akin, + As black and white from Adam issue,-- + One flesh, one blood, though sheeted in + A different coloured tissue. + + "Their science groped from star to star;-- + But then herself found nothing greater. + What wonder?--in a Leyden jar + They bottled the Creator. + + "Fires fluttered on their lightning-rod; + They cleared the human mind from error; + They emptied heaven of its God, + And Tophet of its terror. + + "Better the savage in his dance + Than these acute and syllogistic! + Better a reverent ignorance + Than knowledge atheistic! + + "Have they dispelled one cloud that lowers + So darkly on the human creature? + They with their irreligious powers + Have subjugated nature. + + "But, as a satyr wins the charms + Of maiden in a forest hearted, + He finds, when clasped within his arms, + The outraged soul departed." + + + When I had done reading these verses, +he clergyman glanced slyly along to see the effect of his shot. The +doctor drew two or three hurried whiffs, gave a huge grunt of scorn, +then, turning sharply, asked, "What is 'a reverent ignorance'? What is +'a knowledge atheistic'?" The clergyman, skewered by the sudden +question, wriggled a little, and then began to explain,--with no great +heart, however, for he had had his little joke out, and did not care to +carry it further. The doctor listened for a little, and then, laying +down his pipe, said, with some heat, "It won't do. 'Reverent +ignorance' and such trash is a mere jingle of words; _that_ you know as +well as I. You stumbled on these verses, and brought them up here to +throw them at me. They don't harm me in the least, I can assure you. +There is no use," continued the doctor, mollifying at the sight of his +friend's countenance, and seeing how the land lay,--"there is no use +speaking to our incurious, solitary friend here, who could bask +comfortably in sunshine for a century, without once inquiring whence +came the light and heat. But let me tell you," lifting his pipe and +shaking it across me at the clergyman, "that science has done services +to your cloth which have not always received the most grateful +acknowledgments. Why, man," here he began to fill his pipe slowly, +"the theologian and the man of science, although they seem to diverge +and lose sight of each other, are all the while working to one end. +Two exploring parties in Australia set out from one point; the one goes +east, and the other west. They lose sight of each other, they know +nothing of one another's whereabouts; but they are all steering to one +point,"--the sharp spirt of a fusee on the garden-seat came in here, +followed by an aromatic flavour in the air,--"and when they do meet, +which they are certain to do in the long run,"--here the doctor put the +pipe in his mouth, and finished his speech with it there,--"the figure +of the continent has become known, and may be set down in maps. The +exploring parties have started long ago. What folly in the one to +pooh-pooh or be suspicious of the exertions of the other. That party +deserves the greatest credit which meets the other more than half +way."--"Bravo!" cried the clergyman, when the doctor had finished his +oration; "I don't know that I could fill your place at the bedside, but +I am quite sure that you could fill mine in the pulpit."--"I am not +sure that the congregation would approve of the change,--I might +disturb their slumbers;" and, pleased with his retort, his cheery laugh +rose through a cloud of smoke into the sunset. + +Heigho! mine is a dull life, I fear, when this little affair of the +doctor and the clergyman takes the dignity of an incident, and seems +worthy of being recorded. + +The doctor was anxious that, during the following winter, a short +course of lectures should be delivered in the village schoolroom, and +in my garden he held several conferences on the matter with the +clergyman and myself. It was arranged finally that the lectures should +be delivered, and that one of them should be delivered by me. I need +not say how pleasant was the writing out of my discourse, and how the +pleasure was heightened by the slightest thrill of alarm at my own +temerity. My lecture I copied out in my most careful hand, and, as I +had it by heart, I used to declaim passages of it ensconced in my +moss-house, or concealed behind my shrubbery trees. In these places I +tried it all over, sentence by sentence. The evening came at last +which had been looked forward to for a couple of months or more. The +small schoolroom was filled by forms on which the people sat, and a +small reading-desk, with a tumbler of water on it, at the further end, +waited for me. When I took my seat, the couple of hundred eyes struck +into me a certain awe. I discovered in a moment why the orator of the +hustings is so deferential to the mob. You may despise every +individual member of your audience, but these despised individuals, in +their capacity of a collective body, overpower you. I addressed the +people with the most unfeigned respect. When I began, too, I found +what a dreadful thing it is to hear your own voice inhabiting the +silence. You are related to your voice, and yet divorced from it. It +is you, and yet a thing apart. All the time it is going on, you can be +critical as to its tone, volume, cadence, and other qualities, as if it +was the voice of a stranger. Gradually, however, I got accustomed to +my voice, and the respect which I entertained for my hearers so far +relaxed that I was at last able to look them in the face. I saw the +doctor and the clergyman smile encouragingly, and my half-witted +gardener looking up at me with open mouth, and the atrabilious +confectioner clap his hands, which made me take refuge in my paper +again. I got to the end of my task without any remarkable incident, if +I except the doctor's once calling out "hear" loudly, which brought the +heart into my mouth, and blurred half a sentence. When I sat down, +there were the usual sounds of approbation, and the confectioner +returned thanks, in the name of the audience. + + + + +ON VAGABONDS + +Call it oddity, eccentricity, humour, or what you please, it is evident +that the special flavour of mind or manner which, independently of +fortune, station, or profession, sets a man apart and makes him +distinguishable from his fellows, and which gives the charm of +picturesqueness to society, is fast disappearing from amongst us. A +man may count the odd people of his acquaintance on his fingers; and it +is observable that these odd people are generally well stricken in +years. They belong more to the past generation than to the present. +Our young men are terribly alike. For these many years back, the young +gentlemen I have had the fortune to encounter are clever, knowing, +selfish, disagreeable; the young ladies are of one pattern, like minted +sovereigns of the same reign,--excellent gold, I have no doubt, but +each bearing the same awfully proper image and superscription. There +are no blanks in the matrimonial lottery nowadays, but the prizes are +all of a value, and there is but one kind of article given for the +ticket. Courtship is an absurdity and a sheer waste of time. If a man +could but close his eyes in a ball-room, dash into a bevy of muslin +beauties, carry off the fair one that accident gives to his arms, his +raid would be as reasonable and as likely to produce happiness as the +more ordinary methods of procuring a spouse. If a man has to choose +one guinea out of a bag containing one hundred and fifty, what can he +do? What wonderful wisdom can he display in his choice? There is no +appreciable difference of value in the golden pieces. The latest +coined are a little fresher, that's all. An act of uniformity, with +heavy penalties for recusants, seems to have been passed upon the +English race. That we can quite well account for this state of things, +does not make the matter better, does not make it the less our duty to +fight against it. We are apt to be told that men are too busy and +women too accomplished for humour of speech or originality of character +or manner. In the truth of this lies the pity of it. If, with the +exceptions of hedges that divide fields, and streams that run as +marches between farms, every inch of soil were drained, ploughed, +manured, and under that improved cultivation rushing up into +astonishing wheaten and oaten crops, enriching tenant and proprietor, +the aspect of the country would be decidedly uninteresting, and would +present scant attraction to the man riding or walking through it. In +such a world the tourists would be few. Personally, I should detest a +world all red and ruled with the ploughshare in spring, all covered +with harvest in autumn. I wish a little variety. I desiderate moors +and barren places: the copse where you can flush the woodcock; the +warren where, when you approach, you can see the twinkle of innumerable +rabbit tails; and, to tell the truth, would not feel sorry although +Reynard himself had a hole beneath the wooded bank, even if the demands +of his rising family cost Farmer Yellowleas a fat capon or two in the +season. The fresh, rough, heathery parts of human nature, where the +air is freshest, and where the linnets sing, is getting encroached upon +by cultivated fields. Every one is making himself and herself useful. +Every one is producing something. Everybody is clever. Everybody is a +philanthropist. I don't like it. I love a little eccentricity. I +respect honest prejudices. I admire foolish enthusiasm in a young head +better than a wise scepticism. It is high time, it seems to me, that a +moral game-law were passed for the preservation of the wild and vagrant +feelings of human nature. + +I have advertised myself to speak of _vagabonds_, and I must explain +what I mean by the term. We all know what was the doom of the first +child born of man, and it is needless for me to say that I do not wish +the spirit of Cain more widely diffused amongst my fellow-creatures. +By vagabonds, I do not mean a tramp or a gipsy, or a thimble-rigger, or +a brawler who is brought up with a black eye before a magistrate in the +morning. The vagabond as I have him in my mind's eye, and whom I +dearly love, comes out of quite a different mould. The man I speak of, +seldom, it is true, attains to the dignity of a churchwarden; he is +never found sitting at a reformed town-council board; he has a horror +of public platforms; he never by any chance heads a subscription list +with a donation of fifty pounds. On the other hand, he is very far +from being a "ne'er-do-weel," as the Scotch phrase it, or an imprudent +person. He does not play at "Aunt Sally" on a public race-course, he +does not wrench knockers from the doors of slumbering citizens; he has +never seen the interior of a police-cell. It is quite true, he has a +peculiar way of looking at many things. If, for instance, he is +brought up with cousin Milly, and loves her dearly, and the childish +affection grows up and strengthens in the woman's heart, and there is a +fair chance for them fighting the world side by side, he marries her +without too curiously considering whether his income will permit him to +give dinner-parties, and otherwise fashionably see his friends. Very +imprudent, no doubt. But you cannot convince my vagabond. With the +strangest logical twist, which seems natural to him, he conceives that +he marries for his own sake, and not for the sake of his acquaintances, +and that the possession of a loving heart and a conscience void of +reproach is worth, at any time an odd sovereign in his pocket. The +vagabond is not a favourite with the respectable classes. He is +particularly feared by mammas who have daughters to dispose of,--not +that he is a bad son, or likely to prove a bad husband or a treacherous +friend; but somehow gold does not stick to his fingers as it does to +the fingers of some men. He is regardless of appearances. He chooses +his friends neither for their fine houses nor their rare wines, but for +their humours, their goodness of heart, their capacities of making a +joke and of seeing one, and for their abilities, unknown often as the +woodland violet, but not the less sweet for obscurity. As a +consequence, his acquaintance is miscellaneous, and he is often seen at +other places than rich men's feasts. I do believe he is a gainer by +reason of his vagrant ways. He comes in contact with the queer corners +and the out-of-the-way places of human life. He knows more of our +common nature, just as the man who walks through a country, and who +strikes off the main road now and then to visit a ruin, or a legendary +cairn of stones, who drops into village inns, and talks with the people +he meets on the road, becomes better acquainted with it than the man +who rolls haughtily along the turnpike in a carriage and four. We lose +a great deal by foolish hauteur. No man is worth much who has not a +touch of the vagabond in him. Could I have visited London thirty years +ago, I would rather have spent an hour with Charles Lamb than with any +other of its residents. He was a fine specimen of the vagabond, as I +conceive him. His mind was as full of queer nooks and tortuous +passages as any mansion-house of Elizabeth's day or earlier, where the +rooms are cosey, albeit a little low in the roof; where dusty stained +lights are falling on old oaken panellings; where every bit of +furniture has a reverent flavour of ancientness; where portraits of +noble men and women, all dead long ago, are hanging on the walls; and +where a black-letter Chaucer with silver clasps is lying open on a seat +in the window. There was nothing modern about him. The garden of his +mind did not flaunt in gay parterres; it resembled those that Cowley +and Evelyn delighted in, with clipped trees, and shaven lawns, and +stone satyrs, and dark, shadowing yews, and a sun-dial, with a Latin +motto sculptured on it, standing at the farther end. Lamb was the +slave of quip and whimsey; he stuttered out puns to the detriment of +all serious and improving conversation, and twice or so in the year he +was overtaken in liquor. Well, in spite of these things, perhaps on +account of these things, I love his memory. For love and charity +ripened in that nature as peaches ripen on the wall that fronts the +sun. Although he did not blow his trumpet in the corners of the +streets, he was tried as few men are, and fell not. He jested, that he +might not weep. He wore a martyr's heart beneath his suit of motley. +And only years after his death, when to admiration or censure he was +alike insensible, did the world know his story and that of his sister +Mary. + +Ah, me! what a world this was to live in two or three centuries ago, +when it was getting itself discovered--when the sunset gave up America, +when a steel hand had the spoiling of Mexico and Peru! Then were the +"Arabian Nights" commonplace, enchantments a matter of course, and +romance the most ordinary thing in the world. Then man was courting +Nature; now he has married her. Every mystery is dissipated. The +planet is familiar as the trodden pathway running between towns. We no +longer gaze wistfully to the west, dreaming of the Fortunate Isles. We +seek our wonders now on the ebbed sea-shore; we discover our new worlds +with the microscope. Yet, for all that time has brought and taken +away, I am glad to know that the vagabond sleeps in our blood, and +awakes now and then. Overlay human nature as you please, here and +there some bit of rock, or mound of aboriginal soil, will crop out with +the wild-flowers growing upon it, sweetening the air. When the boy +throws his Delectus or his Euclid aside, and takes passionately to the +reading of "Robinson Crusoe" or Bruce's "African Travels," do not shake +your head despondingly over him and prophesy evil issues. Let the wild +hawk try its wings. It will be hooded, and will sit quietly enough on +the falconer's perch ere long. Let the wild horse career over its +boundless pampas; the jerk of the lasso will bring it down soon enough. +Soon enough will the snaffle in the mouth and the spur of the tamer +subdue the high spirit to the bridle, or the carriage-trace. Perhaps +not; and, if so, the better for all parties. Once more there will be a +new man and new deeds in the world. For Genius is a vagabond, Art is a +vagabond, Enterprise is a vagabond. Vagabonds have moulded the world +into its present shape; they have made the houses in which we dwell, +the roads on which we ride and drive, the very laws that govern us. +Respectable people swarm in the track of the vagabond as rooks in the +track of the ploughshare. Respectable people do little in the world +except storing wine-cellars and amassing fortunes for the benefit of +spendthrift heirs. Respectable well-to-do Grecians shook their heads +over Leonidas and his three hundred when they went down to Thermopylae. +Respectable Spanish churchmen with shaven crowns scouted the dream of +Columbus. Respectable German folks attempted to dissuade Luther from +appearing before Charles and the princes and electors of the Empire, +and were scandalised when he declared that "Were there as many devils +in Worms as there were tiles on the house-tops, still would he on." +Nature makes us vagabonds, the world makes us respectable. + +In the fine sense in which I take the word, the English are the +greatest vagabonds on the earth, and it is the healthiest trait in +their national character. The first fine day in spring awakes the +gipsy in the blood of the English workman, and incontinently he +"babbles of green fields." On the English gentleman lapped, in the +most luxurious civilisation, and with the thousand powers and resources +of wealth at his command, descends oftentimes a fierce unrest, a +Bedouin-like horror of cities and the cry of the money-changer, and in +a month the fiery dust rises in the track of his desert steed, or in +the six months' polar midnight he hears the big wave clashing on the +icy shore. The close presence of the sea feeds the Englishman's +restlessness. She takes possession of his heart like some fair +capricious mistress. Before the boy awakes to the beauty of cousin +Mary, he is crazed by the fascinations of ocean. With her voices of +ebb and flow she weaves her siren song round the Englishman's coasts +day and night. Nothing that dwells on land can keep from her embrace +the boy who has gazed upon her dangerous beauty, and who has heard her +singing songs of foreign shores at the foot of the summer crag. It is +well that in the modern gentleman the fierce heart of the Berserker +lives yet. The English are eminently a nation of vagabonds. The sun +paints English faces with all the colours of his climes. The +Englishman is ubiquitous. He shakes with fever and ague in the swampy +valley of the Mississippi; he is drowned in the sand pillars as they +waltz across the desert on the purple breath of the simoom; he stands +on the icy scalp of Mont Blanc; his fly falls in the sullen Norwegian +fiords; he invades the solitude of the Cape lion; he rides on his +donkey through the uncausewayed Cairo streets. That wealthy people, +under a despotism, should be travellers seems a natural thing enough. +It is a way of escape from the rigours of their condition. But that +England--where activity rages so keenly and engrosses every class; +where the prizes of Parliament, literature, commerce, the bar, the +church, are hungered and thirsted after; where the stress and intensity +of life ages a man before his time; where so many of the noblest break +down in harness hardly halfway to the goal--should, year after year, +send off swarms of men to roam the world, and to seek out danger for +the mere thrill and enjoyment of it, is significant of the indomitable +pluck and spirit of the race. There is scant danger that the rust of +sloth will eat into the virtue of English steel. The English do the +hard work and the travelling of the world. The least revolutionary +nation of Europe, the one with the greatest temptations to stay at +home, with the greatest faculty for work, with perhaps the sincerest +regard for wealth, is also the most nomadic. How is this? It is +because they are a nation of vagabonds; they have the "hungry heart" +that one of their poets speaks about. + +There is an amiability about the genuine vagabond which takes captive +the heart. We do not love a man for his respectability, his prudence +and foresight in business, his capacity of living within his income, or +his balance at his banker's. We all admit that prudence is an +admirable virtue, and occasionally lament, about Christmas, when bills +fall in, that we do not inherit it in a greater degree. But we speak +about it in quite a cool way. It does not touch us with enthusiasm. +If a calculating-machine had a hand to wring, it would find few to +wring it warmly. The things that really move liking in human beings +are the gnarled nodosities of character, vagrant humours, freaks of +generosity, some little unextinguishable spark of the aboriginal +savage, some little sweet savour of the old Adam. It is quite +wonderful how far simple generosity and kindliness of heart go in +securing affection; and, when these exist, what a host of apologists +spring up for faults and vices even. A country squire goes recklessly +to the dogs; yet if he has a kind word for his tenant when he meets +him, a frank greeting for the rustic beauty when she drops a courtesy +to him on the highway, he lives for a whole generation in an odour of +sanctity. If he had been a disdainful, hook-nosed prime minister who +had carried his country triumphantly through some frightful crisis of +war, these people would, perhaps, never have been aware of the fact; +and most certainly never would have tendered him a word of thanks, even +if they had. When that important question, "Which is the greatest foe +to the public weal--the miser or the spendthrift?" is discussed at the +artisans' debating club, the spendthrift has all the eloquence on his +side--the miser all the votes. The miser's advocate is nowhere, and he +pleads the cause of his client with only half his heart. In the +theatre, Charles Surface is applauded, and Joseph Surface is hissed. +The novel-reader's affection goes out to Tom Jones, his hatred to +Blifil. Joseph Surface and Blifil are scoundrels, it is true; but +deduct the scoundrelism, let Joseph be but a stale proverb-monger and +Blifil a conceited prig, and the issue remains the same. Good humour +and generosity carry the day with the popular heart all the world over. +Tom Jones and Charles Surface are not vagabonds to my taste. They were +shabby fellows both, and were treated a great deal too well. But there +are other vagabonds whom I love, and whom I do well to love. With what +affection do I follow little Ishmael and his broken-hearted mother out +into the great and terrible wilderness, and see them faint beneath the +ardours of the sunlight! And we feel it to be strict poetic justice +and compensation that the lad so driven forth from human tents should +become the father of wild Arabian men, to whom the air of cities is +poison, who work without any tool, and on whose limbs no conqueror has +ever yet been able to rivet shackle or chain. Then there are Abraham's +grandchildren, Jacob and Esau--the former, I confess, no favourite of +mine. His, up at least to his closing years, when parental affection +and strong sorrow softened him, was a character not amiable. He lacked +generosity, and had too keen an eye on his own advancement. He did not +inherit the noble strain of his ancestors. He was a prosperous man; +yet in spite of his increase in flocks and herds,--in spite of his +vision of the ladder, with the angels ascending and descending upon +it,--in spite of the success of his beloved son,--in spite of the +weeping and lamentation of the Egyptians at his death,--in spite of his +splendid funeral, winding from the city by the pyramid and the +sphinx,--in spite of all these things, I would rather have been the +hunter Esau, with birthright filched away, bankrupt in the promise, +rich only in fleet foot and keen spear; for he carried into the wilds +with him an essentially noble nature--no brother with his mess of +pottage could mulct him of that. And he had a fine revenge; for when +Jacob, on his journey, heard that his brother was near with four +hundred men, and made division of his flocks and herds, his +man-servants and maid-servants, impetuous as a swollen hill-torrent, +the fierce son of the desert, baked red with Syrian light, leaped down +upon him, and fell on his neck and wept. And Esau said, "What meanest +thou by all this drove which I met?" and Jacob said, "These are to find +grace in the sight of my lord;" then Esau said, "I have enough, my +brother, keep that thou hast unto thyself." O mighty prince, didst +thou remember thy mother's guile, the skins upon thy hands and neck, +and the lie put upon the patriarch, as, blind with years, he sat up in +his bed snuffing the savory meat? An ugly memory, I should fancy! + +Commend me to Shakspeare's vagabonds, the most delightful in the world! +His sweet-blooded and liberal nature blossomed into all fine +generosities as naturally as an apple-bough into pink blossoms and +odours. Listen to Gonsalvo talking to the shipwrecked Milan nobles +camped for the night in Prospero's isle, full of sweet voices, with +Ariel shooting through the enchanted air like a falling star;-- + + "Had I the plantation of this isle, my lord, + I' the commonwealth I would by contraries + Execute all things; for no kind of traffic + Would I admit; no name of magistrate; + Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, + And use of service none; contract, succession, + Bourne, bound of land, tilth, title, vineyard none; + No use of metal coin, or wine, or oil; + No occupation--all men idle--all! + And women too, but innocent and pure; + No sovereignty; + All things in common nature should produce, + Without sweat or endurance; treason, felony, + Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine + Would I not have; but nature would bring forth + Of its own kind all foison, all abundance, + To feed my innocent people. + I would with such perfection govern, sir, + To excel the golden age." + + +What think you of a world after that pattern? "As You Like it" is a +vagabond play, and, verily, if there waved in any wind that blows a +forest peopled like Arden's, with an exiled king drawing the sweetest, +humanest lessons from misfortune; a melancholy Jacques, stretched by +the river bank, moralising on the bleeding deer; a fair Rosalind, +chanting her saucy cuckoo-song; fools like Touchstone--not like those +of our acquaintance, my friends; and the whole place, from centre to +circumference, filled with mighty oak bolls, all carven with lovers' +names,--if such a forest waved in wind, I say, I would, be my worldly +prospects what they might, pack up at once, and cast in my lot with +that vagabond company. For there I should find more gallant +courtesies, finer sentiments, completer innocence and happiness, more +wit and wisdom, than I am like to do here even, though I search for +them from shepherd's cot to king's palace. Just to think how those +people lived! Carelessly as the blossoming trees, happily as the +singing birds, time measured only by the patter of the acorn on the +fruitful soil! A world without debtor or creditor, passing rich, yet +with never a doit in its purse, with no sordid care, no regard for +appearances; nothing to occupy the young but love-making, nothing to +occupy the old but perusing the "sermons in stones" and the musical +wisdom which dwells in "running brooks"! But Arden forest draws its +sustenance from a poet's brain: the light that sleeps on its leafy +pillows is "the light that never was on sea or shore." We but please +and tantalise ourselves with beautiful dreams. + +The children of the brain become to us actual existences, more actual, +indeed, than the people who impinge upon us in the street, or who live +next door. We are more intimate with Shakspeare's men and women than +we are with our contemporaries, and they are, on the whole, better +company. They are more beautiful in form and feature, and they express +themselves in a way that the most gifted strive after in vain. What if +Shakspeare's people could walk out of the play-books and settle down +upon some spot of earth and conduct life there? There would be found +humanity's whitest wheat, the world's unalloyed gold. The very winds +could not visit the place roughly. No king's court could present you +such an array. Where else could we find a philosopher like Hamlet? a +friend like Antonio? a witty fellow like Mercutio? where else Imogen's +piquant's face? Portia's gravity and womanly sweetness? Rosalind's true +heart and silvery laughter? Cordelia's beauty of holiness? These would +form the centre of the court, but the purlieus, how many-coloured! +Malvolio would walk mincingly in the sunshine there; Autolycus would +filch purses. Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch would be eternal +boon companions. And as Falstaff sets out homeward from the tavern, +the portly knight leading the revellers like a three-decker a line of +frigates, they are encountered by Dogberry, who summons them to stand +and answer to the watch as they are honest men. If Mr. Dickens's +characters were gathered together, they would constitute a town +populous enough to send a representative to Parliament. Let us enter. +The style of architecture is unparalleled. There is an individuality +about the buildings. In some obscure way they remind one of human +faces. There are houses sly-looking, houses wicked-looking, houses +pompous-looking. Heaven bless us! what a rakish pump! what a +self-important town-hall! what a hard-hearted prison! The dead walls +are covered with advertisements of Mr. Sleary's circus. Newman Noggs +comes shambling along. Mr. and the Misses Pecksniff come sailing down +the sunny side of the street. Miss Mercy's parasol is gay; papa's +neck-cloth is white, and terribly starched. Dick Swiveller leans +against a wall, his hands in his pockets, a primrose held between his +teeth, contemplating the opera of Punch and Judy, which is being +conducted under the management of Messrs. Codlings and Short. You turn +a corner and you meet the coffin of little Paul Dombey borne along. +Who would have thought of encountering a funeral in this place? In the +afternoon you hear the rich tones of the organ from Miss La Creevy's +first floor, for Tom Pinch has gone to live there now, and as you know +all the people as you know your own brothers and sisters, and +consequently require no letters of introduction, you go up and talk +with the dear old fellow about all his friends and your friends, and +towards evening he takes your arm, and you walk out to see poor Nelly's +grave--a place which he visits often, and which he dresses with flowers +with his own hands. I know this is the idlest dreaming, but all of us +have a sympathy with the creatures of the drama and the novel. Around +the hardest cark and toil lies the imaginative world of the poets and +romancists, and thither we sometimes escape to snatch a mouthful of +serener air. There our best lost feelings have taken a human shape. +We suppose that boyhood with its impulses and enthusiasms has subsided +with the gray cynical man whom we have known these many years. Not a +bit of it. It has escaped into the world of the poet, and walks a +love-flushed Romeo in immortal youth. We suppose that the Mary of +fifty years since, the rose-bud of a girl that crazed our hearts, +blossomed into the spouse of Jenkins, the stockbroker, and is now a +grandmother. Not at all. She is Juliet leaning from the balcony, or +Portia talking on the moonlight lawns at Belmont. There walk the +shadows of our former selves. All that Time steals he takes thither; +and to live in that world is to live in our lost youth, our lost +generosities, illusions, and romances. + +In middle-class life, and in the professions, when a standard or ideal +is tacitly set up, to which every member is expected to conform on pain +of having himself talked about, and wise heads shaken over him, the +quick feelings of the vagabond are not frequently found. Yet, thanks +to Nature, who sends her leafage and flowerage up through all kinds of +_debris_, and who takes a blossomy possession of ruined walls and +desert places, it is never altogether dead! And of vagabonds, not the +least delightful is he who retains poetry and boyish spirits beneath +the crust of a profession. Mr. Carlyle commends "central fire," and +very properly commends it most when "well covered in." In the case of +a professional man, this "central fire" does not manifest itself in +wasteful explosiveness, but in secret genial heat, visible in fruits of +charity and pleasant humour. The physician who is a humourist commends +himself doubly to a sick-bed. His patients are as much indebted for +their cure to his smile, his voice, and a certain irresistible +healthfulness that surrounds him, as they are to his skill and his +prescriptions. The lawyer who is a humourist is a man of ten thousand. +How easily the worldly-wise face, puckered over a stiff brief, relaxes +into the lines of laughter. He sees many an evil side of human nature, +he is familiar with slanders and injustice, all kinds of human +bitterness and falsity; but neither his hand nor his heart becomes +"imbued with that it works in," and the little admixture of acid, +inevitable from his circumstances and mode of life, but heightens the +flavour of his humour. But of all humourists of the professional +class, I prefer the clergyman, especially if he is well stricken in +years, and has been anchored all his life in a country charge. He is +none of your loud wits. There is a lady-like delicacy in his mind, a +constant sense of his holy office, which warn him off dangerous +subjects. This reserve, however, does but improve the quality of his +mirth. What his humour loses in boldness, it gains in depth and +slyness. And as the good man has seldom the opportunity of making a +joke, or of procuring an auditor who can understand one, the dewy +glitter of his eyes, as you sit opposite him, and his heartfelt +enjoyment of the matter in hand, are worth going a considerable way to +witness. It is not, however, in the professions that the vagabond is +commonly found. Over these that awful and ubiquitous female, Mrs. +Grundy--at once Fate, Nemesis, and Fury--presides. The glare of her +eye is professional danger, the pointing of her finger is professional +death. When she utters a man's name, he is lost. The true vagabond is +to be met with in other walks of life,--among actors, poets, painters. +These may grow in any way their nature directs. They are not required +to conform to any traditional pattern. With regard to the +respectabilities and the "minor morals," the world permits them to be +libertines. Besides, it is a temperament peculiarly sensitive, or +generous, or enjoying, which at the beginning impels these to their +special pursuits; and that temperament, like everything else in the +world, strengthens with use, and grows with what it feeds on. We look +upon an actor, sitting amongst ordinary men and women, with a certain +curiosity,--we regard him as a creature from another planet, almost. +His life and his world are quite different from ours. The orchestra, +the foot-lights, and the green baize curtain, divide us. He is a +monarch half his time--his entrance and his exit proclaimed by flourish +of trumpet. He speaks in blank verse, is wont to take his seat at +gilded banquets, to drink nothing out of a pasteboard goblet. The +actor's world has a history amusing to read, and lines of noble and +splendid traditions, stretching back to charming Nelly's time, and +earlier. The actor has strange experiences. He sees the other side of +the moon. We roar at Grimaldi's funny face: he sees the lines of pain +in it. We hear Romeo wish to be "a glove upon that hand that he might +touch that cheek:" three minutes afterwards he beholds Romeo refresh +himself with a pot of porter. We see the Moor, who "loved not wisely, +but too well," smother Desdemona with the nuptial bolster: he sees them +sit down to a hot supper. We always think of the actor as on the +stage: he always thinks of us as in the boxes. In justice to the poets +of the present day, it may be noticed that they have improved on their +brethren in Johnson's time, who were, according to Lord Macaulay, +hunted by bailiffs and familiar with sponging-houses, and who, when +hospitably entertained, were wont to disturb the household of the +entertainer by roaring for hot punch at four o'clock in the morning. +Since that period the poets have improved in the decencies of life: +they wear broadcloth, and settle their tailors' accounts even as other +men. At this present moment Her Majesty's poets are perhaps the most +respectable of Her Majesty's subjects. They are all teetotallers; if +they sin, it is in rhyme, and then only to point a moral. In past days +the poet flew from flower to flower, gathering his honey; but he bore a +sting, too, as the rude hand that touched him could testily. He freely +gathers his honey as of old, but the satiric sting has been taken away. +He lives at peace with all men--his brethren excepted. About the true +poet still there is something of the ancient spirit,--the old "flash +and outbreak of the fiery mind,"--the old enthusiasm and dash of +humourous eccentricity. But he is fast disappearing from the catalogue +of vagabonds--fast getting commonplace, I fear. Many people suspect +him of dulness. Besides, such a crowd of well-meaning, amiable, most +respectable men have broken down of late years the pales of Parnassus, +and become squatters on the sacred mount, that the claim of poets to be +a peculiar people is getting disallowed. Never in this world's history +were they so numerous; and although some people deny that they are +poets, few are cantankerous enough or intrepid enough to assert that +they are vagabonds. The painter is the most agreeable of vagabonds. +His art is a pleasant one: it demands some little manual exertion, and +it takes him at times into the open air. It is pleasant, too, in this, +that lines and colours are so much more palpable than words, and the +appeal of his work to his practised eye has some satisfaction in it. +He knows what he is about. He does not altogether lose his critical +sense, as the poet does, when familiarity stales his subject, and takes +the splendour out of his images. Moreover, his work is more profitable +than the poet's. I suppose there are just as few great painters at the +present day as there are great poets; yet the yearly receipts of the +artists of England far exceed the receipts of the singers. A picture +can usually be painted in less time than a poem can be written. A +second-rate picture has a certain market value,--its frame is at least +something. A second-rate poem is utterly worthless, and no one will +buy it on account of its binding. A picture is your own exclusive +property: it is a costly article of furniture. You hang it on your +walls, to be admired by all the world. Pictures represent wealth: the +possession of them is a luxury. The portrait-painter is of all men the +most beloved. You sit to him willingly, and put on your best looks. +You are inclined to be pleased with his work, on account of the strong +prepossession you entertain for his subject. To sit for one's portrait +is like being present at one's own creation. It is an admirable excuse +for egotism. You would not discourse on the falcon-like curve which +distinguishes your nose, or the sweet serenity of your reposing lips, +or the mildness of the eye that spreads a light over your countenance, +in the presence of a fellow-creature for the whole world; yet you do +not hesitate to express the most favourable opinion of the features +starting out on you from the wet canvas. The interest the painter +takes in his task flatters you. And when the sittings are over, and +you behold yourself hanging on your own wall, looking as it you could +direct kingdoms or lead armies, you feel grateful to the artist. He +ministers to your self-love, and you pay him his hire without wincing. +Your heart warms towards him as it would towards a poet who addresses +you in an ode of panegyric, the kindling terms of which--a little +astonishing to your friends--you believe in your heart of hearts to be +the simple truth, and, in the matter of expression, not over-coloured +in the very least. The portrait-painter has a shrewd eye for +character, and is usually the best anecdote-monger in the world. His +craft brings him into contact with many faces, and he learns to compare +them curiously, and to extract their meanings. He can interpret +wrinkles; he can look through the eyes into the man; he can read a +whole foregone history in the lines about the mouth. Besides, from the +good understanding which usually exists between the artist and his +sitter, the latter is inclined somewhat to unbosom himself; little +things leak out in conversation, not much in themselves, but pregnant +enough to the painter's sense, who pieces them together, and +constitutes a tolerably definite image. The man who paints your face +knows you better than your intimate friends do, and has a clearer +knowledge of your amiable weaknesses, and of the secret motives which +influence your conduct, than you oftentimes have yourself. A good +portrait is a kind of biography, and neither painter nor biographer can +carry out his task satisfactorily unless he be admitted behind the +scenes. I think that the landscape painter, who has acquired +sufficient mastery in his art to satisfy his own critical sense, and +who is appreciated enough to find purchasers, and thereby to keep the +wolf from the door, must be of all mankind the happiest. Other men +live in cities, bound down to some settled task and order of life; but +he is a nomad, and wherever he goes "Beauty pitches her tents before +him." He is smitten by a passionate love for Nature, and is privileged +to follow her into her solitary haunts and recesses. Nature is his +mistress, and he is continually making declarations of his love. When +one thinks of ordinary occupations, how one envies him, flecking his +oak-tree boll with sunlight, tinging with rose the cloud of the morning +in which the lark is hid, making the sea's swift fringe of foaming lace +outspread itself on the level sands, in which the pebbles gleam forever +wet. The landscape painter's memory is inhabited by the fairest +visions,--dawn burning on the splintered peaks that the eagles know, +while the valleys beneath are yet filled with uncertain light; the +bright blue morn stretching over miles of moor and mountain; the slow +up-gathering of the bellied thunder-cloud; summer lakes, and cattle +knee-deep in them; rustic bridges forever crossed by old women in +scarlet cloaks; old-fashioned waggons resting on the scrubby common, +the waggoner lazy and wayworn, the dog couched on the ground, its +tongue hanging out in the heat; boats drawn up on the shore at sunset; +the fisher's children looking seawards, the red light full on their +dresses and faces; farther back, a clump of cottages, with bait-baskets +about the door, and the smoke of the evening meal coiling up into the +coloured air. These things are forever with him. Beauty, which is a +luxury to other men, is his daily food. Happy vagabond, who lives the +whole summer through in the light of his mistress's face, and who does +nothing the whole winter except recall the splendour of her smiles! + +The vagabond, as I have explained and sketched him, is not a man to +tremble at, or avoid as if he wore contagion in his touch. He is +upright, generous, innocent, is conscientious in the performance of his +duties; and if a little eccentric and fond of the open air, he is full +of good nature and mirthful charity. He may not make money so rapidly +as you do, but I cannot help thinking that he enjoys life a great deal +more. The quick feeling of life, the exuberance or animal spirits +which break out in the traveller, the sportsman, the poet, the painter, +should be more generally diffused. We should be all the better and all +the happier for it. Life ought to be freer, heartier, more enjoyable +than it is at present. If the professional fetter must be worn, let it +be worn as lightly as possible. It should never be permitted to canker +the limbs. We are a free people,--we have an unshackled press,--we +have an open platform, and can say our say upon it, no king or despot +making us afraid. We send representatives to Parliament; the franchise +is always going to be extended. All this is very fine, and we do well +to glory in our privileges as Britons. But, although we enjoy greater +political freedom than any other people, we are the victims of a petty +social tyranny. We are our own despots,--we tremble at a neighbour's +whisper. A man may say what he likes on a public platform,--he may +publish whatever opinion he chooses,--but he dare not wear a peculiar +fashion of hat on the street. Eccentricity is an outlaw. Public +opinion blows like the east wind, blighting bud and blossom on the +human bough. As a consequence of all this, society is losing +picturesqueness and variety,--we are all growing up after one pattern. +In other matters than architecture past time may be represented by the +wonderful ridge of the Old Town of Edinburgh, where everything is +individual and characteristic: the present time by the streets and +squares of the New Town, where everything is gray, cold, and +respectable; where every house is the other's _alter ego_. It is true +that life is healthier in the formal square than in the piled-up +picturesqueness of the Canongate,--quite true that sanitary conditions +are better observed,--that pure water flows through every tenement like +blood through a human body,--that daylight has free access, and that +the apartments are larger and higher in the roof. But every gain is +purchased at the expense of some loss; and it is best to combine, if +possible, the excellences of the old and the new. By all means retain +the modern breadth of light, and range of space; by all means have +water plentiful, and bed-chambers ventilated,--but at the same time +have some little freak of fancy without,--some ornament about the door, +some device about the window,--something to break the cold, gray, stony +uniformity; or, to leave metaphor, which is always dangerous +ground,--for I really don't wish to advocate Ruskinism and the +Gothic,--it would be better to have, along with our modern +enlightenment, our higher tastes and purer habits, a greater +individuality of thought and manner; better, while retaining all that +we have gained, that harmless eccentricity should be respected,--that +every man should be allowed to grow in his own way, so long as he does +not infringe on the rights of his neighbour, or insolently thrust +himself between him and the sun. A little more air and light should be +let in upon life. I should think the world has stood long enough under +the drill of Adjutant Fashion. It is hard work; the posture is +wearisome, and Fashion is an awful martinet, and has a quick eye, and +comes down mercilessly on the unfortunate wight who cannot square his +toes to the approved pattern, or who appears upon parade with a darn in +his coat, or with a shoulder-belt insufficiently pipe-clayed. It is +killing work. Suppose we try "standing at ease" for a little! + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMTHORP*** + + +******* This file should be named 18135.txt or 18135.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/1/3/18135 + + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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