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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: The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. 3 (of 25) + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: December 21, 2009 [EBook #30729] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF STEVENSON *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<table class="border1" border="0" cellpadding="10" summary="TN"> +<tr> +<td style="width:25%; vertical-align:top"> +Transcriber's note: +</td> +<td> +A few punctuation errors have been corrected. They +appear in the text <span class="correction" title="explanation will pop up">like this</span>, and the +explanation will appear when the mouse pointer is moved over the marked +passage. Hyphenation inconsistencies were left unchanged. +<br /> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h4>THE WORKS OF</h4> + +<h3>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h3> + +<h4>SWANSTON EDITION</h4> + +<h5>VOLUME III</h5> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<p class="noind center"><i>Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five<br /> +Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS<br /> +STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies<br /> +have been printed, of which only Two Thousand<br /> +Copies are for sale.</i></p> + +<p class="noind center"><i>This is No. <span style="font-size: 60%;">............</span></i></p> +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:650px; height:453px" + src="images/image01.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f80">SWANSTON COTTAGE, THE HOME OF R.L.S. FROM 1868 TO 1876</p> +</div> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<h3>THE WORKS OF</h3> +<h2>ROBERT LOUIS</h2> +<h2>STEVENSON</h2> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h5>VOLUME THREE</h5> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<h5>LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND<br /> +WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL<br /> +AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM<br /> +HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN<br /> +AND COMPANY MDCCCCXI</h5> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h6>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</h6> + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + +<table class="nobctr" width="90%" summary="Contents"> + + +<tr> <td class="tc5a" colspan="3">FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS</td> </tr> + +<tr style="font-size: 70%; "> <td class="tc2"> </td> + <td> </td> + <td class="tc2">PAGE</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2"> </td> + <td class="scs tc3">Preface by Way of Criticism</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page5">5</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Victor Hugo’s Romances</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page19">19</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Some Aspects of Robert Burns</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page43">43</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Walt Whitman</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page77">77</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">IV.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Henry David Thoreau: His Character and Opinions</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page101">101</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">V.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Yoshida-Torajiro</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page129">129</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">VI.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">François Villon, Student, Poet, and Housebreaker</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page142">142</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">VII.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Charles of Orleans</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page171">171</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">VIII.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Samuel Pepys</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page206">206</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">IX.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">John Knox and His Relations To Women</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page230">230</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc5a" colspan="2">THE BODY-SNATCHER</td> + <td class="tc2c"><a href="#page277">277</a></td> </tr> + +</table> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page1"></a>1</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN</h2> +<h2>AND BOOKS</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page2"></a>2</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page3"></a>3</span></p> + + +<h5>TO</h5> + +<h3>THOMAS STEVENSON</h3> +<h5>CIVIL ENGINEER</h5> + +<h6>BY WHOSE DEVICES THE GREAT SEA LIGHTS<br /> +IN EVERY QUARTER OF THE WORLD NOW SHINE MORE BRIGHTLY</h6> + +<h5>THIS VOLUME IS IN LOVE AND GRATITUDE<br /> +DEDICATED BY HIS SON</h5> + +<h4>THE AUTHOR</h4> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page4"></a>4</span></p> +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page5"></a>5</span></p> +<h3>PREFACE BY WAY OF CRITICISM</h3> + + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">These</span> studies are collected from the monthly press. One +appeared in the <i>New Quarterly</i>, one in <i>Macmillan’s</i>, and +the rest in the <i>Cornhill Magazine</i>. To the <i>Cornhill</i> I owe +a double debt of thanks; first, that I was received there in +the very best society, and under the eye of the very best +of editors; and second, that the proprietors have allowed +me to republish so considerable an amount of copy.</p> + +<p>These nine worthies have been brought together from +many different ages and countries. Not the most erudite +of men could be perfectly prepared to deal with so many +and such various sides of human life and manners. To pass +a true judgment upon Knox and Burns implies a grasp upon +the very deepest strain of thought in Scotland,—a country +far more essentially different from England than many parts +of America; for, in a sense, the first of these men re-created +Scotland, and the second is its most essentially national production. +To treat fitly of Hugo and Villon would involve +yet wider knowledge, not only of a country foreign to the +author by race, history, and religion, but of the growth and +liberties of art. Of the two Americans, Whitman and +Thoreau, each is the type of something not so much realised +as widely sought after among the late generations of their +countrymen; and to see them clearly in a nice relation to +the society that brought them forth, an author would require +a large habit of life among modern Americans. As for +Yoshida, I have already disclaimed responsibility; it was +but my hand that held the pen.</p> + +<p>In truth, these are but the readings of a literary vagrant. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6"></a>6</span> +One book led to another, one study to another. The first +was published with trepidation. Since no bones were +broken, the second was launched with greater confidence. +So, by insensible degrees, a young man of our generation +acquires, in his own eyes, a kind of roving judicial commission +through the ages: and, having once escaped the +perils of the Freemans and the Furnivalls, sets himself up +to right the wrongs of universal history and criticism. Now +it is one thing to write with enjoyment on a subject while +the story is hot in your mind from recent reading, coloured +with recent prejudice; and it is quite another business to +put these writings coldly forth again in a bound volume. +We are most of us attached to our opinions; that is one of +the “natural affections” of which we hear so much in youth; +but few of us are altogether free from paralysing doubts +and scruples. For my part, I have a small idea of the degree +of accuracy possible to man, and I feel sure these studies +teem with error. One and all were written with genuine +interest in the subject; many, however, have been conceived +and finished with imperfect knowledge; and all have +lain, from beginning to end, under the disadvantages inherent +in this style of writing.</p> + +<p>Of these disadvantages a word must here be said. The +writer of short studies, having to condense in a few pages the +events of a whole lifetime, and the effect on his own mind of +many various volumes, is bound, above all things, to make +that condensation logical and striking. For the only justification +of his writing at all is that he shall present a brief, +reasoned, and memorable view. By the necessity of the +case, all the more neutral circumstances are omitted from +his narrative; and that of itself, by the negative exaggeration +of which I have spoken in the text, lends to the matter +in hand a certain false and specious glitter. By the necessity +of the case, again, he is forced to view his subject +throughout in a particular illumination, like a studio artifice. +Like Hales with Pepys, he must nearly break his +sitter’s neck to get the proper shadows on the portrait. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7"></a>7</span> +It is from one side only that he has time to represent his +subject. The side selected will either be the one most +striking to himself, or the one most obscured by controversy; +and in both cases that will be the one most liable to +strained and sophisticated reading. In a biography, this +and that is displayed; the hero is seen at home, playing the +flute; the different tendencies of his work come one after +another into notice; and thus something like a true general +impression of the subject may at last be struck. But in the +short study, the writer, having seized his “point of view,” +must keep his eye steadily to that. He seeks, perhaps, +rather to differentiate than truly to characterise. The +proportions of the sitter must be sacrificed to the proportions +of the portrait; the lights are heightened, the shadows +overcharged; the chosen expression, continually forced, +may degenerate at length into a grimace; and we have at +best something of a caricature, at worst a calumny. Hence, +if they be readable at all and hang together by their own +ends, the peculiar convincing force of these brief representations. +They take so little a while to read, and yet in that +little while the subject is so repeatedly introduced in the +same light and with the same expression, that, by sheer +force of repetition, that view is imposed upon the reader. +The two English masters of the style, Macaulay and Carlyle, +largely exemplify its dangers. Carlyle, indeed, had so much +more depth and knowledge of the heart, his portraits of +mankind are felt and rendered with so much more poetic +comprehension, and he, like his favourite Ram Dass, had a +fire in his belly so much more hotly burning than the patent +reading lamp by which Macaulay studied, that it seems at +first sight hardly fair to bracket them together. But the +“point of view” was imposed by Carlyle on the men he +judged of in his writings with an austerity not only cruel +but almost stupid. They are too often broken outright on +the Procrustean bed; they are probably always disfigured. +The rhetorical artifice of Macaulay is easily spied; it will +take longer to appreciate the moral bias of Carlyle. So +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8"></a>8</span> +with all writers who insist on forcing some significance from +all that comes before them; and the writer of short studies +is bound, by the necessity of the case, to write entirely in +that spirit. What he cannot vivify he should omit.</p> + +<p>Had it been possible to rewrite some of these papers I +hope I should have had the courage to attempt it. But it is +not possible. Short studies are, or should be, things woven +like a carpet, from which it is impossible to detach a strand. +What is perverted has its place there for ever, as a part of the +technical means by which what is right has been presented. +It is only possible to write another study, and then, with a +new “point of view,” would follow new perversions and +perhaps a fresh caricature. Hence, it will be, at least, +honest to offer a few grains of salt to be taken with the text; +and as some words of apology, addition, correction, or +amplification fall to be said on almost every study in the +volume, it will be most simple to run them over in their +order. But this must not be taken as a propitiatory offering +to the gods of shipwreck; I trust my cargo unreservedly +to the chances of the sea; and do not, by criticising myself, +seek to disarm the wrath of other and less partial critics.</p> + +<p>HUGO’S ROMANCES. This is an instance of the +“point of view.” The five romances studied with a different +purpose might have given different results, even with a +critic so warmly interested in their favour. The great +contemporary master of workmanship, and indeed of all +literary arts and technicalities, had not unnaturally dazzled +a beginner. But it is best to dwell on merits, for it is these +that are most often overlooked.</p> + +<p>BURNS. I have left the introductory sentences on +Principal Shairp, partly to explain my own paper, which +was merely supplemental to his amiable but imperfect book, +partly because that book appears to me truly misleading +both as to the character and the genius of Burns. This +seems ungracious, but Mr. Shairp has himself to blame; so +good a Wordsworthian was out of character upon that stage.</p> + +<p>This half-apology apart, nothing more falls to be said +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page9"></a>9</span> +except upon a remark called forth by my study in the +columns of a literary Review. The exact terms in which +that sheet disposed of Burns I cannot now recall; but they +were to this effect—that Burns was a bad man, the impure +vehicle of fine verses; and that this was the view to which all +criticism tended. Now I knew, for my own part, that it was +with the profoundest pity, but with a growing esteem, that I +studied the man’s desperate efforts to do right; and the more +I reflected, the stranger it appeared to me that any thinking +being should feel otherwise. The complete letters shed, +indeed, a light on the depths to which Burns had sunk in +his character of Don Juan, but they enhance in the same +proportion the hopeless nobility of his marrying Jean. That +I ought to have stated this more noisily I now see; but that +any one should fail to see it for himself is to me a thing both +incomprehensible and worthy of open scorn. If Burns, on +the facts dealt with in this study, is to be called a bad man, +I question very much whether I or the writer in the Review +have ever encountered what it would be fair to call a good +one. All have some fault. The fault of each grinds down +the hearts of those about him, and—let us not blink the +truth—hurries both him and them into the grave. And +when we find a man persevering indeed, in his fault, as all of +us do, and openly overtaken, as not all of us are, by its consequences, +to gloss the matter over, with too polite biographers, +is to do the work of the wrecker disfiguring beacons on +a perilous seaboard; but to call him bad, with a self-righteous +chuckle, is to be talking in one’s sleep with Heedless and Too-bold +in the arbour.</p> + +<p>Yet it is undeniable that much anger and distress is +raised in many quarters by the least attempt to state plainly +what every one well knows, of Burns’s profligacy, and of the +fatal consequences of his marriage. And for this there are +perhaps two subsidiary reasons. For, first, there is, in our +drunken land, a certain privilege extended to drunkenness. +In Scotland, in particular, it is almost respectable, above all +when compared with any “irregularity between the sexes.” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10"></a>10</span> +The selfishness of the one, so much more gross in essence, is +so much less immediately conspicuous in its results, that our +demiurgeous Mrs. Grundy smiles apologetically on its +victims. It is often said—I have heard it with these ears—that +drunkenness “may lead to vice.” Now I did not think +it at all proved that Burns was what is called a drunkard; +and I was obliged to dwell very plainly on the irregularity +and the too frequent vanity and meanness of his relations to +women. Hence, in the eyes of many, my study was a step +towards the demonstration of Burns’s radical badness.</p> + +<p>But, second, there is a certain class, professors of that +low morality so greatly more distressing than the better sort +of vice, to whom you must never represent an act that was +virtuous in itself as attended by any other consequences than +a large family and fortune. To hint that Burns’s marriage +had an evil influence is, with this class, to deny the moral +law. Yet such is the fact. It was bravely done; but he +had presumed too far on his strength. One after another +the lights of his life went out, and he fell from circle to circle +to the dishonoured sickbed of the end. And surely, for any +one that has a thing to call a soul, he shines out tenfold more +nobly in the failure of that frantic effort to do right, than if +he had turned on his heel with Worldly Wiseman, married a +congenial spouse, and lived orderly and died reputably an +old man. It is his chief title that he refrained from “the +wrong that amendeth wrong.” But the common, trashy +mind of our generation is still aghast, like the Jews of old, +at any word of an unsuccessful virtue. Job has been +written and read; the tower of Siloam fell nineteen hundred +years ago; yet we have still to desire a little Christianity, or, +failing that, a little even of that rude, old Norse nobility of +soul, which saw virtue and vice alike go unrewarded, and +was yet not shaken in its faith.</p> + +<p>WALT WHITMAN. This is a case of a second difficulty +which lies continually before the writer of critical +studies: that he has to meditate between the author whom +he loves and the public who are certainly indifferent and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11"></a>11</span> +frequently averse. Many articles had been written on this +notable man. One after another had leaned, in my eyes, +either to praise or blame unduly. In the last case, they +helped to blindfold our fastidious public to an inspiring +writer; in the other, by an excess of unadulterated praise, +they moved the more candid to revolt. I was here on the +horns of a dilemma; and between these horns I squeezed +myself, with perhaps some loss to the substance of the paper. +Seeing so much in Whitman that was merely ridiculous, as +well as so much more that was unsurpassed in force and +fitness,—seeing the true prophet doubled, as I thought, in +places with the Bull in a China Shop,—it appeared best to +steer a middle course, and to laugh with the scorners when +I thought they had any excuse, while I made haste to rejoice +with the rejoicers over what is imperishably good, lovely, +human, or divine, in his extraordinary poems. That was +perhaps the right road; yet I cannot help feeling that in +this attempt to trim my sails between an author whom I love +and honour and a public too averse to recognise his merit, I +have been led into a tone unbecoming from one of my stature +to one of Whitman’s. But the good and the great man will +go on his way not vexed with my little shafts of merriment. +He, first of any one, will understand how, in the attempt to +explain him credibly to Mrs. Grundy, I have been led into +certain airs of the man of the world, which are merely +ridiculous in me, and were not intentionally discourteous to +himself. But there is a worse side to the question; for in my +eagerness to be all things to all men, I am afraid I may have +sinned against proportion. It will be enough to say here +that Whitman’s faults are few and unimportant when they +are set beside his surprising merits. I had written another +paper full of gratitude for the help that had been given me +in my life, full of enthusiasm for the intrinsic merit of the +poems, and conceived in the noisiest extreme of youthful +eloquence. The present study was a rifacimento. From it, +with the design already mentioned, and in a fit of horror at +my old excess, the big words and emphatic passages were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12"></a>12</span> +ruthlessly excised. But this sort of prudence is frequently +its own punishment; along with the exaggeration, some of +the truth is sacrificed; and the result is cold, constrained, +and grudging. In short, I might almost everywhere have +spoken more strongly than I did.</p> + +<p>THOREAU. Here is an admirable instance of the +“point of view” forced throughout, and of too earnest +reflection on imperfect facts. Upon me this pure, narrow, +sunnily-ascetic Thoreau had exercised a great charm. I +have scarce written ten sentences since I was introduced to +him, but his influence might be somewhere detected by a +close observer. Still it was as a writer that I had made his +acquaintance; I took him on his own explicit terms; and +when I learned details of his life, they were, by the nature of +the case and my own <i>parti pris</i>, read even with a certain +violence in terms of his writings. There could scarce be a +perversion more justifiable than that; yet it was still a +perversion. The study, indeed, raised so much ire in the +breast of Dr. Japp (H. A. Page), Thoreau’s sincere and +learned disciple, that had either of us been men, I please +myself with thinking, of less temper and justice, the difference +might have made us enemies instead of making us +friends. To him, who knew the man from the inside, many +of my statements sounded like inversions made on purpose; +and yet when we came to talk of them together, and he had +understood how I was looking at the man through the books, +while he had long since learned to read the books through +the man, I believe he understood the spirit in which I had +been led astray.</p> + +<p>On two most important points, Dr. Japp added to my +knowledge, and with the same blow fairly demolished that +part of my criticism. First, if Thoreau were content to +dwell by Walden Pond, it was not merely with designs of +self-improvement, but to serve mankind in the highest sense. +Hither came the fleeing slave; thence was he despatched +along the road to freedom. That shanty in the woods was a +station in the great Underground Railroad; that adroit and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13"></a>13</span> +philosophic solitary was an ardent worker, soul and body, in +that so much more than honourable movement, which, if +atonement were possible for nations, should have gone far +to wipe away the guilt of slavery. But in history sin always +meets with condign punishment; the generation passes, the +offence remains, and the innocent must suffer. No underground +railroad could atone for slavery, even as no bills +in Parliament can redeem the ancient wrongs of Ireland. +But here at least is a new light shed on the Walden episode.</p> + +<p>Second, it appears, and the point is capital, that Thoreau +was once fairly and manfully in love, and, with perhaps too +much aping of the angel, relinquished the woman to his +brother. Even though the brother were like to die of it, we +have not yet heard the last opinion of the woman. But +be that as it may, we have here the explanation of the +“rarefied and freezing air” in which I complained that he +had taught himself to breathe. Reading the man through +the books, I took his professions in good faith. He made a +dupe of me, even as he was seeking to make a dupe of himself, +wresting philosophy to the needs of his own sorrow. +But in the light of this new fact, those pages, seemingly so +cold, are seen to be alive with feeling. What appeared to +be a lack of interest in the philosopher turns out to have +been a touching insincerity of the man to his own heart; +and that fine-spun airy theory of friendship, so devoid, as I +complained, of any quality of flesh and blood, a mere +anodyne to lull his pains. The most temperate of living +critics once marked a passage of my own with a cross and +the words, “This seems nonsense.” It not only seemed; it +was so. It was a private bravado of my own, which I had +so often repeated to keep up my spirits that I had grown +at last wholly to believe it, and had ended by setting it +down as a contribution to the theory of life. So with the +more icy parts of this philosophy of Thoreau’s. He was +affecting the Spartanism he had not; and the old sentimental +wound still bled afresh, while he deceived himself +with reasons.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page14"></a>14</span></p> + +<p>Thoreau’s theory, in short, was one thing and himself +another: of the first, the reader will find what I believe to +be a pretty faithful statement and a fairly just criticism in +the study; of the second he will find but a contorted shadow. +So much of the man as fitted nicely with his doctrines, in +the photographer’s phrase, came out. But that large part +which lay outside and beyond, for which he had found or +sought no formula, on which perhaps his philosophy even +looked askance, is wanting in my study, as it was wanting +in the guide I followed. In some ways a less serious writer, +in all ways a nobler man, the true Thoreau still remains +to be depicted.</p> + +<p>VILLON. I am tempted to regret that I ever wrote on +this subject, not merely because the paper strikes me as +too picturesque by half, but because I regarded Villon as a +bad fellow. Others still think well of him, and can find +beautiful and human traits where I saw nothing but artistic +evil; and by the principle of the art, those should have +written of the man, and not I. Where you see no good, +silence is the best. Though this penitence comes too late, +it may be well, at least, to give it expression.</p> + +<p>The spirit of Villon is still living in the literature of +France. Fat Peg is oddly of a piece with the work of +Zola, the Goncourts, and the infinitely greater Flaubert; +and, while similar in ugliness, still surpasses them in a native +power. The old author, breaking with an <i>éclat de voix</i> +out of his tongue-tied century, has not yet been touched +on his own ground, and still gives us the most vivid and +shocking impression of reality. Even if that were not +worth doing at all, it would be worth doing as well as he has +done it; for the pleasure we take in the author’s skill repays +us, or at least reconciles us to the baseness of his attitude. +Fat Peg (<i>La Grosse Margot</i>) is typical of much; it is a piece +of experience that has nowhere else been rendered into +literature; and a kind of gratitude for the author’s plainness +mingles, as we read, with the nausea proper to the +business. I shall quote here a verse of an old student’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15"></a>15</span> +song; worth laying side by side with Villon’s startling ballade. +This singer, also, had an unworthy mistress, but he +did not choose to share the wages of dishonour; and it is +thus, with both wit and pathos, that he laments her fall:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Nunc plango florem</p> + <p class="i1">Ætatis teneræ</p> +<p>Nitidiorem</p> + <p class="i1">Veneris sidere:</p> +<p>Tunc columbinam</p> + <p class="i1">Mentis dulcedinem,</p> +<p>Nunc serpentinam</p> + <p class="i1">Amaritudinem.</p> +<p>Verbo rogantes</p> + <p class="i1">Removes ostio,</p> +<p>Munera dantes</p> + <p class="i1">Foves cubiculo,</p> + <p class="i3">Illos abire præcipis</p> + <p class="i3">A quibus nihil accipis,</p> + <p class="i3">Cæcos claudosque recipis,</p> + <p class="i3">Viros illustres decipis</p> + <p class="i3">Cum melle venenosa.<a name="FnAnchor_1" href="#Footnote_1"><span class="sp">1</span></a></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>But our illustrious writer of ballades it was unnecessary +to deceive; it was the flight of beauty alone, not that of +honesty or honour, that he lamented in his song; and the +nameless mediæval vagabond has the best of the comparison.</p> + +<p>There is now a Villon Society in England; and Mr. John +Payne has translated him entirely into English, a task of +unusual difficulty. I regret to find that Mr. Payne and I are +not always at one as to the author’s meaning; in such cases +I am bound to suppose that he is in the right, although the +weakness of the flesh withholds me from anything beyond a +formal submission. He is now upon a larger venture, promising +us at last that complete Arabian Nights to which +we have all so long looked forward.</p> + +<p>CHARLES OF ORLEANS. Perhaps I have done +scanty justice to the charm of the old Duke’s verses, and +certainly he is too much treated as a fool. The period is not +sufficiently remembered. What that period was, to what +a blank of imbecility the human mind had fallen, can only +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16"></a>16</span> +be known to those who have waded in the chronicles. Excepting +Comines and La Salle and Villon, I have read no +author who did not appal me by his torpor; and even the +trial of Joan of Arc, conducted as it was by chosen clerks, +bears witness to a dreary sterile folly,—a twilight of the +mind peopled with childish phantoms. In relation to his +contemporaries, Charles seems quite a lively character.</p> + +<p>It remains for me to acknowledge the kindness of Mr. +Henry Pyne, who, immediately on the appearance of the +study, sent me his edition of the Debate between the +Heralds: a courtesy from the expert to the amateur only +too uncommon in these days.</p> + +<p>KNOX. Knox, the second in order of interest among +the reformers, lies dead and buried in the works of the +learned and unreadable M’Crie. It remains for some one +to break the tomb and bring him forth, alive again and +breathing, in a human book. With the best intentions in +the world, I have only added two more flagstones, ponderous +like their predecessors, to the mass of obstruction that +buries the reformer from the world; I have touched him in +my turn with that “mace of death,” which Carlyle has attributed +to Dryasdust; and my two dull papers are, in the +matter of dulness, worthy additions to the labours of M’Crie. +Yet I believe they are worth reprinting in the interest of +the next biographer of Knox. I trust his book may be a +masterpiece; and I indulge the hope that my two studies +may lend him a hint or perhaps spare him a delay in its +composition.</p> + +<p>Of the PEPYS I can say nothing; for it has been too +recently through my hands; and I still retain some of the +heat of composition. Yet it may serve as a text for the last +remark I have to offer. To Pepys I think I have been amply +just; to the others, to Burns, Thoreau, Whitman, Charles +of Orleans, even Villon, I have found myself in the retrospect +ever too grudging of praise, ever too disrespectful in manner. +It is not easy to see why I should have been most liberal to +the man of least pretensions. Perhaps some cowardice +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17"></a>17</span> +withheld me from the proper warmth of tone; perhaps it is +easier to be just to those nearer us in rank and mind. Such +at least is the fact, which other critics may explain. For +these were all men whom, for one reason or another, I loved; +or when I did not love the men, my love was the greater to +their books. I had read them and lived with them; for +months they were continually in my thoughts; I seemed +to rejoice in their joys and to sorrow with them in their +griefs; and behold, when I came to write of them, my +tongue was sometimes hardly courteous and seldom wholly +just.</p> + +<p class="rt">R. L. S.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_1" href="#FnAnchor_1"><span class="fn">1</span></a> “Gaudeamus: Carmina vagorum selecta.” Leipsic: Trübner, +1879.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page18"></a>18</span></p> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page19"></a>19</span></p> +<h2>FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN</h2> +<h2>AND BOOKS</h2> +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h3>VICTOR HUGO’S ROMANCES</h3> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>Après le roman pittoresque mais prosaïque de Walter Scott il +restera un autre roman à créer, plus beau et plus complet encore +selon nous. C’est le roman, à la fois drame et épopée, pittoresque +mais poétique, réel mais idéal, vrai mais grand, qui enchâssera Walter +Scott dans Homère.—<span class="sc">Victor Hugo</span> on “Quentin Durward.”</p> +</div> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Victor Hugo’s</span> romances occupy an important position +in the history of literature; many innovations, timidly +made elsewhere, have in them been carried boldly out +to their last consequences; much that was indefinite in +literary tendencies has attained to definite maturity; +many things have come to a point and been distinguished +one from the other; and it is only in the last romance +of all, “Quatrevingt-treize,” that this culmination is most +perfect. This is in the nature of things. Men who are in +any way typical of a stage of progress may be compared +more justly to the hand upon the dial of the clock, which +continues to advance as it indicates, than to the stationary +milestone, which is only the measure of what is past. The +movement is not arrested. That significant something +by which the work of such a man differs from that of his +predecessors goes on disengaging itself and becoming more +and more articulate and cognisable. The same principle +of growth that carried his first book beyond the books of +previous writers carries his last book beyond his first. And +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20"></a>20</span> +just as the most imbecile production of any literary age +gives us sometimes the very clue to comprehension we +have sought long and vainly in contemporary masterpieces, +so it may be the very weakest of an author’s books that, +coming in the sequel of many others, enables us at last to +get hold of what underlies the whole of them—of that +spinal marrow of significance that unites the work of his +life into something organic and rational. This is what has +been done by “Quatrevingt-treize” for the earlier romances +of Victor Hugo, and, through them, for a whole division of +modern literature. We have here the legitimate continuation +of a long and living literary tradition; and hence, so +far, its explanation. When many lines diverge from each +other in direction so slightly as to confuse the eye, we know +that we have only to produce them to make the chaos +plain: this is continually so in literary history; and we +shall best understand the importance of Victor Hugo’s +romances if we think of them as some such prolongation +of one of the main lines of literary tendency.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<p>When we compare the novels of Walter Scott with +those of the man of genius who preceded him, and whom +he delighted to honour as a master in the art—I mean +Henry Fielding—we shall be somewhat puzzled, at the +first moment, to state the difference that there is between +these two. Fielding has as much human science; has a +far firmer hold upon the tiller of his story; has a keen +sense of character, which he draws (and Scott often does +so too) in a rather abstract and academical manner; and +finally, is quite as humorous and quite as good-humoured +as the great Scotsman. With all these points of resemblance +between the men, it is astonishing that their work +should be so different. The fact is, that the English novel +was looking one way and seeking one set of effects in the +hands of Fielding; and in the hands of Scott it was looking +eagerly in all ways and searching for all the effects that by +any possibility it could utilise. The difference between +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21"></a>21</span> +these two men marks a great enfranchisement. With +Scott the Romantic movement, the movement of an extended +curiosity and an enfranchised imagination, has +begun. This is a trite thing to say; but trite things are +often very indefinitely comprehended: and this enfranchisement, +in as far as it regards the technical change that +came over modern prose romance, has never perhaps been +explained with any clearness.</p> + +<p>To do so, it will be necessary roughly to compare the +two sets of conventions upon which plays and romances +are respectively based. The purposes of these two arts +are so much alike, and they deal so much with the same +passions and interests, that we are apt to forget the fundamental +opposition of their methods. And yet such a +fundamental opposition exists. In the drama the action +is developed in great measure by means of things that +remain outside of the art; by means of real things, that +is, and not artistic conventions for things. This is a sort +of realism that is not to be confounded with that realism +in painting of which we hear so much. The realism in +painting is a thing of purposes; this, that we have to indicate +in the drama, is an affair of method. We have +heard a story, indeed, of a painter in France who, when +he wanted to paint a sea-beach, carried realism from his +ends to his means, and plastered real sand upon his canvas; +and that is precisely what is done in the drama. The +dramatic author has to paint his beaches with real sand: +real live men and women move about the stage; we hear +real voices; what is feigned merely puts a sense upon what +is; we do actually see a woman go behind a screen as Lady +Teazle, and, after a certain interval, we do actually see her +very shamefully produced again. Now all these things, +that remain as they were in life, and are not transmuted +into any artistic convention, are terribly stubborn and +difficult to deal with; and hence there are for the dramatist +many resultant limitations in time and space. These +limitations in some sort approximate towards those of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page22"></a>22</span> +painting: the dramatic author is tied down, not indeed +to a moment, but to the duration of each scene or act; he +is confined to the stage almost as the painter is confined +within his frame. But the great restriction is this, that a +dramatic author must deal with his actors, and with his +actors alone. Certain moments of suspense, certain significant +dispositions of personages, a certain logical growth +of emotion,—these are the only means at the disposal of +the playwright. It is true that, with the assistance of the +scene-painter, the costumier and the conductor of the +orchestra, he may add to this something of pageant, something +of sound and fury; but these are, for the dramatic +writer, beside the mark, and do not come under the vivifying +touch of his genius. When we turn to romance, we +find this no longer. Here nothing is reproduced to our +senses directly. Not only the main conception of the work, +but the scenery, the appliances, the mechanism by which +this conception is brought home to us, have been put +through the crucible of another man’s mind, and come out +again, one and all, in the form of written words. With +the loss of every degree of such realism as we have described, +there is for art a clear gain of liberty and largeness of competence. +Thus, painting, in which the round outlines of +things are thrown on to a flat board, is far more free than +sculpture, in which their solidity is preserved. It is by +giving up these identities that art gains true strength. And +so in the case of novels as compared with the stage. Continuous +narration is the flat board on to which the novelist +throws everything. And from this there results for him +a great loss of vividness, but a great compensating gain +in his power over the subject; so that he can now subordinate +one thing to another in importance, and introduce +all manner of very subtle detail, to a degree that was before +impossible. He can render just as easily the flourish of +trumpets before a victorious emperor and the gossip of +country market women, the gradual decay of forty years +of a man’s life and the gesture of a passionate moment. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23"></a>23</span> +finds himself equally unable, if he looks at it from one point +of view—equally able, if he looks at it from another point +of view—to reproduce a colour, a sound, an outline, a logical +argument, a physical action. He can show his readers, +behind and around the personages that for the moment +occupy the foreground of his story, the continual suggestion +of the landscape; the turn of the weather that will +turn with it men’s lives and fortunes, dimly foreshadowed +on the horizon; the fatality of distant events, the stream +of national tendency, the salient framework of causation. +And all this thrown upon the flat board—all this entering, +naturally and smoothly, into the texture of continuous +intelligent narration.</p> + +<p>This touches the difference between Fielding and Scott. +In the work of the latter, true to his character of a modern +and a romantic, we become suddenly conscious of the background. +Fielding, on the other hand, although he had +recognised that the novel was nothing else than an epic in +prose, wrote in the spirit not of the epic, but of the drama. +This is not, of course, to say that the drama was in any way +incapable of a regeneration similar in kind to that of which +I am now speaking with regard to the novel. The notorious +contrary fact is sufficient to guard the reader against +such a misconstruction. All that is meant is, that Fielding +remained ignorant of certain capabilities which the novel +possesses over the drama; or, at least, neglected and did +not develop them. To the end he continued to see things +as a playwright sees them. The world with which he +dealt, the world he had realised for himself and sought to +realise and set before his readers, was a world of exclusively +human interest. As for landscape, he was content to under-line +stage directions, as it might be done in a play-book: +Tom and Molly retire into a practicable wood. As for +nationality and public sentiment, it is curious enough to +think that Tom Jones is laid in the year forty-five, and that +the only use he makes of the rebellion is to throw a troop +of soldiers into his hero’s way. It is most really important, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page24"></a>24</span> +however, to remark the change which has been introduced +into the conception of character by the beginning of the +romantic movement and the consequent introduction into +fiction of a vast amount of new material. Fielding tells +us as much as he thought necessary to account for the actions +of his creatures; he thought that each of these actions could +be decomposed on the spot into a few simple personal elements, +as we decompose a force in a question of abstract +dynamics. The larger motives are all unknown to him; +he had not understood that the nature of the landscape +or the spirit of the times could be for anything in a story; +and so, naturally and rightly, he said nothing about them. +But Scott’s instinct, the instinct of the man of an age profoundly +different, taught him otherwise; and, in his work, +the individual characters begin to occupy a comparatively +small proportion of that canvas on which armies manœuvre, +and great hills pile themselves upon each other’s shoulders. +Fielding’s characters were always great to the full stature +of a perfectly arbitrary will. Already in Scott we begin to +have a sense of the subtle influences that moderate and +qualify a man’s personality; that personality is no longer +thrown out in unnatural isolation, but is resumed into its +place in the constitution of things.</p> + +<p>It is this change in the manner of regarding men and +their actions, first exhibited in romance, that has since +renewed and vivified history. For art precedes philosophy, +and even science. People must have noticed things and +interested themselves in them before they begin to debate +upon their causes or influence. And it is in this way that +art is the pioneer of knowledge; those predilections of +the artist he knows not why, those irrational acceptations +and recognitions, reclaim, out of the world that we have +not yet realised, ever another and another corner; and +after the facts have been thus vividly brought before us +and have had time to settle and arrange themselves in our +minds, some day there will be found the man of science +to stand up and give the explanation. Scott took an interest +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25"></a>25</span> +in many things in which Fielding took none; and +for this reason, and no other, he introduced them into his +romances. If he had been told what would be the nature +of the movement that he was so lightly initiating, he would +have been very incredulous and not a little scandalised. +At the time when he wrote, the real drift of this new manner +of pleasing people in fiction was not yet apparent; and, +even now, it is only by looking at the romances of Victor +Hugo that we are enabled to form any proper judgment in +the matter. These books are not only descended by ordinary +generation from the Waverley Novels, but it is in them +chiefly that we shall find the revolutionary tradition of +Scott carried further; that we shall find Scott himself, in +so far as regards his conception of prose fiction and its purposes, +surpassed in his own spirit, instead of tamely followed. +We have here, as I said before, a line of literary tendency +produced, and by this production definitely separated from +others. When we come to Hugo, we see that the deviation, +which seemed slight enough and not very serious between +Scott and Fielding, is indeed such a great gulf in thought +and sentiment as only successive generations can pass over: +and it is but natural that one of the chief advances that +Hugo has made upon Scott is an advance in self-consciousness. +Both men follow the same road; but where the one +went blindly and carelessly, the other advances with all +deliberation and forethought. There never was artist +much more unconscious than Scott; and there have been +not many more conscious than Hugo. The passage at +the head of these pages shows how organically he had understood +the nature of his own changes. He has, underlying +each of the five great romances (which alone I purpose here +to examine), two deliberate designs: one artistic, the other +consciously ethical and intellectual. This is a man living +in a different world from Scott, who professes sturdily (in +one of his introductions) that he does not believe in novels +having any moral influence at all; but still Hugo is too +much of an artist to let himself be hampered by his dogmas; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26"></a>26</span> +and the truth is that the artistic result seems, in at least +one great instance, to have very little connection with the +other, or directly ethical result.</p> + +<p>The artistic result of a romance, what is left upon the +memory by any really powerful and artistic novel, is something +so complicated and refined that it is difficult to put +a name upon it; and yet something as simple as nature. +These two propositions may seem mutually destructive, +but they are so only in appearance. The fact is, that art +is working far ahead of language as well as of science, realising +for us, by all manner of suggestions and exaggerations, +effects for which as yet we have no direct name; nay, for +which we may never perhaps have a direct name, for the +reason that these effects do not enter very largely into the +necessities of life. Hence alone is that suspicion of vagueness +that often hangs about the purpose of a romance: it +is clear enough to us in thought; but we are not used to +consider anything clear until we are able to formulate it in +words, and analytical language has not been sufficiently +shaped to that end. We all know this difficulty in the case +of a picture, simple and strong as may be the impression +that it has left with us; and it is only because language +is the medium of romance that we are prevented from +seeing that the two cases are the same. It is not +that there is anything blurred or indefinite in the +impression left with us, it is just because the impression +is so very definite after its own kind, that we find it hard +to fit it exactly with the expressions of our philosophical +speech.</p> + +<p>It is this idea which underlies and issues from a romance, +this something which it is the function of that form of art +to create, this epical value, that I propose chiefly to seek +and, as far as may be, to throw into relief, in the present +study. It is thus, I believe, that we shall see most clearly +the great stride that Hugo has taken beyond his predecessors, +and how, no longer content with expressing more or +less abstract relations of man to man, he has set before himself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27"></a>27</span> +the task of realising, in the language of romance, much +of the involution of our complicated lives.</p> + +<p>This epical value is not to be found, let it be understood, +in every so-called novel. The great majority are not works +of art in anything but a very secondary signification. One +might almost number on one’s fingers the works in which +such a supreme artistic intention has been in any way +superior to the other and lesser aims, themselves more or +less artistic, that generally go hand in hand with it in the +conception of prose romance. The purely critical spirit is, +in most novels, paramount. At the present moment we +can recall one man only, for whose works it would have been +equally possible to accomplish our present design: and that +man is Hawthorne. There is a unity, an unwavering +creative purpose, about some at least of Hawthorne’s +romances, that impresses itself on the most indifferent +reader; and the very restrictions and weaknesses of the man +served perhaps to strengthen the vivid and single impression +of his works. There is nothing of this kind in Hugo: unity, +if he attains to it, is indeed unity out of multitude; and it is +the wonderful power of subordination and synthesis thus +displayed, that gives us the measure of his talent. No +amount of mere discussion and statement, such as this, +could give a just conception of the greatness of this power. +It must be felt in the books themselves, and all that can be +done in the present essay is to recall to the reader the more +general features of each of the five great romances, hurriedly +and imperfectly, as space will permit, and rather as a suggestion +than anything more complete.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<p>The moral end that the author had before him in the +conception of “Notre Dame de Paris” was (he tells us) to +“denounce” the external fatality that hangs over men in +the form of foolish and inflexible superstition. To speak +plainly, this moral purpose seems to have mighty little to +do with the artistic conception; moreover, it is very questionably +handled, while the artistic conception is developed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28"></a>28</span> +with the most consummate success. Old Paris lives for us +with newness of life: we have ever before our eyes the city cut +into three by the two arms of the river, the boat-shaped +island “moored” by five bridges to the different shores, +and the two unequal towns on either hand. We forget all +that enumeration of palaces and churches and convents +which occupies so many pages of admirable description, and +the thoughtless reader might be inclined to conclude from +this that they were pages thrown away; but this is not so: +we forget, indeed, the details, as we forget or do not see the +different layers of paint on a completed picture; but the +thing desired has been accomplished, and we carry away +with us a sense of the “Gothic profile” of the city, of the +“surprising forest of pinnacles and towers and belfries,” +and we know not what of rich and intricate and quaint. +And throughout, Notre Dame has been held up over Paris +by a height far greater than that of its twin towers: the +Cathedral is present to us from the first page to the last; +the title has given us the clue, and already in the Palace +of Justice the story begins to attach itself to that central +building by character after character. It is purely an effect +of mirage; Notre Dame does not, in reality, thus dominate +and stand out above the city; and any one who should +visit it, in the spirit of the Scott-tourist to Edinburgh or the +Trossachs, would be almost offended at finding nothing more +than this old church thrust away into a corner. It is purely +an effect of mirage, as we say; but it is an effect that permeates +and possesses the whole book with astonishing consistency +and strength. And then, Hugo has peopled this +Gothic city, and, above all, this Gothic church, with a race +of men even more distinctly Gothic than their surroundings. +We know this generation already: we have seen them +clustered about the worn capitals of pillars, or craning forth +over the church-leads with the open mouths of gargoyles. +About them all there is that sort of stiff quaint unreality, +that conjunction of the grotesque, and even of a certain +bourgeois snugness, with passionate contortion and horror, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29"></a>29</span> +that is so characteristic of Gothic art. Esmeralda is somewhat +an exception; she and the goat traverse the story like +two children who have wandered in a dream. The finest +moment of the book is when these two share with the two +other leading characters, Dom Claude and Quasimodo, the +chill shelter of the old cathedral. It is here that we touch +most intimately the generative artistic idea of the romance: +are they not all four taken out of some quaint moulding +Illustrative of the Beatitudes, or the Ten Commandments, +or the seven deadly sins? What is Quasimodo but an +animated gargoyle? What is the whole book but the reanimation +of Gothic art?</p> + +<p>It is curious that in this, the earliest of the five great +romances, there should be so little of that extravagance +that latterly we have come almost to identify with the +author’s manner. Yet even here we are distressed by +words, thoughts, and incidents that defy belief and alienate +the sympathies. The scene of the <i>in pace</i>, for example, in +spite of its strength, verges dangerously on the province of +the penny novelist. I do not believe that Quasimodo rode +upon the bell; I should as soon imagine that he swung +by the clapper. And again, the following two sentences, +out of an otherwise admirable chapter, surely surpass what +it had ever entered into the heart of any other man to +imagine (vol. ii. p. 180): “Il souffrait tant que par instants +il s’arrachait des poignées de cheveux, <i>pour voir s’ils ne +blanchissaient pas</i>.” And, p. 181: “Ses pensées étaient +si insupportables qu’il prenait sa tête à deux mains et +tàtchait de l’arracher de ses épaules <i>pour la briser sur le +pavé</i>.”</p> + +<p>One other fault, before we pass on. In spite of the +horror and misery that pervade all of his later work, there +is in it much less of actual melodrama than here, and +rarely, I should say never, that sort of brutality, that useless +insufferable violence to the feelings, which is the last +distinction between melodrama and true tragedy. Now, +in “Notre Dame,” the whole story of Esmeralda’s passion +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page30"></a>30</span> +for the worthless archer is unpleasant enough; but when +she betrays herself in her last hiding-place, herself and her +wretched mother, by calling out to this sordid hero who +has long since forgotten her—well, that is just one of those +things that readers will not forgive; they do not like it, +and they are quite right; life is hard enough for poor mortals +without having it indefinitely embittered for them by bad +art.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<p>We look in vain for any similar blemish in “Les Misérables.” +Here, on the other hand, there is perhaps the +nearest approach to literary restraint that Hugo has ever +made: there is here certainly the ripest and most easy +development of his powers. It is the moral intention of +this great novel to awaken us a little, if it may be—for such +awakenings are unpleasant—to the great cost of the society +that we enjoy and profit by, to the labour and sweat of +those who support the litter, civilisation, in which we ourselves +are so smoothly carried forward. People are all glad +to shut their eyes; and it gives them a very simple pleasure +when they can forget that our laws commit a million individual +injustices, to be once roughly just in the general; +that the bread that we eat, and the quiet of the family, +and all that embellishes life and makes it worth having, +have to be purchased by death—by the deaths of animals, +and the deaths of men wearied out with labour, and the +deaths of those criminals called tyrants and revolutionaries, +and the deaths of those revolutionaries called criminals. +It is to something of all this that Victor Hugo wishes to +open men’s eyes in “Les Misérables“; and this moral +lesson is worked out in masterly coincidence with the artistic +effect. The deadly weight of civilisation to those who are +below presses sensibly on our shoulders as we read. A +sort of mocking indignation grows upon us as we find +Society rejecting, again and again, the services of the most +serviceable; setting Jean Valjean to pick oakum, casting +Galileo into prison, even crucifying Christ. There is a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31"></a>31</span> +haunting and horrible sense of insecurity about the book. +The terror we thus feel is a terror for the machinery of law, +that we can hear tearing, in the dark, good and bad, between +its formidable wheels with the iron stolidity of all +machinery, human or divine. This terror incarnates itself +sometimes and leaps horribly out upon us; as when the +crouching mendicant looks up, and Jean Valjean, in the +light of the street lamp, recognises the face of the detective; +as when the lantern of the patrol flashes suddenly through +the darkness of the sewer; or as when the fugitive comes +forth at last at evening, by the quiet riverside, and finds +the police there also, waiting stolidly for vice and stolidly +satisfied to take virtue instead. The whole book is full of +oppression, and full of prejudice, which is the great cause of +oppression. We have the prejudices of M. Gillenormand, +the prejudices of Marius, the prejudices in revolt that defend +the barricade, and the throned prejudices that carry it by +storm. And then we have the admirable but ill-written +character of Javert, the man who had made a religion of +the police, and would not survive the moment when he +learned that there was another truth outside the truth of +laws; a just creation, over which the reader will do well +to ponder.</p> + +<p>With so gloomy a design this great work is still full of +life and light and love. The portrait of the good Bishop +is one of the most agreeable things in modern literature. +The whole scene at Montfermeil is full of the charm that +Hugo knows so well how to throw about <span class="correction" title="corrected from childern">children</span>. Who +can forget the passage where Cosette, sent out at night +to draw water, stands in admiration before the illuminated +booth, and the huckster behind “lui faisait un peu l’effet +d’être le Père éternel“? The pathos of the forlorn sabot +laid trustingly by the chimney in expectation of the Santa +Claus that was not, takes us fairly by the throat; there +is nothing in Shakespeare that touches the heart more +nearly. The loves of Cosette and Marius are very pure +and pleasant, and we cannot refuse our affection to Gavroche, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32"></a>32</span> +although we may make a mental reservation of our +profound disbelief in his existence. Take it for all in all, +there are few books in the world that can be compared with +it. There is as much calm and serenity as Hugo has ever +attained to; the melodramatic coarsenesses that disfigured +“Notre Dame” are no longer present. There is certainly +much that is painfully improbable; and again, the story +itself is a little too well constructed; it produces on us the +effect of a puzzle, and we grow incredulous as we find that +every character fits again and again into the plot, and is, +like the child’s cube, serviceable on six faces; things are +not so well arranged in life as all that comes to. Some of +the digressions, also, seem out of place, and do nothing but +interrupt and irritate. But when all is said, the book remains +of masterly conception and of masterly development, +full of pathos, full of truth, full of a high eloquence.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<p>Superstition and social exigency having been thus dealt +with in the first two members of the series, it remained for +“Les Travailleurs de la Mer” to show man hand to hand +with the elements, the last form of external force that is +brought against him. And here once more the artistic +effect and the moral lesson are worked out together, and +are, indeed, one. Gilliat, alone upon the reef at his herculean +task, offers a type of human industry in the midst +of the vague “diffusion of forces into the illimitable,” and +the visionary development of “wasted labour” in the sea, +and the winds, and the clouds. No character was ever +thrown into such strange relief as Gilliat. The great circle +of sea-birds that come wonderingly around him on the +night of his arrival, strikes at once the note of his pre-eminence +and isolation. He fills the whole reef with his +indefatigable toil; this solitary spot in the ocean rings +with the clamour of his anvil; we see him as he comes and +goes, thrown out sharply against the clear background of +the sea. And yet his isolation is not to be compared with +the isolation of Robinson Crusoe, for example; indeed, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33"></a>33</span> +no two books could be more instructive to set side by side +than “Les Travailleurs” and this other of the old days +before art had learnt to occupy itself with what lies outside +of human will. Crusoe was one sole centre of interest in +the midst of a nature utterly dead and utterly unrealised +by the artist; but this is not how we feel with Gilliat; we +feel that he is opposed by a “dark coalition of forces,” +that an “immense animosity” surrounds him; we are +the witnesses of the terrible warfare that he wages with +“the silent inclemency of phenomena going their own way, +and the great general law, implacable and passive“: “a +conspiracy of the indifferency of things” is against him. +There is not one interest on the reef, but two. Just as we +recognise Gilliat for the hero, we recognise, as implied by +this indifferency of things, this direction of forces to some +purpose outside our purposes, yet another character who +may almost take rank as the villain of the novel, and the +two face up to one another blow for blow, feint for feint, +until, in the storm, they fight it epically out, and Gilliat +remains the victor;—a victor, however, who has still to +encounter the octopus. I need say nothing of the gruesome, +repulsive excellence of that famous scene; it will be +enough to remind the reader that Gilliat is in pursuit of a +crab when he is himself assaulted by the devil fish, and that +this, in its way, is the last touch to the inner significance +of the book; here, indeed, is the true position of man in +the universe.</p> + +<p>But in “Les Travailleurs,” with all its strength, with all +its eloquence, with all the beauty and fitness of its main +situations, we cannot conceal from ourselves that there +is a thread of something that will not bear calm scrutiny. +There is much that is disquieting about the storm, admirably +as it begins. I am very doubtful whether it would be +possible to keep the boat from foundering in such circumstances, +by any amount of breakwater and broken rock. +I do not understand the way in which the waves are spoken +of, and prefer just to take it as a loose way of speaking, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34"></a>34</span> +and pass on. And lastly, how does it happen that the sea +was quite calm next day? Is this great hurricane a piece +of scene-painting after all? And when we have forgiven +Gilliat’s prodigies of strength (although, in soberness, he +reminds us more of Porthos in the “Vicomte de Bragelonne” +than is quite desirable), what is to be said to his suicide, +and how are we to condemn in adequate terms that unprincipled +avidity after effect, which tells us that the sloop +disappeared over the horizon, and the head under the +water, at one and the same moment? Monsieur Hugo +may say what he will, but we know better; we know very +well that they did not; a thing like that raises up a despairing +spirit of opposition in a man’s readers; they give him +the lie fiercely as they read. Lastly, we have here already +some beginning of that curious series of English blunders, +that makes us wonder if there are neither proof-sheets nor +judicious friends in the whole of France, and affects us sometimes +with a sickening uneasiness as to what may be our +own exploits when we touch upon foreign countries and +foreign tongues. It is here that we shall find the famous +“first of the fourth,” and many English words that may +be comprehensible perhaps in Paris. It is here that we +learn that “laird” in Scotland is the same title as “lord” +in England. Here, also, is an account of a Highland +soldier’s equipment, which we recommend to the lovers +of genuine fun.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<p>In “L’Homme qui Rit,” it was Hugo’s object to “denounce” +(as he would say himself) the aristocratic principle +as it was exhibited in England; and this purpose, +somewhat more unmitigatedly satiric than that of the two +last, must answer for much that is unpleasant in the book. +The repulsiveness of the scheme of the story, and the +manner in which it is bound up with impossibilities and +absurdities, discourage the reader at the outset, and it +needs an effort to take it as seriously as it deserves. And +yet when we judge it deliberately, it will be seen that, here +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35"></a>35</span> +again, the story is admirably adapted to the moral. The +constructive ingenuity exhibited throughout is almost +morbid. Nothing could be more happily imagined, as a +<i>reductio ad absurdum</i> of the aristocratic principle, than the +adventures of Gwynplaine, the itinerant mountebank, +snatched suddenly out of his little way of life, and installed +without preparation as one of the hereditary legislators of +a great country. It is with a very bitter irony that the +paper, on which all this depends, is left to float for years at +the will of wind and tide. What, again, can be finer in +conception than that voice from the people heard suddenly +in the House of Lords, in solemn arraignment of the pleasures +and privileges of its splendid occupants? The horrible +laughter, stamped for ever “by order of the king” upon +the face of this strange spokesman of democracy, adds +yet another feature of justice to the scene; in all time, +travesty has been the argument of oppression; and, in all +time, the oppressed might have made this answer: “If +I am vile, is it not your system that has made me so?” +This ghastly laughter gives occasion, moreover, for the +one strain of tenderness running through the web of this +unpleasant story: the love of the blind girl Dea, for the +monster. It is a most benignant providence that thus +harmoniously brings together these two misfortunes; it +is one of those compensations, one of those after-thoughts +of a relenting destiny, that reconcile us from time to time +to the evil that is in the world; the atmosphere of the book +is purified by the presence of this pathetic love; it seems +to be above the story somehow, and not of it, as the full +moon over the night of some foul and feverish city.</p> + +<p>There is here a quality in the narration more intimate +and particular than is general with Hugo; but it must be +owned, on the other hand, that the book is wordy, and +even, now and then, a little wearisome. Ursus and his +wolf are pleasant enough companions; but the former +is nearly as much an abstract type as the latter. There +is a beginning, also, of an abuse of conventional conversation, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36"></a>36</span> +such as may be quite pardonable in the drama where +needs must, but is without excuse in the romance. Lastly, +I suppose one must say a word or two about the weak points +of this not immaculate novel; and if so, it will be best to +distinguish at once. The large family of English blunders, +to which we have alluded already in speaking of “Les +Travailleurs,” are of a sort that is really indifferent in art. +If Shakespeare makes his ships cast anchor by some seaport +of Bohemia, if Hugo imagines Tom-Jim-Jack to be a +likely nickname for an English sailor, or if either Shakespeare, +or Hugo, or Scott, for that matter, be guilty of +“figments enough to confuse the march of a whole history—anachronisms +enough to overset all chronology,”<a name="FnAnchor_2" href="#Footnote_2"><span class="sp">2</span></a> the +life of their creations, the artistic truth and accuracy of +their work, is not so much as compromised. But when we +come upon a passage like the sinking of the <i>Ourque</i> in this +romance, we can do nothing but cover our face with our +hands: the conscientious reader feels a sort of disgrace in +the very reading. For such artistic falsehoods, springing +from what I have called already an unprincipled avidity +after effect, no amount of blame can be exaggerated; and +above all, when the criminal is such a man as Victor Hugo. +We cannot forgive in him what we might have passed over +in a third-rate sensation novelist. Little as he seems to +know of the sea and nautical affairs, he must have known +very well that vessels do not go down as he makes the +<i>Ourque</i> go down; he must have known that such a liberty +with fact was against the laws of the game, and incompatible +with all appearance of sincerity in conception or workmanship.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<p>In each of these books, one after another, there has +been some departure from the traditional canons of romance; +but taking each separately, one would have feared to make +too much of these departures, or to found any theory upon +what was perhaps purely accidental. The appearance of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page37"></a>37</span> +“Quatrevingt-treize” has put us out of the region of such +doubt. Like a doctor who has long been hesitating how +to classify an epidemic malady, we have come at last upon +a case so well marked that our uncertainty is at an end. +It is a novel built upon “a sort of enigma,” which was at +that date laid before revolutionary France, and which is +presented by Hugo to Tellmarch, to Lantenac, to Gauvain, +and very terribly to Cimourdain, each of whom gives his +own solution of the question, clement or stern, according +to the temper of his spirit. That enigma was this: “Can +a good action be a bad action? Does not he who spares +the wolf kill the sheep?” This question, as I say, meets +with one answer after another during the course of the book, +and yet seems to remain undecided to the end. And something +in the same way, although one character, or one set +of characters, after another comes to the front and occupies +<span class="correction" title="corrected from out">our</span> attention for the moment, we never identify our interest +with any of these temporary heroes nor regret them after +they are withdrawn. We soon come to regard them somewhat +as special cases of a general law; what we really care +for is something that they only imply and body forth to us. +We know how history continues through century after +century; how this king or that patriot disappears from its +pages with his whole generation, and yet we do not cease +to read, nor do we even feel as if we had reached any legitimate +conclusion, because our interest is not in the men, +but in the country that they loved or hated, benefited or +injured. And so it is here: Gauvain and Cimourdain pass +away, and we regard them no more than the lost armies +of which we find the cold statistics in military annals; +what we regard is what remains behind; it is the principle +that put these men where they were, that filled them for a +while with heroic inspiration, and has the power, now that +they are fallen, to inspire others with the same courage. +The interest of the novel centres about revolutionary France: +just as the plot is an abstract judicial difficulty, the hero +is an abstract historical force. And this has been done, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page38"></a>38</span> +not, as it would have been before, by the cold and cumbersome +machinery of allegory, but with bold, straightforward +realism, dealing only with the objective materials of art, +and dealing with them so masterfully that the palest abstractions +of thought come before us, and move our hopes +and fears, as if they were the young men and maidens of +customary romance.</p> + +<p>The episode of the mother and children in “Quatrevingt-treize” +is equal to anything that Hugo has ever +written. There is one chapter in the second volume, for +instance, called “<i>Sein guéri, cœur saignant</i>,” that is full +of the very stuff of true tragedy, and nothing could be more +delightful than the humours of the three children on the +day before the assault. The passage on La Vendée is really +great, and the scenes in Paris have much of the same broad +merit. The book is full, as usual, of pregnant and splendid +sayings. But when thus much is conceded by way of praise, +we come to the other scale of the balance, and find this, +also, somewhat heavy. There is here a yet greater over-employment +of conventional dialogue than in “L’Homme +qui Rit“; and much that should have been said by the +author himself, if it were to be said at all, he has most unwarrantably +put into the mouths of one or other of his +characters. We should like to know what becomes of the +main body of the troop in the wood of La Saudraie during +the thirty pages or so in which the foreguard lays aside +all discipline, and stops to gossip over a woman and some +children. We have an unpleasant idea forced upon us at +one place, in spite of all the good-natured incredulity that +we can summon up to resist it. Is it possible that Monsieur +Hugo thinks they ceased to steer the corvette while the gun +was loose? Of the chapter in which Lantenac and Halmalho +are alone together in the boat, the less said the better; +of course, if there were nothing else, they would have been +swamped thirty times over during the course of Lantenac’s +harangue. Again, after Lantenac has landed, we have +scenes of almost inimitable workmanship that suggest the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page39"></a>39</span> +epithet “statuesque” by their clear and trenchant outline; +but the tocsin scene will not do, and the tocsin unfortunately +pervades the whole passage, ringing continually in +our ears with a taunting accusation of falsehood. And +then, when we come to the place where Lantenac meets +the royalists, under the idea that he is going to meet the +republicans, it seems as if there were a hitch in the stage +mechanism. I have tried it over in every way, and I cannot +conceive any disposition that would make the scene possible +as narrated.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<p>Such then, with their faults and their signal excellences, +are the five great novels.</p> + +<p>Romance is a language in which many persons learn +to speak with a certain appearance of fluency; but there +are few who can ever bend it to any practical need, few +who can ever be said to express themselves in it. It has +become abundantly plain in the foregoing examination that +Victor Hugo occupies a high place among those few. He +has always a perfect command over his stories; and we +see that they are constructed with a high regard to some +ulterior purpose, and that every situation is informed with +moral significance and grandeur. Of no other man can +the same thing be said in the same degree. His romances +are not to be confused with “the novel with a purpose” +as familiar to the English reader: this is generally the +model of incompetence; and we see the moral clumsily +forced into every hole and corner of the story, or thrown +externally over it like a carpet over a railing. Now the +moral significance, with Hugo, is of the essence of the +romance; it is the organising principle. If you could +somehow despoil “Les Misérables” or “Les Travailleurs” +of their distinctive lesson, you would find that the story +had lost its interest and the book was dead.</p> + +<p>Having thus learned to subordinate his story to an +idea, to make his art speak, he went on to teach it to say +things heretofore unaccustomed. If you look back at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page40"></a>40</span> +five books of which we have now so hastily spoken, you will +be astonished at the freedom with which the original purposes +of story-telling have been laid aside and passed by. +Where are now the two lovers who descended the main +watershed of all the Waverley Novels, and all the novels +that have tried to follow in their wake? Sometimes they +are almost lost sight of before the solemn isolation of a man +against the sea and sky, as in “Les Travailleurs“; sometimes, +as in “Les Misérables,” they merely figure for awhile, +as a beautiful episode in the epic of oppression; sometimes +they are entirely absent, as in “Quatrevingt-treize.” +There is no hero in “Notre Dame“: in “Les Misérables” +it is an old man: in “L’Homme qui Rit” it is a monster: +in “Quatrevingt-treize” it is the Revolution. Those elements +that only began to show themselves timidly, as +adjuncts, in the novels of Walter Scott, have usurped ever +more and more of the canvas; until we find the whole interest +of one of Hugo’s romances centring around matter +that Fielding would have banished from his altogether, +as being out of the field of fiction. So we have elemental +forces occupying nearly as large a place, playing (so to +speak) nearly as important a <i>rôle</i>, as the man, Gilliat, who +opposes and overcomes them. So we find the fortunes of +a nation put upon the stage with as much vividness as ever +before the fortunes of a village maiden or a lost heir; and +the forces that oppose and corrupt a principle holding the +attention quite as strongly as the wicked barons or dishonest +attorneys of the past. Hence those individual interests +that were supreme in Fielding, and even in Scott stood out +over everything else, and formed as it were the spine of the +story, figure here only as one set of interests among many +sets, one force among many forces, one thing to be treated +out of a whole world of things equally vivid and important. +So that, for Hugo, man is no longer an isolated spirit without +antecedent or relation here below, but a being involved +in the action and reaction of natural forces, himself a centre +of such action and reaction; or an unit in a great multitude, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page41"></a>41</span> +chased hither and thither by epidemic terrors and aspirations, +and, in all seriousness, blown about by every wind +of doctrine. This is a long way that we have travelled: +between such work and the work of Fielding is there not, +indeed, a great gulf of thought and sentiment?</p> + +<p>Art, thus conceived, realises for men a larger portion +of life, and that portion one that it is more difficult for +them to realise unaided; and, besides helping them to feel +more intensely those restricted personal interests which +are patent to all, it awakes in them some consciousness of +those more general relations that are so strangely invisible +to the average man in ordinary moods. It helps to keep +man in his place in nature, and, above all, it helps him to +understand more intelligently the responsibilities of his +place in society. And in all this generalisation of interest, +we never miss those small humanities that are at the opposite +pole of excellence in art; and while we admire the +intellect that could see life thus largely, we are touched +with another sentiment for the tender heart that slipped the +piece of gold into Cosette’s sabot, that was virginally +troubled at the fluttering of her dress in the spring wind, +or put the blind girl beside the deformity of the laughing +man. This, then, is the last praise that we can award to +these romances. The author has shown a power of just +subordination hitherto unequalled; and as, in reaching +forward to one class of effects, he has not been forgetful +or careless of the other, his work is more nearly complete +work, and his art, with all its imperfections, deals more +comprehensively with the materials of life, than that of +any of his otherwise more sure and masterly predecessors.</p> + +<p>These five books would have made a very great fame +for any writer, and yet they are but one façade of the monument +that Victor Hugo has erected to his genius. Everywhere +we find somewhat the same greatness, somewhat the +same infirmities. In his poems and plays there are the +same unaccountable protervities that have already astonished +us in the romances. There, too, is the same feverish +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42"></a>42</span> +strength, welding the fiery iron of his idea under forge-hammer +repetitions—an emphasis that is somehow akin +to weakness—a strength that is a little epileptic. He +stands so far above all his contemporaries, and so incomparably +excels them in richness, breadth, variety, and +moral earnestness, that we almost feel as if he had a sort +of right to fall oftener and more heavily than others; but +this does not reconcile us to seeing him profit by the privilege +so freely. We like to have, in our great men, something +that is above question; we like to place an implicit +faith in them, and see them always on the platform of their +greatness; and this, unhappily, cannot be with Hugo. +As Heine said long ago, his is a genius somewhat deformed; +but, deformed as it is, we accept it gladly; we shall have +the wisdom to see where his foot slips, but we shall have +the justice also to recognise in him one of the greatest artists +of our generation, and, in many ways, one of the greatest +artists of time. If we look back, yet once, upon these five +romances, we see blemishes such as we can lay to the charge +of no other man in the number of the famous; but to what +other man can we attribute such sweeping innovations, +such a new and significant presentment of the life of man, +such an amount, if we merely think of the amount, of equally +consummate performance?</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_2" href="#FnAnchor_2"><span class="fn">2</span></a> Prefatory letter to “Peveril of the Peak.”</p> +</div> + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page43"></a>43</span></p> +<h5>II</h5> + +<h3>SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">To</span> write with authority about another man we must have +fellow-feeling and some common ground of experience with +our subject. We may praise or blame according as we find +him related to us by the best or worst in ourselves; but it +is only in virtue of some relationship that we can be his +judges, even to condemn. Feelings which we share and +understand enter for us into the tissue of the man’s character; +those to which we are strangers in our own experience +we are inclined to regard as blots, exceptions, inconsistencies, +and excursions of the diabolic; we conceive them +with repugnance, explain them with difficulty, and raise +our hands to heaven in wonder when we find them in conjunction +with talents that we respect or virtues that we +admire. David, king of Israel, would pass a sounder +judgment on a man than either Nathaniel or David Hume. +Now, Principal Shairp’s recent volume, although I believe +no one will read it without respect and interest, has this +one capital defect—that there is imperfect sympathy between +the author and the subject, between the critic and +the personality under criticism. Hence an inorganic, if +not an incoherent, presentation of both the poems and the +man. Of “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” Principal Shairp remarks +that “those who have loved most what was best in +Burns’s poetry must have regretted that it was ever written.” +To the “Jolly Beggars,” so far as my memory serves me, +he refers but once; and then only to remark on the “strange, +not to say painful,” circumstance that the same hand which +wrote the “Cottar’s Saturday Night” should have stooped +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page44"></a>44</span> +to write the “Jolly Beggars.” The “Saturday Night” +may or may not be an admirable poem; but its significance +is trebled, and the power and range of the poet first appears, +when it is set beside the “Jolly Beggars.” To take a man’s +work piecemeal, except with the design of elegant extracts, +is the way to avoid, and not to perform, the critic’s duty. +The same defect is displayed in the treatment of Burns as +a man, which is broken, apologetical, and confused. The +man here presented to us is not that Burns, <i>teres atque +rotundus</i>—a burly figure in literature, as, from our present +vantage of time, we have begun to see him. This, on the +other hand, is Burns as he may have appeared to a contemporary +clergyman, whom we shall conceive to have +been a kind and indulgent but orderly and orthodox person, +anxious to be pleased, but too often hurt and disappointed +by the behaviour of his red-hot <i>protégé</i>, and solacing himself +with the explanation that the poet was “the most inconsistent +of men.” If you are so sensibly pained by the +misconduct of your subject, and so paternally delighted +with his virtues, you will always be an excellent gentleman, +but a somewhat questionable biographer. Indeed, we can +only be sorry and surprised that Principal Shairp should +have chosen a theme so uncongenial. When we find a man +writing on Burns, who likes neither “Holy Willie,” nor the +“Beggars,” nor the “Ordination,” nothing is adequate +to the situation but the old cry of Geronte: “Que diable +allait-il faire dans cette galère?” And every merit we find +in the book, which is sober and candid in a degree unusual +with biographies of Burns, only leads us to regret more +heartily that good work should be so greatly thrown away.</p> + +<p>It is far from my intention to tell over again a story +that has been so often told; but there are certainly some +points in the character of Burns that will bear to be brought +out, and some chapters in his life that demand a brief rehearsal. +The unity of the man’s nature, for all its richness, +has fallen somewhat out of sight in the pressure of new information +and the apologetical ceremony of biographers. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45"></a>45</span> +Mr. Carlyle made an inimitable bust of the poet’s head of +gold; may I not be forgiven if my business should have +more to do with the feet, which were of clay?</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>YOUTH</h5> + +<p>Any view of Burns would be misleading which passed +over in silence the influences of his home and his father. +That father, William Burnes, after having been for many +years a gardener, took a farm, married, and, like an emigrant +in a new country, built himself a house with his own +hands. Poverty of the most distressing sort, with sometimes +the near prospect of a gaol, embittered the remainder +of his life. Chill, backward, and austere with strangers, +grave and imperious in his family, he was yet a man of very +unusual parts and of an affectionate nature. On his way +through life he had remarked much upon other men, with +more result in theory than practice; and he had reflected +upon many subjects as he delved the garden. His great +delight was in solid conversation; he would leave his work +to talk with the schoolmaster Murdoch; and Robert, when +he came home late at night, not only turned aside rebuke +but kept his father two hours beside the fire by the charm +of his merry and vigorous talk. Nothing is more characteristic +of the class in general, and William Burnes in +particular, than the pains he took to get proper schooling +for his boys, and, when that was no longer possible, the +sense and resolution with which he set himself to supply +the deficiency by his own influence. For many years he +was their chief companion; he spoke with them seriously +on all subjects as if they had been grown men; at night, +when work was over, he taught them arithmetic; he borrowed +books for them on history, science, and theology; +and he felt it his duty to supplement this last—the trait is +laughably Scottish—by a dialogue of his own composition, +where his own private shade of orthodoxy was exactly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page46"></a>46</span> +represented. He would go to his daughter as she stayed +afield herding cattle, to teach her the names of grasses and +wild flowers, or to sit by her side when it thundered. Distance +to strangers, deep family tenderness, love of knowledge, +a narrow, precise, and formal reading of theology—everything +we learn of him hangs well together, and builds +up a popular Scottish type. If I mention the name of +Andrew Fairservice, it is only as I might couple for an instant +Dugald Dalgetty with old Marshal Loudon, to help +out the reader’s comprehension by a popular but unworthy +instance of a class. Such was the influence of this good +and wise man that his household became a school to itself, +and neighbours who came into the farm at meal-time would +find the whole family, father, brothers, and sisters, helping +themselves with one hand, and holding a book in the other. +We are surprised at the prose style of Robert; that of +Gilbert need surprise us no less; even William writes a +remarkable letter for a young man of such slender opportunities. +One anecdote marks the taste of the family. +Murdoch brought “Titus Andronicus,” and, with such +dominie elocution as we may suppose, began to read it +aloud before this rustic audience; but when he had reached +the passage where Tamora insults Lavinia, with one voice +and “in an agony of distress” they refused to hear it to +an end. In such a father, and with such a home, Robert +had already the making of an excellent education; and +what Murdoch added, although it may not have been much +in amount, was in character the very essence of a literary +training. Schools and colleges, for one great man whom +they complete, perhaps unmake a dozen; the strong spirit +can do well upon more scanty fare.</p> + +<p>Robert steps before us, almost from the first, in his +complete character—a proud, headstrong, impetuous lad, +greedy of pleasure, greedy of notice; in his own phrase +“panting after distinction,” and in his brother’s “cherishing +a particular jealousy of people who were richer or of +more consequence than himself“; with all this, he was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page47"></a>47</span> +emphatically of the artist nature. Already he made a +conspicuous figure in Tarbolton church, with the only tied +hair in the parish, “and his plaid, which was of a particular +colour, wrapped in a particular manner round his +shoulders.” Ten years later, when a married man, the +father of a family, a farmer, and an officer of Excise, we +shall find him out fishing in masquerade, with fox-skin +cap, belted great-coat, and great Highland broadsword. +He liked dressing up, in fact, for its own sake. This is +the spirit which leads to the extravagant array of Latin +Quarter students, and the proverbial velveteen of the +English landscape-painter; and, though the pleasure derived +is in itself merely personal, it shows a man who is, +to say the least of it, not pained by general attention and +remark. His father wrote the family name <i>Burnes</i>; +Robert early adopted the orthography <i>Burness</i> from his +cousin in the Mearns; and in his twenty-eighth year changed +it once more to <i>Burns</i>. It is plain that the last transformation +was not made without some qualm; for in addressing +his cousin he adheres, in at least one more letter, to spelling +number two. And this, again, shows a man preoccupied +about the manner of his appearance even down to the name, +and little willing to follow custom. Again, he was proud, +and justly proud, of his powers in conversation. To no +other man’s have we the same conclusive testimony from +different sources and from every rank of life. It is almost +a commonplace that the best of his works was what he said +in talk. Robertson the historian “scarcely ever met any +man whose conversation displayed greater vigour“; the +Duchess of Gordon declared that he “carried her off her +feet“; and, when he came late to an inn, the servants +would get out of bed to hear him talk. But, in these early +days at least, he was determined to shine by any means. +He made himself feared in the village for his tongue. He +would crush weaker men to their faces, or even perhaps—for +the statement of Sillar is not absolute—say cutting +things of his acquaintances behind their back. At the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page48"></a>48</span> +church door, between sermons, he would parade his religious +views amid hisses. These details stamp the man. He +had no genteel timidities in the conduct of his life. He +loved to force his personality upon the world. He would +please himself, and shine. Had he lived in the Paris of +1830, and joined his lot with the Romantics, we can conceive +him writing <i>Jehan</i> for <i>Jean</i>, swaggering in Gautier’s +red waistcoat, and horrifying Bourgeois in a public café +with paradox and gasconnade.</p> + +<p>A leading trait throughout his whole career was his +desire to be in love. <i>Ne fait pas ce tour qui veut.</i> His +affections were often enough touched, but perhaps never +engaged. He was all his life on a voyage of discovery, +but it does not appear conclusively that he ever touched +the happy isle. A man brings to love a deal of ready-made +sentiment, and even from childhood obscurely prognosticates +the symptoms of this vital malady. Burns was +formed for love; he had passion, tenderness, and a singular +bent in the direction; he could foresee, with the intuition +of an artist, what love ought to be; and he could not conceive +a worthy life without it. But he had ill-fortune, and +was besides so greedy after every shadow of the true divinity, +and so much the slave of a strong temperament, that perhaps +his nerve was relaxed and his heart had lost the power +of self-devotion before an opportunity occurred. The circumstances +of his youth doubtless counted for something +in the result. For the lads of Ayrshire, as soon as the day’s +work was over and the beasts were stabled, would take the +road, it might be in a winter tempest, and travel perhaps +miles by moss and moorland to spend an hour or two in +courtship. Rule 10 of the Bachelors’ Club at Tarbolton +provides that “every man proper for a member of this +Society must be a professed lover of <i>one or more</i> of the +female sex.” The rich, as Burns himself points out, may +have a choice of pleasurable occupations, but these lads +had nothing but their “cannie hour at e’en.” It was upon +love and flirtation that this rustic society was built; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page49"></a>49</span> +gallantry was the essence of life among the Ayrshire hills +as well as in the Court of Versailles; and the days were +distinguished from each other by love-letters, meetings, +tiffs, reconciliations, and expansions to the chosen confidant, +as in a comedy of Marivaux. Here was a field for a man of +Burns’s indiscriminate personal ambition, where he might +pursue his voyage of discovery in quest of true love, and +enjoy temporary triumphs by the way. He was “constantly +the victim of some fair enslaver“—at least, when +it was not the other way about; and there were often underplots +and secondary fair enslavers in the background. +Many—or may we not say most?—of these affairs were +entirely artificial. One, he tells us, he began out of “a +vanity of showing his parts in courtship,” for he piqued +himself on his ability at a love-letter. But, however they +began, these flames of his were fanned into a passion ere +the end; and he stands unsurpassed in his power of self-deception, +and positively without a competitor in the art, +to use his own words, of “battering himself into a warm +affection,”—a debilitating and futile exercise. Once he +had worked himself into the vein, “the agitations of his +mind and body” were an astonishment to all who knew +him. Such a course as this, however pleasant to a thirsty +vanity, was lowering to his nature. He sank more and +more towards the professional Don Juan. With a leer +of what the French call fatuity, he bids the belles of Mauchline +beware of his seductions; and the same cheap self-satisfaction +finds a yet uglier vent when he plumes himself +on the scandal at the birth of his first bastard. We can +well believe what we hear of his facility in striking up an +acquaintance with women: he would have conquering +manners; he would bear down upon his rustic game with +the grace that comes of absolute assurance—the Richelieu +of Lochlea or Mossgiel. In yet another manner did these +quaint ways of courtship help him into fame. If he were +great as principal, he was unrivalled as confidant. He +could enter into a passion; he could counsel wary moves, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page50"></a>50</span> +being, in his own phrase, so old a hawk; nay, he could +turn a letter for some unlucky swain, or even string a few +lines of verse that should clinch the business and fetch +the hesitating fair one to the ground. Nor, perhaps, was +it only his “curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity” that +recommended him for a second in such affairs; it must +have been a distinction to have the assistance and advice +of “Rab the Ranter“; and one who was in no way formidable +by himself might grow dangerous and attractive +through the fame of his associate.</p> + +<p>I think we can conceive him, in these early years, in +that rough moorland country, poor among the poor with +his seven pounds a year, looked upon with doubt by respectable +elders, but for all that the best talker, the best +letter-writer, the most famous lover and confidant, the +laureate poet, and the only man who wore his hair tied in +the parish. He says he had then as high a notion of himself +as ever after; and I can well believe it. Among the +youth he walked <i>facile princeps</i>, an apparent god; and even +if, from time to time, the Reverend Mr. Auld should swoop +upon him with the thunders of the Church, and, in company +with seven others, Rab the Ranter must figure some +fine Sunday on the stool of repentance, would there not be +a sort of glory, an infernal apotheosis in so conspicuous a +shame? Was not Richelieu in disgrace more idolised than +ever by the dames of Paris? and when was the highwayman +most acclaimed but on his way to Tyburn? Or, to take +a simile from nearer home, and still more exactly to the +point, what could even corporal punishment avail, administered +by a cold, abstract, unearthly schoolmaster, +against the influence and fame of the school’s hero?</p> + +<p>And now we come to the culminating point of Burns’s +early period. He began to be received into the unknown +upper world. His fame soon spread from among his fellow-rebels +on the benches, and began to reach the ushers and +monitors of this great Ayrshire academy. This arose in +part from his lax views about religion; for at this time that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page51"></a>51</span> +old war of the creeds and confessors, which is always grumbling +from end to end of our poor Scotland, brisked up in +these parts into a hot and virulent skirmish; and Burns +found himself identified with the opposition party,—a +clique of roaring lawyers and half-heretical divines, with +wit enough to appreciate the value of the poet’s help, and +not sufficient taste to moderate his grossness and personality. +We may judge of their surprise when “Holy Willie” +was put into their hand; like the amorous lads of Tarbolton, +they recognised in him the best of seconds. His satires +began to go the round in manuscript; Mr. Aiken, one of +the lawyers, “read him into fame“; he himself was soon +welcome in many houses of a better sort, where his admirable +talk, and his manners, which he had direct from his +Maker, except for a brush he gave them at a country dancing +school, completed what his poems had begun. We have +a sight of him at his first visit to Adamhill, in his ploughman’s +shoes, coasting around the carpet as though that were +sacred ground. But he soon grew used to carpets and their +owners; and he was still the superior of all whom he encountered, +and ruled the roost in conversation. Such was +the impression made, that a young clergyman, himself a +man of ability, trembled and became confused when he +saw Robert enter the church in which he was to preach. +It is not surprising that the poet determined to publish: +he had now stood the test of some publicity, and under this +hopeful impulse he composed in six winter months the bulk +of his more important poems. Here was a young man who, +from a very humble place, was mounting rapidly; from +the cynosure of a parish, he had become the talk of a county; +once the bard of rural courtships, he was now about to +appear as a bound and printed poet in the world’s bookshops.</p> + +<p>A few more intimate strokes are necessary to complete +the sketch. This strong young ploughman, who feared +no competitor with the flail, suffered like a fine lady from +sleeplessness and vapours; he would fall into the blackest +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page52"></a>52</span> +melancholies, and be filled with remorse for the past and +terror for the future. He was still not perhaps devoted +to religion, but haunted by it; and at a touch of sickness +prostrated himself before God in what I can only call unmanly +penitence. As he had aspirations beyond his place +in the world, so he had tastes, thoughts, and weaknesses +to match. He loved to walk under a wood to the sound +of a winter tempest; he had a singular tenderness for +animals; he carried a book with him in his pocket when +he went abroad, and wore out in this service two copies of +the “Man of Feeling.” With young people in the field +at work he was very long-suffering; and when his brother +Gilbert spoke sharply to them—“O man, ye are no’ for +young folk,” he would say, and give the defaulter a helping +hand and a smile. In the hearts of the men whom he met, +he read as in a book; and, what is yet more rare, his knowledge +of himself equalled his knowledge of others. There +are no truer things said of Burns than what is to be found +in his own letters. Country Don Juan as he was, he had +none of that blind vanity which values itself on what it is +not; he knew his own strength and weakness to a hair: +he took himself boldly for what he was, and, except in +moments of hypochondria, declared himself content.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>THE LOVE-STORIES</h5> + +<p>On the night of Mauchline races, 1785, the young men +and women of the place joined in a penny ball, according +to their custom. In the same set danced Jean Armour, +the master-mason’s daughter, and our dark-eyed Don +Juan. His dog (not the immortal Luath, but a successor +unknown to fame, <i>caret quia vote sacro</i>), apparently sensible +of some neglect, followed his master to and fro, to the +confusion of the dancers. Some mirthful comments +followed; and Jean heard the poet say to his partner—or, +as I should imagine, laughingly launch the remark to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page53"></a>53</span> +company at large—that “he wished he could get any of +the lasses to like him as well as his dog.” Some time after, +as the girl was bleaching clothes on Mauchline green, Robert +chanced to go by, still accompanied by his dog; and the +dog, “scouring in long excursion,” scampered with four +black paws across the linen. This brought the two into +conversation; when Jean, with a somewhat hoydenish +advance, inquired if “he had yet got any of the lasses to +like him as well as his dog?” It is one of the misfortunes +of the professional Don Juan that his honour forbids him +to refuse battle; he is in life like the Roman soldier upon +duty, or like the sworn physician who must attend on all +diseases. Burns accepted the provocation; hungry hope +reawakened in his heart; here was a girl—pretty, simple +at least, if not honestly stupid, and plainly not averse to +his attentions: it seemed to him once more as if love might +here be waiting him. Had he but known the truth! for +this facile and empty-headed girl had nothing more in view +than a flirtation; and her heart, from the first and on to +the end of her story, was engaged by another man. Burns +once more commenced the celebrated process of “battering +himself into a warm affection“; and the proofs of his +success are to be found in many verses of the period. Nor +did he succeed with himself only; Jean, with her heart still +elsewhere, succumbed to his fascination, and early in the +next year the natural consequence became manifest. It +was a heavy stroke for this unfortunate couple. They had +trifled with life, and were now rudely reminded of life’s +serious issues. Jean awoke to the ruin of her hopes; the +best she had now to expect was marriage with a man who +was a stranger to her dearest thoughts; she might now be +glad if she could get what she would never have chosen. +As for Burns, at the stroke of the calamity he recognised +that his voyage of discovery had led him into a wrong +hemisphere—that he was not, and never had been, really +in love with Jean. Hear him in the pressure of the hour. +“Against two things,” he writes, “I am as fixed as fate—staying +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page54"></a>54</span> +at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, +by heaven, I will not do!—the last, by hell, I will never +do!” And then he adds, perhaps already in a more relenting +temper: “If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, +so God hold me in my hour of need.” They met accordingly; +and Burns, touched with her misery, came down +from these heights of independence, and gave her a written +acknowledgment of marriage. It is the punishment of +Don Juanism to create continually false positions—relations +of life which are wrong in themselves, and which it is +equally wrong to break or to perpetuate. This was such +a case. Worldly Wiseman would have laughed and gone +his way; let us be glad that Burns was better counselled +by his heart. When we discover that we can no longer be +true, the next best is to be kind. I daresay he came away +from that interview not very content, but with a glorious +conscience; and as he went homeward, he would sing his +favourite, “How are Thy servants blest, O Lord!” Jean, +on the other hand, armed with her “lines,” confided her +position to the master-mason, her father, and his wife. +Burns and his brother were then in a fair way to ruin +themselves in their farm; the poet was an execrable match +for any well-to-do country lass; and perhaps old Armour +had an inkling of a previous attachment on his daughter’s +part. At least, he was not so much incensed by her slip +from virtue as by the marriage which had been designed +to cover it. Of this he would not hear a word. Jean, who +had besought the acknowledgment only to appease her +parents, and not at all from any violent inclination to the +poet, readily gave up the paper for destruction; and all +parties imagined, although wrongly, that the marriage was +thus dissolved. To a proud man like Burns here was a +crushing blow. The concession which had been wrung +from his pity was now publicly thrown back in his teeth. +The Armour family preferred disgrace to his connection. +Since the promise, besides, he had doubtless been busy +“battering himself” back again into his affection for the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page55"></a>55</span> +girl; and the blow would not only take him in his vanity, +but wound him at the heart.</p> + +<p>He relieved himself in verse; but for such a smarting +affront manuscript poetry was insufficient to console him. +He must find a more powerful remedy in good flesh and +blood, and after this discomfiture, set forth again at once +upon his voyage of discovery in quest of love. It is perhaps +one of the most touching things in human nature, as +it is a commonplace of psychology, that when a man has +just lost hope or confidence in one love, he is then most +eager to find and lean upon another. The universe could +not be yet exhausted; there must be hope and love waiting +for him somewhere; and so, with his head down, this poor, +insulted poet ran once more upon his fate. There was an +innocent and gentle Highland nursery-maid at service in a +neighbouring family; and he had soon battered himself +and her into a warm affection and a secret engagement. +Jean’s marriage lines had not been destroyed till March 13, +1786; yet all was settled between Burns and Mary Campbell +by Sunday, May 14, when they met for the last time, +and said farewell with rustic solemnities upon the banks +of Ayr. They each wet their hands in a stream, and, +standing one on either bank, held a Bible between them +as they vowed eternal faith. Then they exchanged Bibles, +on one of which Burns, for greater security, had inscribed +texts as to the binding nature of an oath; and surely, if +ceremony can do aught to fix the wandering affections, here +were two people united for life. Mary came of a superstitious +family, so that she perhaps insisted on these rites; +but they must have been eminently to the taste of Burns at +this period; for nothing would seem superfluous, and no +oath great enough, to stay his tottering constancy.</p> + +<p>Events of consequence now happened thickly in the +poet’s life. His book was announced; the Armours sought +to summon him at law for the aliment of the child; he lay +here and there in hiding to correct the sheets; he was under +an engagement for Jamaica, where Mary was to join him +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56"></a>56</span> +as his wife; now he had “orders within three weeks at +latest to repair aboard the <i>Nancy</i>, Captain Smith“; now +his chest was already on the road to Greenock; and now, +in the wild autumn weather on the moorland, he measures +verses of farewell:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“The bursting tears my heart declare;</p> +<p class="i05">Farewell the bonny banks of Ayr!”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>But the great Master Dramatist had secretly another intention +for the piece; by the most violent and complicated +solution, in which death and birth and sudden fame all play +a part as interposing deities, the act-drop fell upon a scene +of transformation. Jean was brought to bed of twins, and, +by an amicable arrangement, the Burnses took the boy +to bring up by hand, while the girl remained with her +mother. The success of the book was immediate and +emphatic; it put £20 at once into the author’s purse; and +he was encouraged upon all hands to go to Edinburgh and +push his success in a second and larger edition. Third and +last in these series of interpositions, a letter came one day +to Mossgiel Farm for Robert. He went to the window to +read it; a sudden change came over his face, and he left +the room without a word. Years afterwards, when the +story began to leak out, his family understood that he had +then learned the death of Highland Mary. Except in a +few poems and a few dry indications purposely misleading +as to date, Burns himself made no reference to this passage +of his life; it was an adventure of which, for I think sufficient +reasons, he desired to bury the details. Of one thing we +may be glad: in after years he visited the poor girl’s mother, +and left her with the impression that he was “a real +warm-hearted chield.”</p> + +<p>Perhaps a month after he received this intelligence, +he set out for Edinburgh on a pony he had borrowed from +a friend. The town that winter was “agog with the +ploughman poet.” Robertson, Dugald Stewart, Blair, +“Duchess Gordon and all the gay world,” were of his acquaintance. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57"></a>57</span> +Such a revolution is not to be found in literary +history. He was now, it must be remembered, twenty-seven +years of age; he had fought since his early boyhood +an obstinate battle against poor soil, bad seed, and inclement +seasons, wading deep in Ayrshire mosses, guiding the plough +in the furrow, wielding “the thresher’s weary flingin’-tree“; +and his education, his diet, and his pleasures, had +been those of a Scots countryman. Now he stepped forth +suddenly among the polite and learned. We can see him +as he then was, in his boots and buckskins, his blue coat +and waistcoat striped with buff and blue, like a farmer in +his Sunday best; the heavy ploughman’s figure firmly +planted on its burly legs; his face full of sense and shrewdness, +and with a somewhat melancholy air of thought, and +his large dark eye “literally glowing” as he spoke. “I +never saw such another eye in a human head,” says Walter +Scott, “though I have seen the most distinguished men of +my time.” With men, whether they were lords or omnipotent +critics, his manner was plain, dignified, and free +from bashfulness or affectation. If he made a slip, he had +the social courage to pass on and refrain from explanation. +He was not embarrassed in this society, because he read +and judged the men; he could spy snobbery in a titled lord; +and, as for the critics, he dismissed their system in an +epigram. “These gentlemen,” said he, “remind me of +some spinsters in my country who spin their thread so fine +that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.” Ladies, on the +other hand, surprised him; he was scarce commander of +himself in their society; he was disqualified by his acquired +nature as a Don Juan; and he, who had been so much at +his ease with country lasses, treated the town dames to an +extreme of deference. One lady, who met him at a ball, +gave Chambers a speaking sketch of his demeanour. “His +manners were not prepossessing—scarcely, she thinks, +manly or natural. It seemed as if he affected a rusticity +or <i>landertness</i>, so that when he said the music was ‘bonnie, +bonnie,’ it was like the expression of a child.” These would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page58"></a>58</span> +be company manners; and doubtless on a slight degree of +intimacy the affectation would grow less. And his talk to +women had always “a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, +which engaged the attention particularly.”</p> + +<p>The Edinburgh magnates (to conclude this episode at +once) behaved well to Burns from first to last. Were +heaven-born genius to revisit us in similar guise, I am not +venturing too far when I say that he need expect neither +so warm a welcome nor such solid help. Although Burns +was only a peasant, and one of no very elegant reputation +as to morals, he was made welcome to their homes. They +gave him a great deal of good advice, helped him to some +five hundred pounds of ready money, and got him, as soon +as he asked it, a place in the Excise. Burns, on his part, +bore the elevation with perfect dignity; and with perfect +dignity returned, when the time had come, into a country +privacy of life. His powerful sense never deserted him, +and from the first he recognised that his Edinburgh popularity +was but an ovation and the affair of a day. He wrote +a few letters in a high-flown, bombastic vein of gratitude; +but in practice he suffered no man to intrude upon his self-respect. +On the other hand, he never turned his back, +even for a moment, on his old associates; and he was always +ready to sacrifice an acquaintance to a friend, although the +acquaintance were a duke. He would be a bold man who +should promise similar conduct in equally exacting circumstances. +It was, in short, an admirable appearance on the +stage of life—socially successful, intimately self-respecting, +and like a gentleman from first to last.</p> + +<p>In the present study, this must only be taken by the +way, while we return to Burns’s love affairs. Even on the +road to Edinburgh he had seized upon the opportunity of +a flirtation, and had carried the “battering” so far that +when next he moved from town, it was to steal two days +with this anonymous fair one. The exact importance to +Burns of this affair may be gathered from the song in which +he commemorated its occurrence. “I love the dear lassie,” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page59"></a>59</span> +he sings, “because she loves me“; or, in the tongue of +prose: “Finding an opportunity, I did not hesitate to +profit by it; and even now, if it returned, I should not hesitate +to profit by it again.” A love thus founded has no +interest for mortal man. Meantime, early in the winter, +and only once, we find him regretting Jean in his correspondence. +“Because“—such is his reason—“because +he does not think he will ever meet so delicious an armful +again“; and then, after a brief excursion into verse, he +goes straight on to describe a new episode in the voyage of +discovery with the daughter of a Lothian farmer for a +heroine. I must ask the reader to follow all these references +to his future wife; they are essential to the comprehension +of Burns’s character and fate. In June we find him back +at Mauchline, a famous man. There, the Armour family +greeted him with a “mean, servile compliance,” which +increased his former disgust. Jean was not less compliant; +a second time the poor girl submitted to the fascination of +the man whom she did not love, and whom she had so +cruelly insulted little more than a year ago; and, though +Burns took advantage of her weakness, it was in the ugliest +and most cynical spirit, and with a heart absolutely indifferent. +Judge of this by a letter written some twenty +days after his return—a letter to my mind among the most +degrading in the whole collection—a letter which seems to +have been inspired by a boastful, libertine bagman. “I +am afraid,” it goes, “I have almost ruined one source, the +principal one, indeed, of my former happiness—the eternal +propensity I always had to fall in love. My heart no more +glows with feverish rapture; I have no paradisiacal evening +interviews.” Even the process of “battering” has +failed him, you perceive. Still he had some one in his eye—a +lady, if you please, with a fine figure and elegant manners, +and who had “seen the politest quarters in Europe.” “I +frequently visited her,” he writes, “and after passing +regularly the intermediate degrees between the distant +formal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page60"></a>60</span> +in my careless way, to talk of friendship in rather +ambiguous terms; and after her return to ——, I wrote +her in the same terms. Miss, construing my remarks +farther than even I intended, flew off in a tangent of female +dignity and reserve, like a mounting lark in an April morning; +and wrote me an answer which measured out very completely +what an immense way I had to travel before I could +reach the climate of her favours. But I am an old hawk +at the sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent +reply, as brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop, +down to my foot, like Corporal Trim’s hat.” I avow a +carnal longing, after this transcription, to buffet the Old +Hawk about the ears. There is little question that to this +lady he must have repeated his addresses, and that he was +by her (Miss Chalmers) eventually, though not at all unkindly, +rejected. One more detail to characterise the +period. Six months after the date of this letter, Burns, +back to Edinburgh, is served with a writ <i>in meditatione +fugæ</i>, on behalf of some Edinburgh fair one, probably of +humble rank, who declared an intention of adding to his +family.</p> + +<p>About the beginning of December (1787) a new period +opens in the story of the poet’s random affections. He +met at a tea party one Mrs. Agnes M’Lehose, a married +woman of about his own age, who, with her two children, +had been deserted by an unworthy husband. She had wit, +could use her pen, and had read “Werther” with attention. +Sociable, and even somewhat frisky, there was a +good, sound, human kernel in the woman; a warmth of +love, strong dogmatic religious feeling, and a considerable, +but not authoritative, sense of the proprieties. Of what +biographers refer to daintily as “her somewhat voluptuous +style of beauty,” judging from the silhouette in Mr. Scott +Douglas’s invaluable edition, the reader will be fastidious +if he does not approve. Take her for all in all, I believe +she was the best woman Burns encountered. The pair +took a fancy for each other on the spot; Mrs. M’Lehose, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page61"></a>61</span> +in her turn, invited him to tea; but the poet, in his character +of the Old Hawk, preferred a <i>tête-à-tête</i>, excused himself +at the last moment, and offered a visit instead. An +accident confined him to his room for nearly a month, and +this led to the famous Clarinda and Sylvander correspondence. +It was begun in simple sport; they are already at +their fifth or sixth exchange, when Clarinda writes: “It +is really curious so much <i>fun</i> passing between two persons +who saw each other only <i>once</i>“; but it is hardly safe for +a man and woman in the flower of their years to write almost +daily, and sometimes in terms too ambiguous, sometimes +in terms too plain, and generally in terms too warm, for +mere acquaintance. The exercise partakes a little of the +nature of battering, and danger may be apprehended when +next they meet. It is difficult to give any account of this +remarkable correspondence; it is too far away from us, +and perhaps not yet far enough, in point of time and manner; +the imagination is baffled by these stilted literary utterances, +warming, in bravura passages, into downright truculent +nonsense. Clarinda has one famous sentence in which she +bids Sylvander connect the thought of his mistress with the +changing phases of the year; it was enthusiastically admired +by the swain, but on the modern mind produces +mild amazement and alarm. “Oh, Clarinda“, writes Burns, +“shall we not meet in a state—some yet unknown state—of +being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall minister to +the highest wish of Benevolence, and where the chill north +wind of Prudence shall never blow over the flowery field +of Enjoyment?” The design may be that of an Old Hawk, +but the style is more suggestive of a Bird of Paradise. It +is sometimes hard to fancy they are not gravely making +fun of each other as they write. Religion, poetry, love, and +charming sensibility, are the current topics. “I am delighted, +charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm +for religion,” writes Burns; and the pair entertained a +fiction that this was their “favourite subject.” “This is +Sunday,” writes the lady, “and not a word on our favourite +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62"></a>62</span> +subject. O fy! ‘divine Clarinda!’” I suspect, although +quite unconsciously on the part of the lady, who was bent +on his redemption, they but used the favourite subject as +a stalking-horse. In the meantime, the sportive acquaintance +was ripening steadily into a genuine passion. Visits +took place, and then became frequent. Clarinda’s friends +were hurt and suspicious; her clergyman interfered; she +herself had smart attacks of conscience; but her heart had +gone from her control; it was altogether his, and she +“counted all things but loss—heaven excepted—that she +might win and keep him.” Burns himself was transported +while in her neighbourhood, but his transports somewhat +rapidly declined during an absence. I am tempted to imagine +that, womanlike, he took on the colour of his mistress’s +feeling; that he could not but heat himself at the fire of +her unaffected passion; but that, like one who should leave +the hearth upon a winter’s night, his temperature soon fell +when he was out of sight, and in a word, though he could +share the symptoms, that he had never shared the disease. +At the same time, amid the fustian of the letters there are +forcible and true expressions, and the love-verses that he +wrote upon Clarinda are among the most moving in the +language.</p> + +<p>We are approaching the solution. In mid-winter, Jean, +once more in the family way, was turned out of doors by +her family; and Burns had her received and cared for in +the house of a friend. For he remained to the last imperfect +in his character of Don Juan, and lacked the sinister courage +to desert his victim. About the middle of February (1788), +he had to tear himself from his Clarinda and make a journey +into the south-west on business. Clarinda gave him two +shirts for his little son. They were daily to meet in prayer +at an appointed hour. Burns, too late for the post at +Glasgow, sent her a letter by parcel that she might not have +to wait. Clarinda on her part writes, this time with a +beautiful simplicity: “I think the streets look deserted-like +since Monday; and there’s a certain insipidity in good +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page63"></a>63</span> +kind folks I once enjoyed not a little. Miss Wardrobe +supped here on Monday. She once named you, which +kept me from falling asleep. I drank your health in a glass +of ale—as the lasses do at Hallowe’en—’in to mysel’.’” +Arrived at Mauchline, Burns installed Jean Armour in a +lodging, and prevailed on Mrs. Armour to promise her help +and countenance in the approaching confinement. This +was kind at least; but hear his expressions: “I have taken +her a room; I have taken her to my arms; I have given her +a mahogany bed; I have given her a guinea.... I swore +her privately and solemnly never to attempt any claim on +me as a husband, even though anybody should persuade +her she had such a claim—which she has not, neither during +my life nor after my death. She did all this like a good +girl.” And then he took advantage of the situation. To +Clarinda he wrote: “I this morning called for a certain +woman. I am disgusted with her; I cannot endure her“; +and he accused her of “tasteless insipidity, vulgarity of +soul, and mercenary fawning.” This was already in March; +by the thirteenth of that month he was back in Edinburgh. +On the 17th, he wrote to Clarinda: “Your hopes, your +fears, your cares, my love, are mine; so don’t mind them. +I will take you in my hand through the dreary wilds of this +world, and scare away the ravening bird or beast that would +annoy you.” Again, on the 21st: “Will you open, with +satisfaction and delight, a letter from a man who loves you, +who has loved you, and who will love you, to death, through +death, and for ever?... How rich am I to have such +a treasure as you!... ‘The Lord God knoweth,’ and, +perhaps, ‘Israel he shall know,’ my love and your merit. +Adieu, Clarinda! I am going to remember you in my +prayers.” By the 7th of April, seventeen days later, he +had already decided to make Jean Armour publicly his +wife.</p> + +<p>A more astonishing stage-trick is not to be found. And +yet his conduct is seen, upon a nearer examination, to be +grounded both in reason and in kindness. He was now +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64"></a>64</span> +about to embark on a solid worldly career; he had taken a +farm; the affair with Clarinda, however gratifying to his +heart, was too contingent to offer any great consolation to +a man like Burns, to whom marriage must have seemed +the very dawn of hope and self-respect. This is to regard +the question from its lowest aspect; but there is no doubt +that he entered on this new period of his life with a sincere +determination to do right. He had just helped his brother +with a loan of a hundred and eighty pounds; should he +do nothing for the poor girl whom he had ruined? It was +true he could not do as he did without brutally wounding +Clarinda; that was the punishment of his bygone fault; +he was, as he truly says, “damned with a choice only of +different species of error and misconduct.” To be professional +Don Juan, to accept the provocation of any lively +lass upon the village green, may thus lead a man through a +series of detestable words and actions, and land him at last +in an undesired and most unsuitable union for life. If he +had been strong enough to refrain or bad enough to persevere +in evil; if he had only not been Don Juan at all, or been +Don Juan altogether, there had been some possible road +for him throughout this troublesome world; but a man, +alas! who is equally at the call of his worse and better +instincts, stands among changing events without foundation +or resource.<a name="FnAnchor_3" href="#Footnote_3"><span class="sp">3</span></a></p> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<h5>DOWNWARD COURSE</h5> + +<p>It may be questionable whether any marriage could +have tamed Burns; but it is at least certain that there +was no hope for him in the marriage he contracted. He +did right, but then he had done wrong before; it was, as +I said, one of those relations in life which it seems equally +wrong to break or to perpetuate. He neither loved nor +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65"></a>65</span> +respected his wife. “God knows,” he writes, “my choice +was as random as blind man’s buff.” He consoles himself +by the thought that he has acted kindly to her; that she +“has the most sacred enthusiasm of attachment to him“; +that she has a good figure; that she has a “wood-note +wild,” “her voice rising with ease to B natural,” no less. +The effect on the reader is one of unmingled pity for both +parties concerned. This was not the wife who (in his own +words) could “enter into his favourite studies or relish his +favourite authors“; this was not even a wife, after the +affair of the marriage lines, in whom a husband could joy +to place his trust. Let her manage a farm with sense, let +her voice rise to B natural all day long, she would still be +a peasant to her lettered lord, and an object of pity rather +than of equal affection. She could now be faithful, she +could now be forgiving, she could now be generous even +to a pathetic and touching degree; but coming from one +who was unloved, and who had scarce shown herself worthy +of the sentiment, these were all virtues thrown away, which +could neither change her husband’s heart nor affect the +inherent destiny of their relation. From the outset, it +was a marriage that had no root in nature; and we find +him, ere long, lyrically regretting Highland Mary, renewing +correspondence with Clarinda in the warmest language, on +doubtful terms with Mrs. Riddel, and on terms unfortunately +beyond any question with Anne Park.</p> + +<p>Alas! this was not the only ill circumstance in his +future. He had been idle for some eighteen months, +superintending his new edition, hanging on to settle with +the publisher, travelling in the Highlands with Willie +Nichol, or philandering with Mrs. M’Lehose; and in this +period the radical part of the man had suffered irremediable +hurt. He had lost his habits of industry, and formed the +habit of pleasure. Apologetical biographers assure us of +the contrary; but from the first he saw and recognised the +danger for himself; his mind, he writes, is “enervated to +an alarming degree,” by idleness and dissipation; and again, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page66"></a>66</span> +“my mind has been vitiated with idleness.” It never +fairly recovered. To business he could bring the required +diligence and attention without difficulty; but he was thenceforward +incapable, except in rare instances, of that superior +effort of concentration which is required for serious literary +work. He may be said, indeed, to have worked no more, +and only amused himself with letters. The man who had +written a volume of masterpieces in six months, during the +remainder of his life rarely found courage for any more +sustained effort than a song. And the nature of the songs +is itself characteristic of these idle later years; for they +are often as polished and elaborate as his earlier works +were frank, and headlong, and colloquial; and this sort +of verbal elaboration in short flights is, for a man of literary +turn, simply the most agreeable of pastimes. The change +in manner coincides exactly with the Edinburgh visit. In +1786 he had written the “Address to a Louse,” which may +be taken as an extreme instance of the first manner; and +already, in 1787, we come upon the rosebud pieces to Miss +Cruikshank, which are extreme examples of the second. +The change was, therefore, the direct and very natural +consequence of his great change in life; but it is not the +less typical of his loss of moral courage that he should have +given up all larger ventures, nor the less melancholy that a +man who first attacked literature with a hand that seemed +capable of moving mountains, should have spent his later +years in whittling cherry-stones.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the farm did not prosper; he had to join +to it the salary of an exciseman; at last he had to give it +up, and rely altogether on the latter resource. He was +an active officer; and, though he sometimes tempered +severity with mercy, we have local testimony, oddly representing +the public feeling of the period, that, while “in +everything else he was a perfect gentleman, when he met +with anything seizable he was no better than any other +gauger.”</p> + +<p>There is but one manifestation of the man in these last +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67"></a>67</span> +years which need delay us: and that was the sudden interest +in politics which arose from his sympathy with the great +French Revolution. His only political feeling had been +hitherto a sentimental Jacobitism, not more or less respectable +than that of Scott, Aytoun, and the rest of what George +Borrow has nicknamed the “Charlie over the water” Scotsmen. +It was a sentiment almost entirely literary and +picturesque in its origin, built on ballads and the adventures +of the Young Chevalier; and in Burns it is the more excusable, +because he lay out of the way of active politics in his +youth. With the great French Revolution, something +living, practical, and feasible appeared to him for the first +time in this realm of human action. The young ploughman +who had desired so earnestly to rise, now reached out his +sympathies to a whole nation animated with the same +desire. Already in 1788 we find the old Jacobitism hand +in hand with the new popular doctrine, when, in a letter +of indignation against the zeal of a Whig clergyman, he +writes: “I daresay the American Congress in 1776 will be +allowed to be as able and as enlightened as the English +Convention was in 1688; and that their posterity will +celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us, as +duly and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive +measures of the wrong-headed house of Stuart.” As time +wore on, his sentiments grew more pronounced and even +violent; but there was a basis of sense and generous feeling +to his hottest excess. What he asked was a fair chance for +the individual in life; an open road to success and distinction +for all classes of men. It was in the same spirit that +he had helped to found a public library in the parish where +his farm was situated, and that he sang his fervent snatches +against tyranny and tyrants. Witness, were it alone, this +verse:</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Here’s freedom to him that wad read,</p> +<p class="i05">Here’s freedom to him that wad write;</p> +<p class="i05">There’s nane ever feared that the truth should be heard</p> +<p class="i05">But them wham the truth wad indite.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page68"></a>68</span></p> + +<p class="noind">Yet his enthusiasm for the cause was scarce guided by +wisdom. Many stories are preserved of the bitter and +unwise words he used in country coteries; how he proposed +Washington’s health as an amendment to Pitt’s, +gave as a toast “the last verse of the last chapter of Kings,” +and celebrated Dumouriez in a doggerel impromptu full +of ridicule and hate. Now his sympathies would inspire +him with “Scots wha hae“; now involve him in a drunken +broil with a loyal officer, and consequent apologies and explanations, +hard to offer for a man of Burns’s stomach. +Nor was this the front of his offending. On February 27, +1792, he took part in the capture of an armed smuggler, +bought at the subsequent sale four carronades, and despatched +them with a letter to the French Assembly. Letter +and guns were stopped at Dover by the English officials; +there was trouble for Burns with his superiors; he was reminded +firmly, however delicately, that, as a paid official, +it was his duty to obey and to be silent; and all the blood +of this poor, proud, and falling man must have rushed to +his head at the humiliation. His letter to Mr. Erskine, +subsequently Earl of Mar, testifies, in its turgid, turbulent +phrases, to a perfect passion of alarmed self-respect and +vanity. He had been muzzled, and muzzled, when all was +said, by his paltry salary as an exciseman; alas! had he +not a family to keep? Already, he wrote, he looked forward +to some such judgment from a hackney scribbler as +this: “Burns, notwithstanding the <i>fanfaronnade</i> of independence +to be found in his works, and after having been +held forth to public view and to public estimation as a man +of some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources within +himself to support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into +a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant +existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest +of mankind.” And then on he goes, in a style of rhodomontade, +but filled with living indignation, to declare his +right to a political opinion, and his willingness to shed his +blood for the political birthright of his sons. Poor, perturbed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69"></a>69</span> +spirit! he was indeed exercised in vain; those who +share and those who differ from his sentiments about the +Revolution, alike understand and sympathise with him in +this painful strait; for poetry and human manhood are +lasting like the race, and politics, which are but a wrongful +striving after right, pass and change from year to year and +age to age. “The Twa Dogs” has already outlasted the +constitution of Siéyès and the policy of the Whigs; and +Burns is better known among English-speaking races than +either Pitt or Fox.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, whether as a man, a husband, or a poet, +his steps led downward. He knew, knew bitterly, that +the best was out of him: he refused to make another volume, +for he felt it would be a disappointment; he grew petulantly +alive to criticism, unless he was sure it reached him from a +friend. For his songs, he would take nothing; they were +all that he could do; the proposed Scots play, the proposed +series of Scots tales in verse, all had gone to water; and in +a fling of pain and disappointment, which is surely noble +with the nobility of a viking, he would rather stoop to +borrow than to accept money for these last and inadequate +efforts of his muse. And this desperate abnegation rises at +times near to the height of madness; as when he pretended +that he had not written, but only found and published, his +immortal “Auld Lang Syne.” In the same spirit he became +more scrupulous as an artist; he was doing so little, +he would fain do that little well; and about two months +before his death, he asked Thomson to send back all his +manuscripts for revisal, saying that he would rather write +five songs to his taste than twice that number otherwise. +The battle of his life was lost; in forlorn efforts to do well, +in desperate submissions to evil, the last years flew by. +His temper is dark and explosive, launching epigrams, +quarrelling with his friends, jealous of young puppy officers. +He tries to be a good father; he boasts himself a libertine. +Sick, sad, and jaded, he can refuse no occasion of temporary +pleasure, no opportunity to shine; and he who had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70"></a>70</span> +once refused the invitations of lords and ladies is now +whistled to the inn by any curious stranger. His death +(July 21, 1796), in his thirty-seventh year, was indeed a +kindly dispensation. It is the fashion to say he died of +drink; many a man has drunk more and yet lived with +reputation, and reached a good age. That drink and +debauchery helped to destroy his constitution, and were +the means of his unconscious suicide, is doubtless true; +but he had failed in life, had lost his power of work, and +was already married to the poor, unworthy, patient Jean, +before he had shown his inclination to convivial nights, +or at least before that inclination had become dangerous +either to his health or his self-respect. He had trifled with +life, and must pay the penalty. He had chosen to be Don +Juan, he had grasped at temporary pleasures, and substantial +happiness and solid industry had passed him by. +He died of being Robert Burns, and there is no levity in +such a statement of the case; for shall we not, one and all, +deserve a similar epitaph?</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>WORKS</h5> + +<p>The somewhat cruel necessity which has lain upon me +throughout this paper only to touch upon those points in +the life of Burns where correction or amplification seemed +desirable, leaves me little opportunity to speak of the works +which have made his name so famous. Yet, even here, a +few observations seem necessary.</p> + +<p>At the time when the poet made his appearance and +great first success, his work was remarkable in two ways. +For, first, in an age when poetry had become abstract and +conventional, instead of continuing to deal with shepherds, +thunderstorms, and personifications, he dealt with the +actual circumstances of his life, however matter-of-fact +and sordid these might be. And, second, in a time when +English versification was particularly stiff, lame, and feeble, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page71"></a>71</span> +and words were used with ultra-academical timidity, he +wrote verses that were easy, racy, graphic, and forcible, +and used language with absolute tact and courage as it +seemed most fit to give a clear impression. If you take +even those English authors whom we know Burns to have +most admired and studied, you will see at once that he +owed them nothing but a warning. Take Shenstone, for +instance, and watch that elegant author as he tries to +grapple with the facts of life. He has a description, I remember, +of a gentleman engaged in sliding or walking on +thin ice, which is a little miracle of incompetence. You +see my memory fails me, and I positively cannot recollect +whether his hero was sliding or walking; as though a writer +should describe a skirmish, and the reader, at the end, be +still uncertain whether it were a charge of cavalry or a slow +and stubborn advance of foot. There could be no such +ambiguity in Burns; his work is at the opposite pole from +such indefinite and stammering performances; and a whole +lifetime passed in the study of Shenstone would only lead +a man further and further from writing the “Address to +a Louse.” Yet Burns, like most great artists, proceeded +from a school and continued a tradition; only the school +and tradition were Scottish, and not English. While the +English language was becoming daily more pedantic and +inflexible, and English letters more colourless and slack, +there was another dialect in the sister country, and a different +school of poetry, tracing its descent, through King +James I., from Chaucer. The dialect alone accounts for +much; for it was then written colloquially, which kept it +fresh and supple; and, although not shaped for heroic +flights, it was a direct and vivid medium for all that had to +do with social life. Hence, whenever Scottish poets left +their laborious imitations of bad English verses, and fell +back on their own dialect, their style would kindle, and they +would write of their convivial and somewhat gross existences +with pith and point. In Ramsay, and far more in the poor +lad Fergusson, there was mettle, humour, literary courage, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72"></a>72</span> +and a power of saying what they wished to say definitely +and brightly, which in the latter case should have justified +great anticipations. Had Burns died at the same age as +Fergusson, he would have left us literally nothing worth +remark. To Ramsay and to Fergusson, then, he was +indebted in a very uncommon degree, not only following +their tradition and using their measures, but directly and +avowedly imitating their pieces. The same tendency to +borrow a hint, to work on some one else’s foundation, is +notable in Burns from first to last, in the period of song-writing +as well as in that of the early poems; and strikes +one oddly in a man of such deep originality, who left so +strong a print on all he touched, and whose work is so +greatly distinguished by that character of “inevitability” +which Wordsworth denied to Goethe.</p> + +<p>When we remember Burns’s obligations to his predecessors, +we must never forget his immense advances +on them. They had already “discovered” nature; but +Burns discovered poetry—a higher and more intense way +of thinking of the things that go to make up nature, a +higher and more ideal key of words in which to speak of +them. Ramsay and Fergusson excelled at making a popular—or +shall we say vulgar?—sort of society verses, comical +and prosaic, written, you would say, in taverns while a +supper-party waited for its laureate’s word; but on the +appearance of Burns, this coarse and laughing literature +was touched to finer issues, and learned gravity of thought +and natural pathos.</p> + +<p>What he had gained from his predecessors was a direct, +speaking style, and to walk on his own feet instead of on +academical stilts. There was never a man of letters with +more absolute command of his means; and we may say of +him, without excess, that his style was his slave. Hence +that energy of epithet, so concise and telling, that a foreigner +is tempted to explain it by some special richness or aptitude +in the dialect he wrote. Hence that Homeric justice and +completeness of description which gives us the very physiognomy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page73"></a>73</span> +of nature, in body and detail, as nature is. Hence, +too, the unbroken literary quality of his best pieces, which +keeps him from any slip into the weariful trade of word-painting, +and presents everything, as everything should be +presented by the art of words, in a clear, continuous medium +of thought. Principal Shairp, for instance, gives us a paraphrase +of one tough verse of the original; and for those who +know the Greek poets only by paraphrase, this has the very +quality they are accustomed to look for and admire in +Greek. The contemporaries of Burns were surprised that +he should visit so many celebrated mountains and waterfalls, +and not seize the opportunity to make a poem. Indeed, +it is not for those who have a true command of the +art of words, but for peddling, professional amateurs, that +these pointed occasions are most useful and inspiring. As +those who speak French imperfectly are glad to dwell on +any topic they may have talked upon or heard others talk +upon before, because they know appropriate words for it in +French, so the dabbler in verse rejoices to behold a waterfall, +because he has learned the sentiment and knows appropriate +words for it in poetry. But the dialect of Burns was +fitted to deal with any subject; and whether it was a +stormy night, a shepherd’s collie, a sheep struggling in the +snow, the conduct of cowardly soldiers in the field, the gait +and cogitations of a drunken man, or only a village cock-crow +in the morning, he could find language to give it freshness, +body, and relief. He was always ready to borrow +the hint of a design, as though he had a difficulty in commencing—a +difficulty, let us say, in choosing a subject out +of a world which seemed all equally living and significant +to him; but once he had the subject chosen, he could cope +with nature single-handed, and make every stroke a triumph. +Again, his absolute mastery in his art enabled him +to express each and all of his different humours, and to pass +smoothly and congruously from one to another. Many men +invent a dialect for only one side of their nature—perhaps +their pathos or their humour, or the delicacy of their senses—and, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page74"></a>74</span> +for lack of a medium, leave all the others unexpressed. +You meet such an one, and find him in conversation full +of thought, feeling, and experience, which he has lacked +the art to employ in his writings. But Burns was not thus +hampered in the practice of the literary art; he could throw +the whole weight of his nature into his work, and impregnate +it from end to end. If Doctor Johnson, that stilted and +accomplished stylist, had lacked the sacred Boswell, what +should we have known of him? and how should we have +delighted in his acquaintance as we do? Those who spoke +with Burns tell us how much we have lost who did not. +But I think they exaggerate their privilege: I think we have +the whole Burns in our possession set forth in his consummate +verses.</p> + +<p>It was by his style, and not by his matter, that he +affected Wordsworth and the world. There is, indeed, +only one merit worth considering in a man of letters—that +he should write well; and only one damning fault—that +he should write ill. We are little the better for the reflections +of the sailor’s parrot in the story. And so, if Burns +helped to change the course of literary history, it was by +his frank, direct, and masterly utterance, and not by his +homely choice of subjects. That was imposed upon him, +not chosen upon a principle. He wrote from his own experience, +because it was his nature so to do, and the tradition +of the school from which he proceeded was fortunately +not opposed to homely subjects. But to these homely +subjects he communicated the rich commentary of his +nature; they were all steeped in Burns; and they interest +us not in themselves, but because they have been passed +through the spirit of so genuine and vigorous a man. Such +is the stamp of living literature; and there was never any +more alive than that of Burns.</p> + +<p>What a gust of sympathy there is in him sometimes +flowing out in byways hitherto unused, upon mice, and +flowers, and the devil himself; sometimes speaking plainly +between human hearts; sometimes ringing out in exultation +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page75"></a>75</span> +like a peal of bells! When we compare the “Farmer’s +Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie,” with the clever and +inhumane production of half a century earlier, “The Auld +Man’s Mare’s dead,” we see in a nut-shell the spirit of the +change introduced by Burns. And as to its manner, who +that has read it can forget how the collie, Luath, in the +“Twa Dogs,” describes and enters into the merry-making +in the cottage?</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“The luntin’ pipe an’ sneeshin’ mill</p> +<p class="i05">Are handed round wi’ richt guid will;</p> +<p class="i05">The canty auld folks crackin’ crouse,</p> +<p class="i05">The young anes rantin’ through the house—</p> +<p class="i05">My heart has been sae fain to see them,</p> +<p class="i05">That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">It was this ardent power of sympathy that was fatal to so +many women, and, through Jean Armour, to himself at +last. His humour comes from him in a stream so deep +and easy that I will venture to call him the best of humorous +poets. He turns about in the midst to utter a noble +sentiment or a trenchant remark on human life, and the +style changes and rises to the occasion. I think it is +Principal Shairp who says, happily, that Burns would have +been no Scotsman if he had not loved to moralise; neither, +may we add, would he have been his father’s son; but +(what is worthy of note) his moralisings are to a large extent +the moral of his own career. He was among the least impersonal +of artists. Except in the “Jolly Beggars,” he shows +no gleam of dramatic instinct. Mr. Carlyle has complained +that “Tam o’ Shanter” is, from the absence of this quality, +only a picturesque and external piece of work; and I may +add that in the “Twa Dogs” it is precisely in the infringement +of dramatic propriety that a great deal of the humour +of the speeches depends for its existence and effect. Indeed, +Burns was so full of his identity that it breaks forth on every +page; and there is scarce an appropriate remark either in +praise or blame of his own conduct but he has put it himself +into verse. Alas for the tenor of these remarks! They +are, indeed, his own pitiful apology for such a marred existence +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76"></a>76</span> +and talents so misused and stunted; and they seem +to prove for ever how small a part is played by reason in +the conduct of man’s affairs. Here was one, at least, who +with unfailing judgment predicted his own fate; yet his +knowledge could not avail him, and with open eyes he must +fulfil his tragic destiny. Ten years before the end he had +written his epitaph; and neither subsequent events, nor +the critical eyes of posterity, have shown us a word in it to +alter. And, lastly, has he not put in for himself the last +unanswerable plea?—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Then gently scan your brother man,</p> + <p class="i15">Still gentler sister woman;</p> +<p class="i05">Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,</p> + <p class="i15">To step aside is human:</p> +<p class="i05">One point must still be greatly dark—”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>One? Alas! I fear every man and woman of us is “greatly +dark” to all their neighbours, from the day of birth until +death removes them, in their greatest virtues as well as in +their saddest faults; and we, who have been trying to read +the character of Burns, may take home the lesson and be +gentle in our thoughts.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_3" href="#FnAnchor_3"><span class="fn">3</span></a> For the love-affairs see, in particular, Mr. Scott Douglas’s edition +under the different dates.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page77"></a>77</span></p> +<h5>III</h5> + +<h3>WALT WHITMAN</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Of</span> late years the name of Walt Whitman has been a good +deal bandied about in books and magazines. It has become +familiar both in good and ill repute. His works have been +largely bespattered with praise by his admirers, and cruelly +mauled and mangled by irreverent enemies. Now, whether +his poetry is good or bad as poetry, is a matter that may +admit of a difference of opinion without alienating those +who differ. We could not keep the peace with a man who +should put forward claims to taste and yet depreciate the +choruses in “Samson Agonistes“; but, I think, we may +shake hands with one who sees no more in Walt Whitman’s +volume, from a literary point of view, than a farrago of +incompetent essays in a wrong direction. That may not +be at all our own opinion. We may think that, when a +work contains many unforgettable phrases, it cannot be +altogether devoid of literary merit. We may even see +passages of a high poetry here and there among its eccentric +contents. But when all is said, Walt Whitman is neither +a Milton nor a Shakespeare; to appreciate his works is +not a condition necessary to salvation; and I would not +disinherit a son upon the question, nor even think much +the worse of a critic, for I should always have an idea what +he meant.</p> + +<p>What Whitman has to say is another affair from how +he says it. It is not possible to acquit any one of defective +intelligence, or else stiff prejudice, who is not interested by +Whitman’s matter and the spirit it represents. Not as a +poet, but as what we must call (for lack of a more exact +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78"></a>78</span> +expression) a prophet, he occupies a curious and prominent +position. Whether he may greatly influence the future or +not, he is a notable symptom of the present. As a sign of +the times, it would be hard to find his parallel. I should +hazard a large wager, for instance, that he was not unacquainted +with the works of Herbert Spencer; and yet +where, in all the history books, shall we lay our hands on +two more incongruous contemporaries? Mr. Spencer so +decorous—I had almost said, so dandy—in dissent; and +Whitman, like a large shaggy dog, just unchained, scouring +the beaches of the world and baying at the moon. And +when was an echo more curiously like a satire, than when +Mr. Spencer found his Synthetic Philosophy reverberated +from the other shores of the Atlantic in the “barbaric +yawp” of Whitman?</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>I</h5> + +<p>Whitman, it cannot be too soon explained, writes up +to a system. He was a theoriser about society before he +was a poet. He first perceived something wanting, and +then sat down squarely to supply the want. The reader, +running over his works, will find that he takes nearly as +much pleasure in critically expounding his theory of poetry +as in making poems. This is as far as it can be from the +case of the spontaneous village minstrel dear to elegy, who +has no theory whatever, although sometimes he may have +fully as much poetry as Whitman. The whole of Whitman’s +work is deliberate and preconceived. A man born +into a society comparatively new, full of conflicting elements +and interests, could not fail, if he had any thoughts at all, +to reflect upon the tendencies around him. He saw much +good and evil on all sides, not yet settled down into some +more or less unjust compromise as in older nations, but still +in the act of settlement. And he could not but wonder +what it would turn out; whether the compromise would be +very just or very much the reverse, and give great or little +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page79"></a>79</span> +scope for healthy human energies. From idle wonder to +active speculation is but a step; and he seems to have been +early struck with the inefficacy of literature and its extreme +unsuitability to the conditions. What he calls “Feudal +Literature” could have little living action on the tumult +of American democracy; what he calls the “Literature of +Woe,” meaning the whole tribe of “Werther” and Byron, +could have no action for good in any time or place. Both +propositions, if art had none but a direct moral influence, +would be true enough; and as this seems to be Whitman’s +view, they were true enough for him. He conceived the +idea of a Literature which was to inhere in the life of the +present; which was to be, first, human, and next, American; +which was to be brave and cheerful as per contract; to +give culture in a popular and poetical presentment; and, +in so doing, catch and stereotype some democratic ideal of +humanity which should be equally natural to all grades of +wealth and education, and suited, in one of his favourite +phrases, to “the average man.” To the formation of some +such literature as this his poems are to be regarded as so +many contributions, one sometimes explaining, sometimes +superseding, the other: and the whole together not so much +a finished work as a body of suggestive hints. He does not +profess to have built the castle, but he pretends he has +traced the lines of the foundation. He has not made the +poetry, but he flatters himself he has done something towards +making the poets.</p> + +<p>His notion of the poetic function is ambitious, and +coincides roughly with what Schopenhauer has laid down +as the province of the metaphysician. The poet is to +gather together for men, and set in order, the materials of +their existence. He is “The Answerer“; he is to find +some way of speaking about life that shall satisfy, if only +for the moment, man’s enduring astonishment at his own +position. And besides having an answer ready, it is he +who shall provoke the question. He must shake people +out of their indifference, and force them to make some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page80"></a>80</span> +election in this world, instead of sliding dully forward in +a dream. Life is a business we are all apt to mismanage; +either living recklessly from day to day, or suffering ourselves +to be gulled out of our moments by the inanities of +custom. We should despise a man who gave as little +activity and forethought to the conduct of any other business. +But in this, which is the one thing of all others, since +it contains them all, we cannot see the forest for the trees. +One brief impression obliterates another. There is something +stupefying in the recurrence of unimportant things. +And it is only on rare provocations that we can rise to take +an outlook beyond daily concerns, and comprehend the +narrow limits and great possibilities of our existence. It +is the duty of the poet to induce such moments of clear +sight. He is the declared enemy of all living by reflex +action, of all that is done betwixt sleep and waking, of all +the pleasureless pleasurings and imaginary duties in which +we coin away our hearts and fritter invaluable years. He +has to electrify his readers into an instant unflagging +activity, founded on a wide and eager observation of the +world, and make them direct their ways by a superior +prudence, which has little or nothing in common with the +maxims of the copy-book. That many of us lead such +lives as they would heartily disown after two hours’ serious +reflection on the subject is, I am afraid, a true, and, I am +sure, a very galling thought. The Enchanted Ground of +dead-alive respectability is next, upon the map, to the +Beulah of considerate virtue. But there they all slumber +and take their rest in the middle of God’s beautiful and +wonderful universe; the drowsy heads have nodded together +in the same position since first their fathers fell +asleep; and not even the sound of the last trumpet can +wake them to a single active thought. The poet has a hard +task before him to stir up such fellows to a sense of their +own and other people’s principles in life.</p> + +<p>And it happens that literature is, in some ways, but +an indifferent means to such an end. Language is but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81"></a>81</span> +a poor bull’s-eye lantern wherewith to show off the vast +cathedral of the world; and yet a particular thing once +said in words is so definite and memorable, that it makes +us forget the absence of the many which remain unexpressed; +like a bright window in a distant view, which +dazzles and confuses our sight of its surroundings. There +are not words enough in all Shakespeare to express the +merest fraction of a man’s experience in an hour. The +speed of the eyesight and the hearing, and the continual +industry of the mind, produce, in ten minutes, what it +would require a laborious volume to shadow forth by comparisons +and roundabout approaches. If verbal logic were +sufficient, life would be as plain sailing as a piece of Euclid. +But, as a matter of fact, we make a travesty of the simplest +process of thought when we put it into words; for the +words are all coloured and forsworn, apply inaccurately, +and bring with them, from former uses, ideas of praise and +blame that have nothing to do with the question in hand. +So we must always see to it nearly, that we judge by the +realities of life and not by the partial terms that represent +them in man’s speech; and at times of choice, we must leave +words upon one side, and act upon those brute convictions, +unexpressed and perhaps inexpressible, which cannot be +flourished in an argument, but which are truly the sum +and fruit of our experience. Words are for communication, +not for judgment. This is what every thoughtful man +knows for himself, for only fools and silly schoolmasters +push definitions over far into the domain of conduct; and +the majority of women, not learned in these scholastic +refinements, live all-of-a-piece and unconsciously, as a +tree grows, without caring to put a name upon their acts +or motives. Hence, a new difficulty for Whitman’s scrupulous +and argumentative poet: he must do more than +waken up the sleepers to his words; he must persuade +them to look over the book and at life with their own +eyes.</p> + +<p>This side of truth is very present to Whitman; it is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82"></a>82</span> +this that he means when he tells us that “To glance with +an eye confounds the learning of all times.” But he is +not unready. He is never weary of descanting on the +undebatable conviction that is forced upon our minds by +the presence of other men, of animals, or of inanimate +things. To glance with an eye, were it only at a chair or +a park railing, is by far a more persuasive process, and +brings us to a far more exact conclusion than to read the +works of all the logicians extant. If both, by a large allowance, +may be said to end in certainty, the certainty in the +one case transcends the other to an incalculable degree. +If people see a lion, they run away; if they only apprehend +a deduction, they keep wandering around in an experimental +humour. Now, how is the poet to convince like +nature, and not like books? Is there no actual piece of +nature that he can show the man to his face, as he might +show him a tree if they were walking together? Yes, there +is one: the man’s own thoughts. In fact, if the poet is to +speak efficaciously, he must say what is already in his +hearer’s mind. That, alone, the hearer will believe; that, +alone, he will be able to apply intelligently to the facts of +life. Any conviction, even if it be a whole system or a +whole religion, must pass into the condition of commonplace, +or postulate, before it becomes fully operative. +Strange excursions and high-flying theories may interest, +but they cannot rule behaviour. Our faith is not the +highest truth that we perceive, but the highest that we have +been able to assimilate into the very texture and method +of our thinking. It is not, therefore, by flashing before a +man’s eyes the weapons of dialectic; it is not by induction, +deduction, or construction; it is not by forcing him on +from one stage of reasoning to another, that the man will +be effectually renewed. He cannot be made to believe +anything; but he can be made to see that he has always +believed it. And this is the practical canon. It is when +the reader cries, “Oh, I know!” and is, perhaps, half irritated +to see how nearly the author has forestalled his own +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page83"></a>83</span> +thoughts, that he is on the way to what is called in theology +a Saving Faith.</p> + +<p>Here we have the key to Whitman’s attitude. To +give a certain unity of ideal to the average population of +America—to gather their activities about some conception +of humanity that shall be central and normal, if only for +the moment—the poet must portray that population as +it is. Like human law, human poetry is simply declaratory. +If any ideal is possible, it must be already in the thoughts +of the people; and, by the same reason, in the thoughts of +the poet, who is one of them. And hence Whitman’s own +formula: “The poet is individual—he is complete in himself: +the others are as good as he; only he sees it, and they +do not.” To show them how good they are, the poet must +study his fellow-countrymen and himself somewhat like a +traveller on the hunt for his book of travels. There is a +sense, of course, in which all true books are books of travel; +and all genuine poets must run the risk of being charged +with the traveller’s exaggeration; for to whom are such +books more surprising than to those whose own life is faithfully +and smartly pictured? But this danger is all upon one +side; and you may judiciously flatter the portrait without +any likelihood of the sitter’s disowning it for a faithful likeness. +And so Whitman has reasoned: that by drawing at +first-hand from himself and his neighbours, accepting without +shame the inconsistencies and brutalities that go to +make up man, and yet treating the whole in a high, magnanimous +spirit, he would make sure of belief, and at the +same time encourage people forward by the means of praise.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>II</h5> + +<p>We are accustomed nowadays to a great deal of puling +over the circumstances in which we are placed. The great +refinement of many poetical gentlemen has rendered them +practically unfit for the jostling and ugliness of life, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page84"></a>84</span> +they record their unfitness at considerable length. The +bold and awful poetry of Job’s complaint produces too +many flimsy imitators; for there is always something consolatory +in grandeur, but the symphony transposed for the +piano becomes hysterically sad. This literature of woe, +as Whitman calls it, this <i>Maladie de René</i>, as we like to call +it in Europe, is in many ways a most humiliating and sickly +phenomenon. Young gentlemen with three or four hundred +a year of private means look down from a pinnacle of doleful +experience on all the grown and hearty men who have +dared to say a good word for life since the beginning of the +world. There is no prophet but the melancholy Jacques, +and the blue devils dance on all our literary wires.</p> + +<p>It would be a poor service to spread culture, if this be +its result, among the comparatively innocent and cheerful +ranks of men. When our little poets have to be sent to +look at the ploughman and learn wisdom, we must be careful +how we tamper with our ploughmen. Where a man in not +the best of circumstances preserves composure of mind, +and relishes ale and tobacco, and his wife and children, in +the intervals of dull and unremunerative labour; where +a man in this predicament can afford a lesson by the way +to what are called his intellectual superiors, there is plainly +something to be lost, as well as something to be gained, by +teaching him to think differently. It is better to leave him +as he is than to teach him whining. It is better that he +should go without the cheerful lights of culture, if cheerless +doubt and paralysing sentimentalism are to be the +consequence. Let us, by all means, fight against that hidebound +stolidity of sensation and sluggishness of mind which +blurs and decolorises for poor natures the wonderful pageant +of consciousness; let us teach people, as much as we can, +to enjoy, and they will learn for themselves to sympathise; +but let us see to it, above all, that we give these lessons in a +brave, vivacious note, and build the man up in courage +while we demolish its substitute, indifference.</p> + +<p>Whitman is alive to all this. He sees that, if the poet +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85"></a>85</span> +is to be of any help, he must testify to the livableness of +life. His poems, he tells us, are to be “hymns of the praise +of things.” They are to make for a certain high joy in +living, or what he calls himself “a brave delight fit for freedom’s +athletes.” And he has had no difficulty in introducing +his optimism: it fitted readily enough with his +system; for the average man is truly a courageous person +and truly fond of living. One of Whitman’s remarks upon +this head is worth quotation, as he is there perfectly successful, +and does precisely what he designs to do throughout: +Takes ordinary and even commonplace circumstances; +throws them out, by a happy turn of thinking, into significance +and something like beauty; and tacks a hopeful moral +lesson to the end.</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“The passionate tenacity of hunters, woodmen, early risers, +cultivators of gardens and orchards and fields, he says, the love of +healthy women for the manly form, seafaring persons, drivers of +horses, the passion for light and the open air,—all is an old unvaried +sign of the unfailing perception of beauty, and of a residence of the +poetic in outdoor people.”</p> +</div> + +<p>There seems to me something truly original in this +choice of trite examples. You will remark how adroitly +Whitman begins, hunters and woodmen being confessedly +romantic. And one thing more. If he had said “the +love of healthy men for the female form,” he would have +said almost a silliness; for the thing has never been dissembled +out of delicacy, and is so obvious as to be a public +nuisance. But by reversing it, he tells us something not +unlike news; something that sounds quite freshly in words; +and, if the reader be a man, gives him a moment of great +self-satisfaction and spiritual aggrandisement. In many +different authors you may find passages more remarkable +for grammar, but few of a more ingenious turn, and none +that could be more to the point in our connection. The +tenacity of many ordinary people in ordinary pursuits is +a sort of standing challenge to everybody else. If one man +can grow absorbed in delving his garden, others may grow +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86"></a>86</span> +absorbed and happy over something else. Not to be upsides +in this with any groom or gardener is to be very +meanly organised. A man should be ashamed to take his +food if he has not alchemy enough in his stomach to turn +some of it into intense and enjoyable occupation.</p> + +<p>Whitman tries to reinforce this cheerfulness by keeping +up a sort of outdoor atmosphere of sentiment. His +book, he tells us, should be read; “among the cooling influences +of external nature“; and this recommendation, +like that other famous one which Hawthorne prefixed to +his collected tales, is in itself a character of the work. +Every one who has been upon a walking or a boating tour, +living in the open air, with the body in constant exercise +and the mind in fallow, knows true ease and quiet. The +irritating action of the brain is set at rest; we think in a +plain, unfeverish temper; little things seem big enough, +and great things no longer portentous; and the world is +smilingly accepted as it is. This is the spirit that Whitman +inculcates and parades. He thinks very ill of the atmosphere +of parlours or libraries. Wisdom keeps school outdoors. +And he has the art to recommend this attitude of +mind by simply pluming himself upon it as a virtue; so +that the reader, to keep the advantage over his author +which most readers enjoy, is tricked into professing the +same view. And this spirit, as it is his chief lesson, is the +greatest charm of his work. Thence, in spite of an uneven +and emphatic key of expression, something trenchant and +straightforward, something simple and surprising, distinguishes +his poems. He has sayings that come home to +one like the Bible. We fall upon Whitman, after the works +of so many men who write better, with a sense of relief +from strain, with a sense of touching nature, as when one +passes out of the flaring, noisy thoroughfares of a great +city, into what he himself has called, with unexcelled imaginative +justice of language, “the huge and thoughtful +night.” And his book in consequence, whatever may be +the final judgment of its merit, whatever may be its influence +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87"></a>87</span> +on the future, should be in the hands of all parents and +guardians as a specific for the distressing malady of being +seventeen years old. Green-sickness yields to his treatment +as to a charm of magic; and the youth, after a short course +of reading, ceases to carry the universe upon his shoulders.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>III</h5> + +<p>Whitman is not one of those who can be deceived by +familiarity. He considers it just as wonderful that there +are myriads of stars as that one man should rise from the +dead. He declares “a hair on the back of his hand just +as curious as any special revelation.” His whole life is to +him what it was to Sir Thomas Browne,—one perpetual +miracle. Everything is strange, everything unaccountable, +everything beautiful; from a bug to the moon, from the +sight of the eyes to the appetite for food. He makes it +his business to see things as if he saw them for the first +time, and professes astonishment on principle. But he has +no leaning towards mythology; avows his contempt for +what he calls “unregenerate poetry“; and does not mean +by nature</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“the smooth walks, trimmed edges, butterflies, posies, and nightingales +of the English poets, but the whole orb, with its geologic +history, the Kosmos, carrying fire and snow, that rolls through the +illimitable areas, light as a feather though weighing billions of tons.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Nor is this exhaustive; for in his character of idealist +all impressions, all thoughts, trees and people, love and +faith, astronomy, history, and religion, enter upon equal +terms into his notion of the universe. He is not against +religion; not, indeed, against any religion. He wishes +to drag with a larger net, to make a more comprehensive +synthesis, than any or than all of them put together. In +feeling after the central type of man, he must embrace all +eccentricities; his cosmology must subsume all cosmologies, +and the feelings that gave birth to them; his statement +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88"></a>88</span> +of facts must include all religion and all irreligion, Christ +and Boodha, God and the devil. The world as it is, and +the whole world as it is, physical, and spiritual, and historical, +with its good and bad, with its manifold inconsistencies, +is what he wishes to set forth, in strong, picturesque, and +popular lineaments, for the understanding of the average +man. One of his favourite endeavours is to get the whole +matter into a nutshell; to knock the four corners of the +universe, one after another, about his readers’ ears; to +hurry him, in breathless phrases, hither and thither, back +and forward, in time and space; to focus all this about his +own momentary personality; and then, drawing the ground +from under his feet, as if by some cataclysm of nature, +to plunge him into the unfathomable abyss sown with +enormous suns and systems, and among the inconceivable +numbers and magnitudes and velocities of the heavenly +bodies. So that he concludes by striking into us some +sense of that disproportion of things which Shelley has +illuminated by the ironical flash of these eight words: +The desire of the moth for the star.</p> + +<p>The same truth, but to what a different purpose! Whitman’s +moth is mightily at his ease about all the planets +in heaven, and cannot think too highly of our sublunary +tapers. The universe is so large that imagination flags +in the effort to conceive it; but here, in the meantime, is +the world under our feet, a very warm and habitable corner. +“The earth, that is sufficient; I do not want the constellations +any nearer,” he remarks. And again: “Let your +soul stand cool and composed,” says he, “before a million +universes.” It is the language of a transcendental common +sense, such as Thoreau held and sometimes uttered. But +Whitman, who has a somewhat vulgar inclination for +technical talk and the jargon of philosophy, is not content +with a few pregnant hints; he must put the dots upon his +i’s; he must corroborate the songs of Apollo by some of +the darkest talk of human metaphysic. He tells his disciples +that they must be ready “to confront the growing arrogance +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page89"></a>89</span> +of Realism.” Each person is, for himself, the keystone +and the occasion of this universal edifice. “Nothing, not +God,” he says, “is greater to one than oneself is“; a statement +with an irreligious smack at the first sight; but like +most startling sayings, a manifest truism on a second. He +will give effect to his own character without apology; he +sees “that the elementary laws never apologise.” “I +reckon,” he adds, with quaint colloquial arrogance, “I +reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house +by, after all.” The level follows the law of its being; so, +unrelentingly, will he; everything, every person, is good +in his own place and way; God is the maker of all, and all +are in one design. For he believes in God, and that with +a sort of blasphemous security. “No array of terms,” +quoth he, “no array of terms can say how much at peace +I am about God and about death.” There certainly never +was a prophet who carried things with a higher hand; he +gives us less a body of dogmas than a series of proclamations +by the grace of God; and language, you will observe, +positively fails him to express how far he stands above the +highest human doubts and trepidations.</p> + +<p>But next in order of truths to a person’s sublime conviction +of himself, comes the attraction of one person for +another, and all that we mean by the word love:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“The dear love of man for his comrade—the attraction of friend for friend,</p> +<p class="i05">Of the-well-married husband and wife, of children and parents,</p> +<p class="i05">Of city for city and land for land.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>The solitude of the most sublime idealist is broken in +upon by other people’s faces; he sees a look in their eyes +that corresponds to something in his own heart; there +comes a tone in their voices which convicts him of a startling +weakness for his fellow-creatures. While he is hymning +the <i>ego</i> and commercing with God and the universe, a +woman goes below his window; and at the turn of her skirt, +or the colour of her eyes, Icarus is recalled from +heaven by the run. Love is so startlingly real that it takes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page90"></a>90</span> +rank upon an equal footing of reality with the consciousness +of personal existence. We are as heartily persuaded +of the identity of those we love as of our own identity. And +so sympathy pairs with self-assertion, the two gerents of +human life on earth; and Whitman’s ideal man must not +only be strong, free, and self-reliant in himself, but his +freedom must be bounded and his strength perfected by +the most intimate, eager, and long-suffering love for others. +To some extent this is taking away with the left hand what +has been so generously given with the right. Morality has +been ceremoniously extruded from the door only to be +brought in again by the window. We are told, on one page, +to do as we please; and on the next we are sharply upbraided +for not having done as the author pleases. We +are first assured that we are the finest fellows in the world +in our own right; and then it appears that we are only +fine fellows in so far as we practise a most quixotic code +of morals. The disciple who saw himself in clear ether a +moment before is plunged down again among the fogs and +complications of duty. And this is all the more overwhelming +because Whitman insists not only on love between +sex and sex, and between friends of the same sex, but in +the field of the less intense political sympathies; and his +ideal man must not only be a generous friend but a conscientious +voter into the bargain.</p> + +<p>His method somewhat lessens the difficulty. He is not, +the reader will remember, to tell us how good we ought to +be, but to remind us how good we are. He is to encourage +us to be free and kind by proving that we are free and kind +already. He passes our corporate life under review, to +show that it is upheld by the very virtues of which he makes +himself the advocate. “There is no object so soft,” he +says somewhere in his big, plain way, “there is no object +so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe.” Rightly +understood, it is on the softest of all objects, the sympathetic +heart, that the wheel of society turns easily and securely +as on a perfect axle. There is no room, of course, for doubt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page91"></a>91</span> +or discussion, about conduct, where every one is to follow +the law of his being with exact compliance. Whitman +hates doubt, deprecates discussion, and discourages to his +utmost the craving, carping sensibilities of the conscience. +We are to imitate, to use one of his absurd and happy +phrases, “the satisfaction and aplomb of animals.” If +he preaches a sort of ranting Christianity in morals, a fit +consequent to the ranting optimism of his cosmology, it +is because he declares it to be the original deliverance of +the human heart; or at least, for he would be honestly +historical in method, of the human heart as at present +Christianised. His is a morality without a prohibition; +his policy is one of encouragement all round. A man must +be a born hero to come up to Whitman’s standard in the +practice of any of the positive virtues; but of a negative +virtue, such as temperance or chastity, he has so little to +say, that the reader need not be surprised if he drops a +word or two upon the other side. He would lay down +nothing that would be a clog; he would prescribe nothing +that cannot be done ruddily, in a heat. The great point +is to get people under way. To the faithful Whitmanite +this would be justified by the belief that God made all, +and that all was good; the prophet, in this doctrine, has +only to cry “Tally-ho,” and mankind will break into a +gallop on the road to El Dorado. Perhaps, to another +class of minds, it may look like the result of the somewhat +cynical reflection that you will not make a kind man out +of one who is unkind by any precepts under heaven; +tempered by the belief that, in natural circumstances, +the large majority is well disposed. Thence it would +follow, that if you can only get every one to feel more +warmly and act more courageously, the balance of results +will be for good.</p> + +<p>So far, you see, the doctrine is pretty coherent as a +doctrine; as a picture of man’s life it is incomplete and +misleading, although eminently cheerful. This he is himself +the first to acknowledge; for if he is prophetic in anything, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page92"></a>92</span> +it is in his noble disregard of consistency. “Do I +contradict myself?” he asks somewhere; and then pat +comes the answer, the best answer ever given in print, +worthy of a sage, or rather of a woman: “Very well, then, +I contradict myself!” with this addition, not so feminine +and perhaps not altogether so satisfactory: “I am large—I +contain multitudes.” Life, as a matter of fact, partakes +largely of the nature of tragedy. The gospel according +to Whitman, even if it be not so logical, has this advantage +over the gospel according to Pangloss, that it does +not utterly disregard the existence of temporal evil. Whitman +accepts the fact of disease and wretchedness like an +honest man; and instead of trying to qualify it in the interest +of his optimism, sets himself to spur people up to be +helpful. He expresses a conviction, indeed, that all will +be made up to the victims in the end; that “what is untried +and afterward” will fail no one, not even “the old man +who has lived without purpose and feels it with bitterness +worse than gall.” But this is not to palliate our sense of +what is hard or melancholy in the present. Pangloss, +smarting under one of the worst things that ever was supposed +to come from America, consoled himself with the +reflection that it was the price we have to pay for cochineal. +And with that murderous parody, logical optimism and +the praises of the best of possible worlds went irrevocably +out of season, and have been no more heard of in the mouths +of reasonable men. Whitman spares us all allusions to +the cochineal; he treats evil and sorrow in a spirit almost +as of welcome; as an old sea-dog might have welcomed +the sight of the enemy’s topsails off the Spanish Main. +There, at least, he seems to say, is something obvious to be +done. I do not know many better things in literature than +the brief pictures—brief and vivid like things seen by lightning,—with +which he tries to stir up the world’s heart upon +the side of mercy. He braces us, on the one hand, with +examples of heroic duty and helpfulness; on the other, he +touches us with pitiful instances of people needing help. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93"></a>93</span> +He knows how to make the heart beat at a brave story; +to inflame us with just resentment over the hunted slave; +to stop our mouths for shame when he tells of the drunken +prostitute. For all the afflicted, all the weak, all the +wicked, a good word is said in a spirit which I can only call +one of ultra Christianity; and however wild, however +contradictory, it may be in parts, this at least may be said +for his book, as it may be said of the Christian Gospels, +that no one will read it, however respectable, but he gets +a knock upon his conscience; no one however fallen, but +he finds a kindly and supporting welcome.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<p>Nor has he been content with merely blowing the +trumpet for the battle of well-doing; he has given to his +precepts the authority of his own brave example. Naturally +a grave, believing man, with little or no sense of humour, +he has succeeded as well in life as in his printed performances. +The spirit that was in him has come forth most +eloquently in his actions. Many who have only read his +poetry have been tempted to set him down as an ass, or +even as a charlatan; but I never met any one who had +known him personally who did not profess a solid affection +and respect for the man’s character. He practises as he +professes; he feels deeply that Christian love for all men, +that toleration, that cheerful delight in serving others, +which he often celebrates in literature with a doubtful +measure of success. And perhaps, out of all his writings, +the best and the most human and convincing passages are +to be found in “these soil’d and creased little livraisons, +each composed of a sheet or two of paper, folded small to +carry in the pocket, and fastened with a pin,” which he +scribbled during the war by the bedsides of the wounded +or in the excitement of great events. They are hardly +literature in the formal meaning of the word; he has left +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page94"></a>94</span> +his jottings for the most part as he made them; a homely +detail, a word from the lips of a dying soldier, a business +memorandum, the copy of a letter—short, straightforward +to the point, with none of the trappings of composition; +but they breathe a profound sentiment, they give us a vivid +look at one of the sides of life, and they make us acquainted +with a man whom it is an honour to love.</p> + +<p>Whitman’s intense Americanism, his unlimited belief +in the future of These States (as, with reverential capitals, +he loves to call them), made the war a period of great trial +to his soul. The new virtue, Unionism, of which he is the +sole inventor, seemed to have fallen into premature unpopularity. +All that he loved, hoped, or hated, hung in +the balance. And the game of war was not only momentous +to him in its issues; it sublimated his spirit by its +heroic displays, and tortured him intimately by the spectacle +of its horrors. It was a theatre, it was a place of education +it was like a season of religious revival. He watched Lincoln +going daily to his work; he studied and fraternised +with young soldiery passing to the front; above all, he +walked the hospitals, reading the Bible, distributing clean +clothes, or apples, or tobacco; a patient, helpful, reverend +man, full of kind speeches.</p> + +<p>His memoranda of this period are almost bewildering +to read. From one point of view they seem those of a +district visitor; from another, they look like the formless +jottings of an artist in the picturesque. More than one +woman, on whom I tried the experiment, immediately +claimed the writer for a fellow-woman. More than one +literary purist might identify him as a shoddy newspaper +correspondent without the necessary faculty of style. And +yet the story touches home; and if you are of the weeping +order of mankind, you will certainly find your eyes filled +with tears, of which you have no reason to be ashamed. +There is only one way to characterise a work of this order, +and that is to quote. Here is a passage from a letter to a +mother, unknown to Whitman, whose son died in hospital:—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page95"></a>95</span></p> +<div class="quote"> +<p>“Frank, as far as I saw, had everything requisite in surgical +treatment, nursing, etc. He had watches much of the time. He +was so good and well-behaved, and affectionate, I myself liked him +very much. I was in the habit of coming in afternoons and sitting +by him, and he liked to have me—liked to put out his arm and lay +his hand on my knee—would keep it so a long while. Toward the +last he was more restless and flighty at night—often fancied himself +with his regiment—by his talk sometimes seem’d as if his feelings +were hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was +entirely innocent of—said ‘I never in my life was thought capable +of such a thing, and never was.’ At other times he would fancy +himself talking as it seem’d to children or such like, his relatives, I +suppose, and giving them good advice; would talk to them a long +while. All the time he was out of his head not one single bad word, +or thought, or idea escaped him. It was remark’d that many a +man’s conversation in his senses was not half so good as Frank’s +delirium.</p> + +<p>“He was perfectly willing to die—he had become very weak, +and had suffer’d a good deal, and was perfectly resign’d, poor boy. +I do not know his past life, but I feel as if it must have been good. +At any rate what I saw of him here, under the most trying circumstances, +with a painful wound, and among strangers, I can say that +he behaved so brave, so composed, and so sweet and affectionate, it +could not be surpassed. And now, like many other noble and good +men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has yielded up his +young life at the very outset in her service. Such things are gloomy—yet +there is a text, ‘God doeth all things well,’ the meaning of +which, after due time, appears to the soul.</p> + +<p>“I thought perhaps a few words, though from a stranger, about +your son, from one who was with him at the last, might be worth +while, for I loved the young man, though I but saw him immediately +to lose him.”</p> +</div> + +<p>It is easy enough to pick holes in the grammar of this +letter, but what are we to say of its profound goodness +and tenderness? It is written as though he had the mother’s +face before his eyes, and saw her wincing in the flesh at +every word. And what, again, are we to say of its sober +truthfulness, not exaggerating, not running to phrases, +not seeking to make a hero out of what was only an ordinary +but good and brave young man? Literary reticence +is not Whitman’s stronghold; and this reticence is not +literary, but humane; it is not that of a good artist but +that of a good man. He knew that what the mother wished +to hear about was Frank; and he told her about her Frank +as he was.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page96"></a>96</span></p> +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>V</h5> + +<p>Something should be said of Whitman’s style, for style +is of the essence of thinking. And where a man is so critically +deliberate as our author, and goes solemnly about his +poetry for an ulterior end, every indication is worth notice. +He has chosen a rough, unrhymed, lyrical verse; sometimes +instinct with a fine processional movement; often so +rugged and careless that it can only be described by saying +that he has not taken the trouble to write prose. I +believe myself that it was selected principally because it +was easy to write, although not without recollections of +the marching measures of some of the prose in our English +Old Testament. According to Whitman, on the other +hand, “the time has arrived to essentially break down the +barriers of form between Prose and Poetry ... for the +most cogent purposes of those great inland states, and for +Texas, and California, and Oregon“;—a statement which +is among the happiest achievements of American humour. +He calls his verses “recitatives,” in easily followed allusion +to a musical form. “Easily written, loose-fingered chords,” +he cries, “I feel the thrum of your climax and close.” Too +often, I fear, he is the only one who can perceive the rhythm; +and in spite of Mr. Swinburne, a great part of his work considered +as verses is poor bald stuff. Considered, not as +verse, but as speech, a great part of it is full of strange and +admirable merits. The right detail is seized; the right +word, bold and trenchant, is thrust into its place. Whitman +has small regard to literary decencies, and is totally +free from literary timidities. He is neither afraid of being +slangy nor of being dull; nor, let me add, of being ridiculous. +The result is a most surprising compound of plain +grandeur, sentimental affectation, and downright nonsense. +It would be useless to follow his detractors and give instances +of how bad he can be at his worst; and perhaps it would +be not much wiser to give extracted specimens of how +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97"></a>97</span> +happily he can write when he is at his best. These come +in to most advantage in their own place; owing something, +it may be, to the offset of their curious surroundings. And +one thing is certain, that no one can appreciate Whitman’s +excellences until he has grown accustomed to his faults. +Until you are content to pick poetry out of his pages almost +as you must pick it out of a Greek play in Bohn’s translation, +your gravity will be continually upset, your ears perpetually +disappointed, and the whole book will be no more to you +than a particularly flagrant production by the Poet Close.</p> + +<p>A writer of this uncertain quality was, perhaps, unfortunate +in taking for thesis the beauty of the world as it +now is, not only on the hill-tops but in the factory; not +only by the harbour full of stately ships, but in the magazine +of the hopelessly prosaic hatter. To show beauty in common +things is the work of the rarest tact. It is not to be +done by the wishing. It is easy to posit as a theory, but +to bring it home to men’s minds is the problem of literature, +and is only accomplished by rare talent, and in comparatively +rare instances. To bid the whole world stand and +deliver, with a dogma in one’s right hand by way of pistol; +to cover reams of paper in a galloping, headstrong vein; +to cry louder and louder over everything as it comes up, +and make no distinction in one’s enthusiasm over the most +incomparable matters; to prove one’s entire want of sympathy +for the jaded, literary palate, by calling, not a spade +a spade, but a hatter a hatter, in a lyrical apostrophe;—this, +in spite of all the airs of inspiration, is not the way +to do it. It may be very wrong, and very wounding to a +respectable branch of industry, but the word “hatter” +cannot be used seriously in emotional verse; not to understand +this is to have no literary tact; and I would, for his +own sake, that this were the only inadmissible expression +with which Whitman had bedecked his pages. The book +teems with similar comicalities; and, to a reader who is +determined to take it from that side only, presents a perfect +carnival of fun.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page98"></a>98</span></p> + +<p>A good deal of this is the result of theory playing its +usual vile trick upon the artist. It is because he is a Democrat +that Whitman must have in the hatter. If you may +say Admiral, he reasons, why may you not say Hatter? +One man is as good as another, and it is the business of the +“great poet” to show poetry in the life of the one as well +as the other. A most incontrovertible sentiment, surely, +and one which nobody would think of controverting, where—and +here is the point—where any beauty has been shown. +But how, where that is not the case? where the hatter is +simply introduced, as God made him and as his fellow-men +have miscalled him, at the crisis of a high-flown rhapsody? +And what are we to say, where a man of Whitman’s notable +capacity for putting things in a bright, picturesque, and +novel way, simply gives up the attempt, and indulges, with +apparent exultation, in an inventory of trades or implements, +with no more colour or coherence than so many +index-words out of a dictionary? I do not know that we +can say anything, but that it is a prodigiously amusing +exhibition for a line or so. The worst of it is, that Whitman +must have known better. The man is a great critic, +and, so far as I can make out, a good one; and how much +criticism does it require to know that capitulation is not +description, or that fingering on a dumb keyboard, with +whatever show of sentiment and execution, is not at all +the same thing as discoursing music? I wish I could believe +he was quite honest with us; but, indeed, who was ever +quite honest who wrote a book for a purpose? It is a flight +beyond the reach of human magnanimity.</p> + +<p>One other point, where his means failed him, must be +touched upon, however shortly. In his desire to accept +all facts loyally and simply, it fell within his programme +to speak at some length and with some plainness on what +is, for I really do not know what reason, the most delicate +of subjects. Seeing in that one of the most serious and +interesting parts of life, he was aggrieved that it should be +looked upon as ridiculous or shameful. No one speaks of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99"></a>99</span> +maternity with his tongue in his cheek; and Whitman made +a bold push to set the sanctity of fatherhood beside the +sanctity of motherhood, and introduce this also among +the things that can be spoken of without either a blush or +a wink. But the Philistines have been too strong; and, +to say truth, Whitman had rather played the fool. We +may be thoroughly conscious that his end is improving; +that it would be a good thing if a window were opened on +these close privacies of life; that on this subject, as on all +others, he now and then lets fall a pregnant saying. But +we are not satisfied. We feel that he was not the man for +so difficult an enterprise. He loses our sympathy in the +character of a poet by attracting too much of our attention +in that of a Bull in a China Shop. And where, by a little +more art, we might have been solemnised ourselves, it is +too often Whitman alone who is solemn in the face of an +audience somewhat indecorously amused.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>VI</h5> + +<p>Lastly, as most important, after all, to human beings +in our disputable state, what is that higher prudence which +was to be the aim and issue of these deliberate productions?</p> + +<p>Whitman is too clever to slip into a succinct formula. +If he could have adequately said his say in a single proverb, +it is to be presumed he would not have put himself to the +trouble of writing several volumes. It was his programme +to state as much as he could of the world with all its contradictions, +and leave the upshot with God who planned +it. What he has made of the world and the world’s meanings +is to be found at large in his poems. These altogether +give his answers to the problems of belief and conduct; in +many ways righteous and high-spirited, in some ways loose +and contradictory. And yet there are two passages from +the preface to the “Leaves of Grass” which do pretty well +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100"></a>100</span> +condense his teaching on all essential points, and yet preserve +a measure of his spirit.</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“This is what you shall do,” he says in the one, “love the earth, +and sun, and animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that +asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and +labour to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have +patience and indulgence towards the people, take off your hat to +nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men; go +freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and +mothers of families, read these leaves (his own works) in the open +air every season of every year of your life; re-examine all you have +been told at school or church, or in any book, and dismiss whatever +insults your own soul.”</p> + +<p>“The prudence of the greatest poet,” he adds in the other—and +the greatest poet is, of course, himself—“knows that the young man +who composedly perilled his life and lost it, has done exceeding well +for himself; while the man who has not perilled his life, and retains +it to old age in riches and ease, has perhaps achieved nothing for +himself worth mentioning; and that only that person has no great +prudence to learn, who has learnt to prefer real long-lived things, +and favours body and soul the same, and perceives the indirect +surely following the direct, and what evil or good he does leaping +onward and waiting to meet him again, and who in his spirit, in any +emergency whatever, neither hurries nor avoids death.”</p> +</div> + +<p>There is much that is Christian in these extracts, startlingly +Christian. Any reader who bears in mind Whitman’s +own advice and “dismisses whatever insults his own soul” +will find plenty that is bracing, brightening, and chastening +to reward him for a little patience at first. It seems +hardly possible that any being should get evil from so +healthy a book as the “Leaves of Grass,” which is simply +comical whenever it falls short of nobility; but if there be +any such, who cannot both take and leave, who cannot let +a single opportunity pass by without some unworthy and +unmanly thought, I should have as great difficulty, and +neither more nor less, in recommending the works of Whitman +as in lending them Shakespeare, or letting them go +abroad outside of the grounds of a private asylum.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page101"></a>101</span></p> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h3>HENRY DAVID THOREAU:<br /> +HIS CHARACTER AND OPINIONS</h3> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>I</h5> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Thoreau’s</span> thin, penetrating, big-nosed face, even in a +bad woodcut, conveys some hint of the limitations of his +mind and character. With his almost acid sharpness of +insight, with his almost animal dexterity in act, there went +none of that large, unconscious geniality of the world’s +heroes. He was not easy, not ample, not urbane, not even +kind; his enjoyment was hardly smiling, or the smile was +not broad enough to be convincing; he had no waste lands +nor kitchen-midden in his nature, but was all improved and +sharpened to a point. “He was bred to no profession,” +says Emerson; “he never married; he lived alone; he +never went to church; he never voted; he refused to pay +a tax to the State; he ate no flesh, he drank no wine, he +never knew the use of tobacco; and, though a naturalist, +he used neither trap nor gun. When asked at dinner what +dish he preferred, he answered, ‘the nearest.’” So many +negative superiorities begin to smack a little of the prig. +From his later works he was in the habit of cutting out the +humorous passages, under the impression that they were +beneath the dignity of his moral muse; and there we see +the prig stand public and confessed. It was “much +easier,” says Emerson acutely, much easier for Thoreau +to say <i>no</i> than <i>yes</i>; and that is a characteristic which +depicts the man. It is a useful accomplishment to be +able to say <i>no</i>, but surely it is the essence of amiability +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102"></a>102</span> +to prefer to say <i>yes</i> where it is possible. There is something +wanting in the man who does not hate himself +whenever he is constrained to say no. And there was a +great deal wanting in this born dissenter. He was almost +shockingly devoid of weaknesses; he had not enough of +them to be truly polar with humanity; whether you call +him demi-god or demi-man, he was at least not altogether +one of us, for he was not touched with a feeling of our infirmities. +The world’s heroes have room for all positive +qualities, even those which are disreputable, in the capacious +theatre of their dispositions. Such can live many lives; +while a Thoreau can live but one, and that only with perpetual +foresight.</p> + +<p>He was no ascetic, rather an Epicurean of the nobler +sort; and he had this one great merit, that he succeeded +so far as to be happy. “I love my fate to the core and +rind,” he wrote once; and even while he lay dying, here +is what he dictated (for it seems he was already too feeble +to control the pen): “You ask particularly after my health. +I <i>suppose</i> that I have not many months to live, but of +course know nothing about it. I may say that I am enjoying +existence as much as ever, and regret nothing.” It is +not given to all to bear so clear a testimony to the sweetness +of their fate, nor to any without courage and wisdom; +for this world in itself is but a painful and uneasy place of +residence, and lasting happiness, at least to the self-conscious, +comes only from within. Now Thoreau’s content +and ecstasy in living was, we may say, like a plant that he +had watered and tended with womanish solicitude; for +there is apt to be something unmanly, something almost +dastardly, in a life that does not move with dash and freedom, +and that fears the bracing contact of the world. In +one word, Thoreau was a skulker. He did not wish virtue +to go out of him among his fellow-men, but slunk into a +corner to hoard it for himself. He left all for the sake of +certain virtuous self-indulgences. It is true that his tastes +were noble; that his ruling passion was to keep himself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103"></a>103</span> +unspotted from the world; and that his luxuries were all +of the same healthy order as cold tubs and early rising. But +a man may be both coldly cruel in the pursuit of goodness, +and morbid even in the pursuit of health. I cannot lay +my hands on the passage in which he explains his abstinence +from tea and coffee, but I am sure I have the meaning +correctly. It is this: He thought it bad economy and +worthy of no true virtuoso to spoil the natural rapture of +the morning with such muddy stimulants; let him but see +the sun rise, and he was already sufficiently inspirited for +the labours of the day. That may be reason good enough +to abstain from tea; but when we go on to find the same +man, on the same or similar grounds, abstain from nearly +everything that his neighbours innocently and pleasurably +use, and from the rubs and trials of human society itself +into the bargain, we recognise that valetudinarian healthfulness +which is more delicate than sickness itself. We +need have no respect for a state of artificial training. True +health is to be able to do without it. Shakespeare, we can +imagine, might begin the day upon a quart of ale, and yet +enjoy the sunrise to the full as much as Thoreau, and commemorate +his enjoyment in vastly better verses. A man +who must separate himself from his neighbours’ habits in +order to be happy, is in much the same case with one who +requires to take opium for the same purpose. What we +want to see is one who can breast into the world, do a man’s +work, and still preserve his first and pure enjoyment of +existence.</p> + +<p>Thoreau’s faculties were of a piece with his moral shyness; +for they were all delicacies. He could guide himself +about the woods on the darkest night by the touch of his +feet. He could pick up at once an exact dozen of pencils +by the feeling, pace distances with accuracy, and gauge +cubic contents by the eye. His smell was so dainty that +he could perceive the fœtor of dwelling-houses as he passed +them by at night; his palate so unsophisticated that, like +a child, he disliked the taste of wine—or perhaps, living in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page104"></a>104</span> +America, had never tasted any that was good; and his +knowledge of nature was so complete and curious that he +could have told the time of year, within a day or so, by the +aspect of the plants. In his dealings with animals he was +the original of Hawthorne’s Donatello. He pulled the +woodchuck out of its hole by the tail; the hunted fox came +to him for protection; wild squirrels have been seen to +nestle in his waistcoat; he would thrust his arm into a +pool and bring forth a bright, panting fish, lying undismayed +in the palm of his hand. There were few things that he +could not do. He could make a house, a boat, a pencil, +or a book. He was a surveyor, a scholar, a natural historian. +He could run, walk, climb, skate, swim, and +manage a boat. The smallest occasion served to display +his physical accomplishment; and a manufacturer, from +merely observing his dexterity with the window of a railway +carriage, offered him a situation on the spot. “The only +fruit of much living,” he observes, “is the ability to do +some slight thing better.” But such was the exactitude +of his senses, so alive was he in every fibre, that it seems +as if the maxim should be changed in his case, for he could +do most things with unusual perfection. And perhaps +he had an approving eye to himself when he wrote: “Though +the youth at last grows indifferent, the laws of the universe +are not indifferent, <i>but are for ever on the side of the most +sensitive</i>.”</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>II</h5> + +<p>Thoreau had decided, it would seem, from the very +first to lead a life of self-improvement: the needle did not +tremble as with richer natures, but pointed steadily north; +and as he saw duty and inclination in one, he turned all +his strength in that direction. He was met upon the +threshold by a common difficulty. In this world, in spite +of its many agreeable features, even the most sensitive +must undergo some drudgery to live. It is not possible +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105"></a>105</span> +to devote your time to study and meditation without what +are quaintly but happily denominated private means; +these absent, a man must contrive to earn his bread by +some service to the public such as the public cares to pay +him for; or, as Thoreau loved to put it, Apollo must serve +Admetus. This was to Thoreau even a sourer necessity +than it is to most; there was a love of freedom, a strain of +the wild man, in his nature, that rebelled with violence +against the yoke of custom; and he was so eager to cultivate +himself and to be happy in his own society, that he could +consent with difficulty even to the interruptions of friendship. +“<i>Such are my engagements to myself</i> that I dare not +promise,” he once wrote in answer to an invitation; and +the italics are his own. Marcus Aurelius found time to +study virtue, and between whiles to conduct the imperial +affairs of Rome; but Thoreau is so busy improving himself +that he must think twice about a morning call. And now +imagine him condemned for eight hours a day to some +uncongenial and unmeaning business! He shrank from +the very look of the mechanical in life; all should, if possible, +be sweetly spontaneous and swimmingly progressive. +Thus he learned to make lead-pencils, and, when he had +gained the best certificate, and his friends began to congratulate +him on his establishment in life, calmly announced +that he should never make another. “Why should I?” +said he; “I would not do again what I have done once.” +For when a thing has once been done as well as it wants to +be, it is of no further interest to the self-improver. Yet in +after years, and when it became needful to support his +family, he returned patiently to this mechanical art—a +step more than worthy of himself.</p> + +<p>The pencils seem to have been Apollo’s first experiment +in the service of Admetus; but others followed. “I +have thoroughly tried school-keeping,” he writes, “and +found that my expenses were in proportion, or rather out +of proportion, to my income; for I was obliged to dress +and train, not to say, think and believe, accordingly, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106"></a>106</span> +I lost my time into the bargain. As I did not teach for +the benefit of my fellow-men, but simply for a livelihood, +this was a failure. I have tried trade, but I found that it +would take ten years to get under way in that, and that +then I should probably be on my way to the devil.” Nothing, +indeed, can surpass his scorn for all so-called business. +Upon that subject gall squirts from him at a touch. +“The whole enterprise of this nation is not illustrated by +a thought,” he writes; “it is not warmed by a sentiment; +there is nothing in it for which a man should lay down his +life, nor even his gloves.” And again: “If our merchants +did not most of them fail, and the banks too, my faith in +the old laws of this world would be staggered. The statement +that ninety-six in a hundred doing such business +surely break down is perhaps the sweetest fact that statistics +have revealed.” The wish was probably father to the +figures; but there is something enlivening in a hatred of +so genuine a brand, hot as Corsican revenge, and sneering +like Voltaire.</p> + +<p>Pencils, school-keeping, and trade being thus discarded +one after another, Thoreau, with a stroke of strategy, +turned the position. He saw his way to get his board +and lodging for practically nothing; and Admetus never +got less work out of any servant since the world began. +It was his ambition to be an Oriental philosopher; but he +was always a very Yankee sort of Oriental. Even in the +peculiar attitude in which he stood to money, his system +of personal economics, as we may call it, he displayed a +vast amount of truly down-East calculation, and he adopted +poverty like a piece of business. Yet his system is based +on one or two ideas which, I believe, come naturally to all +thoughtful youths, and are only pounded out of them by +city uncles. Indeed, something essentially youthful distinguishes +all Thoreau’s knock-down blows at current +opinion. Like the posers of a child, they leave the orthodox +in a kind of speechless agony. These know the thing is +nonsense. They are sure there must be an answer, yet +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107"></a>107</span> +somehow cannot find it. So it is with his system of economy. +He cuts through the subject on so new a plane that the +accepted arguments apply no longer; he attacks it in a new +dialect where there are no catch-words ready made for the +defender; after you have been boxing for years on a polite, +gladiatorial convention, here is an assailant who does not +scruple to hit below the belt.</p> + +<p>“The cost of a thing,” says he, “is <i>the amount of what +I will call life</i> which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately +or in the long run.” I have been accustomed +to put it to myself, perhaps more clearly, that the price +we have to pay for money is paid in liberty. Between +these two ways of it, at least, the reader will probably not +fail to find a third definition of his own; and it follows, on +one or other, that a man may pay too dearly for his livelihood, +by giving, in Thoreau’s terms, his whole life for it, +or, in mine, bartering for it the whole of his available liberty, +and becoming a slave till death. There are two questions +to be considered—the quality of what we buy, and the +price we have to pay for it. Do you want a thousand a +year, a two thousand a year, or a ten thousand a year livelihood? +and can you afford the one you want? It is a matter +of taste; it is not in the least degree a question of duty, +though commonly supposed so. But there is no authority +for that view anywhere. It is nowhere in the Bible. It +is true that we might do a vast amount of good if we were +wealthy, but it is also highly improbable; not many do; +and the art of growing rich is not only quite distinct from +that of doing good, but the practice of the one does not at +all train a man for practising the other. “Money might +be of great service to me,” writes Thoreau; “but the +difficulty now is that I do not improve my opportunities, +and therefore I am not prepared to have my opportunities +increased.” It is a mere illusion that, above a certain +income, the personal desires will be satisfied and leave a +wider margin for the generous impulse. It is as difficult +to be generous, or anything else except perhaps a member +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108"></a>108</span> +of Parliament, on thirty thousand as on two hundred a +year.</p> + +<p>Now Thoreau’s tastes were well defined. He loved +to be free, to be master of his times and seasons, to indulge +the mind rather than the body; he preferred long rambles +to rich dinners, his own reflections to the consideration of +society, and an easy, calm, unfettered, active life among +green trees to dull toiling at the counter of a bank. And +such being his inclination he determined to gratify it. A +poor man must save off something; he determined to save +off his livelihood. “When a man has attained those things +which are necessary to life,” he writes, “there is another +alternative than to obtain the superfluities; <i>he may adventure +on life now</i>, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced.” +Thoreau would get shelter, some kind of covering +for his body, and necessary daily bread; even these +he should get as cheaply as possible; and then, his vacation +from humbler toil having commenced, devote himself to +Oriental philosophers, the study of nature, and the work +of self-improvement.</p> + +<p>Prudence, which bids us all go to the ant for wisdom +and hoard against the day of sickness, was not a favourite +with Thoreau. He preferred that other, whose name is +so much misappropriated: Faith. When he had secured +the necessaries of the moment, he would not reckon up +possible accidents or torment himself with trouble for the +future. He had no toleration for the man “who ventures +to live only by the aid of the mutual insurance company, +which has promised to bury him decently.” He would +trust himself a little to the world. “We may safely trust +a good deal more than we do,” says he. “How much is +not done by us! or what if we had been taken sick?” And +then, with a stab of satire, he describes contemporary mankind +in a phrase: “All the day long on the alert, at night +we unwillingly say our prayers and commit ourselves to +uncertainties.” It is not likely that the public will be +much affected by Thoreau, when they blink the direct injunctions +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109"></a>109</span> +of the religion they profess; and yet, whether +we will or no, we make the same hazardous ventures; we +back our own health and the honesty of our neighbours for +all that we are worth; and it is chilling to think how many +must lose their wager.</p> + +<p>In 1845, twenty-eight years old, an age by which the +liveliest have usually declined into some conformity with +the world, Thoreau, with a capital of something less than +five pounds and a borrowed axe, walked forth into the +woods by Walden Pond, and began his new experiment +in life. He built himself a dwelling, and returned the axe, +he says with characteristic and workmanlike pride, sharper +than when he borrowed it; he reclaimed a patch, where +he cultivated beans, peas, potatoes, and sweet corn; he +had his bread to bake, his farm to dig, and for the matter +of six weeks in the summer he worked at surveying, carpentry, +or some other of his numerous dexterities, for hire. +For more than five years this was all that he required to +do for his support, and he had the winter and most of the +summer at his entire disposal. For six weeks of occupation, +a little cooking and a little gentle hygienic gardening, the +man, you may say, had as good as stolen his livelihood. +Or we must rather allow that he had done far better; for +the thief himself is continually and busily occupied; and +even one born to inherit a million will have more calls upon +his time than Thoreau. Well might he say, “What old +people tell you you cannot do, you try and find you can.” +And how surprising is his conclusion: “I am convinced +that <i>to maintain oneself on this earth is not a hardship, but +a pastime</i>, if we will live simply and wisely; <i>as the pursuits +of simpler nations are still the sports of the more artificial</i>.”</p> + +<p>When he had enough of that kind of life, he showed +the same simplicity in giving it up as in beginning it. There +are some who could have done the one, but, vanity forbidding, +not the other; and that is perhaps the story of the +hermits; but Thoreau made no fetich of his own example, +and did what he wanted squarely. And five years is long +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page110"></a>110</span> +enough for an experiment, and to prove the success of transcendental +Yankeeism. It is not his frugality which is +worthy of note; for, to begin with, that was inborn, and +therefore inimitable by others who are differently constituted; +and again, it was no new thing, but has often been +equalled by poor Scotch students at the universities. The +point is the sanity of his view of life, and the insight with +which he recognised the position of money, and thought +out for himself the problem of riches and a livelihood. +Apart from his eccentricities, he had perceived, and was +acting on, a truth of universal application. For money +enters in two different characters into the scheme of life. +A certain amount, varying with the number and empire of +our desires, is a true necessary to each one of us in the +present order of society; but beyond that amount, money +is a commodity to be bought or not to be bought, a luxury +in which we may either indulge or stint ourselves, like any +other. And there are many luxuries that we may legitimately +prefer to it, such as a grateful conscience, a country +life, or the woman of our inclination. Trite, flat, and +obvious as this conclusion may appear, we have only to +look round us in society to see how scantily it has been recognised; +and perhaps even ourselves, after a little reflection, +may decide to spend a trifle less for money, and indulge +ourselves a trifle more in the article of freedom.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>III</h5> + +<p>“To have done anything by which you earned money +merely,” says Thoreau, “is to be” (have been, he means) +“idle and worse.” There are two passages in his letters, +both, oddly enough, relating to firewood, which must be +brought together to be rightly understood. So taken, +they contain between them the marrow of all good sense +on the subject of work in its relation to something broader +than mere livelihood. Here is the first: “I suppose I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111"></a>111</span> +have burned up a good-sized tree to-night—and for what? +I settled with Mr. Tarbell for it the other day; but that +wasn’t the final settlement. I got off cheaply from him. +At last one will say: ‘Let us see, how much wood did you +burn, sir?’ And I shall shudder to think that the next +question will be, ‘What did you do while you were warm?’” +Even after we have settled with Admetus in the person of +Mr. Tarbell, there comes, you see, a further question. It +is not enough to have earned our livelihood. Either the +earning itself should have been serviceable to mankind, or +something else must follow. To live is sometimes very +difficult, but it is never meritorious in itself; and we must +have a reason to allege to our own conscience why we should +continue to exist upon this crowded earth. If Thoreau +had simply dwelt in his house at Walden, a lover of trees, +birds, and fishes, and the open air and virtue, a reader of +wise books, an idle, selfish self-improver, he would have +managed to cheat Admetus, but, to cling to metaphor, +the devil would have had him in the end. Those who can +avoid toil altogether and dwell in the Arcadia of private +means, and even those who can, by abstinence, reduce the +necessary amount of it to some six weeks a year, having +the more liberty, have only the higher moral obligation to +be up and doing in the interest of man.</p> + +<p>The second passage is this: “There is a far more important +and warming heat, commonly lost, which precedes +the burning of the wood. It is the smoke of industry, which +is incense. I had been so thoroughly warmed in body and +spirit, that when at length my fuel was housed, I came near +selling it to the ashman, as if I had extracted all its heat.” +Industry is, in itself and when properly chosen, delightful +and profitable to the worker; and when your toil has been +a pleasure, you have not, as Thoreau says, “earned money +merely,” but money, health, delight, and moral profit, all +in one. “We must heap up a great pile of doing for a small +diameter of being,” he says in another place; and then +exclaims, “How admirably the artist is made to accomplish +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page112"></a>112</span> +his self-culture by devotion to his art!” We may +escape uncongenial toil, only to devote ourselves to that +which is congenial. It is only to transact some higher +business that even Apollo dare play the truant from Admetus. +We must all work for the sake of work; we must +all work, as Thoreau says again, in any “absorbing pursuit—it +does not much matter what, so it be honest“; but +the most profitable work is that which combines into one +continued effort the largest proportion of the powers and +desires of a man’s nature; that into which he will plunge +with ardour, and from which he will desist with reluctance; +in which he will know the weariness of fatigue, but +not that of satiety; and which will be ever fresh, pleasing, +and stimulating to his taste. Such work holds a man together, +braced at all points; it does not suffer him to doze +or wander; it keeps him actively conscious of himself, yet +raised among superior interests; it gives him the profit of +industry with the pleasures of a pastime. This is what +his art should be to the true artist, and that to a degree +unknown in other and less intimate pursuits. For other +professions stand apart from the human business of life; +but an art has its seat at the centre of the artist’s doings +and sufferings, deals directly with his experiences, teaches +him the lessons of his own fortunes and mishaps, and becomes +a part of his biography. So says Goethe:</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Spät erklingt was früh erklang;</p> +<p class="i05">Glück und Unglück wird Gesang.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Now Thoreau’s art was literature; and it was one of +which he had conceived most ambitiously. He loved +and believed in good books. He said well, “Life is not +habitually seen from any common platform so truly and +unexaggerated as in the light of literature.” But the +literature he loved was of the heroic order. “Books, not +which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each +thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man cannot +read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, which +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113"></a>113</span> +even make us dangerous to existing institutions—such I +call good books.” He did not think them easy to be read. +“The heroic books,” he says, “even if printed in the character +of our mother-tongue, will always be in a language +dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek +the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing a larger +sense than common use permits out of what wisdom and +valour and generosity we have.” Nor does he suppose +that such books are easily written. “Great prose, of equal +elevation, commands our respect more than great verse,” +says he, “since it implies a more permanent and level +height, a life more pervaded with the grandeur of the +thought. The poet often only makes an irruption, like +the Parthian, and is off again, shooting while he retreats; +but the prose writer has conquered like a Roman and settled +colonies.” We may ask ourselves, almost with dismay, +whether such works exist at all but in the imagination of +the student. For the bulk of the best of books is apt to +be made up with ballast; and those in which energy of +thought is combined with any stateliness of utterance may +be almost counted on the fingers. Looking round in English +for a book that should answer Thoreau’s two demands +of a style like poetry and sense that shall be both original +and inspiriting, I come to Milton’s “Areopagitica,” and can +name no other instance for the moment. Two things at +least are plain: that if a man will condescend to nothing +more commonplace in the way of reading, he must not look +to have a large library; and that if he proposes himself +to write in a similar vein, he will find his work cut out for +him.</p> + +<p>Thoreau composed seemingly while he walked, or at +least exercise and composition were with him intimately +connected; for we are told that “the length of his walk +uniformly made the length of his writing.” He speaks +in one place of “plainness and vigour, the ornaments of +style,” which is rather too paradoxical to be comprehensively +true. In another he remarks: “As for style of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114"></a>114</span> +writing, if one has anything to say it drops from him simply +as a stone falls to the ground.” We must conjecture a +very large sense indeed for the phrase “if one has anything +to say.” When truth flows from a man, fittingly clothed +in style and without conscious effort, it is because the effort +has been made and the work practically completed before +he sat down to write. It is only out of fulness of thinking +that expression drops perfect like a ripe fruit; and when +Thoreau wrote so nonchalantly at his desk, it was because +he had been vigorously active during his walk. For neither +clearness, compression, nor beauty of language, come to +any living creature till after a busy and prolonged acquaintance +with the subject on hand. Easy writers are those +who, like Walter Scott, choose to remain contented with +a less degree of perfection than is legitimately within the +compass of their powers. We hear of Shakespeare and +his clean manuscript; but in face of the evidence of the +style itself and of the various editions of <i>Hamlet</i>, this merely +proves that Messrs. Hemming and Condell were unacquainted +with the common enough phenomenon called +a fair copy. He who would recast a tragedy already given +to the world must frequently and earnestly have revised +details in the study. Thoreau himself, and in spite of his +protestations, is an instance of even extreme research in +one direction; and his effort after heroic utterance is proved +not only by the occasional finish, but by the determined +exaggeration of his style. “I trust you realise what an +exaggerator I am—that I lay myself out to exaggerate,” +he writes. And again, hinting at the explanation: “Who +that has heard a strain of music feared lest he should speak +extravagantly any more for ever?” And yet once more, +in his essay on Carlyle, and this time with his meaning well +in hand: “No truth, we think, was ever expressed but +with this sort of emphasis, that for the time there seemed +to be no other.” Thus Thoreau was an exaggerative and a +parabolical writer, not because he loved the literature of +the East, but from a desire that people should understand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page115"></a>115</span> +and realise what he was writing. He was near the truth +upon the general question; but in his own particular method, +it appears to me, he wandered. Literature is not less a +conventional art than painting or sculpture; and it is the +least striking, as it is the most comprehensive of the three. +To hear a strain of music, to see a beautiful woman, a river, +a great city, or a starry night, is to make a man despair of +his Lilliputian arts in language. Now, to gain that emphasis +which seems denied to us by the very nature of the medium, +the proper method of literature is by selection, which is +a kind of negative exaggeration. It is the right of the +literary artist, as Thoreau was on the point of seeing, to +leave out whatever does not suit his purpose. Thus we +extract the pure gold; and thus the well-written story of +a noble life becomes, by its very omissions, more thrilling +to the reader. But to go beyond this, like Thoreau, and +to exaggerate directly, is to leave the saner classical tradition, +and to put the reader on his guard. And when you +write the whole for the half, you do not express your thought +more forcibly, but only express a different thought which +is not yours.</p> + +<p>Thoreau’s true subject was the pursuit of self-improvement +combined with an unfriendly criticism of life as it +goes on in our societies; it is there that he best displays +the freshness and surprising trenchancy of his intellect; +it is there that his style becomes plain and vigorous, and +therefore, according to his own formula, ornamental. Yet +he did not care to follow this vein singly, but must drop +into it by the way in books of a different purport. “Walden, +or Life in the Woods“; “A Week on the Concord and +Merrimack Rivers“; “The Maine Woods,”—such are +the titles he affects. He was probably reminded by his +delicate critical perception that the true business of literature +is with narrative; in reasoned narrative, and there +alone, that art enjoys all its advantages, and suffers least +from its defects. Dry precept and disembodied disquisition, +as they can only be read with an effort of abstraction, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116"></a>116</span> +can never convey a perfectly complete or a perfectly natural +impression. Truth, even in literature, must be clothed +with flesh and blood, or it cannot tell its whole story to the +reader. Hence the effect of anecdote on simple minds; +and hence good biographies and works of high, imaginative +art, are not only far more entertaining, but far more edifying, +than books of theory or precept. Now Thoreau could +not clothe his opinions in the garment of art, for that was +not his talent; but he sought to gain the same elbow-room +for himself, and to afford a similar relief to his readers, by +mingling his thoughts with a record of experience.</p> + +<p>Again, he was a lover of nature. The quality which +we should call mystery in a painting, and which belongs +so particularly to the aspect of the external world and to +its influence upon our feelings, was one which he was never +weary of attempting to reproduce in his books. The seeming +significance of nature’s appearances, their unchanging +strangeness to the senses, and the thrilling response which +they waken in the mind of man, continued to surprise and +stimulate his spirits. It appeared to him, I think, that if +we could only write near enough to the facts, and yet with +no pedestrian calm, but ardently, we might transfer the +glamour of reality direct upon our pages; and that, if it +were once thus captured and expressed, a new and instructive +relation might appear between men’s thoughts and the +phenomena of nature. This was the eagle that he pursued +all his life long, like a schoolboy with a butterfly net. Hear +him to a friend: “Let me suggest a theme for you—to +state to yourself precisely and completely what that walk +over the mountains amounted to for you, returning to this +essay again and again until you are satisfied that all that +was important in your experience is in it. Don’t suppose +that you can tell it precisely the first dozen times you try, +but at ’em again; especially when, after a sufficient pause, +you suspect that you are touching the heart or summit of +the matter, reiterate your blows there, and account for the +mountain to yourself. Not that the story need be long, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page117"></a>117</span> +but it will take a long while to make it short.” Such was +the method, not consistent for a man whose meanings were +to “drop from him as a stone falls to the ground.” Perhaps +the most successful work that Thoreau ever accomplished +in this direction is to be found in the passages relating to +fish in the “Week.” These are remarkable for a vivid +truth of impression and a happy suitability of language, +not frequently surpassed.</p> + +<p>Whatever Thoreau tried to do was tried in fair, square +prose, with sentences solidly built, and no help from bastard +rhythms. Moreover, there is a progression—I cannot +call it a progress—in his work towards a more and more +strictly prosaic level, until at last he sinks into the bathos +of the prosy. Emerson mentions having once remarked +to Thoreau: “Who would not like to write something which +all can read, like ‘Robinson Crusoe’? and who does not +see with regret that his page is not solid with a right materialistic +treatment which delights everybody?” I must say +in passing, that it is not the right materialistic treatment +which delights the world in “Robinson,” but the romantic +and philosophic interest of the fable. The same treatment +does quite the reverse of delighting us when it is applied, +in “Colonel Jack,” to the management of a plantation. +But I cannot help suspecting Thoreau to have been influenced +either by this identical remark or by some other +closely similar in meaning. He began to fall more and +more into a detailed materialistic treatment; he went into +the business doggedly, as one who should make a guide-book; +he not only chronicled what had been important in +his own experience, but whatever might have been important +in the experience of anybody else; not only what +had affected him, but all that he saw or heard. His ardour +had grown less, or perhaps it was inconsistent with a right +materialistic treatment to display such emotions as he felt; +and, to complete the eventful change, he chose, from a +sense of moral dignity, to gut these later works of the saving +quality of humour. He was not one of those authors who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118"></a>118</span> +have learned, in his own words, “to leave out their dulness.” +He inflicts his full quantity upon the reader in such books +as “Cape Cod,” or “The Yankee in Canada.” Of the +latter he confessed that he had not managed to get much +of himself into it. Heaven knows he had not, nor yet much +of Canada, we may hope. “Nothing,” he says somewhere, +“can shock a brave man but dulness.” Well, there are +few spots more shocking to the brave than the pages of +“The Yankee in Canada.”</p> + +<p>There are but three books of his that will be read with +much pleasure: the “Week,” “Walden,” and the collected +letters. As to his poetry, Emerson’s word shall +suffice for us, it is so accurate and so prettily said: “The +thyme and marjoram are not yet honey.” In this, as in +his prose, he relied greatly on the goodwill of the reader, +and wrote throughout in faith. It was an exercise of faith +to suppose that many would understand the sense of his +best work, or that any could be exhilarated by the dreary +chronicling of his worst. “But,” as he says, “the gods +do not hear any rude or discordant sound, as we learn from +the echo; and I know that the nature towards which I +launch these sounds is so rich that it will modulate anew +and wonderfully improve my rudest strain.”</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<p>“What means the fact,” he cries, “that a soul which +has lost all hope for itself can inspire in another listening +soul such an infinite confidence in it, even while it is expressing +its despair?” The question is an echo and an illustration +of the words last quoted; and it forms the key-note +of his thoughts on friendship. No one else, to my knowledge, +has spoken in so high and just a spirit of the kindly +relations; and I doubt whether it be a drawback that these +lessons should come from one in many ways so unfitted to +be a teacher in this branch. The very coldness and egoism +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page119"></a>119</span> +of his own intercourse gave him a clearer insight into +the intellectual basis of our warm, mutual tolerations; +and testimony to their worth comes with added force from +one who was solitary and disobliging, and of whom a friend +remarked, with equal wit and wisdom, “I love Henry, but +I cannot like him.”</p> + +<p>He can hardly be persuaded to make any distinction +between love and friendship; in such rarefied and freezing +air, upon the mountain-tops of meditation, had he taught +himself to breathe. He was, indeed, too accurate an observer +not to have remarked that “there exists already +a natural disinterestedness and liberality” between men +and women; yet, he thought, “friendship is no respecter +of sex.” Perhaps there is a sense in which the words are +true; but they were spoken in ignorance; and perhaps +we shall have put the matter most correctly, if we call +love a foundation for a nearer and freer degree of friendship +than can be possible without it. For there are delicacies, +eternal between persons of the same sex, which are +melted and disappear in the warmth of love.</p> + +<p>To both, if they are to be right, he attributes the same +nature and condition. “We are not what we are,” says +he, “nor do we treat or esteem each other for such, but +for what we are capable of being.” “A friend is one who +incessantly pays us the compliment of expecting all the +virtues from us, and who can appreciate them in us.” +“The friend asks no return but that his friend will religiously +accept and wear and not disgrace his apotheosis of +him.” “It is the merit and preservation of friendship +that it takes place on a level higher than the actual characters +of the parties would seem to warrant.” This is to +put friendship on a pedestal indeed; and yet the root of +the matter is there; and the last sentence, in particular, +is like a light in a dark place, and makes many mysteries +plain. We are different with different friends; yet if we +look closely we shall find that every such relation reposes +on some particular apotheosis of oneself; with each friend, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120"></a>120</span> +although we could not distinguish it in words from any +other, we have at least one special reputation to preserve: +and it is thus that we run, when mortified, to our friend +or the woman that we love, not to hear ourselves called +better, but to be better men in point of fact. We seek this +society to flatter ourselves with our own good conduct. +And hence any falsehood in the relation, any incomplete +or perverted understanding, will spoil even the pleasure +of these visits. Thus says Thoreau again: “Only lovers +know the value of truth.” And yet again: “They ask for +words and deeds, when a true relation is word and deed.”</p> + +<p>But it follows that since they are neither of them so +good as the other hopes, and each is, in a very honest +manner, playing a part above his powers, such an intercourse +must often be disappointing to both. “We may +bid farewell sooner than complain,” says Thoreau, “for +our complaint is too well grounded to be uttered.” “We +have not so good a right to hate any as our friend.”</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“It were treason to our love</p> +<p class="i05">And a sin to God above,</p> +<p class="i05">One iota to abate</p> +<p class="i05">Of a pure, impartial hate.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Love is not blind, nor yet forgiving. “O yes, believe +me,” as the song says, “Love has eyes!” The nearer +the intimacy, the more cuttingly do we feel the unworthiness +of those we love; and because you love one, and +would die for that love to-morrow, you have not forgiven, +and you never will forgive, that friend’s misconduct. If +you want a person’s faults, go to those who love him. They +will not tell you, but they know. And herein lies the +magnanimous courage of love, that it endures this knowledge +without change.</p> + +<p>It required a cold, distant personality like that of +Thoreau, perhaps, to recognise and certainly to utter this +truth; for a more human love makes it a point of honour +not to acknowledge those faults of which it is most conscious. +But his point of view is both high and dry. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121"></a>121</span> +has no illusions; he does not give way to love any more +than to hatred, but preserves them both with care like +valuable curiosities. A more bald-headed picture of life, +if I may so express myself, has seldom been presented. +He is an egoist; he does not remember, or does not think +it worth while to remark, that, in these near intimacies, +we are ninety-nine times disappointed in our beggarly +selves for once that we are disappointed in our friend; +that it is we who seem most frequently undeserving of the +love that unites us; and that it is by our friend’s conduct +that we are continually rebuked and yet strengthened for +a fresh endeavour. Thoreau is dry, priggish, and selfish. +It is profit he is after in these intimacies; moral profit, +certainly; but still profit to himself. If you will be the +sort of friend I want, he remarks naively, “my education +cannot dispense with your society.” His education! as +though a friend were a dictionary. And with all this, not +one word about pleasure, or laughter, or kisses, or any +quality of flesh and blood. It was not inappropriate, +surely, that he had such close relations with the fish. We +can understand the friend already quoted, when he cried: +“As for taking his arm, I would as soon think of taking the +arm of an elm-tree!”</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact he experienced but a broken enjoyment +in his intimacies. He says he has been perpetually +on the brink of the sort of intercourse he wanted, and yet +never completely attained it. And what else had he to +expect when he would not, in a happy phrase of Carlyle’s, +“nestle down into it“? Truly, so it will be always if you +only stroll in upon your friends as you might stroll in to +see a cricket match; and even then not simply for the +pleasure of the thing, but with some afterthought of self-improvement, +as though you had come to the cricket match +to bet. It was his theory that people saw each other too +frequently, so that their curiosity was not properly whetted, +nor had they anything fresh to communicate; but friendship +must be something else than a society for mutual improvement—indeed, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122"></a>122</span> +it must only be that by the way, and +to some extent unconsciously; and if Thoreau had been a +man instead of a manner of elm-tree, he would have felt +that he saw his friends too seldom, and have reaped benefits +unknown to his philosophy from a more sustained and easy +intercourse. We might remind him of his own words about +love: “We should have no reserve; we should give the +whole of ourselves to that business. But commonly men have +not imagination enough to be thus employed about a human +being, but must be coopering a barrel, forsooth.” Ay, or +reading Oriental philosophers. It is not the nature of the +rival occupation, it is the fact that you suffer it to be a +rival, that renders loving intimacy impossible. Nothing is +given for nothing in this world; there can be no true love +even on your own side, without devotion; devotion is the exercise +of love, by which it grows; but if you will give enough +of that, if you will pay the price in a sufficient “amount +of what you call life,” why then, indeed, whether with wife +or comrade, you may have months and even years of such +easy, natural, pleasurable, and yet improving intercourse +as shall make time a moment and kindness a delight.</p> + +<p>The secret of his retirement lies not in misanthropy, +of which he had no tincture, but part in his engrossing +design of self-improvement and part in the real deficiencies +of social intercourse. He was not so much difficult about +his fellow human beings as he could not tolerate the terms +of their association. He could take to a man for any +genuine qualities, as we see by his admirable sketch of the +Canadian woodcutter in “Walden“; but he would not +consent, in his own words, to “feebly tabulate and paddle +in the social slush.” It seemed to him, I think, that society +is precisely the reverse of friendship, in that it takes place +on a lower level than the characters of any of the parties +would warrant us to expect. The society talk of even the +most brilliant man is of greatly less account than what you +will get from him in (as the French say) a little committee. +And Thoreau wanted geniality; he had not enough of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123"></a>123</span> +superficial, even at command; he could not swoop into a +parlour and, in the naval phrase, “cut out” a human being +from that dreary port; nor had he inclination for the task. +I suspect he loved books and nature as well and near as +warmly as he loved his fellow-creatures,—a melancholy, +lean degeneration of the human character.</p> + +<p>“As for the dispute about solitude and society,” he +thus sums up: “Any comparison is impertinent. It is +an idling down on the plain at the base of the mountain +instead of climbing steadily to its top. Of course you will +be glad of all the society you can get to go up with. Will +you go to glory with me? is the burden of the song. It is +not that we love to be alone, but that we love to soar, and +when we do soar the company grows thinner and thinner +till there is none at all. It is either the tribune on the +plain, a sermon on the mount, or a very private ecstasy +still higher up. Use all the society that will abet you.” +But surely it is no very extravagant opinion that it is better +to give than to receive, to serve than to use our companions; +and above all, where there is no question of service upon +either side, that it is good to enjoy their company like a +natural man. It is curious and in some ways dispiriting +that a writer may be always best corrected out of his own +mouth; and so, to conclude, here is another passage from +Thoreau which seems aimed directly at himself: “Do not +be too moral; you may cheat yourself out of much life +so.... <i>All fables, indeed, have their morals; but the +innocent enjoy the story.</i>”</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>V</h5> + +<p>“The only obligation,” says he, “which I have a right +to assume is to do at any time what I think right.” “Why +should we ever go abroad, even across the way, to ask a +neighbour’s advice?” “There is a nearer neighbour within, +who is incessantly telling us how we should behave. +<i>But we wait for the neighbour without to tell us of some false, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124"></a>124</span> +easier way.</i>” “The greater part of what my neighbours +call good I believe in my soul to be bad.” To be what we +are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is +the only end of life. It is “when we fall behind ourselves” +that “we are cursed with duties and the neglect of duties.” +“I love the wild,” he says, “not less than the good.” And +again: “The life of a good man will hardly improve us +more than the life of a freebooter, for the inevitable laws +appear as plainly in the infringement as in the observance, +and” (mark this) “<i>our lives are sustained by a nearly equal +expense of virtue of some kind</i>.” Even although he were a +prig, it will be owned he could announce a startling doctrine. +“As for doing good,” he writes elsewhere, “that is one of +the professions that are full. Moreover, I have tried it +fairly, and, strange as it may seem, am satisfied that it +does not agree with my constitution. Probably I should +not conscientiously and deliberately forsake my particular +calling to do the good which society demands of me, to +save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a +like but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that +now preserves it. If you should ever be betrayed into any +of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand know +what your right hand does, for it is not worth knowing.” +Elsewhere he returns upon the subject, and explains his +meaning thus: “If I ever <i>did</i> a man any good in their +sense, of course it was something exceptional and insignificant +compared with the good or evil I am constantly doing +by being what I am.”</p> + +<p>There is a rude nobility, like that of a barbarian king, +in this unshaken confidence in himself and indifference to +the wants, thoughts, or sufferings of others. In his whole +works I find no trace of pity. This was partly the result +of theory, for he held the world too mysterious to be criticised, +and asks conclusively: “What right have I to grieve +who have not ceased to wonder?” But it sprang still +more from constitutional indifference and superiority; +and he grew up healthy, composed, and unconscious from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125"></a>125</span> +among life’s horrors, like a green bay-tree from a field of +battle. It was from this lack in himself that he failed to +do justice to the spirit of Christ; for while he could glean +more meaning from individual precepts than any score of +Christians, yet he conceived life in such a different hope, +and viewed it with such contrary emotions, that the sense +and purport of the doctrine as a whole seems to have +passed him by or left him unimpressed. He could understand +the idealism of the Christian view, but he was himself +so unaffectedly unhuman that he did not recognise +the human intention and essence of that teaching. Hence +he complained that Christ did not leave us a rule that was +proper and sufficient for this world, not having conceived +the nature of the rule that was laid down; for things of +that character that are sufficiently unacceptable become +positively non-existent to the mind. But perhaps we +shall best appreciate the defect in Thoreau by seeing it +supplied in the case of Whitman. For the one, I feel confident, +is the disciple of the other; it is what Thoreau +clearly whispered that Whitman so uproariously bawls; it +is the same doctrine, but with how immense a difference! +the same argument, but used to what a new conclusion! +Thoreau had plenty of humour until he tutored himself +out of it, and so forfeited that best birthright of a sensible +man; Whitman, in that respect, seems to have been sent +into the world naked and unashamed; and yet by a strange +consummation, it is the theory of the former that is arid, +abstract, and claustral. Of these two philosophies, so +nearly identical at bottom, the one pursues Self-improvement—a +churlish, mangy dog; the other is up with the +morning, in the best of health, and following the nymph +Happiness, buxom, blithe, and debonair. Happiness, at +least, is not solitary; it joys to communicate; it loves +others, for it depends on them for its existence; it sanctions +and encourages to all delights that are not unkind in themselves; +if it lived to a thousand, it would not make excision +of a single humorous passage; and while the self-improver +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126"></a>126</span> +dwindles towards the prig, and, if he be not of an excellent +constitution, may even grow deformed into an Obermann, +the very name and appearance of a happy man breathe of +good-nature, and help the rest of us to live.</p> + +<p>In the case of Thoreau, so great a show of doctrine +demands some outcome in the field of action. If nothing +were to be done but build a shanty beside Walden Pond, +we have heard altogether too much of these declarations +of independence. That the man wrote some books is +nothing to the purpose, for the same has been done in a +suburban villa. That he kept himself happy is perhaps +a sufficient excuse, but it is disappointing to the reader. +We may be unjust, but when a man despises commerce +and philanthropy alike, and has views of good so soaring +that he must take himself apart from mankind for their +cultivation, we will not be content without some striking +act. It was not Thoreau’s fault if he were not martyred; +had the occasion come, he would have made a noble ending. +As it is, he did once seek to interfere in the world’s +course; he made one practical appearance on the stage of +affairs; and a strange one it was, and strangely characteristic +of the nobility and the eccentricity of the man. It +was forced on him by his calm but radical opposition to +negro slavery. “Voting for the right is doing nothing for +it,” he saw; “it is only expressing to men feebly your desire +that it should prevail.” For his part, he would not “for +an instant recognise that political organisation for <i>his</i> +government which is the <i>slave’s</i> government also.” “I +do not hesitate to say,” he adds, “that those who call +themselves Abolitionists should at once effectually withdraw +their support, both in person and property, from the +government of Massachusetts.” That is what he did: +in 1843 he ceased to pay the poll-tax. The highway-tax +he paid, for he said he was as desirous to be a good neighbour +as to be a bad subject; but no more poll-tax to the +State of Massachusetts. Thoreau had now seceded, and +was a polity unto himself; or, as he explains it with admirable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127"></a>127</span> +sense, “In fact, I quietly declare war with the State +after my fashion, though I will still make what use and get +what advantage of her I can, as is usual in such cases.” +He was put in prison; but that was a part of his design. +“Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the +true place for a just man is also a prison. I know this well, +that if one thousand, if one hundred, if ten men whom I +could name—ay, if <i>one</i> <span class="sc">HONEST</span> man, in this State of Massachusetts, +<i>ceasing to hold slaves</i>, were actually to withdraw +from this copartnership, and be locked up in the county +gaol therefor, it would be the abolition of slavery in America. +For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to +be; what is once well done is done for ever.” Such was +his theory of civil disobedience.</p> + +<p>And the upshot? A friend paid the tax for him; continued +year by year to pay it in the sequel; and Thoreau +was free to walk the woods unmolested. It was a <i>fiasco</i>, +but to me it does not seem laughable; even those who +joined in the laughter at the moment would be insensibly +affected by this quaint instance of a good man’s horror +for injustice. We may compute the worth of that one +night’s imprisonment as outweighing half a hundred voters +at some subsequent election; and if Thoreau had possessed +as great a power of persuasion as (let us say) Falstaff, if +he had counted a party however small, if his example had +been followed by a hundred or by thirty of his fellows, I +cannot but believe it would have greatly precipitated the +era of freedom and justice. We feel the misdeeds of our +country with so little fervour, for we are not witnesses to +the suffering they cause; but when we see them wake an +active horror in our fellow-man, when we see a neighbour +prefer to lie in prison rather than be so much as passively +implicated in their perpetration, even the dullest of us will +begin to realise them with a quicker pulse.</p> + +<p>Not far from twenty years later, when Captain John +Brown was taken at Harper’s Ferry, Thoreau was the first +to come forward in his defence. The committees wrote +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128"></a>128</span> +to him unanimously that his action was premature. “I +did not send to you for advice,” said he, “but to announce +that I was to speak.” I have used the word “defence“; +in truth he did not seek to defend him, even declared it +would be better for the good cause that he should die; but +he praised his action as I think Brown would have liked +to hear it praised.</p> + +<p>Thus this singularly eccentric and independent mind, +wedded to a character of so much strength, singleness, and +purity, pursued its own path of self-improvement for more +than half a century, part gymnosophist, part backwoodsman; +and thus did it come twice, though in a subaltern +attitude, into the field of political history.</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p><span class="sc">Note.</span>—For many facts in the above essay, among which I may +mention the incident of the squirrel, I am indebted to “Thoreau: +His Life and Aims,” by H. A. Page, <i>i.e.</i>, as is well known, Dr Japp.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page129"></a>129</span></p> +<h5>V</h5> + +<h3>YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">The</span> name at the head of this page is probably unknown +to the English reader, and yet I think it should become +a household word like that of Garibaldi or John Brown. +Some day soon, we may expect to hear more fully the +details of Yoshida’s history, and the degree of his influence +in the transformation of Japan; even now there must be +Englishmen acquainted with the subject, and perhaps the +appearance of this sketch may elicit something more complete +and exact. I wish to say that I am not, rightly speaking, +the author of the present paper: I tell the story on +the authority of an intelligent Japanese gentleman, Mr. +Taiso Masaki, who told it me with an emotion that does +honour to his heart; and though I have taken some pains, +and sent my notes to him to be corrected, this can be no +more than an imperfect outline.</p> + +<p>Yoshida-Torajiro was son to the hereditary military +instructor of the house of Choshu. The name you are +to pronounce with an equality of accent on the different +syllables, almost as in French, the vowels as in Italian, +but the consonants in the English manner—except the <i>j</i>, +which has the French sound, or, as it has been cleverly +proposed to write it, the sound of <i>zh</i>. Yoshida was very +learned in Chinese letters, or, as we might say, in the +classics, and in his father’s subject; fortification was among +his favourite studies, and he was a poet from his boyhood. +He was born to a lively and intelligent patriotism; the +condition of Japan was his great concern; and while he +projected a better future, he lost no opportunity of improving +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130"></a>130</span> +his knowledge of her present state. With this end he +was continually travelling in his youth, going on foot and +sometimes with three days’ provisions on his back, in the +brave, self-helpful manner of all heroes. He kept a full +diary while he was thus upon his journeys, but it is feared +that these notes have been destroyed. If their value were +in any respect such as we have reason to expect from the +man’s character, this would be a loss not easy to exaggerate. +It is still wonderful to the Japanese how far he contrived +to push these explorations; a cultured gentleman of that +land and period would leave a complimentary poem where-ever +he had been hospitably entertained; and a friend of +Mr. Masaki, who was likewise a great wanderer, has found +such traces of Yoshida’s passage in very remote regions of +Japan.</p> + +<p>Politics is perhaps the only profession for which no +preparation is thought necessary; but Yoshida considered +otherwise, and he studied the miseries of his fellow-countrymen +with as much attention and research as though he +had been going to write a book, instead of merely to propose +a remedy. To a man of his intensity and singleness, +there is no question but that this survey was melancholy +in the extreme. His dissatisfaction is proved by the eagerness +with which he threw himself into the cause of reform; +and what would have discouraged another braced Yoshida +for his task. As he professed the theory of arms, it was +firstly the defences of Japan that occupied his mind. The +external feebleness of that country was then illustrated +by the manners of overriding barbarians, and the visits +of big barbarian warships: she was a country beleaguered. +Thus the patriotism of Yoshida took a form which may be +said to have defeated itself: he had it upon him to keep +out these all-powerful foreigners, whom it is now one of his +chief merits to have helped to introduce; but a man who +follows his own virtuous heart will be always found in the +end to have been fighting for the best. One thing leads +naturally to another in an awakened mind, and that with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131"></a>131</span> +an upward progress from effect to cause. The power and +knowledge of these foreigners were things inseparable; by +envying them their military strength, Yoshida came to +envy them their culture; from the desire to equal them in +the first, sprang his desire to share with them in the second; +and thus he is found treating in the same book of a new +scheme to strengthen the defences of Kioto and of the +establishment, in the same city, of a university of foreign +teachers. He hoped, perhaps, to get the good of other +lands without their evil; to enable Japan to profit by the +knowledge of the barbarians, and still keep her inviolate +with her own arts and virtues. But whatever was the +precise nature of his hope, the means by which it was to +be accomplished were both difficult and obvious. Some +one with eyes and understanding must break through the +official cordon, escape into the new world, and study this +other civilisation on the spot. And who could be better +suited for the business? It was not without danger, but +he was without fear. It needed preparation and insight; +and what had he done since he was a child but prepare +himself with the best culture of Japan, and acquire in his +excursions the power and habit of observing?</p> + +<p>He was but twenty-two, and already all this was clear +in his mind, when news reached Choshu that Commodore +Perry was lying near to Yeddo. Here, then, was the +patriot’s opportunity. Among the Samurai of Choshu, +and in particular among the councillors of the Daimio, +his general culture, his views, which the enlightened were +eager to accept, and, above all, the prophetic charm, the +radiant persuasion of the man, had gained him many and +sincere disciples. He had thus a strong influence at the +provincial Court; and so he obtained leave to quit the +district, and, by way of a pretext, a privilege to follow +his profession in Yeddo. Thither he hurried, and arrived +in time to be too late: Perry had weighed anchor, and +his sails had vanished from the waters of Japan. But +Yoshida, having put his hand to the plough, was not the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132"></a>132</span> +man to go back; he had entered upon this business, and, +please God, he would carry it through; and so he gave up +his professional career and remained in Yeddo to be at +hand against the next opportunity. By this behaviour +he put himself into an attitude towards his superior, the +Daimio of Choshu, which I cannot thoroughly explain. +Certainly, he became a <i>Ronyin</i>, a broken man, a feudal +outlaw; certainly he was liable to be arrested if he set foot +upon his native province; yet I am cautioned that “he +did not really break his allegiance,” but only so far separated +himself as that the prince could no longer be held accountable +for his late vassal’s conduct. There is some +nicety of feudal custom here that escapes my comprehension.</p> + +<p>In Yeddo, with this nondescript political status, and +cut off from any means of livelihood, he was joyfully supported +by those who sympathised with his design. One +was Sákuma-Shozan, hereditary retainer of one of the +Shogun’s councillors, and from him he got more than money +or than money’s worth. A steady, respectable man, with +an eye to the world’s opinion, Sákuma was one of those who, +if they cannot do great deeds in their own person, have yet +an ardour of admiration for those who can, that recommends +them to the gratitude of history. They aid and abet greatness +more, perhaps, than we imagine. One thinks of them +in connection with Nicodemus, who visited our Lord by +night. And Sákuma was in a position to help Yoshida more +practically than by simple countenance; for he could read +Dutch, and was eager to communicate what he knew.</p> + +<p>While the young Ronyin thus lay studying in Yeddo, +news came of a Russian ship at Nangasaki. No time +was to be lost. Sákuma contributed “a long copy of +encouraging verses“; and off set Yoshida on foot for +Nangasaki. His way lay through his own province of +Choshu; but, as the high-road to the south lay apart from +the capital, he was able to avoid arrest. He supported +himself, like a <i>trouvère</i>, by his proficiency in verse. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133"></a>133</span> +carried his works along with him, to serve as an introduction. +When he reached a town he would inquire for the +house of any one celebrated for swordsmanship, or poetry, +or some of the other acknowledged forms of culture; and +there, on giving a taste of his skill, he would be received +and entertained, and leave behind him, when he went away, +a compliment in verse. Thus he travelled through the +Middle Ages on his voyage of discovery into the nineteenth +century. When he reached Nangasaki he was once more +too late. The Russians were gone. But he made a profit +on his journey in spite of fate, and stayed awhile to pick +up scraps of knowledge from the Dutch interpreters—a low +class of men—but one that had opportunities; and then, +still full of purpose, returned to Yeddo on foot, as he had +come.</p> + +<p>It was not only his youth and courage that supported +him under these successive disappointments, but the continual +affluence of new disciples. The man had the tenacity +of a Bruce or a Columbus, with a pliability that was all his +own. He did not fight for what the world would call success; +but for “the wages of going on.” Check him off +in a dozen directions, he would find another outlet and +break forth. He missed one vessel after another, and the +main work still halted; but so long as he had a single +Japanese to enlighten and prepare for the better future, +he could still feel that he was working for Japan. Now, +he had scarce returned from Nangasaki, when he was sought +out by a new inquirer, the most promising of all. This +was a common soldier, of the Hemming class, a dyer by +birth, who had heard vaguely<a name="FnAnchor_4" href="#Footnote_4"><span class="sp">4</span></a> of Yoshida’s movements, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134"></a>134</span> +and had become filled with wonder as to their design. This +was a far different inquirer from Sákuma-Shozan, or the +councillors of the Daimio of Choshu. This was no two-sworded +gentleman, but the common stuff of the country, +born in low traditions and unimproved by books; and yet +that influence, that radiant persuasion that never failed +Yoshida in any circumstance of his short life, enchanted, +enthralled, and converted the common soldier, as it had +done already with the elegant and learned. The man instantly +burned up into a true enthusiasm; his mind had +been only waiting for a teacher; he grasped in a moment +the profit of these new ideas; he, too, would go to foreign, +outlandish parts, and bring back the knowledge that was to +strengthen and renew Japan; and in the meantime, that +he might be the better prepared, Yoshida set himself to +teach, and he to learn, the Chinese literature. It is an +episode most honourable to Yoshida, and yet more honourable +still to the soldier, and to the capacity and virtue of +the common people of Japan.</p> + +<p>And now, at length, Commodore Perry returned to +Simoda. Friends crowded round Yoshida with help, +counsels, and encouragement. One presented him with +a great sword, three feet long and very heavy, which, in +the exultation of the hour, he swore to carry throughout +all his wanderings, and to bring back—a far-travelled +weapon—to Japan. A long letter was prepared in Chinese +for the American officers; it was revised and corrected by +Sákuma, and signed by Yoshida, under the name of Urinaki-Manji, +and by the soldier under that of Ichigi-Koda. +Yoshida had supplied himself with a profusion of materials +for writing; his dress was literally stuffed with paper which +was to come back again enriched with his observations, and +make a great and happy kingdom of Japan. Thus equipped, +this pair of emigrants set forward on foot from Yeddo, and +reached Simoda about nightfall. At no period within +history can travel have presented to any European creature +the same face of awe and terror as to these courageous +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135"></a>135</span> +Japanese. The descent of Ulysses into hell is a parallel +more near the case than the boldest expedition in the Polar +circles. For their act was unprecedented; it was criminal; +and it was to take them beyond the pale of humanity into +a land of devils. It is not to be wondered at if they were +thrilled by the thought of their unusual situation; and perhaps +the soldier gave utterance to the sentiment of both +when he sang, “in Chinese singing” (so that we see he had +already profited by his lessons), these two appropriate +verses:</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“We do not know where we are to sleep to-night,</p> +<p class="i05">In a thousand miles of desert where we can see no human smoke.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>In a little temple, hard by the sea-shore, they lay down +to repose; sleep overtook them as they lay; and when +they awoke, “the east was already white” for their last +morning in Japan. They seized a fisherman’s boat and +rowed out—Perry lying far to sea because of the two tides. +Their very manner of boarding was significant of determination; +for they had no sooner caught hold upon the +ship than they kicked away their boat to make return +impossible. And now you would have thought that all +was over. But the Commodore was already in treaty with +the Shogun’s Government; it was one of the stipulations +that no Japanese was to be aided in escaping from Japan; +and Yoshida and his followers were handed over as prisoners +to the authorities at Simoda. That night he who had been +to explore the secrets of the barbarian, slept, if he might +sleep at all, in a cell too short for lying down at full length, +and too low for standing upright. There are some disappointments +too great for commentary.</p> + +<p>Sákuma, implicated by his handwriting, was sent into +his own province in confinement, from which he was soon +released. Yoshida and the soldier suffered a long and +miserable period of captivity, and the latter, indeed, died, +while yet in prison, of a skin disease. But such a spirit +as that of Yoshida-Torajiro is not easily made or kept a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136"></a>136</span> +captive; and that which cannot be broken by misfortune +you shall seek in vain to confine in a bastille. He was +indefatigably active, writing reports to Government and +treatises for dissemination. These latter were contraband; +and yet he found no difficulty in their distribution, +for he always had the jailer on his side. It was in vain +that they kept changing him from one prison to another; +Government by that plan only hastened the spread of new +ideas; for Yoshida had only to arrive to make a convert. +Thus, though he himself was laid by the heels, he confirmed +and extended his party in the State.</p> + +<p>At last, after many lesser transferences, he was given +over from the prisons of the Shogun to those of his own +superior, the Daimio of Choshu. I conceive it possible +that he may then have served out his time for the attempt +to leave Japan, and was now resigned to the provincial +Government on a lesser count, as a Ronyin or feudal rebel. +But, however that may be, the change was of great importance +to Yoshida; for by the influence of his admirers in +the Daimio’s council, he was allowed the privilege, underhand, +of dwelling in his own house. And there, as well +to keep up communication with his fellow-reformers as to +pursue his work of education, he received boys to teach. +It must not be supposed that he was free; he was too +marked a man for that; he was probably assigned to some +small circle, and lived, as we should say, under police surveillance; +but to him, who had done so much from under +lock and key, this would seem a large and profitable liberty.</p> + +<p>It was at this period that Mr. Masaki was brought into +personal contact with Yoshida; and hence, through the +eyes of a boy of thirteen, we get one good look at the character +and habits of the hero. He was ugly and laughably +disfigured with the small-pox; and while nature had been +so niggardly with him from the first, his personal habits +were even sluttish. His clothes were wretched; when he +ate or washed he wiped his hands upon his sleeves; and as +his hair was not tied more than once in the two months +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137"></a>137</span> +it was often disgusting to behold. With such a picture, +it is easy to believe that he never married. A good teacher, +gentle in act, although violent and abusive in speech, his +lessons were apt to go over the heads of his scholars, and +to leave them gaping, or more often laughing. Such was +his passion for study that he even grudged himself natural +repose; and when he grew drowsy over his books he would, +if it was summer, put mosquitoes up his sleeve; and, if it +was winter, take off his shoes and run barefoot on the snow. +His handwriting was exceptionally villainous; poet though +he was, he had no taste for what was elegant; and in a +country where to write beautifully was not the mark of a +scrivener but an admired accomplishment for gentlemen, +he suffered his letters to be jolted out of him by the press +of matter and the heat of his convictions. He would not +tolerate even the appearance of a bribe; for bribery lay +at the root of much that was evil in Japan, as well as in +countries nearer home; and once when a merchant brought +him his son to educate, and added, as was customary<a name="FnAnchor_5" href="#Footnote_5"><span class="sp">5</span></a>, a +little private sweetener, Yoshida dashed the money in the +giver’s face, and launched into such an outbreak of indignation +as made the matter public in the school. He was still, +when Masaki knew him, much weakened by his hardships +in prison; and the presentation-sword, three feet long, +was too heavy for him to wear without distress; yet he +would always gird it on when he went to dig in his garden. +That is a touch which qualifies the man. A weaker nature +would have shrunk from the sight of what only commemorated +a failure. But he was of Thoreau’s mind, that if you +can “make your failure tragical by courage, it will not +differ from success.” He could look back without confusion +to his enthusiastic promise. If events had been contrary, +and he found himself unable to carry out that purpose—well, +there was but the more reason to be brave and constant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138"></a>138</span> +in another; if he could not carry the sword into barbarian +lands, it should at least be witness to a life spent entirely +for Japan.</p> + +<p>This is the sight we have of him as he appeared to schoolboys, +but not related in the schoolboy spirit. A man so +careless of the graces must be out of court with boys and +women. And, indeed, as we have all been more or less to +school, it will astonish no one that Yoshida was regarded +by his scholars as a laughing-stock. The schoolboy has a +keen sense of humour. Heroes he learns to understand and +to admire in books; but he is not forward to recognise the +heroic under the traits of any contemporary man, and +least of all in a brawling, dirty, and eccentric teacher. But +as the years went by, and the scholars of Yoshida continued +in vain to look around them for the abstractly perfect, and +began more and more to understand the drift of his instructions, +they learned to look back upon their comic +schoolmaster as upon the noblest of mankind.</p> + +<p>The last act of this brief and full existence was already +near at hand. Some of his work was done; for already +there had been Dutch teachers admitted into Nangasaki, +and the country at large was keen for the new learning. +But though the renaissance had begun, it was impeded +and dangerously threatened by the power of the Shogun. +His minister—the same who was afterwards assassinated +in the snow in the very midst of his bodyguard—not only +held back pupils from going to the Dutchmen, but by spies +and detectives, by imprisonment and death, kept thinning +out of Japan the most intelligent and active spirits. It is +the old story of a power upon its last legs—learning to +the bastille, and courage to the block; when there are +none left but sheep and donkeys, the State will have been +saved. But a man must not think to cope with a revolution; +nor a minister, however fortified with guards, to hold +in check a country that had given birth to such men as +Yoshida and his soldier-follower. The violence of the +ministerial Tarquin only served to direct attention to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page139"></a>139</span> +illegality of his master’s rule; and people began to turn +their allegiance from Yeddo and the Shogun to the long-forgotten +Mikado in his seclusion at Kioto. At this juncture, +whether in consequence or not, the relations between +these two rulers became strained; and the Shogun’s minister +set forth for Kioto to put another affront upon the rightful +sovereign. The circumstance was well fitted to precipitate +events. It was a piece of religion to defend the Mikado; +it was a plain piece of political righteousness to oppose a +tyrannical and bloody usurpation. To Yoshida the moment +for action seemed to have arrived. He was himself still +confined in Choshu. Nothing was free but his intelligence; +but with that he sharpened a sword for the Shogun’s +minister. A party of his followers were to waylay the +tyrant at a village on the Yeddo and Kioto road, present +him with a petition, and put him to the sword. But +Yoshida and his friends were closely observed; and the +too great expedition of two of the conspirators, a boy of +eighteen and his brother, wakened the suspicion of the +authorities, and led to a full discovery of the plot and the +arrest of all who were concerned.</p> + +<p>In Yeddo, to which he was taken, Yoshida was thrown +again into a strict confinement. But he was not left destitute +of sympathy in this last hour of trial. In the next +cell lay one Kusákabé, a reformer from the southern highlands +of Satsuma. They were in prison for different plots, +indeed, but for the same intention; they shared the same +beliefs and the same aspirations for Japan; many and long +were the conversations they held through the prison wall, +and dear was the sympathy that soon united them. It +fell first to the lot of Kusákabé to pass before the judges; +and when sentence had been pronounced he was led towards +the place of death below Yoshida’s window. To turn the +head would have been to implicate his fellow-prisoner; +but he threw him a look from his eye, and bade him +farewell in a loud voice, with these two Chinese +verses:—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page140"></a>140</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“It is better to be a crystal and be broken,</p> +<p class="i05">Than to remain perfect like a tile upon the housetop.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">So Kusákabé, from the highlands of Satsuma, passed out +of the theatre of this world. His death was like an antique +worthy’s.</p> + +<p>A little after, and Yoshida too must appear before the +Court. His last scene was of a piece with his career, and +fitly crowned it. He seized on the opportunity of a public +audience, confessed and gloried in his design, and, reading +his auditors a lesson in the history of their country, told +at length the illegality of the Shogun’s power and the crimes +by which its exercise was sullied. So, having said his say +for once, he was led forth and executed, thirty-one years +old.</p> + +<p>A military engineer, a bold traveller (at least in wish), +a poet, a patriot, a schoolmaster, a friend to learning, a +martyr to reform,—there are not many men, dying at +seventy, who have served their country in such various +characters. He was not only wise and provident in thought, +but surely one of the fieriest of heroes in execution. It +is hard to say which is the most remarkable—his capacity +for command, which subdued his very jailers; his hot, +unflagging zeal; or his stubborn superiority to defeat. +He failed in each particular enterprise that he attempted; +and yet we have only to look at his country to see how complete +has been his general success. His friends and pupils +made the majority of leaders in that final Revolution, now +some twelve years old; and many of them are, or were +until the other day, high placed among the rulers of Japan. +And when we see all round us these brisk intelligent students, +with their strange foreign air, we should never forget how +Yoshida marched afoot from Choshu to Yeddo, and from +Yeddo to Nangasaki, and from Nangasaki back again to +Yeddo; how he boarded the American ship, his dress +stuffed with writing material; nor how he languished in +prison, and finally gave his death, as he had formerly given +all his life and strength and leisure, to gain for his native +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141"></a>141</span> +land that very benefit which she now enjoys so largely. +It is better to be Yoshida and perish, than to be only +Sákuma and yet save the hide. Kusákabé, of Satsuma, +has said the word: it is better to be a crystal and be broken.</p> + +<p>I must add a word; for I hope the reader will not fail +to perceive that this is as much the story of a heroic people +as that of a heroic man. It is not enough to remember +Yoshida; we must not forget the common soldier, nor +Kusákabé, nor the boy of eighteen, Nomura, of Choshu, +whose eagerness betrayed the plot. It is exhilarating to +have lived in the same days with these great-hearted gentlemen. +Only a few miles from us, to speak by the proportion +of the universe, while I was droning over my lessons, +Yoshida was goading himself to be wakeful with the stings +of the mosquito; and while you were grudging a penny +income-tax, Kusákabé was stepping to death with a noble +sentence on his lips.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_4" href="#FnAnchor_4"><span class="fn">4</span></a> Yoshida, when on his way to Nangasaki, met the soldier and +talked with him by the roadside; they then parted, but the soldier +was so much struck by the words he heard, that on Yoshida’s return +he sought him out and declared his intention of devoting his life to +the good cause. I venture, in the absence of the writer, to insert +this correction, having been present when the story was told by Mr. +Masaki.—F. J. [Fleeming Jenkin.] And I, there being none to settle +the difference, must reproduce both versions.—R. L. S.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_5" href="#FnAnchor_5"><span class="fn">5</span></a> I understood that the merchant was endeavouring surreptitiously +to obtain for his son instruction to which he was not +entitled.—F. J.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page142"></a>142</span></p> +<h5>VI</h5> + +<h3>FRANÇOIS VILLON,<br /> +STUDENT, POET, AND HOUSEBREAKER</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Perhaps</span> one of the most curious revolutions in literary +history is the sudden bull’s-eye light cast by M. Longnon +on the obscure existence of François Villon<a name="FnAnchor_6" href="#Footnote_6"><span class="sp">6</span></a>. His book +is not remarkable merely as a chapter of biography exhumed +after four centuries. To readers of the poet it will +recall, with a flavour of satire, that characteristic passage +in which he bequeaths his spectacles—with a humorous +reservation of the case—to the hospital for blind paupers +known as the Fifteen-Score. Thus equipped, let the blind +paupers go and separate the good from the bad in the +cemetery of the Innocents! For his own part, the poet +can see no distinction. Much have the dead people made +of their advantages. What does it matter now that they +have lain in state beds and nourished portly bodies upon +cakes and cream! Here they all lie, to be trodden in the +mud; the large estate and the small, sounding virtue and +adroit or powerful vice, in very much the same condition; +and a bishop not to be distinguished from a lamplighter +with even the strongest spectacles.</p> + +<p>Such was Villon’s cynical philosophy. Four hundred +years after his death, when surely all danger might be +considered at an end, a pair of critical spectacles have +been applied to his own remains; and though he left behind +him a sufficiently ragged reputation from the first, it +is only after these four hundred years that his delinquencies +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143"></a>143</span> +have been finally tracked home, and we can assign him +to his proper place among the good or wicked. It is a +staggering thought, and one that affords a fine figure of the +imperishability of men’s acts, that the stealth of the private +inquiry office can be carried so far back into the dead and +dusty past. We are not so soon quit of our concerns as +Villon fancied. In the extreme of dissolution, when not +so much as a man’s name is remembered, when his dust is +scattered to the four winds, and perhaps the very grave +and the very graveyard where he was laid to rest have been +forgotten, desecrated, and buried under populous towns,—even +in this extreme let an antiquary fall across a sheet of +manuscript, and the name will be recalled, the old infamy +will pop out into daylight like a toad out of a fissure in the +rock, and the shadow of the shade of what was once a man +will be heartily pilloried by his descendants. A little while +ago and Villon was almost totally forgotten; then he was +revived for the sake of his verses; and now he is being revived +with a vengeance in the detection of his misdemeanours. +How unsubstantial is this projection of a man’s +existence, which can lie in abeyance for centuries and then +be brushed up again and set forth for the consideration +of posterity by a few dips in an antiquary’s inkpot! This +precarious tenure of fame goes a long way to justify those +(and they are not few) who prefer cakes and cream in the +immediate present.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>A WILD YOUTH</h5> + +<p>François de Montcorbier, <i>alias</i> François des Loges, +<i>alias</i> François Villon, <i>alias</i> Michel Mouton, Master of Arts +in the University of Paris, was born in that city in the +summer of 1431. It was a memorable year for France on +other and higher considerations. A great-hearted girl +and a poor-hearted boy made, the one her last, the other +his first appearance on the public stage of that unhappy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144"></a>144</span> +country. On the 30th of May the ashes of Joan of Arc +were thrown into the Seine, and on the 2nd of December +our Henry Sixth made his Joyous Entry dismally enough +into disaffected and depopulating Paris. Sword and fire +still ravaged the open country. On a single April Saturday +twelve hundred persons, besides children, made their escape +out of the starving capital. The hangman, as is not uninteresting +to note in connection with Master Francis, was +kept hard at work in 1431; on the last of April and on the +4th of May alone, sixty-two bandits swung from Paris +gibbets.<a name="FnAnchor_7" href="#Footnote_7"><span class="sp">7</span></a> A more confused or troublous time it would +have been difficult to select for a start in life. Not even a +man’s nationality was certain; for the people of Paris there +was no such thing as a Frenchman. The English were +the English indeed, but the French were only the Armagnacs, +whom, with Joan of Arc at their head, they had beaten +back from under their ramparts not two years before. +Such public sentiment as they had centred about their dear +Duke of Burgundy, and the dear Duke had no more urgent +business than to keep out of their neighbourhood.... At +least, and whether he liked it or not, our disreputable troubadour +was tubbed and swaddled as a subject of the English +crown.</p> + +<p>We hear nothing of Villon’s father, except that he was +poor and of mean extraction. His mother was given +piously, which does not imply very much in an old Frenchwoman, +and quite uneducated. He had an uncle, a monk +in an abbey at Angers, who must have prospered beyond +the family average, and was reported to be worth five or +six hundred crowns. Of this uncle and his money-box the +reader will hear once more. In 1448 Francis became a +student of the University of Paris; in 1450 he took the +degree of Bachelor, and in 1452 that of Master of Arts. +His <i>bourse</i>, or the sum paid weekly for his board, was of +the amount of two sous. Now two sous was about the +price of a pound of salt butter in the bad times of about +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page145"></a>145</span> +1417; it was the price of half a pound in the worse times +of 1419; and in 1444, just four years before Villon joined +the University, it seems to have been taken as the average +wage for a day’s manual labour.<a name="FnAnchor_8" href="#Footnote_8"><span class="sp">8</span></a> In short, it cannot have +been a very profuse allowance to keep a sharp-set lad in +breakfast and supper for seven mortal days; and Villon’s +share of the cakes and pastry and general good cheer, to +which he is never weary of referring, must have been slender +from the first.</p> + +<p>The educational arrangements of the University of +Paris were, to our way of thinking, somewhat incomplete. +Worldly and monkish elements were presented in a curious +confusion, which the youth might disentangle for himself. +If he had an opportunity, on the one hand, of acquiring +much hair-drawn divinity and a taste for formal disputation, +he was put in the way of much gross and flaunting +vice upon the other. The lecture-room of a scholastic +doctor was sometimes under the same roof with establishments +of a very different and peculiarly unedifying order. +The students had extraordinary privileges, which by all +accounts they abused extraordinarily. And while some +condemned themselves to an almost sepulchral regularity +and seclusion, others fled the schools, swaggered in the +street “with their thumbs in their girdle,” passed the night +in riot, and behaved themselves as the worthy forerunners +of Jehan Frollo in the romance of “Notre Dame de Paris.” +Villon tells us himself that he was among the truants, but +we hardly needed his avowal. The burlesque erudition +in which he sometimes indulged implies no more than the +merest smattering of knowledge; whereas his acquaintance +with blackguard haunts and industries could only +have been acquired by early and consistent impiety and +idleness. He passed his degrees, it is true; but some of +us who have been to modern Universities will make their +own reflections on the value of the test. As for his three +pupils, Colin Laurent, Girard Gossouyn, and Jehan Marceau—if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146"></a>146</span> +they were really his pupils in any serious sense—what +can we say but God help them! And sure enough, by his +own description, they turned out as ragged, rowdy, and +ignorant as was to be looked for from the views and manners +of their rare preceptor.</p> + +<p>At some time or other, before or during his University +career, the poet was adopted by Master Guillaume de +Villon, chaplain of Saint Benoît-le-Bétourné, near the +Sorbonne. From him he borrowed the surname by which +he is known to posterity. It was most likely from his +house, called the “Porte Rouge,” and situated in a garden +in the cloister of St. Benoît, that Master Francis heard the +bell of the Sorbonne ring out the Angelus while he was +finishing his “Small Testament” at Christmastide in 1456. +Towards this benefactor he usually gets credit for a respectable +display of gratitude. But with his trap and pitfall +style of writing, it is easy to make too sure. His sentiments +are about as much to be relied on as those of a professional +beggar; and in this, as in so many other matters, he comes +towards us whining and piping the eye, and goes off again +with a whoop and his finger to his nose. Thus, he calls +Guillaume de Villon his “more than father,” thanks him +with a great show of sincerity for having helped him out of +many scrapes, and bequeaths him his portion of renown. +But the portion of renown which belonged to a young +thief, distinguished (if, at the period when he wrote this +legacy, he was distinguished at all) for having written +some more or less obscene and scurrilous ballads, must have +been little fitted to gratify the self-respect or increase the +reputation of a benevolent ecclesiastic. The same remark +applies to a subsequent legacy of the poet’s library, with +specification of one work which was plainly neither decent +nor devout. We are thus left on the horns of a dilemma. +If the chaplain was a godly, philanthropic personage, who +had tried to graft good principles and good behaviour on +this wild slip of an adopted son, these jesting legacies would +obviously cut him to the heart. The position of an adopted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page147"></a>147</span> +son towards his adoptive father is one full of delicacy; +where a man lends his name he looks for great consideration. +And this legacy of Villon’s portion of renown may be taken +as the mere fling of an unregenerate scapegrace who has +wit enough to recognise in his own shame the readiest +weapon of offence against a prosy benefactor’s feelings. +The gratitude of Master Francis figures, on this reading, +as a frightful <i>minus</i> quantity. If, on the other hand, those +jests were given and taken in good humour, the whole +relation between the pair degenerates into the unedifying +complicity of a debauched old chaplain and a witty and +dissolute young scholar. At this rate the house with the +red door may have rung with the most mundane minstrelsy; +and it may have been below its roof that Villon, through +a hole in the plaster, studied, as he tells us, the leisures of +a rich ecclesiastic.</p> + +<p>It was, perhaps, of some moment in the poet’s life that +he should have inhabited the cloister of Saint Benoît. +Three of the most remarkable among his early acquaintances +are Catherine de Vausselles, for whom he entertained +a short-lived affection and an enduring and most unmanly +resentment; Regnier de Montigny, a young blackguard +of good birth; and Colin de Cayeux, a fellow with a marked +aptitude for picking locks. Now we are on a foundation +of mere conjecture, but it is at least curious to find that +two of the canons of Saint Benoît answered respectively +to the names of Pierre de Vaucel and Etienne de Montigny, +and that there was a householder called Nicolas de Cayeux +in a street—the Rue des Poirées—in the immediate neighbourhood +of the cloister. M. Longnon is almost ready to +identify Catherine as the niece of Pierre; Regnier as the +nephew of Etienne, and Colin as the son of Nicolas. Without +going so far, it must be owned that the approximation +of names is significant. As we go on to see the part played +by each of these persons in the sordid melodrama of the +poet’s life, we shall come to regard it as even more notable. +Is it not Clough who has remarked that, after all, everything +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page148"></a>148</span> +lies in juxtaposition? Many a man’s destiny has +been settled by nothing apparently more grave than a +pretty face on the opposite side of the street and a couple +of bad companions round the corner.</p> + +<p>Catherine de Vausselles (or de Vaucel—the change is +within the limits of Villon’s licence) had plainly delighted +in the poet’s conversation; near neighbours or not, they +were much together; and Villon made no secret of his +court, and suffered himself to believe that his feeling was +repaid in kind. This may have been an error from the +first, or he may have estranged her by subsequent misconduct +or temerity. One can easily imagine Villon an +impatient wooer. One thing, at least, is sure: that the +affair terminated in a manner bitterly humiliating to Master +Francis. In presence of his lady-love, perhaps under her +window, and certainly with her connivance, he was unmercifully +thrashed by one Noë le Joly—beaten, as he says +himself, like dirty linen on the washing-board. It is characteristic +that his malice had notably increased between +the time when he wrote the “Small Testament” immediately +on the back of the occurrence, and the time when he +wrote the “Large Testament” five years after. On the +latter occasion nothing is too bad for his “damsel with the +twisted nose,” as he calls her. She is spared neither hint +nor accusation, and he tells his messenger to accost her +with the vilest insults. Villon, it is thought, was out of +Paris when these amenities escaped his pen; or perhaps +the strong arm of Noë le Joly would have been again in +requisition. So ends the love-story, if love-story it may +properly be called. Poets are not necessarily fortunate in +love; but they usually fall among more romantic circumstances, +and bear their disappointment with a better +grace.</p> + +<p>The neighbourhood of Regnier de Montigny and Colin +de Cayeux was probably more influential on his after life +than the contempt of Catherine. For a man who is greedy +of all pleasures, and provided with little money and less +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149"></a>149</span> +dignity of character, we may prophesy a safe and speedy +voyage downward. Humble or even truckling virtue may +walk unspotted in this life. But only those who despise +the pleasures can afford to despise the opinion of the world. +A man of a strong, heady temperament, like Villon, is very +differently tempted. His eyes lay hold on all provocations +greedily, and his heart flames up at a look into imperious +desire; he is snared and broached-to by anything and everything, +from a pretty face to a piece of pastry in a cookshop +window; he will drink the rinsing of the wine-cup, stay +the latest at the tavern party; tap at the lit windows, follow +the sound of singing, and beat the whole neighbourhood +for another reveller, as he goes reluctantly homeward; and +grudge himself every hour of sleep as a black empty period +in which he cannot follow after pleasure. Such a person +is lost if he have not dignity, or, failing that, at least pride, +which is its shadow and in many ways its substitute. +Master Francis, I fancy, would follow his own eager instincts +without much spiritual struggle. And we soon find him +fallen among thieves in sober, literal earnest, and counting +as acquaintances the most disreputable people he could lay +his hands on; fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat; +sergeants of the criminal court, and archers of the watch; +blackguards who slept at night under the butchers’ stalls, +and for whom the aforesaid archers peered about carefully +with lanterns; Regnier de Montigny, Colin de Cayeux, and +their crew, all bound on a favouring breeze towards the +gallows; the disorderly abbess of Port Royal, who went +about at fair-time with soldiers and thieves, and conducted +her abbey on the queerest principles; and most likely +Perette Mauger, the great Paris receiver of stolen goods, +not yet dreaming, poor woman! of the last scene of her +career when Henry Cousin, executor of the high justice, +shall bury her, alive and most reluctant, in front of the new +Montigny gibbet.<a name="FnAnchor_9" href="#Footnote_9"><span class="sp">9</span></a> Nay, our friend soon began to take a +foremost rank in this society. He could string off verses, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150"></a>150</span> +which is always an agreeable talent; and he could make +himself useful in many other ways. The whole ragged +army of Bohemia, and whosoever loved good cheer without +at all loving to work and pay for it, are addressed in contemporary +verses as the “Subjects of François Villon.” +He was a good genius to all hungry and unscrupulous +persons; and became the hero of a whole legendary cycle +of tavern tricks and cheateries. At best, these were doubtful +levities, rather too thievish for a schoolboy, rather too +gamesome for a thief. But he would not linger long in +this equivocal border-land. He must soon have complied +with his surroundings. He was one who would go where +the cannikin clinked, not caring who should pay; and from +supping in the wolves’ den, there is but a step to hunting +with the pack. And here, as I am on the chapter of his +degradation, I shall say all I mean to say about its darkest +expression, and be done with it for good. Some charitable +critics see no more than a <i>jeu d’esprit</i>, a graceful and trifling +exercise of the imagination, in the grimy ballad of Fat Peg +(<i>Grosse Margot</i>). I am not able to follow these gentlemen +to this polite extreme. Out of all Villon’s works that ballad +stands forth in flaring reality, gross and ghastly, as a thing +written in a contraction of disgust. M. Longnon shows us +more and more clearly at every page that we are to read +our poet literally, that his names are the names of real +persons, and the events he chronicles were actual events. +But even if the tendency of criticism had run the other way, +this ballad would have gone far to prove itself. I can well +understand the reluctance of worthy persons in this matter; +for of course it is unpleasant to think of a man of genius +as one who held, in the words of Marina to Boult—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“A place, for which the pained’st fiend</p> +<p class="i05">Of hell would not in reputation change.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">But beyond this natural unwillingness, the whole difficulty +of the case springs from a highly virtuous ignorance of life. +Paris now is not so different from the Paris of then; and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151"></a>151</span> +the whole of the doings of Bohemia are not written in the +sugar-candy pastorals of Mürger. It is really not at all +surprising that a young man of the fifteenth century, with +a knack of making verses, should accept his bread upon +disgraceful terms. The race of those who do so is not extinct; +and some of them to this day write the prettiest +verses imaginable.... After this, it were impossible for +Master Francis to fall lower: to go and steal for himself +would be an admirable advance from every point of view, +divine or human.</p> + +<p>And yet it is not as a thief, but as a homicide, that he +makes his first appearance before angry justice. On June 5, +1455, when he was about twenty-four, and had been Master +of Arts for a matter of three years, we behold him for the +first time quite definitely. Angry justice had, as it were, +photographed him in the act of his homicide; and M. +Longnon, rummaging among old deeds, has turned up the +negative and printed it off for our instruction. Villon had +been supping—copiously we may believe—and sat on a +stone bench in front of the Church of St. Benoît, in company +with a priest called Gilles and a woman of the name of Isabeau. +It was nine o’clock, a mighty late hour for the +period, and evidently a fine summer’s night. Master +Francis carried a mantle, like a prudent man, to keep him +from the dews (<i>serain</i>), and had a sword below it dangling +from his girdle. So these three dallied in front of St. +Benoît, taking their pleasure (<i>pour soy esbatre</i>). Suddenly +there arrived upon the scene a priest, Philippe Chermoye +or Sermaise, also with sword and cloak, and accompanied +by one Master Jehan le Mardi. Sermaise, according to +Villon’s account, which is all we have to go upon, came up +blustering and denying God; as Villon rose to make room +for him upon the bench, thrust him rudely back into his +place; and finally drew his sword and cut open his lower +lip, by what I should imagine was a very clumsy stroke. +Up to this point, Villon professes to have been a model of +courtesy, even of feebleness: and the brawl, in his version, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152"></a>152</span> +reads like the fable of the wolf and the lamb. But now +the lamb was roused; he drew his sword, stabbed Sermaise +in the groin, knocked him on the head with a big stone, +and then, leaving him to his fate, went away to have his +own lip doctored by a barber of the name of Fouquet. In +one version he says that Gilles, Isabeau, and Le Mardi ran +away at the first high words, and that he and Sermaise +had it out alone; in another, Le Mardi is represented as +returning and wresting Villon’s sword from him: the reader +may please himself. Sermaise was picked up, lay all that +night in the prison of Saint Benoît, where he was examined +by an official of the Châtelet and expressly pardoned Villon, +and died on the following Saturday in the Hôtel Dieu.</p> + +<p>This, as I have said, was in June. Not before January +of the next year could Villon extract a pardon from the +King; but while his hand was in, he got two. One is for +“François des Loges, alias (<i>autrement dit</i>) de Villon“; +and the other runs in the name of François de Montcorbier. +Nay, it appears there was a further complication; for in +the narrative of the first of these documents it is mentioned +that he passed himself off upon Fouquet, the barber-surgeon, +as one Michel Mouton. M. Longnon has a theory that this +unhappy accident with Sermaise was the cause of Villon’s +subsequent irregularities; and that up to that moment he +had been the pink of good behaviour. But the matter has +to my eyes a more dubious air. A pardon necessary for +Des Loges and another for Montcorbier? and these two +the same person? and one or both of them known by the +<i>alias</i> of Villon, however honestly come by? and lastly, in +the heat of the moment, a fourth name thrown out with an +assured countenance? A ship is not to be trusted that +sails under so many colours. This is not the simple bearing +of innocence. No—the young master was already +treading crooked paths; already, he would start and blench +at a hand upon his shoulder, with the look we know so well +in the face of Hogarth’s Idle Apprentice; already, in the +blue devils, he would see Henry Cousin, the executor of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153"></a>153</span> +high justice, going in dolorous procession towards Montfaucon, +and hear the wind and the birds crying around +Paris gibbet.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>A GANG OF THIEVES</h5> + +<p>In spite of the prodigious number of people who managed +to get hanged, the fifteenth century was by no means a bad +time for criminals. A great confusion of parties and great +dust of fighting favoured the escape of private housebreakers +and quiet fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat. Prisons +were leaky; and as we shall see, a man with a few crowns +in his pocket, and perhaps some acquaintance among the +officials, could easily slip out and become once more a free +marauder. There was no want of a sanctuary where he +might harbour until troubles blew by; and accomplices +helped each other with more or less good faith. Clerks, +above all, had remarkable facilities for a criminal way of +life; for they were privileged, except in cases of notorious +incorrigibility, to be plucked from the hands of rude secular +justice and tried by a tribunal of their own. In 1402, a +couple of thieves, both clerks of the University, were condemned +to death by the Provost of Paris. As they were +taken to Montfaucon, they kept crying “high and clearly” +for their benefit of clergy, but were none the less pitilessly +hanged and gibbeted. Indignant Alma Mater interfered +before the King; and the Provost was deprived of all royal +offices, and condemned to return the bodies and erect a +great stone cross, on the road from Paris to the gibbet, +graven with the effigies of these two holy martyrs.<a name="FnAnchor_10" href="#Footnote_10"><span class="sp">10</span></a> We +shall hear more of the benefit of clergy; for after this the +reader will not be surprised to meet with thieves in the +shape of tonsured clerks, or even priests and monks.</p> + +<p>To a knot of such learned pilferers our poet certainly +belonged; and by turning over a few more of M. Longnon’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page154"></a>154</span> +negatives, we shall get a clear idea of their character and +doings. Montigny and De Cayeux are names already +known; Guy Tabary, Petit-Jehan, Dom Nicolas, little +Thibault, who was both clerk and goldsmith, and who made +picklocks and melted plate for himself and his companions—with +these the reader has still to become acquainted. +Petit-Jehan and De Cayeux were handy fellows and enjoyed +a useful pre-eminence in honour of their doings with the +picklock. “<i>Dictus des Cahyeus est fortis operator crochetorum</i>,” +says Tabary’s interrogation, “<i>sed dictus Petit-Jehan, +ejus socius, est forcius operator</i>.” But the flower of +the flock was little Thibault; it was reported that no lock +could stand before him; he had a persuasive hand; let us +salute capacity wherever we may find it. Perhaps the term +<i>gang</i> is not quite properly applied to the persons whose +fortunes we are now about to follow; rather they were +independent malefactors, socially intimate, and occasionally +joining together for some serious operation, just as +modern stockjobbers form a syndicate for an important +loan. Nor were they at all particular to any branch of +misdoing. They did not scrupulously confine themselves +to a single sort of theft, as I hear is common among modern +thieves. They were ready for anything, from pitch-and-toss +to manslaughter. Montigny, for instance, had +neglected neither of these extremes, and we find him accused +of cheating at games of hazard on the one hand, and +on the other of the murder of one Thevenin Pensete in a +house by the Cemetery of St. John. If time had only +spared us some particulars, might not this last have furnished +us with the matter of a grisly winter’s tale?</p> + +<p>At Christmas-time in 1456, readers of Villon will remember +that he was engaged on the “Small Testament.” +About the same period, <i>circa festum nativitatis Domini</i>, +he took part in a memorable supper at the Mule Tavern, +in front of the Church of St. Mathurin. Tabary, who seems +to have been very much Villon’s creature, had ordered the +supper in the course of the afternoon. He was a man who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155"></a>155</span> +had had troubles in his time, and languished in the Bishop +of Paris’s prisons on a suspicion of picking locks; confiding, +convivial, not very astute—who had copied out a whole +improper romance with his own right hand. This supper-party +was to be his first introduction to De Cayeux and +Petit-Jehan, which was probably a matter of some concern +to the poor man’s muddy wits; in the sequel, at least, he +speaks of both with an undisguised respect, based on professional +inferiority in the matter of picklocks. Dom +Nicolas, a Picardy monk, was the fifth and last at table. +When supper had been despatched and fairly washed down, +we may suppose, with white Baigneux or red Beaune, which +were favourite wines among the fellowship, Tabary was +solemnly sworn over to secrecy on the night’s performances; +and the party left the Mule and proceeded to an unoccupied +house belonging to Robert de Saint-Simon. This, over a +low wall, they entered without difficulty. All but Tabary +took off their upper garments; a ladder was found and +applied to the high wall which separated Saint-Simon’s +house from the court of the College of Navarre; the four +fellows in their shirt-sleeves (as we might say) clambered +over in a twinkling; and Master Guy Tabary remained +alone beside the overcoats. From the court the burglars +made their way into the vestry of the chapel, where they +found a large chest, strengthened with iron bands and +closed with four locks. One of these locks they picked, +and then, by levering up the corner, forced the other three. +Inside was a small coffer, of walnut wood, also barred with +iron, but fastened with only three locks, which were all +comfortably picked by way of the keyhole. In the walnut +coffer—a joyous sight by our thieves’ lantern—were five +hundred crowns of gold. There was some talk of opening +the aumries, where, if they had only known, a booty eight +or nine times greater lay ready to their hand; but one of +the party (I have a humorous suspicion it was Dom Nicolas, +the Picardy monk) hurried them away. It was ten o’clock +when they mounted the ladder; it was about midnight +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156"></a>156</span> +before Tabary beheld them coming back. To him they gave +ten crowns, and promised a share of a two-crown dinner +on the morrow; whereat we may suppose his mouth +watered. In course of time, he got wind of the real amount +of their booty and understood how scurvily he had been +used; but he seems to have borne no malice. How could +he, against such superb operators as Petit-Jehan and De +Cayeux; or a person like Villon, who could have made a new +improper romance out of his own head, instead of merely +copying an old one with mechanical right hand?</p> + +<p>The rest of the winter was not uneventful for the gang. +First they made a demonstration against the Church of +St. Mathurin after chalices, and were ignominiously chased +away by barking dogs. Then Tabary fell out with Casin +Chollet, one of the fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat, +who subsequently became a sergeant of the Châtelet and +distinguished himself by misconduct, followed by imprisonment +and public castigation, during the wars of Louis +Eleventh. The quarrel was not conducted with a proper +regard to the King’s peace, and the pair publicly belaboured +each other until the police stepped in, and Master Tabary +was cast once more into the prisons of the Bishop. While +he still lay in durance, another job was cleverly executed +by the band in broad daylight, at the Augustine Monastery. +Brother Guillaume Coiffier was beguiled by an accomplice +to St. Mathurin to say mass; and during his absence, his +chamber was entered and five or six hundred crowns in +money and some silver plate successfully abstracted. A +melancholy man was Coiffier on his return! Eight crowns +from this adventure were forwarded by little Thibault to +the incarcerated Tabary; and with these he bribed the +jailer and reappeared in Paris taverns. Some time before +or shortly after this, Villon set out for Angers, as he had +promised in the “Small Testament.” The object of this +excursion was not merely to avoid the presence of his +cruel mistress or the strong arm of Noë le Joly, but to plan +a deliberate robbery on his uncle the monk. As soon as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page157"></a>157</span> +he had properly studied the ground, the others were to go +over in force from Paris—picklocks and all—and away +with my uncle’s strongbox! This throws a comical side-light +on his own accusation against his relatives, that they +had “forgotten natural duty” and disowned him because +he was poor. A poor relation is a distasteful circumstance +at the best, but a poor relation who plans deliberate robberies +against those of his blood, and trudges hundreds +of weary leagues to put them into execution, is surely a +little on the wrong side of toleration. The uncle at Angers +may have been monstrously undutiful; but the nephew +from Paris was upsides with him.</p> + +<p>On the 23rd April, that venerable and discreet person, +Master Pierre Marchand, Curate and Prior of Paray-le-Monial, +in the diocese of Chartres, arrived in Paris and put +up at the sign of the Three Chandeliers, in the Rue de la +Huchette. Next day, or the day after, as he was breakfasting +at the sign of the Armchair, he fell into talk with +two customers, one of whom was a priest and the other our +friend Tabary. The idiotic Tabary became mighty confidential +as to his past life. Pierre Marchand, who was +an acquaintance of Guillaume Coiffier’s and had sympathised +with him over his loss, pricked up his ears at the mention +of picklocks, and led on the transcriber of improper romances +from one thing to another, until they were fast friends. +For picklocks the Prior of Paray professed a keen curiosity; +but Tabary, upon some late alarm, had thrown all his into +the Seine. Let that be no difficulty, however, for was there +not little Thibault, who could make them of all shapes and +sizes, and to whom Tabary, smelling an accomplice, would +be only too glad to introduce his new acquaintance? On +the morrow, accordingly, they met; and Tabary, after +having first wet his whistle at the Prior’s expense, led him +to Notre Dame and presented him to four or five “young +companions,” who were keeping sanctuary in the church. +They were all clerks, recently escaped, like Tabary himself, +from the episcopal prisons. Among these we may notice +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page158"></a>158</span> +Thibault, the operator, a little fellow of twenty-six, wearing +long hair behind. The Prior expressed, through Tabary, +his anxiety to become their accomplice and altogether such +as they were (<i>de leur sorte et de leurs complices</i>). Mighty +polite they showed themselves, and made him many fine +speeches in return. But for all that, perhaps because they +had longer heads than Tabary, perhaps because it is less +easy to wheedle men in a body, they kept obstinately +to generalities and gave him no information as to their +exploits, past, present, or to come. I suppose Tabary +groaned under this reserve; for no sooner were he and +the Prior out of the church than he fairly emptied his heart +to him, gave him full details of many hanging matters in +the past, and explained the future intentions of the band. +The scheme of the hour was to rob another Augustine monk, +Robert de la Porte, and in this the Prior agreed to take a +hand with simulated greed. Thus, in the course of two +days, he had turned this wineskin of a Tabary inside out. +For a while longer the farce was carried on; the Prior was +introduced to Petit-Jehan, whom he describes as a little, +very smart man of thirty, with a black beard and a short +jacket; an appointment was made and broken in the de la +Porte affair; Tabary had some breakfast at the Prior’s +charge and leaked out more secrets under the influence of +wine and friendship; and then all of a sudden, on the 17th +of May, an alarm sprang up, the Prior picked up his skirts +and walked quietly over to the Châtelet to make a deposition, +and the whole band took to their heels and vanished +out of Paris and the sight of the police.</p> + +<p>Vanish as they like, they all go with a clog about their +feet. Sooner or later, here or there, they will be caught +in the fact, and ignominiously sent home. From our +vantage of four centuries afterwards, it is odd and pitiful +to watch the order in which the fugitives are captured and +dragged in.</p> + +<p>Montigny was the first. In August of that same year +he was laid by the heels on many grievous counts—sacrilegious +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page159"></a>159</span> +robberies, frauds, incorrigibility, and that bad business +about Thevenin Pensete in the house by the Cemetery of +St. John. He was reclaimed by the ecclesiastical authorities +as a clerk; but the claim was rebutted on the score +of incorrigibility, and ultimately fell to the ground; and +he was condemned to death by the Provost of Paris. It was +a very rude hour for Montigny, but hope was not yet over. +He was a fellow of some birth; his father had been king’s +pantler; his sister, probably married to some one about the +Court, was in the family way, and her health would be endangered +if the execution was proceeded with. So down +comes Charles the Seventh with letters of mercy, commuting +the penalty to a year in a dungeon on bread and water, and +a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James in Galicia. Alas! +the document was incomplete; it did not contain the full +tale of Montigny’s enormities; it did not recite that he had +been denied benefit of clergy, and it said nothing about +Thevenin Pensete. Montigny’s hour was at hand. Benefit +of clergy, honourable descent from king’s pantler, sister in +the family way, royal letters of commutation—all were of +no avail. He had been in prison in Rouen, in Tours, in +Bordeaux, and four times already in Paris; and out of all +these he had come scatheless; but now he must make a +little excursion as far as Montfaucon with Henry Cousin, +executor of high justice. There let him swing among the +carrion crows.</p> + +<p>About a year later, in July 1458, the police laid hands +on Tabary. Before the ecclesiastical commissary he was +twice examined, and, on the latter occasion, put to the +question ordinary and extraordinary. What a dismal +change from pleasant suppers at the Mule, where he sat +in triumph with expert operators and great wits! He is +at the lees of life, poor rogue; and those fingers which +once transcribed improper romances are now agonisingly +stretched upon the rack. We have no sure knowledge, but +we may have a shrewd guess of the conclusion. Tabary, the +admirer, would go the same way as those whom he admired.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page160"></a>160</span></p> + +<p>The last we hear of is Colin de Gayeux. He was caught +in autumn 1460, in the great Church of St. Leu d’Esserens, +which makes so fine a figure in the pleasant Oise valley +between Creil and Beaumont. He was reclaimed by no +less than two bishops; but the Procureur for the Provost +held fast by incorrigible Colin. 1460 was an ill-starred +year: for justice was making a clean sweep of “poor and +indigent persons, thieves, cheats, and lock-pickers,” in the +neighbourhood of Paris;<a name="FnAnchor_11" href="#Footnote_11"><span class="sp">11</span></a> and Colin de Cayeux, with many +others, was condemned to death and hanged.<a name="FnAnchor_12" href="#Footnote_12"><span class="sp">12</span></a></p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>VILLON AND THE GALLOWS</h5> + +<p>Villon was still absent on the Angers expedition when +the Prior of Paray sent such a bombshell among his accomplices; +and the dates of his return and arrest remain +undiscoverable. M. Campaux plausibly enough opined +for the autumn of 1457, which would make him closely +follow on Montigny, and the first of those denounced by +the Prior to fall into the toils. We may suppose, at least, +that it was not long thereafter; we may suppose him competed +for between lay and clerical Courts; and we may +suppose him alternately pert and impudent, humble and +fawning, in his defence. But at the end of all supposing, +we come upon some nuggets of fact. For first, he was +put to the question by water. He who had tossed off so +many cups of White Baigneux or red Beaune, now drank +water through linen folds, until his bowels were flooded +and his heart stood still. After so much raising of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161"></a>161</span> +elbow, so much outcry of fictitious thirst, here at last was +enough drinking for a lifetime. Truly, of our pleasant +vices, the gods make whips to scourge us. And secondly +he was condemned to be hanged. A man may have been +expecting a catastrophe for years, and yet find himself +unprepared when it arrives. Certainly, Villon found, +in this legitimate issue of his career, a very staggering +and grave consideration. Every beast, as he says, clings +bitterly to a whole skin. If everything is lost, and even +honour, life still remains; nay, and it becomes, like the +ewe lamb in Nathan’s parable, as dear as all the rest. “Do +you fancy,” he asks, in a lively ballad, “that I had not +enough philosophy under my hood to cry out: ‘I appeal’? +If I had made any bones about the matter I should have +been planted upright in the fields, by the St. Denis Road“—Montfaucon +being on the way to St. Denis. An appeal +to Parliament, as we saw in the case of Colin de Cayeux, +did not necessarily lead to an acquittal or a commutation; +and while the matter was pending, our poet had ample +opportunity to reflect on his position. Hanging is a sharp +argument, and to swing with many others on the gibbet +adds a horrible corollary for the imagination. With the +aspect of Montfaucon he was well acquainted; indeed, as +the neighbourhood appears to have been sacred to junketing +and nocturnal picnics of wild young men and women, he had +probably studied it under all varieties of hour and weather. +And now, as he lay in prison waiting the mortal push, these +different aspects crowded back on his imagination with a +new and startling significance; and he wrote a ballad, by +way of epitaph for himself and his companions, which +remains unique in the annals of mankind. It is, in the +highest sense, a piece of his biography:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“La pluye nous a debuez et lavez,</p> +<p class="i05">Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz;</p> +<p class="i05">Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez,</p> +<p class="i05">Et arrachez la barbe et les sourcilz.</p> +<p class="i05">Jamais, nul temps, nous ne sommes rassis;</p> +<p class="i05">Puis çà, puis là, comme le vent varie,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page162"></a>162</span></p> +<p class="i05">A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie,</p> +<p class="i05">Plus becquetez d’oiseaulx que dez à couldre.</p> +<p class="i05">Ne soyez donc de nostre confrairie,</p> +<p class="i05">Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Here is some genuine thieves’ literature after so much +that was spurious; sharp as an etching, written with a +shuddering soul. There is an intensity of consideration +in the piece that shows it to be the transcript of familiar +thoughts. It is the quintessence of many a doleful nightmare +on the straw, when he felt himself swing helpless in +the wind, and saw the birds turn about him, screaming +and menacing his eyes.</p> + +<p>And, after all, the Parliament changed his sentence +into one of banishment; and to Roussillon, in Dauphiny, +our poet must carry his woes without delay. Travellers +between Lyons and Marseilles may remember a station +on the line, some way below Vienne, where the Rhone +fleets seaward between vine-clad hills. This was Villon’s +Siberia. It would be a little warm in summer perhaps, +and a little cold in winter in that draughty valley between +two great mountain fields; but what with the hills, and +the racing river, and the fiery Rhone wines, he was little +to be pitied on the conditions of his exile. Villon, in a +remarkably bad ballad, written in a breath, heartily thanked +and fulsomely belauded the Parliament; the <i>envoi</i>, like +the proverbial postscript of a lady’s letter, containing the +pith of his performance in a request for three days’ delay +to settle his affairs and bid his friends farewell. He was +probably not followed out of Paris, like Antoine Fradin, +the popular preacher, another exile of a few years later, +by weeping multitudes;<a name="FnAnchor_13" href="#Footnote_13"><span class="sp">13</span></a> but I daresay one or two rogues +of his acquaintance would keep him company for a mile or +so on the south road, and drink a bottle with him before +they turned. For banished people, in those days, seem to +have set out on their own responsibility, in their own guard, +and at their own expense. It was no joke to make one’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page163"></a>163</span> +way from Paris to Roussillon alone and penniless in the +fifteenth century. Villon says he left a rag of his tails on +every bush. Indeed, he must have had many a weary tramp, +many a slender meal, and many a to-do with blustering +captains of the Ordonnance. But with one of his light +fingers, we may fancy that he took as good as he gave; for +every rag of his tail he would manage to indemnify himself +upon the population in the shape of food, or wine, or +ringing money; and his route would be traceable across +France and Burgundy by housewives and inn-keepers +lamenting over petty thefts, like the track of a single +human locust. A strange figure he must have cut in the +eyes of the good country people: this ragged, blackguard +city poet, with a smack of the Paris student, and a smack +of the Paris street arab, posting along the highways, in +rain or sun, among the green fields and vineyards. For +himself, he had no taste for rural loveliness; green fields +and vineyards would be mighty indifferent to Master +Francis; but he would often have his tongue in his cheek +at the simplicity of rustic dupes, and often, at city gates, +he might stop to contemplate the gibbet with its swinging +bodies, and hug himself on his escape.</p> + +<p>How long he stayed at Roussillon, how far he became +the <i>protégé</i> of the Bourbons, to whom that town belonged, +or when it was that he took part, under the auspices of +Charles of Orleans, in a rhyming tournament to be referred +to once again in the pages of the present volume, are matters +that still remain in darkness, in spite of M. Longnon’s +diligent rummaging among archives. When we next find +him, in summer 1461, alas! he is once more in durance: +this time at Méun-sur-Loire, in the prisons of Thibault +d’Aussigny, Bishop of Orleans. He had been lowered in a +basket into a noisome pit, where he lay all summer, gnawing +hard crusts and railing upon fate. His teeth, he says, were +like the teeth of a rake: a touch of haggard portraiture all +the more real for being excessive and burlesque, and all the +more proper to the man for being a caricature of his own +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page164"></a>164</span> +misery. His eyes were “bandaged with thick walls.” It +might blow hurricanes overhead; the lightning might leap +in high heaven; but no word of all this reached him in his +noisome pit. “<i>Il n’entre, ou gist, n’escler ni tourbillon.</i>” +Above all, he was levered with envy and anger at the +freedom of others; and his heart flowed over into curses +as he thought of Thibault d’Aussigny, walking the streets +in God’s sunlight, and blessing people with extended +fingers. So much we find sharply lined in his own poems. +Why he was cast again into prison—how he had again +managed to shave the gallows—this we know not, nor, +from the destruction of authorities, are we ever likely to +learn. But on October 2nd, 1461, or some day immediately +preceding, the new King, Louis Eleventh, made his joyous +entry into Méun. Now it was a part of the formality on +such occasions for the new King to liberate certain prisoners; +and so the basket was let down into Villon’s pit, and hastily +did Master Francis scramble in, and was most joyfully +hauled up, and shot out, blinking and tottering, but once +more a free man, into the blessed sun and wind. Now or +never is the time for verses! Such a happy revolution would +turn the head of a stocking-weaver, and set him jingling +rhymes. And so—after a voyage to Paris, where he finds +Montigny and De Cayeux clattering their bones upon the +gibbet, and his three pupils roystering in Paris streets, +“with their thumbs under their girdles,”—down sits Master +Francis to write his “Large Testament,” and perpetuate +his name in a sort of glorious ignominy.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>THE “LARGE TESTAMENT“</h5> + +<p>Of this capital achievement and, with it, of Villon’s +style in general, it is here the place to speak. The “Large +Testament” is a hurly-burly of cynical and sentimental +reflections about life, jesting legacies to friends and enemies, +and, interspersed among these, many admirable ballades +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page165"></a>165</span> +both serious and absurd. With so free a design, no thought +that occurred to him would need to be dismissed without +expression; and he could draw at full length the portrait +of his own bedevilled soul, and of the bleak and blackguardly +world which was the theatre of his exploits and sufferings. +If the reader can conceive something between the slap-dash +inconsequence of Byron’s “Don Juan” and the racy +humorous gravity and brief noble touches that distinguish +the vernacular poems of Burns, he will have formed +some idea of Villon’s style. To the latter writer—except +in the ballades, which are quite his own, and can be paralleled +from no other language known to me—he bears a +particular resemblance. In common with Burns he has +a certain rugged compression, a brutal vivacity of epithet, +a homely vigour, a delight in local personalities, and an +interest in many sides of life, that are often despised and +passed over by more effete and cultured poets. Both +also, in their strong, easy colloquial way, tend to become +difficult and obscure; the obscurity in the case of Villon +passing at times into the absolute darkness of cant language. +They are perhaps the only two great masters of +expression who keep sending their readers to a glossary.</p> + +<p>“Shall we not dare to say of a thief,” asks Montaigne, +“that he has a handsome leg?” It is a far more serious +claim that we have to put forward in behalf of Villon. +Beside that of his contemporaries, his writing, so full of +colour, so eloquent, so picturesque, stands out in an almost +miraculous isolation. If only one or two of the chroniclers +could have taken a leaf out of his book, history would have +been a pastime, and the fifteenth century as present to our +minds as the age of Charles Second. This gallows-bird +was the one great writer of his age and country, and initiated +modern literature for France. Boileau, long ago, in the +period of perukes and snuff-boxes, recognised him as the +first articulate poet in the language; and if we measure +him, not by priority of merit, but living duration of influence, +not on a comparison with obscure forerunners, but with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page166"></a>166</span> +great and famous successors, we shall instal this ragged and +disreputable figure in a far higher niche in glory’s temple +than was ever dreamed of by the critic. It is, in itself, a +memorable fact that before 1542, in the very dawn of printing, +and while modern France was in the making, the works +of Villon ran through seven different editions. Out of him +flows much of Rabelais; and through Rabelais, directly and +indirectly, a deep, permanent, and growing inspiration. +Not only his style, but his callous pertinent way of looking +upon the sordid and ugly sides of life, becomes every +day a more specific feature in the literature of France. +And only the other year, a work of some power appeared +in Paris, and appeared with infinite scandal, which owed +its whole inner significance and much of its outward form +to the study of our rhyming thief.</p> + +<p>The world to which he introduces us is, as before said, +blackguardly and bleak. Paris swarms before us, full of +famine, shame, and death; monks and the servants of +great lords hold high wassail upon cakes and pastry; the +poor man licks his lips before the baker’s window; people +with patched eyes sprawl all night under the stalls; chuckling +Tabary transcribes an improper romance; bare-bosomed +lasses and ruffling students swagger in the streets; +the drunkard goes stumbling homeward; the graveyard +is full of bones; and away on Montfaucon, Colin de Cayeux +and Montigny hang draggled in the rain. Is there nothing +better to be seen than sordid misery and worthless joys? +Only where the poor old mother of the poet kneels in church +below painted windows, and makes tremulous supplication +to the Mother of God.</p> + +<p>In our mixed world, full of green fields and happy +lovers, where not long before Joan of Arc had led one of +the highest and noblest lives in the whole story of mankind, +this was all worth chronicling that our poet could +perceive. His eyes were indeed sealed with his own filth. +He dwelt all his life in a pit more noisome than the dungeon +at Méun. In the moral world, also, there are large phenomena +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page167"></a>167</span> +not cognisable out of holes and corners. Loud winds +blow, speeding home deep-laden ships and sweeping rubbish +from the earth; the lightning leaps and cleans the face of +heaven; high purposes and brave passions shake and sublimate +men’s spirits; and meanwhile, in the narrow dungeon +of his soul, Villon is mumbling crusts and picking vermin.</p> + +<p>Along with this deadly gloom of outlook, we must take +another characteristic of his work, its unrivalled insincerity. +I can give no better similitude of this quality +than I have given already: that he comes up with a whine +and runs away with a whoop and his finger to his nose. +His pathos is that of a professional mendicant who should +happen to be a man of genius; his levity that of a bitter +street arab, full of bread. On a first reading, the pathetic +passages preoccupy the reader, and he is cheated out of +an alms in the shape of sympathy. But when the thing +is studied the illusion fades away: in the transitions, above +all, we can detect the evil, ironical temper of the man; and +instead of a flighty work, where many crude but genuine +feelings tumble together for the mastery as in the lists of +tournament, we are tempted to think of the “Large Testament” +as of one long-drawn epical grimace, pulled by a +merry-andrew, who has found a certain despicable eminence +over human respect and human affections by perching +himself astride upon the gallows. Between these two views, +at best, all temperate judgments will be found to fall; and +rather, as I imagine, towards the last.</p> + +<p>There were two things on which he felt with perfect +and, in one case, even threatening sincerity.</p> + +<p>The first of these was an undisguised envy of those +richer than himself. He was for ever drawing a parallel, +already exemplified from his own words, between the +happy life of the well-to-do and the miseries of the poor. +Burns, too proud and honest not to work, continued through +all reverses to sing of poverty with a light, defiant note. +Béranger waited till he was himself beyond the reach of +want before writing the “Old Vagabond” or “Jacques.” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page168"></a>168</span> +Samuel Johnson, although he was very sorry to be poor, +“was a great arguer for the advantages of poverty” in his +ill days. Thus it is that brave men carry their crosses, +and smile with the fox burrowing in their vitals. But +Villon, who had not the courage to be poor with honesty, +now whiningly implores our sympathy, now shows his teeth +upon the dung-heap with an ugly snarl. He envies bitterly, +envies passionately. Poverty, he protests, drives men to +steal, as hunger makes the wolf sally from the forest. The +poor, he goes on, will always have a carping word to say, or, +if that outlet be denied, nourish rebellious thoughts. It is +a calumny on the noble army of the poor. Thousands in a +small way of life, ay, and even in the smallest, go through +life with tenfold as much honour and dignity and peace of +mind as the rich gluttons whose dainties and state-beds +awakened Villon’s covetous temper. And every morning’s +sun sees thousands who pass whistling to their toil. But +Villon was the “<i>mauvais pauvre</i>” defined by Victor Hugo, +and, in its English expression, so admirably stereotyped by +Dickens. He was the first wicked <i>sans-culotte</i>. He is the +man of genius with the moleskin cap. He is mighty pathetic +and beseeching here in the street, but I would not go down a +dark road with him for a large consideration.</p> + +<p>The second of the points on which he was genuine +and emphatic was common to the middle ages; a deep +and somewhat snivelling conviction of the transitory +nature of this life and the pity and horror of death. Old +age and the grave, with some dark and yet half-sceptical +terror of an after-world—these were ideas that clung +about his bones like a disease. An old ape, as he says, +may play all the tricks in its repertory, and none of them +will tickle an audience into good humour. “<i>Tousjours +vieil synge est desplaisant.</i>” It is not the old jester who +receives most recognition at a tavern party, but the young +fellow, fresh and handsome, who knows the new slang, +and carries off his vice with a certain air. Of this, as +a tavern jester himself, he would be pointedly conscious. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page169"></a>169</span> +As for the women with whom he was best acquainted, +his reflections on their old age, in all their harrowing pathos, +shall remain in the original for me. Horace has disgraced +himself to something the same tune; but what Horace +throws out with an ill-favoured laugh, Villon dwells on with +an almost maudlin whimper.</p> + +<p>It is in death that he finds his truest inspiration; in +the swift and sorrowful change that overtakes beauty; in +the strange revolution by which great fortunes and renowns +are diminished to a handful of churchyard dust; +and in the utter passing away of what was once lovable +and mighty. It is in this that the mixed texture of his +thought enables him to reach such poignant and terrible +effects, and to enhance pity with ridicule, like a man +cutting capers to a funeral march. It is in this also that +he rises out of himself into the higher spheres of art. So, +in the ballade by which he is best known, he rings the +changes on names that once stood for beautiful and queenly +women, and are now no more than letters and a legend. +“Where are the snows of yester year?” runs the burden. +And so, in another not so famous, he passes in review the +different degrees of bygone men, from the holy Apostles +and the golden Emperor of the East, down to the heralds, +pursuivants, and trumpeters, who also bore their part in the +world’s pageantries and ate greedily at great folks’ tables: +all this to the refrain of “So much carry the winds away!” +Probably, there was some melancholy in his mind for a yet +lower grade, and Montigny and Colin de Cayeux clattering +their bones on Paris gibbet. Alas, and with so pitiful an +experience of life, Villon can offer us nothing but terror and +lamentation about death! No one has ever more skilfully +communicated his own disenchantment; no one ever blown +a more ear-piercing note of sadness. This unrepentant thief +can attain neither to Christian confidence nor to the spirit +of the bright Greek saying, that whom the gods love die +early. It is a poor heart, and a poorer age, that cannot +accept the conditions of life with some heroic readiness.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page170"></a>170</span></p> +<p class="center noind" style="letter-spacing:3em; font-size: 150%;">........</p> + +<p>The date of the “Large Testament” is the last date in +the poet’s biography. After having achieved that admirable +and despicable performance, he disappears into the +night from whence he came. How or when he died, whether +decently in bed or trussed up to a gallows, remains a riddle +for foolhardy commentators. It appears his health had +suffered in the pit at Méun; he was thirty years of age and +quite bald; with the notch in his under lip where Sermaise +had struck him with the sword, and what wrinkles the reader +may imagine. In default of portraits, that is all I have been +able to piece together, and perhaps even the baldness should +be taken as a figure of his destitution. A sinister dog, in all +likelihood, but with a look in his eye, and the loose flexile +mouth that goes with wit and an overweening sensual +temperament. Certainly the sorriest figure on the rolls of +fame.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_6" href="#FnAnchor_6"><span class="fn">6</span></a> “Étude Biographique sur François Villon.” Paris: H. Menu.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_7" href="#FnAnchor_7"><span class="fn">7</span></a> “Bourgeois de Paris,” ed. Panthéon, pp. 688, 689.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_8" href="#FnAnchor_8"><span class="fn">8</span></a> “Bourgeois,” pp. 627, 636, and 725.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_9" href="#FnAnchor_9"><span class="fn">9</span></a> “Chronique Scandaleuse,” ed. Panthéon, p. 237.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_10" href="#FnAnchor_10"><span class="fn">10</span></a> Monstrelet: “Panthéon Littéraire,” p. 26.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_11" href="#FnAnchor_11"><span class="fn">11</span></a> “Chron. Scand.” <i>ut supra</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_12" href="#FnAnchor_12"><span class="fn">12</span></a> Here and there, principally in the order of events, this article +differs from M. Longnon’s own reading of his material. The ground +on which he defers the execution of Montigny and De Cayeux beyond +the date of their trials seems insufficient. There is a law of parsimony +for the construction of historical documents; simplicity is the +first duty of narration; and hanged they were.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_13" href="#FnAnchor_13"><span class="fn">13</span></a> “Chron. Scand.,” p. 338.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page171"></a>171</span></p> +<h5>VII</h5> + +<h3>CHARLES OF ORLEANS</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">For</span> one who was no great politician, nor (as men go) +especially wise, capable, or virtuous, Charles of Orleans is +more than usually enviable to all who love that better +sort of fame which consists in being known not widely, +but intimately. “To be content that time to come should +know there was such a man, not caring whether they +knew more of him, or to subsist under naked denominations, +without deserts or noble acts,” is, says Sir Thomas +Browne, a frigid ambition. It is to some more specific +memory that youth looks forward in its vigils. Old kings +are sometimes disinterred in all the emphasis of life, the +hands untainted by decay, the beard that had so often +wagged in camp or senate still spread upon the royal +bosom; and in busts and pictures, some similitude of the +great and beautiful of former days is handed down. In +this way, public curiosity may be gratified, but hardly any +private aspiration after fame. It is not likely that posterity +will fall in love with us, but not impossible that it may +respect or sympathise; and so a man would rather leave +behind him the portrait of his spirit than a portrait of his +face, <i>figura animi magis quam corporis</i>. Of those who +have thus survived themselves most completely, left a sort +of personal seduction behind them in the world, and retained, +after death, the art of making friends, Montaigne +and Samuel Johnson certainly stand first. But we have +portraits of all sorts of men, from august Cæsar to the +king’s dwarf; and all sorts of portraits, from a Titian +treasured in the Louvre to a profile over the grocer’s chimney +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page172"></a>172</span> +shelf. And so in a less degree, but no less truly, than the +spirit of Montaigne lives on in the delightful Essays, that +of Charles of Orleans survives in a few old songs and old +account-books; and it is still in the choice of the reader to +make this duke’s acquaintance, and, if their humours suit, +become his friend.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>I</h5> + +<p>His birth—if we are to argue from a man’s parents—was +above his merit. It is not merely that he was the +grandson of one king, the father of another, and the uncle +of a third; but something more specious was to be looked +for from the son of his father, Louis de Valois, Duke of +Orleans, brother to the mad king Charles VI., lover of +Queen Isabel, and the leading patron of art and one of +the leading politicians in France. And the poet might +have inherited yet higher virtues from his mother, Valentina +of Milan, a very pathetic figure of the age, the faithful +wife of an unfaithful husband, and the friend of a most +unhappy king. The father, beautiful, eloquent, and accomplished, +exercised a strange fascination over his contemporaries; +and among those who dip nowadays into the annals +of the time there are not many—and these few are little +to be envied—who can resist the fascination of the mother. +All mankind owe her a debt of gratitude because she +brought some comfort into the life of the poor madman +who wore the crown of France.</p> + +<p>Born (May 1391) of such a noble stock, Charles was +to know from the first all favours of nature and art. His +father’s gardens were the admiration of his contemporaries; +his castles were situated in the most agreeable parts +of France, and sumptuously adorned. We have preserved, +in an inventory of 1403, the description of tapestried +rooms where Charles may have played in childhood.<a name="FnAnchor_14" href="#Footnote_14"><span class="sp">14</span></a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173"></a>173</span> +“A green room, with the ceiling full of angels, and the +<i>dossier</i> of shepherds and shepherdesses seeming (<i>faisant +contenance</i>) to eat nuts and cherries. A room of gold, +silk and worsted, with a device of little children in a river, +and the sky full of birds. A room of green tapestry, +showing a knight and lady at chess in a pavilion. Another +green-room, with shepherdesses in a trellised garden +worked in gold and silk. A carpet representing cherry-trees, +where there is a fountain, and a lady gathering +cherries in a basin.” These were some of the pictures +over which his fancy might busy itself of an afternoon, or +at morning as he lay awake in bed. With our deeper and +more logical sense of life, we can have no idea how large +a space in the attention of mediæval men might be occupied +by such figured hangings on the wall. There was +something timid and purblind in the view they had of the +world. Morally, they saw nothing outside of traditional +axioms; and little of the physical aspect of things entered +vividly into their mind, beyond what was to be seen on +church windows and the walls and floors of palaces. The +reader will remember how Villon’s mother conceived of +heaven and hell and took all her scanty stock of theology +from the stained glass that threw its light upon her as +she prayed. And there is scarcely a detail of external +effect in the chronicles and romances of the time, but +might have been borrowed at second hand from a piece +of tapestry. It was a stage in the history of mankind +which we may see paralleled to some extent in the first +infant school, where the representations of lions and +elephants alternate round the wall with moral verses +and trite presentments of the lesser virtues. So that +to live in a house of many pictures was tantamount, for +a time, to a liberal education in itself.</p> + +<p>At Charles’s birth an order of knighthood was inaugurated +in his honour. At nine years old he was a +squire; at eleven, he had the escort of a chaplain and +a schoolmaster; at twelve, his uncle the king made him +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page174"></a>174</span> +a pension of twelve thousand livres d’or.<a name="FnAnchor_15" href="#Footnote_15"><span class="sp">15</span></a> He saw the +most brilliant and the most learned persons of France in +his father’s court; and would not fail to notice that these +brilliant and learned persons were one and all engaged in +rhyming. Indeed, if it is difficult to realise the part played +by pictures, it is perhaps even more difficult to realise +that played by verses in the polite and active history +of the age. At the siege of Pontoise, English and French +exchanged defiant ballades over the walls.<a name="FnAnchor_16" href="#Footnote_16"><span class="sp">16</span></a> If a scandal +happened, as in the loathsome thirty-third story of the +“Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles,” all the wits must make +rondels and chansonettes, which they would hand from +one to another with an unmanly sneer. Ladies carried +their favourite’s ballades in their girdles.<a name="FnAnchor_17" href="#Footnote_17"><span class="sp">17</span></a> Margaret of +Scotland, all the world knows already, kissed Alain +Chartier’s lips in honour of the many virtuous thoughts +and golden sayings they had uttered; but it is not so +well known that this princess was herself the most industrious +of poetasters, that she is supposed to have +hastened her death by her literary vigils, and sometimes +wrote as many as twelve rondels in the day.<a name="FnAnchor_18" href="#Footnote_18"><span class="sp">18</span></a> It was in +rhyme, even, that the young Charles should learn his lessons. +He might get all manner of instruction in the truly noble art +of the chase, not without a smack of ethics by the way, from +the compendious didactic poem of Gace de la Bigne. Nay, +and it was in rhyme that he should learn rhyming: in the +verses of his father’s Maître d’Hôtel, Eustache Deschamps, +which treated of <i>l’art de dictier et de faire chançons, ballades, +virelais et rondeaux</i>, along with many other matters worth +attention, from the courts of Heaven to the misgovernment +of France.<a name="FnAnchor_19" href="#Footnote_19"><span class="sp">19</span></a> At this rate, all knowledge is to be had in a +goody, and the end of it is an old song. We need not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page175"></a>175</span> +wonder when we hear from Monstrelet that Charles was a +very well educated person. He could string Latin texts +together by the hour, and make ballades and rondels better +than Eustache Deschamps himself. He had seen a mad +king who would not change his clothes, and a drunken +emperor who could not keep his hand from the wine-cup. +He had spoken a great deal with jesters and fiddlers, and +with the profligate lords who helped his father to waste the +revenues of France. He had seen ladies dance on into broad +daylight, and much burning of torches and waste of dainties +and good wine.<a name="FnAnchor_20" href="#Footnote_20"><span class="sp">20</span></a> And when all is said, it was no very helpful +preparation for the battle of life. “I believe Louis XI.,” +writes Comines, “would not have saved himself, if he had +not been very differently brought up from such other lords +as I have seen educated in this country; for these were +taught nothing but to play the jackanapes with finery +and fine words.”<a name="FnAnchor_21" href="#Footnote_21"><span class="sp">21</span></a> I am afraid Charles took such lessons +to heart, and conceived of life as a season principally for +junketing and war. His view of the whole duty of man, +so empty, vain, and wearisome to us, was yet sincerely +and consistently held. When he came in his ripe years +to compare the glory of two kingdoms, England and France, +it was on three points only—pleasures, valour, and riches,—that +he cared to measure them; and in the very outset of +that tract he speaks of the life of the great as passed, +“whether in arms, as in assaults, battles, and sieges, or in +jousts and tournaments, in high and stately festivities and +in funeral solemnities.”<a name="FnAnchor_22" href="#Footnote_22"><span class="sp">22</span></a></p> + +<p>When he was no more than thirteen, his father had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page176"></a>176</span> +him affianced to Isabella, virgin-widow of our Richard II. +and daughter of his uncle Charles VI.; and, two years +after (June 29, 1406), the cousins were married at Compiégne, +he fifteen, she seventeen years of age. It was in +every way a most desirable match. The bride brought +five hundred thousand francs of dowry. The ceremony +was of the utmost magnificence, Louis of Orleans figuring +in crimson velvet, adorned with no less than seven hundred +and ninety-five pearls, gathered together expressly +for this occasion. And no doubt it must have been very +gratifying for a young gentleman of fifteen to play the +chief part in a pageant so gaily put upon the stage. Only, +the bridegroom might have been a little older; and, as ill-luck +would have it, the bride herself was of this way of +thinking, and would not be consoled for the loss of her title +as queen, or the contemptible age of her new husband. +<i>Pleuroit fort ladite Isabeau</i>; the said Isabella wept copiously.<a name="FnAnchor_23" href="#Footnote_23"><span class="sp">23</span></a> +It is fairly debatable whether Charles was much to be pitied +when, three years later (September 1409), this odd marriage +was dissolved by death. Short as it was, however, this +connection left a lasting stamp upon his mind; and we find +that, in the last decade of his life, and after he had re-married +for perhaps the second time, he had not yet forgotten +or forgiven the violent death of Richard II. <i>Ce +mauvais cas</i>—that ugly business, he writes, has yet to be +avenged.</p> + +<p>The marriage festivity was on the threshold of evil +days. The great rivalry between Louis of Orleans and +John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, had been forsworn +with the most reverend solemnities. But the feud was +only in abeyance, and John of Burgundy still conspired in +secret. On November 23, 1407—in that black winter when +the frost lasted six-and-sixty days on end—a summons from +the King reached Louis of Orleans at the Hôtel Barbette, +where he had been supping with Queen Isabel. It was +seven or eight in the evening, and the inhabitants of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page177"></a>177</span> +quarter were abed. He set forth in haste, accompanied by +two squires riding on one horse, a page and a few varlets +running with torches. As he rode, he hummed to himself +and trifled with his glove. And so riding, he was +beset by the bravoes of his enemy and slain. My lord +of Burgundy set an ill precedent in this deed, as he found +some years after on the bridge of Montereau; and even in +the meantime he did not profit quietly by his rival’s death. +The horror of the other princes seems to have perturbed +himself; he avowed his guilt in the council, tried to brazen +it out, finally lost heart and fled at full gallop, cutting +bridges behind him, towards Bapaume and Lille. And +so there we have the head of one faction, who had just +made himself the most formidable man in France, engaged +in a remarkably hurried journey, with black care on the +pillion. And meantime, on the other side, the widowed +duchess came to Paris, in appropriate mourning, to demand +justice for her husband’s death. Charles VI., who was +then in a lucid interval, did probably all that he could, +when he raised up the kneeling suppliant with kisses and +smooth words. Things were at a dead-lock. The criminal +might be in the sorriest fright, but he was still the greatest +of vassals. Justice was easy to ask and not difficult to +promise; how it was to be executed was another question. +No one in France was strong enough to punish John of +Burgundy; and perhaps no one, except the widow, very +sincere in wishing to punish him.</p> + +<p>She, indeed, was eaten up of zeal; but the intensity +of her eagerness wore her out; and she died about a year +after the murder, of grief and indignation, unrequited love +and unsatisfied resentment. It was during the last months +of her life that this fiery and generous woman, seeing the +soft hearts of her own children, looked with envy on a +certain natural son of her husband’s, destined to become +famous in the sequel as the Bastard of Orleans, or the +brave Dunois. “<i>You were stolen from me</i>,” she said; +“it is you who are fit to avenge your father.” These are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178"></a>178</span> +not the words of ordinary mourning, or of an ordinary woman. +It is a saying over which Balzac would have rubbed his +episcopal hands. That the child who was to avenge her +husband had not been born out of her body was a thing +intolerable to Valentina of Milan; and the expression of +this singular and tragic jealousy is preserved to us by a rare +chance, in such straightforward and vivid words as we are +accustomed to hear only on the stress of actual life, or in the +theatre. In history—where we see things as in a glass +darkly, and the fashion of former times is brought before +us, deplorably adulterated and defaced, fitted to very +vague and pompous words, and strained through many +men’s minds of everything personal or precise—this speech +of the widowed duchess startles a reader, somewhat as +the footprint startled Robinson Crusoe. A human voice +breaks in upon the silence of the study, and the student +is aware of a fellow-creature in his world of documents. +With such a clue in hand, one may imagine how this +wounded lioness would spur and exasperate the resentment +of her children, and what would be the last words of +counsel and command she left behind her.</p> + +<p>With these instancies of his dying mother—almost a +voice from the tomb—still tingling in his ears, the position +of young Charles of Orleans, when he was left at +the head of that great house, was curiously similar to +that of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The times were out of +joint; here was a murdered father to avenge on a powerful +murderer; and here, in both cases, a lad of inactive +disposition born to set these matters right. Valentina’s +commendation of Dunois involved a judgment on Charles, +and that judgment was exactly correct. Whoever might +be, Charles was not the man to avenge his father. Like +Hamlet, this son of a dear father murdered was sincerely +grieved at heart. Like Hamlet, too, he could unpack +his heart with words, and wrote a most eloquent letter +to the King, complaining that what was denied to him +would not be denied “to the lowest born and poorest +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page179"></a>179</span> +man on earth.” Even in his private hours he strove to +preserve a lively recollection of his injury, and keep up +the native hue of resolution. He had gems engraved +with appropriate legends, hortatory or threatening: “<i>Dieu +le scet</i>“, God knows it; or “<i>Souvenez-vous de</i>—” Remember!<a name="FnAnchor_24" href="#Footnote_24"><span class="sp">24</span></a> +It is only towards the end that the two stories +begin to differ; and in some points the historical version +is the more tragic. Hamlet only stabbed a silly old +councillor behind the arras; Charles of Orleans trampled +France for five years under the hoofs of his banditti. The +miscarriage of Hamlet’s vengeance was confined, at widest, +to the palace; the ruin wrought by Charles of Orleans was +as broad as France.</p> + +<p>Yet the first act of the young duke is worthy of honourable +mention. Prodigal Louis had made enormous debts; +and there is a story extant, to illustrate how lightly he +himself regarded these commercial obligations. It appears +that Louis, after a narrow escape he made in a thunderstorm, +had a smart access of penitence, and announced he would +pay his debts on the following Sunday. More than eight +hundred creditors presented themselves, but by that time +the devil was well again, and they were shown the door with +more gaiety than politeness. A time when such cynical +dishonesty was possible for a man of culture is not, it will +be granted, a fortunate epoch for creditors. When the +original debtor was so lax, we may imagine how an heir +would deal with the incumbrances of his inheritance. On +the death of Philip the Forward, father of that John the +Fearless whom we have seen at work, the widow went +through the ceremony of a public renunciation of goods; +taking off her purse and girdle, she left them on the grave, +and thus, by one notable act, cancelled her husband’s debts +and defamed his honour. The conduct of young Charles +of Orleans was very different. To meet the joint liabilities +of his father and mother (for Valentina also was lavish), +he had to sell or pledge a quantity of jewels; and yet +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page180"></a>180</span> +he would not take advantage of a pretext, even legally +valid, to diminish the amount. Thus, one Godefroi +Lefèvre, having disbursed many odd sums for the late +duke, and received or kept no vouchers, Charles ordered +that he should be believed upon his oath.<a name="FnAnchor_25" href="#Footnote_25"><span class="sp">25</span></a> To a modern +mind this seems as honourable to his father’s memory as +if John the Fearless had been hanged as high as Haman. +And as things fell out, except a recantation from the +University of Paris, which had justified the murder out +of party feeling, and various other purely paper reparations, +this was about the outside of what Charles was to +effect in that direction. He lived five years, and grew +up from sixteen to twenty-one, in the midst of the most +horrible civil war, or series of civil wars, that ever devastated +France; and from first to last his wars were ill-starred, +or else his victories useless. Two years after the +murder (March 1409), John the Fearless having the upper +hand for the moment, a shameful and useless reconciliation +took place, by the King’s command, in the Church +of Our Lady at Chartres. The advocate of the Duke of +Burgundy stated that Louis of Orleans had been killed +“for the good of the King’s person and realm.” Charles +and his brothers, with tears of shame, under protest, <i>pour +ne pas desobéir au roi</i>, forgave their father’s murderer and +swore peace upon the missal. It was, as I say, a shameful +and useless ceremony; the very greffier, entering it in his +register, wrote in the margin, “<i>Pax, pax, inquit Propheta, +et non est pax.</i>“<a name="FnAnchor_26" href="#Footnote_26"><span class="sp">26</span></a> Charles was soon after allied with the +abominable Bernard d’Armagnac, even betrothed or +married to a daughter of his, called by a name that sounds +like a contradiction in terms, Bonne d’Armagnac. From +that time forth, throughout all this monstrous period—a +very nightmare in the history of France—he is no more +than a stalking-horse for the ambitious Gascon. Sometimes +the smoke lifts, and you can see him for the twinkling +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page181"></a>181</span> +of an eye, a very pale figure; at one moment there +is a rumour he will be crowned king; at another, when +the uproar has subsided, he will be heard still crying out +for justice; and the next (1412), he is showing himself +to the applauding populace on the same horse with John +of Burgundy. But these are exceptional seasons, and +for the most part he merely rides at the Gascon’s bridle +over devastated France. His very party go, not by the +name of Orleans, but by the name of Armagnac. Paris +is in the hands of the butchers: the peasants have taken +to the woods. Alliances are made and broken as if in a +country dance; the English called in, now by this one, +now by the other. Poor people sing in church, with +white faces and lamentable music: “<i>Domine Jesu, parce +populo tuo, dirige in viam pacis principes.</i>” And the end +and upshot of the whole affair for Charles of Orleans is +another peace with John the Fearless. France is once +more tranquil, with the tranquillity of ruin; he may ride +home again to Blois, and look, with what countenance he +may, on those gems he had got engraved in the early days +of his resentment, “<i>Souvenez-vous de—</i>” Remember! He +has killed Polonius, to be sure; but the King is never a +penny the worse.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>II</h5> + +<p>From the battle of Agincourt (Oct. 1415) dates the +second period of Charles’s life. The English reader will +remember the name of Orleans in the play of <i>Henry V.</i>; +and it is at least odd that we can trace a resemblance +between the puppet and the original. The interjection, “I +have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mistress” (Act iii. +scene 7), may very well indicate one who was already an +expert in that sort of trifle; and the game of proverbs he +plays with the Constable in the same scene would be quite +in character for a man who spent many years of his life +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page182"></a>182</span> +capping verses with his courtiers. Certainly, Charles +was in the great battle with five hundred lances (say, +three thousand men), and there he was made prisoner as +he led the van. According to one story, some ragged +English archer shot him down; and some diligent English +Pistol, hunting ransoms on the field of battle, extracted +him from under a heap of bodies and retailed him to our +King Henry. He was the most important capture of the +day, and used with all consideration. On the way to +Calais, Henry sent him a present of bread and wine (and +bread, you will remember, was an article of luxury in +the English camp), but Charles would neither eat nor +drink. Thereupon Henry came to visit him in his quarters. +“Noble cousin,” said he, “how are you?” Charles +replied that he was well. “Why then do you neither +eat nor drink?” And then with some asperity, as I +imagine, the young duke told him that “truly he had no +inclination for food.” And our Henry improved the +occasion with something of a snuffle, assuring his prisoner +that God had fought against the French on account of their +manifold sins and transgressions. Upon this there supervened +the agonies of a rough sea-passage; and many French +lords, Charles certainly among the number, declared they +would rather endure such another defeat than such another +sore trial on shipboard. Charles, indeed, never forgot his +sufferings. Long afterwards, he declared his hatred to a +seafaring life, and willingly yielded to England the empire of +the seas, “because there is danger and loss of life, and God +knows what pity when it storms; and sea-sickness is for +many people hard to bear; and the rough life that must be +led is little suitable for the nobility“:<a name="FnAnchor_27" href="#Footnote_27"><span class="sp">27</span></a> which, of all babyish +utterances that ever fell from any public man, may +surely bear the bell. Scarcely disembarked, he followed +his victor, with such wry face as we may fancy, through +the streets of holiday London. And then the doors closed +upon his last day of garish life for more than a quarter +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page183"></a>183</span> +of a century. After a boyhood passed in the dissipations +of a luxurious court or in the camp of war, his ears still +stunned and his cheeks still burning from his enemies’ +jubilations; out of all this ringing of English bells and singing +of English anthems, from among all these shouting +citizens in scarlet cloaks, and beautiful virgins attired in +white, he passed into the silence and solitude of a political +prison.<a name="FnAnchor_28" href="#Footnote_28"><span class="sp">28</span></a></p> + +<p>His captivity was not without alleviations. He was +allowed to go hawking, and he found England an admirable +country for the sport; he was a favourite with English +ladies, and admired their beauty; and he did not lack for +money, wine, or books; he was honourably imprisoned in +the strongholds of great nobles, in Windsor Castle and the +Tower of London. But when all is said, he was a prisoner +for five-and-twenty years. For five-and-twenty years he +could not go where he would, or do what he liked, or speak +with any but his jailers. We may talk very wisely of +alleviations; there is only one alleviation for which the man +would thank you: he would thank you to open the door. +With what regret Scottish James I. bethought him (in the +next room perhaps to Charles) of the time when he rose “as +early as the day.” What would he not have given to wet +his boots once more with morning dew, and follow his +vagrant fancy among the meadows? The only alleviation +to the misery of constraint lies in the disposition of +the prisoner. To each one this place of discipline brings +his own lesson. It stirs Latude or Baron Trenck into +heroic action; it is a hermitage for pious and conformable +spirits. Béranger tells us he found prison life, with +its regular hours and long evenings, both pleasant and +profitable. The “Pilgrim’s Progress” and “Don Quixote” +were begun in prison. It was after they were become +(to use the words of one of them), “Oh, worst imprisonment—the +dungeon of themselves!” that Homer and +Milton worked so hard and so well for the profit of mankind. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page184"></a>184</span> +In the year 1415 Henry V. had two distinguished +prisoners, French Charles of Orleans and Scottish James I., +who whiled away the hours of their captivity with rhyming. +Indeed, there can be no better pastime for a lonely man than +the mechanical exercise of verse. Such intricate forms as +Charles had been used to from childhood, the ballade with +its scanty rhymes; the rondel, with the recurrence first of +the whole, then of half the burthen, in thirteen verses, seem +to have been invented for the prison and the sick-bed. The +common Scots saying, on the sight of anything operose +and finical, “he must have had little to do that made +that!” might be put as epigraph on all the song-books +of old France. Making such sorts of verse belongs to +the same class of pleasures as guessing acrostics or “burying +proverbs.” It is almost purely formal, almost purely +verbal. It must be done gently and gingerly. It keeps +the mind occupied a long time, and never so intently as to +be distressing; for anything like strain is against the very +nature of the craft. Sometimes things go easily, the refrains +fall into their place as if of their own accord, and it becomes +something of the nature of an intellectual tennis; you must +make your poem as the rhymes will go, just as you must +strike your ball as your adversary played it. So that these +forms are suitable rather for those who wish to make verses +than for those who wish to express opinions. Sometimes, +on the other hand, difficulties arise: rival verses come into +a man’s head, and fugitive words elude his memory. Then +it is that he enjoys at the same time the deliberate pleasures +of a connoisseur comparing wines, and the ardour of the +chase. He may have been sitting all day long in prison +with folded hands; but when he goes to bed the retrospect +will seem animated and eventful.</p> + +<p>Besides confirming himself as an habitual maker of +verses, Charles acquired some new opinions during his +captivity. He was perpetually reminded of the change +that had befallen him. He found the climate of England +cold and “prejudicial to the human frame“; he had a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page185"></a>185</span> +great contempt for English fruit and English beer; even +the coal fires were unpleasing in his eyes.<a name="FnAnchor_29" href="#Footnote_29"><span class="sp">29</span></a> He was rooted +up from among his friends and customs and the places +that had known him. And so in this strange land he +began to learn the love of his own. Sad people all the +world over are like to be moved when the wind is in some +particular quarter. So Burns preferred when it was in the +west, and blew to him from his mistress; so the girl in +the ballade, looking south to Yarrow, thought it might +carry a kiss betwixt her and her gallant; and so we find +Charles singing of the “pleasant wind that comes from +France.”<a name="FnAnchor_30" href="#Footnote_30"><span class="sp">30</span></a> One day, at “Dover-on-the-Sea,” he looked +across the straits, and saw the sandhills about Calais. +And it happened to him, he tells us in a ballade, to remember +his happiness over there in the past; and he was +both sad and merry at the recollection, and could not +have his fill of gazing on the shores of France.<a name="FnAnchor_31" href="#Footnote_31"><span class="sp">31</span></a> Although +guilty of unpatriotic acts, he had never been exactly unpatriotic +in feeling. But his sojourn in England gave, for +the time at least, some consistency to what had been a +very weak and ineffectual prejudice. He must have been +under the influence of more than usually solemn considerations, +when he proceeded to turn Henry’s puritanical +homily after Agincourt into a ballade, and reproach +France, and himself by implication, with pride, gluttony, +idleness, unbridled covetousness, and sensuality.<a name="FnAnchor_32" href="#Footnote_32"><span class="sp">32</span></a> For the +moment, he must really have been thinking more of France +than of Charles of Orleans.</p> + +<p>And another lesson he learned. He who was only +to be released in case of peace begins to think upon the +disadvantages of war. “Pray for peace,” is his refrain: +a strange enough subject for the ally of Bernard d’Armagnac.<a name="FnAnchor_33" href="#Footnote_33"><span class="sp">33</span></a> +But this lesson was plain and practical; it had one side in +particular that was specially attractive for Charles; and he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page186"></a>186</span> +did not hesitate to explain it in so many words. “Everybody,” +he writes—I translate roughly—“everybody should +be much inclined to peace, for everybody has a deal to gain +by it.”<a name="FnAnchor_34" href="#Footnote_34"><span class="sp">34</span></a></p> + +<p>Charles made laudable endeavours to acquire English, +and even learned to write a rondel in that tongue of quite +average mediocrity.<a name="FnAnchor_35" href="#Footnote_35"><span class="sp">35</span></a> He was for some time billeted on +the unhappy Suffolk, who received fourteen shillings and +fourpence a day for his expenses; and from the fact that +Suffolk afterwards visited Charles in France while he was +negotiating the marriage of Henry VI., as well as the +terms of that nobleman’s impeachment, we may believe +there was some not unkindly intercourse between the +prisoner and his jailer: a fact of considerable interest +when we remember that Suffolk’s wife was the grand-daughter +of the poet Geoffrey Chaucer.<a name="FnAnchor_36" href="#Footnote_36"><span class="sp">36</span></a> Apart from +this, and a mere catalogue of dates and places, only one +thing seems evident in the story of Charles’s captivity. It +seems evident that, as these five-and-twenty years drew +on, he became less and less resigned. Circumstances +were against the growth of such a feeling. One after +another of his fellow-prisoners was ransomed and went +home. More than once he was himself permitted to +visit France; where he worked on abortive treaties and +showed himself more eager for his own deliverance than +for the profit of his native land. Resignation may follow +after a reasonable time upon despair; but if a man is +persecuted by a series of brief and irritating hopes, his +mind no more attains to a settled frame of resolution than +his eye would grow familiar with a night of thunder and +lightning. Years after, when he was speaking at the trial +of that Duke of Alençon who began life so hopefully as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page187"></a>187</span> +the boyish favourite of Joan of Arc, he sought to prove +that captivity was a harder punishment than death. “For +I have had experience myself,” he said; “and in my prison +of England, for the weariness, danger, and displeasure in +which I then lay, I have many a time wished I had been +slain at the battle where they took me.”<a name="FnAnchor_37" href="#Footnote_37"><span class="sp">37</span></a> This is a flourish, +if you will, but it is something more. His spirit would +sometimes rise up in a fine anger against the petty desires +and contrarieties of life. He would compare his own condition +with the quiet and dignified estate of the dead; and +aspire to lie among his comrades on the field of Agincourt, +as the Psalmist prayed to have the wings of a dove and dwell +in the uttermost parts of the sea. But such high thoughts +came to Charles only in a flash.</p> + +<p>John the Fearless had been murdered in his turn on +the bridge of Montereau so far back as 1419. His son, +Philip the Good—partly to extinguish the feud, partly +that he might do a popular action, and partly, in view +of his ambitious schemes, to detach another great vassal +from the throne of France—had taken up the cause of +Charles of Orleans, and negotiated diligently for his release. +In 1433 a Burgundian embassy was admitted to an interview +with the captive duke, in the presence of Suffolk. +Charles shook hands most affectionately with the ambassadors. +They asked after his health. “I am well +enough in body,” he replied, “but far from well in mind. +I am dying of grief at having to pass the best days of my life +in prison, with none to sympathise.” The talk falling on +the chances of peace, Charles referred to Suffolk if he were +not sincere and constant in his endeavours to bring it about. +“If peace depended on me,” he said, “I should procure it +gladly, were it to cost me my life seven days after.” We +may take this as showing what a large price he set, not so +much on peace, as on seven days of freedom. Seven days!—he +would make them seven years in the employment. +Finally, he assured the ambassadors of his good-will to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page188"></a>188</span> +Philip of Burgundy; squeezed one of them by the hand +and nipped him twice in the arm to signify things unspeakable +before Suffolk; and two days after sent them +Suffolk’s barber, one Jean Carnet, a native of Lille, to +testify more freely of his sentiments. “As I speak French,” +said this emissary, “the Duke of Orleans is more familiar +with me than any other of the household; and I can bear +witness he never said anything against Duke Philip.”<a name="FnAnchor_38" href="#Footnote_38"><span class="sp">38</span></a> +It will be remembered that this person, with whom he was +so anxious to stand well, was no other than his hereditary +enemy, the son of his father’s murderer. But the honest +fellow bore no malice, indeed—not he. He began exchanging +ballades with Philip, whom he apostrophises as his +companion, his cousin, and his brother. He assures him +that, soul and body, he is altogether Burgundian; and +protests that he has given his heart in pledge to him. Regarded +as the history of a vendetta, it must be owned that +Charles’s life has points of some originality. And yet there +is an engaging frankness about these ballades which disarms +criticism.<a name="FnAnchor_39" href="#Footnote_39"><span class="sp">39</span></a> You see Charles throwing himself head-foremost +into the trap; you hear Burgundy, in his answers, +begin to inspire him with his own prejudices, and draw +melancholy pictures of the misgovernment of France. +But Charles’s own spirits are so high and so amiable, +and he is so thoroughly convinced his cousin is a fine +fellow, that one’s scruples are carried away in the torrent +of his happiness and gratitude. And his would be a sordid +spirit who would not clap hands at the consummation +(Nov. 1440); when Charles, after having sworn on the +Sacrament that he would never again bear arms against +England, and pledged himself body and soul to the unpatriotic +faction in his own country, set out from London +with a light heart and a damaged integrity.</p> + +<p>In the magnificent copy of Charles’s poems, given +by our Henry VII. to Elizabeth of York on the occasion +of their marriage, a large illumination figures at the head +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page189"></a>189</span> +of one of the pages, which, in chronological perspective, +is almost a history of his imprisonment. It gives a view +of London with all its spires, the river passing through the +old bridge and busy with boats. One side of the white +Tower has been taken out, and we can see, as under a sort +of shrine, the paved room where the duke sits writing. He +occupies a high-backed bench in front of a great chimney; +red and black ink are before him; and the upper end of the +apartment is guarded by many halberdiers, with the red +cross of England on their breast. On the next side of the +tower he appears again, leaning out of window and gazing +on the river; doubtless there blows just then “a pleasant +wind from out the land of France,” and some ship comes +up the river: “the ship of good news.” At the door +we find him yet again; this time embracing a messenger, +while a groom stands by holding two saddled horses. And +yet farther to the left, a cavalcade defiles out of the tower; +the duke is on his way at last towards “the sunshine of +France.”</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>III</h5> + +<p>During the five-and-twenty years of his captivity +Charles had not lost in the esteem of his fellow-countrymen. +For so young a man, the head of so great a house +and so numerous a party, to be taken prisoner as he rode +in the vanguard of France, and stereotyped for all men in +this heroic attitude, was to taste untimeously the honours +of the grave. Of him, as of the dead, it would be ungenerous +to speak evil; what little energy he had displayed +would be remembered with piety, when all that +he had done amiss was courteously forgotten. As English +folk looked for Arthur; as Danes awaited the coming of +Ogier; as Somersetshire peasants or sergeants of the Old +Guard expected the return of Monmouth or Napoleon; +the countrymen of Charles of Orleans looked over the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page190"></a>190</span> +straits towards his English prison with desire and confidence. +Events had so fallen out while he was rhyming +ballades, that he had become the type of all that was +most truly patriotic. The remnants of his old party +had been the chief defenders of the unity of France. His +enemies of Burgundy had been notoriously favourers +and furtherers of English domination. People forgot that +his brother still lay by the heels for an unpatriotic treaty +with England, because Charles himself had been taken +prisoner patriotically fighting against it. That Henry V. +had left special orders against his liberation served to increase +the wistful pity with which he was regarded. And +when, in defiance of all contemporary virtue, and against +express pledges, the English carried war into their prisoner’s +fief, not only France, but all thinking men in +Christendom, were roused to indignation against the +oppressors, and sympathy with the victim. It was little +wonder if he came to bulk somewhat largely in the imagination +of the best of those at home. Charles le Boutteillier, +when (as the story goes) he slew Clarence at Beaugé, +was only seeking an exchange for Charles of Orleans.<a name="FnAnchor_40" href="#Footnote_40"><span class="sp">40</span></a> It +was one of Joan of Arc’s declared intentions to deliver the +captive duke. If there was no other way, she meant to +cross the seas and bring him home by force. And she +professed before her judges a sure knowledge that Charles +of Orleans was beloved of God.<a name="FnAnchor_41" href="#Footnote_41"><span class="sp">41</span></a></p> + +<p>Alas! it was not at all as a deliverer that Charles +returned to France. He was nearly fifty years old. Many +changes had been accomplished since, at twenty-three, +he was taken on the field of Agincourt. But of all these +he was profoundly ignorant, or had only heard of them in +the discoloured reports of Philip of Burgundy. He had the +ideas of a former generation, and sought to correct them by +the scandal of a factious party. With such qualifications +he came back eager for the domination, the pleasures, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page191"></a>191</span> +the display that befitted his princely birth. A long disuse +of all political activity combined with the flatteries of his +new friends to fill him with an overweening conceit of his +own capacity and influence. If aught had gone wrong in +his absence, it seemed quite natural men should look to him +for its redress. Was not King Arthur come again?</p> + +<p>The Duke of Burgundy received him with politic +honours. He took his guest by his foible for pageantry, +all the easier as it was a foible of his own; and Charles +walked right out of prison into much the same atmosphere +of trumpeting and bell-ringing as he had left behind when +he went in. Fifteen days after his deliverance he was +married to Mary of Cleves, at St. Omer. The marriage +was celebrated with the usual pomp of the Burgundian +court; there were joustings, and illuminations, and animals +that spouted wine; and many nobles dined together, <i>comme +en brigade</i>, and were served abundantly with many rich +and curious dishes.<a name="FnAnchor_42" href="#Footnote_42"><span class="sp">42</span></a> It must have reminded Charles not +a little of his first marriage at Compiègne; only then he +was two years the junior of his bride, and this time he was +five-and-thirty years her senior. It will be a fine question +which marriage promises more: for a boy of fifteen to lead +off with a lass of seventeen, or a man of fifty to make a match +of it with a child of fifteen. But there was something bitter +in both. The lamentations of Isabella will not have been +forgotten. As for Mary, she took up with one Jaquet +de la Lain, a sort of muscular Methody of the period, with +a huge appetite for tournaments, and a habit of confessing +himself the last thing before he went to bed.<a name="FnAnchor_43" href="#Footnote_43"><span class="sp">43</span></a> With such +a hero, the young duchess’s amours were most likely +innocent; and in all other ways she was a suitable partner +for the duke, and well fitted to enter into his pleasures.</p> + +<p>When the festivities at Saint Omer had come to an +end, Charles and his wife set forth by Ghent and Tournay. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page192"></a>192</span> +The towns gave him offerings of money as he passed through, +to help in the payment of his ransom. From all sides, +ladies and gentlemen thronged to offer him their services; +some gave him their sons for pages, some archers for a +bodyguard; and by the time he reached Tournay, he had +a following of 300 horse. Everywhere he was received as +though he had been the king of France.<a name="FnAnchor_44" href="#Footnote_44"><span class="sp">44</span></a> If he did not +come to imagine himself something of the sort, he certainly +forgot the existence of any one with a better claim to the +title. He conducted himself on the hypothesis that Charles +VII. was another Charles VI. He signed with enthusiasm +that treaty of Arras, which left France almost at the discretion +of Burgundy. On December 18 he was still no +further than Bruges, where he entered into a private treaty +with Philip; and it was not until January 14, ten weeks +after he disembarked in France, and attended by a ruck of +Burgundian gentlemen, that he arrived in Paris and offered +to present himself before Charles VII. The King sent word +that he might come, if he would, with a small retinue, but +not with his present following; and the duke, who was +mightily on his high horse after all the ovations he had +received, took the King’s attitude amiss, and turned aside +into Touraine, to receive more welcome and more presents, +and be convoyed by torchlight into faithful cities.</p> + +<p>And so you see here was King Arthur home again, +and matters nowise mended in consequence. The best +we can say is, that this last stage of Charles’s public life +was of no long duration. His confidence was soon knocked +out of him in the contact with others. He began to find +he was an earthen vessel among many vessels of brass; he +began to be shrewdly aware that he was no King Arthur. +In 1442, at Limoges, he made himself the spokesman of the +malcontent nobility. The King showed himself humiliatingly +indifferent to his counsels, and humiliatingly generous +towards his necessities. And there, with some blushes, he +may be said to have taken farewell of the political stage. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page193"></a>193</span> +A feeble attempt on the county of Asti is scarce worth the +name of exception. Thenceforward let Ambition wile +whom she may into the turmoil of events, our duke will +walk cannily in his well-ordered garden, or sit by the fire +to touch the slender reed.<a name="FnAnchor_45" href="#Footnote_45"><span class="sp">45</span></a></p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<p>If it were given each of us to transplant his life wherever +he pleased in time or space, with all the ages and all the +countries of the world to choose from, there would be quite +an instructive diversity of taste. A certain sedentary +majority would prefer to remain where they were. Many +would choose the Renaissance; many some stately and +simple period of Grecian life; and still more elect to pass a +few years wandering among the villages of Palestine with +an inspired conductor. For some of our quaintly vicious +contemporaries, we have the decline of the Roman Empire +and the reign of Henry III. of France. But there are others +not quite so vicious, who yet cannot look upon the world +with perfect gravity, who have never taken the categorical +imperative to wife, and have more taste for what is comfortable +than for what is magnanimous and high; and I can +imagine some of these casting their lot in the court of Blois +during the last twenty years of the life of Charles of Orleans.</p> + +<p>The duke and duchess, their staff of officers and ladies, +and the high-born and learned persons who were attracted +to Blois on a visit, formed a society for killing time and +perfecting each other in various elegant accomplishments, +such as we might imagine for an ideal watering-place +in the Delectable Mountains. The company hunted and +went on pleasure-parties; they played chess, tables, and +many other games. What we now call the history of +the period passed, I imagine, over the heads of these good +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194"></a>194</span> +people much as it passes over our own. News reached +them, indeed, of great and joyful import. William Peel +received eight livres and five sous from the duchess when +he brought the first tidings that Rouen was recaptured +from the English.<a name="FnAnchor_46" href="#Footnote_46"><span class="sp">46</span></a> A little later and the duke sang, in a +truly patriotic vein, the deliverance of Guyenne and Normandy.<a name="FnAnchor_47" href="#Footnote_47"><span class="sp">47</span></a> +They were liberal of rhymes and largesse, and +welcomed the prosperity of their country much as they +welcomed the coming of spring, and with no more thought +of collaborating towards the event. Religion was not +forgotten in the court of Blois. Pilgrimages were agreeable +and picturesque excursions. In those days a well-served +chapel was something like a good vinery in our own,—an +opportunity for display and the source of mild enjoyments. +There was probably something of his rooted delight in +pageantry, as well as a good deal of gentle piety, in the feelings +with which Charles gave dinner every Friday to thirteen +poor people, served them himself, and washed their feet +with his own hands.<a name="FnAnchor_48" href="#Footnote_48"><span class="sp">48</span></a> Solemn affairs would interest Charles +and his courtiers from their trivial side. The duke perhaps +cared less for the deliverance of Guyenne and Normandy +than for his own verses on the occasion; just as Dr. Russell’s +correspondence in <i>The Times</i> was among the most material +parts of the Crimean War for that talented correspondent. +And I think it scarcely cynical to suppose that religion as +well as patriotism was principally cultivated as a means of +filling up the day.</p> + +<p>It was not only messengers fiery red with haste and +charged with the destiny of nations who were made welcome +at the gates of Blois. If any man of accomplishment came +that way, he was sure of an audience, and something for +his pocket. The courtiers would have received Ben Jonson +like Drummond of Hawthornden, and a good pugilist like +Captain Barclay. They were catholic, as none but the +entirely idle can be catholic. It might be Pierre, called +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195"></a>195</span> +Dieu d’amours, the juggler; or it might be three high +English minstrels; or the two men, players of ghitterns, +from the kingdom of Scotland, who sang the destruction of +the Turks; or again Jehan Rognelet, player of instruments +of music, who played and danced with his wife and two +children; they would each be called into the castle to give +a taste of his proficiency before my lord the duke.<a name="FnAnchor_49" href="#Footnote_49"><span class="sp">49</span></a> Sometimes +the performance was of a more personal interest, and +produced much the same sensations as are felt on an English +green on the arrival of a professional cricketer, or round an +English billiard-table during a match between Roberts +and Cook. This was when Jehan Nègre, the Lombard, +came to Blois and played chess against all these chess-players, +and won much money from my lord and his intimates; +or when Baudet Harenc of Chalons made ballades +before all these ballade-makers.<a name="FnAnchor_50" href="#Footnote_50"><span class="sp">50</span></a></p> + +<p>It will not surprise the reader to learn they were all +makers of ballades and rondels. To write verses for May-day +seems to have been as much a matter of course as +to ride out with the cavalcade that went to gather hawthorn. +The choice of Valentines was a standing challenge, +and the courtiers pelted each other with humorous +and sentimental verses as in a literary carnival. If an +indecorous adventure befell our friend Maistre Estienne +le Gout, my lord the duke would turn it into the funniest +of rondels, all the rhymes being the names of the cases +of nouns or the moods of verbs; and Maistre Estienne would +make reply in similar fashion, seeking to prune the story +of its more humiliating episodes. If Frédet was too long +away from Court, a rondel went to upbraid him; and it was +in a rondel that Frédet would excuse himself. Sometimes +two or three, or as many as a dozen, would set to work on +the same refrain, the same idea, or in the same macaronic +jargon. Some of the poetasters were heavy enough; others +were not wanting in address; and the duchess herself was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page196"></a>196</span> +among those who most excelled. On one occasion eleven +competitors made a ballade on the idea,</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“I die of thirst beside the fountain’s edge”</p> +<p class="i05">(Je meurs de soif emprès de la fontaine).</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">These eleven ballades still exist; and one of them arrests +the attention rather from the name of the author than +from any special merit in itself. It purports to be the +work of François Villon; and so far as a foreigner can +judge (which is indeed a small way), it may very well +be his. Nay, and if any one thing is more probable than +another, in the great <i>tabula rasa</i>, or unknown land, which +we are fain to call the biography of Villon, it seems probable +enough that he may have gone upon a visit to Charles +of Orleans. Where Master Baudet Harenc, of Chalons, +found a sympathetic, or perhaps a derisive audience (for +who can tell nowadays the degree of Baudet’s excellence +in his art?), favour would not be wanting for the greatest +ballade-maker of all time. Great as would seem the incongruity, +it may have pleased Charles to own a sort of +kinship with ragged singers, and whimsically regard himself +as one of the confraternity of poets. And he would have +other grounds of intimacy with Villon. A room looking +upon Windsor gardens is a different matter from Villon’s +dungeon at Méun; yet each in his own degree had been tried +in prison. Each in his own way also loved the good things +of this life and the service of the Muses. But the same gulf +that separated Burns from his Edinburgh patrons would +separate the singer of Bohemia from the rhyming duke. +And it is hard to imagine that Villon’s training amongst +thieves, loose women, and vagabond students had fitted +him to move in a society of any dignity and courtliness. +Ballades are very admirable things; and a poet is doubtless +a most interesting visitor. But among the courtiers of +Charles there would be considerable regard for the proprieties +of etiquette; and even a duke will sometimes have +an eye to his teaspoons. Moreover, as a poet, I can conceive +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page197"></a>197</span> +he may have disappointed expectation. It need +surprise nobody if Villon’s ballade on the theme,</p> + +<p class="center f90">“I die of thirst beside the fountain’s edge,”</p> + +<p class="noind">was but a poor performance. He would make better +verses on the lee-side of a flagon at the sign of the Pomme +du Pin, than in a cushioned settle in the halls of Blois.</p> + +<p>Charles liked change of place. He was often not so +much travelling as making a progress; now to join the +King for some great tournament; now to visit King René, +at Tarascon, where he had a study of his own and saw +all manner of interesting things—Oriental curios, King +René painting birds, and, what particularly pleased him, +Triboulet, the dwarf jester, whose skull-cap was no bigger +than an orange.<a name="FnAnchor_51" href="#Footnote_51"><span class="sp">51</span></a> Sometimes the journeys were set about +on horseback in a large party, with the <i>fourriers</i> sent +forward to prepare a lodging at the next stage. We find +almost Gargantuan details of the provision made by these +officers against the duke’s arrival, of eggs and butter and +bread, cheese and peas and chickens, pike and bream and +barbel, and wine both white and red.<a name="FnAnchor_52" href="#Footnote_52"><span class="sp">52</span></a> Sometimes he +went by water in a barge, playing chess or tables with a +friend in the pavilion, or watching other vessels as they +went before the wind.<a name="FnAnchor_53" href="#Footnote_53"><span class="sp">53</span></a> Children ran along the bank, as +they do to this day on the Crinan Canal; and when Charles +threw in money they would dive and bring it up.<a name="FnAnchor_54" href="#Footnote_54"><span class="sp">54</span></a> As he +looked on their exploits, I wonder whether that room of +gold and silk and worsted came back into his memory, +with the device of little children in the river, and the sky +full of birds?</p> + +<p>He was a bit of a book-fancier, and had vied with his +brother Angoulême in bringing back the library of their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page198"></a>198</span> +grandfather Charles V., when Bedford put it up for sale in +London.<a name="FnAnchor_55" href="#Footnote_55"><span class="sp">55</span></a> The duchess had a library of her own; and we +hear of her borrowing romances from ladies in attendance +on the blue-stocking Margaret of Scotland.<a name="FnAnchor_56" href="#Footnote_56"><span class="sp">56</span></a> Not only +were books collected, but new books were written at the +court of Blois. The widow of one Jean Fougère, a book-binder, +seems to have done a number of odd commissions +for the bibliophilous count. She it was who received three +vellum skins to bind the duchess’s Book of Hours, and who +was employed to prepare parchment for the use of the +duke’s scribes. And she it was who bound in vermilion +leather the great manuscript of Charles’s own poems, +which was presented to him by his secretary, Anthony +Astesan, with the text in one column, and Astesan’s Latin +version in the other.<a name="FnAnchor_57" href="#Footnote_57"><span class="sp">57</span></a></p> + +<p>Such tastes, with the coming of years, would doubtless +take the place of many others. We find in Charles’s verse +much semi-ironical regret for other days, and resignation +to growing infirmities. He who had been “nourished in +the schools of love” now sees nothing either to please or +displease him. Old age has imprisoned him within doors, +where he means to take his ease, and let younger fellows +bestir themselves in life. He had written (in earlier days, +we may presume) a bright and defiant little poem in praise +of solitude. If they would but leave him alone with his +own thoughts and happy recollections, he declared it was +beyond the power of melancholy to affect him. But now, +when his animal strength has so much declined that he +sings the discomforts of winter instead of the inspirations +of spring, and he has no longer any appetite for life, he +confesses he is wretched when alone, and, to keep his +mind from grievous thoughts, he must have many people +around him, laughing, talking, and singing.<a name="FnAnchor_58" href="#Footnote_58"><span class="sp">58</span></a></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page199"></a>199</span></p> + +<p>While Charles was thus falling into years, the order of +things, of which he was the outcome and ornament, was +growing old along with him. The semi-royalty of the +princes of the blood was already a thing of the past; and +when Charles VII. was gathered to his fathers, a new king +reigned in France, who seemed every way the opposite of +royal. Louis XI. had aims that were incomprehensible, +and virtues that were inconceivable, to his contemporaries. +But his contemporaries were able enough to appreciate +his sordid exterior, and his cruel and treacherous spirit. +To the whole nobility of France he was a fatal and unreasonable +phenomenon. All such courts as that of Charles at +Blois, or his friend René’s in Provence, would soon be made +impossible: interference was the order of the day; hunting +was already abolished; and who should say what was to go +next? Louis, in fact, must have appeared to Charles +primarily in the light of a kill-joy. I take it, when missionaries +land in South Sea Islands and lay strange embargo on +the simplest things in life, the islanders will not be much +more puzzled and irritated than Charles of Orleans at the +policy of the Eleventh Louis. There was one thing, I seem +to apprehend, that had always particularly moved him; +and that was, any proposal to punish a person of his acquaintance. +No matter what treason he may have made or +meddled with, an Alençon or an Armagnac was sure to find +Charles reappear from private life and do his best to get him +pardoned. He knew them quite well. He had made rondels +with them. They were charming people in every way. +There must certainly be some mistake. Had not he himself +made anti-national treaties almost before he was out +of his nonage? And for the matter of that, had not every +one else done the like? Such are some of the thoughts +by which he might explain to himself his aversion to such +extremities; but it was on a deeper basis that the feeling +probably reposed. A man of his temper could not fail to +be impressed at the thought of disastrous revolutions in the +fortunes of those he knew. He would feel painfully the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page200"></a>200</span> +tragic contrast, when those who had everything to make +life valuable were deprived of life itself And it was shocking +to the clemency of his spirit, that sinners should be +hurried before their Judge without a fitting interval for +penitence and satisfaction. It was this feeling which +brought him at last, a poor, purblind blue-bottle of the +later autumn, into collision with “the universal spider,” +Louis XI. He took up the defence of the Duke of Brittany +at Tours. But Louis was then in no humour to hear +Charles’s texts and Latin sentiments; he had his back to the +wall, the future of France was at stake; and if all the old +men in the world had crossed his path, they would have had +the rough side of his tongue like Charles of Orleans. I have +found nowhere what he said, but it seems it was monstrously +to the point, and so rudely conceived that the old duke +never recovered the indignity. He got home as far as +Amboise, sickened, and died two days after (Jan. 4, 1465), +in the seventy-fourth year of his age. And so a whiff of +pungent prose stopped the issue of melodious rondels to +the end of time.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>V</h5> + +<p>The futility of Charles’s public life was of a piece +throughout. He never succeeded in any single purpose +he set before him; for his deliverance from England, +after twenty-five years of failure, and at the cost of dignity +and consistency, it would be ridiculously hyperbolical +to treat as a success. During the first part of his life he +was the stalking-horse of Bernard d’Armagnac; during the +second, he was the passive instrument of English diplomatists; +and before he was well entered on the third, he +hastened to become the dupe and catspaw of Burgundian +treason. On each of these occasions, a strong and not +dishonourable personal motive determined his behaviour. +In 1407 and the following years he had his father’s murder +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page201"></a>201</span> +uppermost in his mind. During his English captivity, that +thought was displaced by a more immediate desire for his +own liberation. In 1440 a sentiment of gratitude to Philip +of Burgundy blinded him to all else, and led him to break +with the tradition of his party and his own former life. He +was born a great vassal, and he conducted himself like a +private gentleman. He began life in a showy and brilliant +enough fashion, by the light of a petty personal chivalry. +He was not without some tincture of patriotism; but it was +resolvable into two parts: a preference for life among his +fellow-countrymen, and a barren point of honour. In +England, he could comfort himself by the reflection that “he +had been taken while loyally doing his devoir,” without +any misgiving as to his conduct in the previous years, when +he had prepared the disaster of Agincourt by wasteful feud. +This unconsciousness of the larger interests is perhaps +most happily exampled out of his own mouth. When +Alençon stood accused of betraying Normandy into the +hands of the English, Charles made a speech in his defence, +from which I have already quoted more than once. Alençon, +he said, had professed a great love and trust towards him; +“yet did he give no great proof thereof, when he sought to +betray Normandy; whereby he would have made me lose +an estate of 10,000 livres a year, and might have occasioned +the destruction of the kingdom and of all us Frenchmen.” +These are the words of one, mark you, against whom +Gloucester warned the English Council because of his +“great subtility and cautelous disposition.” It is not hard +to excuse the impatience of Louis XI. if such stuff was +foisted on him by way of political deliberation.</p> + +<p>This incapacity to see things with any greatness, this +obscure and narrow view, was fundamentally characteristic +of the man as well as of the epoch. It is not even +so striking in his public life, where he failed, as in his +poems, where he notably succeeded. For wherever we +might expect a poet to be unintelligent, it certainly would +not be in his poetry. And Charles is unintelligent even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202"></a>202</span> +there. Of all authors whom a modern may still read, and +read over again with pleasure, he has perhaps the least +to say. His poems seem to bear testimony rather to the +fashion of rhyming, which distinguished the age, than to +any special vocation in the man himself. Some of them +are drawing-room exercises, and the rest seem made by +habit. Great writers are struck with something in nature +or society, with which they become pregnant and longing; +they are possessed with an idea, and cannot be at peace +until they have put it outside of them in some distinct +embodiment. But with Charles literature was an object +rather than a mean; he was one who loved bandying +words for its own sake; the rigidity of intricate metrical +forms stood him in lieu of precise thought; instead of +communicating truth, he observed the laws of a game; +and when he had no one to challenge at chess or rackets, +he made verses in a wager against himself. From the +very idleness of the man’s mind, and not from intensity +of feeling, it happens that all his poems are more or +less autobiographical. But they form an autobiography +singularly bald and uneventful. Little is therein recorded +beside sentiments. Thoughts, in any true sense, he had +none to record. And if we can gather that he had been a +prisoner in England, that he had lived in the Orleannese, +and that he hunted and went in parties of pleasure, I +believe it is about as much definite experience as is to +be found in all these five hundred pages of autobiographical +verse. Doubtless, we find here and there a +complaint on the progress of the infirmities of age. Doubtless, +he feels the great change of the year, and distinguishes +winter from spring; winter as the time of snow and the +fireside; spring as the return of grass and flowers, the time +of St. Valentine’s day and a beating heart. And he feels +love after a fashion. Again and again we learn that Charles +of Orleans is in love, and hear him ring the changes through +the whole gamut of dainty and tender sentiment. But +there is never a spark of passion; and heaven alone knows +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203"></a>203</span> +whether there was any real woman in the matter, or the whole +thing was an exercise in fancy. If these poems were indeed +inspired by some living mistress, one would think he had +never seen, never heard, and never touched her. There +is nothing in any one of these so numerous love-songs +to indicate who or what the lady was. Was she dark or +fair, passionate or gentle like himself, witty or simple? +Was it always one woman? or are there a dozen here +immortalised in cold indistinction? The old English translator +mentions grey eyes in his version of one of the amorous +rondels; so far as I remember, he was driven by some +emergency of the verse; but in the absence of all sharp +lines of character and anything specific, we feel for the +moment a sort of surprise, as though the epithet were +singularly happy and unusual, or as though we had made +our escape from cloudland into something tangible and sure. +The measure of Charles’s indifference to all that now preoccupies +and excites a poet is best given by a positive example. +If, besides the coming of spring, any one external +circumstance may be said to have struck his imagination, +it was the despatch of <i>fourriers</i>, while on a journey, to +prepare the night’s lodging. This seems to be his favourite +image; it reappears like the upas-tree in the early +work of Coleridge: we may judge with what childish +eyes he looked upon the world, if one of the sights which +most impressed him was that of a man going to order dinner.</p> + +<p>Although they are not inspired by any deeper motive +than the common run of contemporaneous drawing-room +verses, those of Charles of Orleans are executed with inimitable +lightness and delicacy of touch. They deal with +floating and colourless sentiments, and the writer is never +greatly moved, but he seems always genuine. He makes +no attempt to set off thin conceptions with a multiplicity +of phrases. His ballades are generally thin and scanty of +import; for the ballade presented too large a canvas, and +he was preoccupied by technical requirements. But in the +rondel he has put himself before all competitors by a happy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204"></a>204</span> +knack and a prevailing distinction of manner. He is very +much more of a duke in his verses than in his absurd and +inconsequential career as a statesman; and how he shows +himself a duke is precisely by the absence of all pretension, +turgidity, or emphasis. He turns verses, as he would have +come into the king’s presence, with a quiet accomplishment +of grace.</p> + +<p>Théodore de Banville, the youngest poet of a famous +generation now nearly extinct, and himself a sure and +finished artist, knocked off, in his happiest vein, a few +experiments in imitation of Charles of Orleans. I would +recommend these modern rondels to all who care about +the old duke, not only because they are delightful in themselves, +but because they serve as a contrast to throw +into relief the peculiarities of their model. When de Banville +revives a forgotten form of verse—and he has already +had the honour of reviving the ballade—he does it in the +spirit of a workman choosing a good tool wherever he can +find one, and not at all in that of the dilettante, who seeks +to renew bygone forms of thought and make historic forgeries. +With the ballade this seemed natural enough; for +in connection with ballades the mind recurs to Villon, and +Villon was almost more of a modern than de Banville himself. +But in the case of the rondel, a comparison is challenged +with Charles of Orleans, and the difference between +two ages and two literatures is illustrated in a few poems +of thirteen lines. Something, certainly, has been retained +of the old movement; the refrain falls in time like a well-played +bass; and the very brevity of the thing, by hampering +and restraining the greater fecundity of the modern +mind, assists the imitation. But de Banville’s poems +are full of form and colour; they smack racily of modern +life, and own small kindred with the verse of other days, +when it seems as if men walked by twilight, seeing little, +and that with distracted eyes, and instead of blood, some +thin and spectral fluid circulated in their veins. They +might gird themselves for battle, make love, eat and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page205"></a>205</span> +drink, and acquit themselves manfully in all the external +parts of life; but of the life that is within, and those processes +by which we render ourselves an intelligent account +of what we feel and do, and so represent experience that we +for the first time make it ours, they had only a loose and +troubled possession. They beheld or took part in great +events, but there was no answerable commotion in their +reflective being; and they passed throughout turbulent +epochs in a sort of ghostly quiet and abstraction. Feeling +seems to have been strangely disproportioned to the occasion, +and words were laughably trivial and scanty to set +forth the feeling even such as it was. Juvenal des Ursins +chronicles calamity after calamity, with but one comment +for them all: that “it was great pity.” Perhaps, after too +much of our florid literature, we find an adventitious charm +in what is so different; and while the big drums are beaten +every day by perspiring editors over the loss of a cock-boat +or the rejection of a clause, and nothing is heard that is not +proclaimed with sound of trumpet, it is not wonderful if +we retire with pleasure into old books, and listen to authors +who speak small and clear, as if in a private conversation. +Truly this is so with Charles of Orleans. We are pleased +to find a small man without the buskin, and obvious sentiments +stated without affectation. If the sentiments are +obvious, there is all the more chance we may have experienced +the like. As we turn over the leaves, we may +find ourselves in sympathy with some one or other of +these staid joys and smiling sorrows. If we do we shall +be strangely pleased, for there is a genuine pathos in these +simple words, and the lines go with a lilt, and sing themselves +to music of their own.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_14" href="#FnAnchor_14"><span class="fn">14</span></a> Champollion-Figeac’s “Louis et Charles d’Orlèans,” p. 348.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_15" href="#FnAnchor_15"><span class="fn">15</span></a> D’Héricault’s admirable “Memoir,” prefixed to his edition of +Charles’s works, vol. i. p. xi.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_16" href="#FnAnchor_16"><span class="fn">16</span></a> Vallet de Viriville, “Charles VII. et son Époque,” ii. 428, note 2.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_17" href="#FnAnchor_17"><span class="fn">17</span></a> <i>See</i> Lecoy de la Marche, “Le Roi René,” i. 167.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_18" href="#FnAnchor_18"><span class="fn">18</span></a> Vallet, “Charles VII.,” ii. 85, 86, note 2.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_19" href="#FnAnchor_19"><span class="fn">19</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, pp. 193-198.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_20" href="#FnAnchor_20"><span class="fn">20</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, p. 209.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_21" href="#FnAnchor_21"><span class="fn">21</span></a> The student will see that there are facts cited, and expressions +borrowed, in this paragraph, from a period extending over almost the +whole of Charles’s life, instead of being confined entirely to his boyhood. +As I do not believe there was any change, so I do not believe +there is any anachronism involved.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_22" href="#FnAnchor_22"><span class="fn">22</span></a> “The Debate between the Heralds of France and England,” +translated and admirably edited by Mr. Henry Pyne. For the attribution +of this tract to Charles, the reader is referred to Mr. Pyne’s +conclusive argument.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_23" href="#FnAnchor_23"><span class="fn">23</span></a> Des Ursins.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_24" href="#FnAnchor_24"><span class="fn">24</span></a> Michelet, iv. App. 179, p. 337.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_25" href="#FnAnchor_25"><span class="fn">25</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, pp. 279-82.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_26" href="#FnAnchor_26"><span class="fn">26</span></a> Michelet, iv. pp. 123-24.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_27" href="#FnAnchor_27"><span class="fn">27</span></a> “Debate between the Heralds.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_28" href="#FnAnchor_28"><span class="fn">28</span></a> Sir H. Nicholas, “Agincourt.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_29" href="#FnAnchor_29"><span class="fn">29</span></a> “Debate between the Heralds.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_30" href="#FnAnchor_30"><span class="fn">30</span></a> Works (ed. d’Héricault), i. 43.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_31" href="#FnAnchor_31"><span class="fn">31</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> i. 143.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_32" href="#FnAnchor_32"><span class="fn">32</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> i. 190.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_33" href="#FnAnchor_33"><span class="fn">33</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> i. 144.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_34" href="#FnAnchor_34"><span class="fn">34</span></a> Works (ed. d’Héricault), i. 158.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_35" href="#FnAnchor_35"><span class="fn">35</span></a> M. Champollion-Figeac gives many in his editions of Charles’s +works, most (as I should think) of very doubtful authenticity, or +worse.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_36" href="#FnAnchor_36"><span class="fn">36</span></a> Rymer, x. 564; D’Héricault’s “Memoir,” p. xli.; Gairdner’s +“Paston Letters,” i. 27, 99.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_37" href="#FnAnchor_37"><span class="fn">37</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, p. 377.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_38" href="#FnAnchor_38"><span class="fn">38</span></a> Dom Plancher, iv. 178-9.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_39" href="#FnAnchor_39"><span class="fn">39</span></a> Works, i. 157-63.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_40" href="#FnAnchor_40"><span class="fn">40</span></a> Vallet’s “Charles VII.,” i. 251.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_41" href="#FnAnchor_41"><span class="fn">41</span></a> “Procès de Jeanne d’Arc,” i. 133-55.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_42" href="#FnAnchor_42"><span class="fn">42</span></a> Monstrelet.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_43" href="#FnAnchor_43"><span class="fn">43</span></a> Vallet’s “Charles VII.,” iii. chap. i. But see the chronicle that +bears Jaquet’s name; a lean and dreary book.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_44" href="#FnAnchor_44"><span class="fn">44</span></a> Monstrelet.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_45" href="#FnAnchor_45"><span class="fn">45</span></a> D’Héricault’s “Memoir,” xl. xli.; Vallet, “Charles VII.,” ii. 435.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_46" href="#FnAnchor_46"><span class="fn">46</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, p. 368.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_47" href="#FnAnchor_47"><span class="fn">47</span></a> Works, i. 115.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_48" href="#FnAnchor_48"><span class="fn">48</span></a> D’Héricault’s “Memoir,” xlv.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_49" href="#FnAnchor_49"><span class="fn">49</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, pp. 361, 381.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_50" href="#FnAnchor_50"><span class="fn">50</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, pp. 359, 361.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_51" href="#FnAnchor_51"><span class="fn">51</span></a> Lecoy de la Marche, “Roi René,” ii. 155, 177.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_52" href="#FnAnchor_52"><span class="fn">52</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, chaps, v. and vi.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_53" href="#FnAnchor_53"><span class="fn">53</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, p. 364; Works, i. 172.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_54" href="#FnAnchor_54"><span class="fn">54</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, p. 364: “Jeter de l’argent aux petis +enfans qui estoient au long de Bourbon, pour les faire nonner en +l’eau et aller querre l’argent au fond.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_55" href="#FnAnchor_55"><span class="fn">55</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, p. 387.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_56" href="#FnAnchor_56"><span class="fn">56</span></a> “Nouvelle Biographie Didot,” art. “Marie de Clèves“; Vallet, +“Charles VII.,” iii. 85, note 1.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_57" href="#FnAnchor_57"><span class="fn">57</span></a> Champollion-Figeac, pp. 383-386.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_58" href="#FnAnchor_58"><span class="fn">58</span></a> Works, ii. 57, 258.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page206"></a>206</span></p> +<h5>VIII</h5> + +<h3>SAMUEL PEPYS</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">In</span> two books a fresh light has recently been thrown on the +character and position of Samuel Pepys. Mr. Mynors +Bright has given us a new transcription of the Diary, increasing +it in bulk by near a third, correcting many errors, +and completing our knowledge of the man in some curious +and important points. We can only regret that he has +taken liberties with the author and the public. It is no +part of the duties of the editor of an established classic to +decide what may or may not be “tedious to the reader.” +The book is either an historical document or not, and in +condemning Lord Braybrooke Mr. Bright condemns himself. +As for the time-honoured phrase, “unfit for publication,” +without being cynical, we may regard it as the sign of a +precaution more or less commercial; and we may think, +without being sordid, that when we purchase six huge and +distressingly expensive volumes, we are entitled to be +treated rather more like scholars and rather less like children. +But Mr. Bright may rest assured: while we complain, +we are still grateful. Mr. Wheatley, to divide our obligation, +brings together, clearly and with no lost words, +a body of illustrative material.<a name="FnAnchor_59" href="#Footnote_59"><span class="sp">59</span></a> Sometimes we might +ask a little more; never, I think, less. And as a matter +of fact, a great part of Mr. Wheatley’s volume might be +transferred, by a good editor of Pepys, to the margin of the +text, for it is precisely what the reader wants.</p> + +<p>In the light of these two books, at least, we have now to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page207"></a>207</span> +read our author. Between them they contain all we can +expect to learn for, it may be, many years. Now, if ever, +we should be able to form some notion of that unparalleled +figure in the annals of mankind—unparalleled for three +good reasons: first, because he was a man known to his +contemporaries in a halo of almost historical pomp, and to +his remote descendants with an indecent familiarity, like a +tap-room comrade; second, because he has outstripped all +competitors in the art or virtue of a conscious honesty about +oneself; and, third, because, being in many ways a very +ordinary person, he has yet placed himself before the public +eye with such a fulness and such an intimacy of detail as +might be envied by a genius like Montaigne. Not then for +his own sake only, but as a character in a unique position, +endowed with a unique talent, and shedding a unique +light upon the lives of the mass of mankind, he is surely +worthy of prolonged and patient study.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>THE DIARY</h5> + +<p>That there should be such a book as Pepys’s Diary +is incomparably strange. Pepys, in a corrupt and idle +period, played the man in public employments, toiling +hard and keeping his honour bright. Much of the little +good that is set down to James the Second comes by right +to Pepys; and if it were little for a king, it is much for a +subordinate. To his clear, capable head was owing somewhat +of the greatness of England on the seas. In the +exploits of Hawke, Rodney, or Nelson, this dead Mr. Pepys +of the Navy Office had some considerable share. He stood +well by his business in the appalling plague of 1666. He was +loved and respected by some of the best and wisest men in +England. He was President of the Royal Society; and +when he came to die, people said of his conduct in that +solemn hour—thinking it needless to say more—that it was +answerable to the greatness of his life. Thus he walked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page208"></a>208</span> +in dignity, guards of soldiers sometimes attending him +in his walks, subalterns bowing before his periwig; and +when he uttered his thoughts they were suitable to his +state and services. On February 8, 1668, we find him +writing to Evelyn, his mind bitterly occupied with the +late Dutch war, and some thoughts of the different story +of the repulse of the Great Armada: “Sir, you will not +wonder at the backwardness of my thanks for the present +you made me, so many days since, of the Prospect of +the Medway, while the Hollander rode master in it, when +I have told you that the sight of it hath led me to such +reflections on my particular interest, by my employment, +in the reproach due to that miscarriage, as have given me +little less disquiet than he is fancied to have who found his +face in Michael Angelo’s hell. The same should serve me +also in excuse for my silence in celebrating your mastery +shown in the design and draught, did not indignation rather +than courtship urge me so far to commend them, as to wish +the furniture of our House of Lords changed from the story +of ’88 to that of ’67 (of Evelyn’s designing), till the pravity +of this were reformed to the temper of that age, wherein +God Almighty found his blessings more operative than, +I fear, he doth in ours his judgments.”</p> + +<p>This is a letter honourable to the writer, where the +meaning rather than the words is eloquent. Such was +the account he gave of himself to his contemporaries; +such thoughts he chose to utter, and in such language: +giving himself out for a grave and patriotic public servant. +We turn to the same date in the Diary by which +he is known, after two centuries, to his descendants. The +entry begins in the same key with the letter, blaming the +“madness of the House of Commons” and “the base +proceedings, just the epitome of all our public proceedings +in this age, of the House of Lords“; and then, without +the least transition, this is how our diarist proceeds: “To +the Strand, to my bookseller’s, and there bought an idle, +rogueish French book, ‘L’escholle des Filles,’ which I have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page209"></a>209</span> +bought in plain binding, avoiding the buying of it better +bound, because I resolve, as soon as I have read it, to +burn it, that it may not stand in the list of books, nor +among them, to disgrace them, if it should be found.” +Even in our day, when responsibility is so much more +clearly apprehended, the man who wrote the letter would +be notable; but what about the man, I do not say who +bought a roguish book, but who was ashamed of doing +so, yet did it, and recorded both the doing and the shame +in the pages of his daily journal?</p> + +<p>We all, whether we write or speak, must somewhat +drape ourselves when we address our fellows; at a given +moment we apprehend our character and acts by some +particular side; we are merry with one, grave with another, +as befits the nature and demands of the relation. +Pepys’s letter to Evelyn would have little in common +with that other one to Mrs. Knipp which he signed by the +pseudonym of <i>Dapper Dicky</i>; yet each would be suitable +to the character of his correspondent. There is no untruth +in this, for man, being a Protean animal, swiftly shares and +changes with his company and surroundings; and these +changes are the better part of his education in the world. +To strike a posture once for all, and to march through life +like a drum-major, is to be highly disagreeable to others +and a fool for oneself into the bargain. To Evelyn and to +Knipp we understand the double facing; but to whom was +he posing in the Diary, and what, in the name of astonishment, +was the nature of the pose? Had he suppressed all +mention of the book, or had he bought it, gloried in the +act, and cheerfully recorded his glorification, in either case +we should have made him out. But no; he is full of +precautions to conceal the “disgrace” of the purchase, +and yet speeds to chronicle the whole affair in pen and +ink. It is a sort of anomaly in human action, which we +can exactly parallel from another part of the Diary.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Pepys had written a paper of her too just complaints +against her husband, and written it in plain and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page210"></a>210</span> +very pungent English. Pepys, in an agony lest the world +should come to see it, brutally seizes and destroys the +tell-tale document; and then—you disbelieve your eyes—down +goes the whole story with unsparing truth and +in the cruellest detail. It seems he has no design but +to appear respectable, and here he keeps a private book +to prove he was not. You are at first faintly reminded +of some of the vagaries of the morbid religious diarist; +but at a moment’s thought the resemblance disappears. +The design of Pepys is not at all to edify; it is not from +repentance that he chronicles his peccadilloes, for he tells +us when he does repent, and, to be just to him, there often +follows some improvement. Again, the sins of the religious +diarist are of a very formal pattern, and are told with an +elaborate whine. But in Pepys you come upon good, +substantive misdemeanours; beams in his eye of which +he alone remains unconscious; healthy outbreaks of the +animal nature, and laughable subterfuges to himself that +always command belief and often engage the sympathies.</p> + +<p>Pepys was a young man for his age, came slowly to +himself in the world, sowed his wild oats late, took late +to industry, and preserved till nearly forty the headlong +gusto of a boy. So, to come rightly at the spirit in which +the Diary was written, we must recall a class of sentiments +which with most of us are over and done before the age +of twelve. In our tender years we still preserve a freshness +of surprise at our prolonged existence; events make an +impression out of all proportion to their consequence; we are +unspeakably touched by our own past adventures, and look +forward to our future personality with sentimental interest. +It was something of this, I think, that clung to Pepys. +Although not sentimental in the abstract, he was sweetly +sentimental about himself. His own past clung about his +heart, an evergreen. He was the slave of an association. +He could not pass by Islington, where his father used +to carry him to cakes and ale, but he must light at the +“King’s Head” and eat and drink “for remembrance +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page211"></a>211</span> +of the old house sake.” He counted it good fortune to lie +a night at Epsom to renew his old walks, “where Mrs. Hely +and I did use to walk and talk, with whom I had the first +sentiments of love and pleasure in a woman’s company, +discourse and taking her by the hand, she being a pretty +woman.” He goes about weighing up the <i>Assurance</i>, which +lay near Woolwich under water, and cries in a parenthesis, +“Poor ship, that I have been twice merry in, in Captain +Holland’s time“; and after revisiting the <i>Naseby</i>, now +changed into the <i>Charles</i>, he confesses “it was a great +pleasure to myself to see the ship that I began my good +fortune in.” The stone that he was cut for he preserved in +a case; and to the Turners he kept alive such gratitude +for their assistance, that for years, and after he had begun +to mount himself into higher zones, he continued to have +that family to dinner on the anniversary of the operation. +Not Hazlitt nor Rousseau had a more romantic passion +for their past, although at times they might express it +more romantically; and if Pepys shared with them this +childish fondness, did not Rousseau, who left behind him +the “Confessions,” or Hazlitt, who wrote the “Liber +Amoris,” and loaded his essays with loving personal detail, +share with Pepys in his unwearied egotism? For the +two things go hand in hand; or, to be more exact, it is +the first that makes the second either possible or pleasing.</p> + +<p>But, to be quite in sympathy with Pepys, we must +return once more to the experience of children. I can +remember to have written, in the fly-leaf of more than +one book, the date and the place where I then was—if, +for instance, I was ill in bed or sitting in a certain garden; +these were jottings for my future self; if I should chance on +such a note in after years, I thought it would cause me a +particular thrill to recognise myself across the intervening +distance. Indeed, I might come upon them now, and not +be moved one tittle—which shows that I have comparatively +failed in life, and grown older than Samuel Pepys. +For in the Diary we can find more than one such note of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page212"></a>212</span> +perfect childish egotism; as when he explains that his candle +is going out, “which makes me write thus slobberingly“; +or as in this incredible particularity, “To my study, where I +only wrote thus much of this day’s passages to this *, and so +out again“; or lastly, as here, with more of circumstance: +“I staid up till the bellman came by with his bell under +my window, as <i>I was writing of this very line</i>, and cried, +’Past one of the clock, and a cold, frosty, windy morning.’” +Such passages are not to be misunderstood. The +appeal to Samuel Pepys years hence is unmistakable. He +desires that dear, though unknown, gentleman keenly to +realise his predecessor; to remember why a passage was +uncleanly written; to recall (let us fancy, with a sigh) the +tones of the bellman, the chill of the early, windy morning, +and the very line his own romantic self was scribing +at the moment. The man, you will perceive, was making +reminiscences—a sort of pleasure by ricochet, which comforts +many in distress, and turns some others into sentimental +libertines: and the whole book, if you will but +look at it in that way, is seen to be a work of art to Pepys’s +own address.</p> + +<p>Here, then, we have the key to that remarkable attitude +preserved by him throughout his Diary, to that +unflinching—I had almost said, that unintelligent—sincerity +which makes it a miracle among human books. He +was not unconscious of his errors—far from it; he was often +startled into shame, often reformed, often made and broke +his vows of change. But whether he did ill or well, he was +still his own unequalled self; still that entrancing <i>ego</i> of whom +alone he cared to write; and still sure of his own affectionate +indulgence, when the parts should be changed, and the +writer come to read what he had written. Whatever he +did, or said, or thought, or suffered, it was still a trait of +Pepys, a character of his career; and as, to himself, he was +more interesting than Moses or than Alexander, so all +should be faithfully set down. I have called his Diary a +work of art. Now when the artist has found something, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page213"></a>213</span> +word or deed, exactly proper to a favourite character in +play or novel, he will neither suppress nor diminish it, +though the remark be silly or the act mean. The hesitation +of Hamlet, the credulity of Othello, the baseness of Emma +Bovary, or the irregularities of Mr. Swiveller, caused +neither disappointment nor disgust to their creators. And +so with Pepys and his adored protagonist: adored not +blindly, but with trenchant insight and enduring, human +toleration. I have gone over and over the greater part +of the Diary; and the points where, to the most suspicious +scrutiny, he has seemed not perfectly sincere, are so few, +so doubtful, and so petty, that I am ashamed to name +them. It may be said that we all of us write such a diary +in airy characters upon our brain; but I fear there is a +distinction to be made; I fear that as we render to our +consciousness an account of our daily fortunes and behaviour, +we too often weave a tissue of romantic compliments +and dull excuses; and even if Pepys were the +ass and coward that men call him, we must take rank as +sillier and more cowardly than he. The bald truth about +oneself, what we are all too timid to admit when we are +not too dull to see it, that was what he saw clearly and +set down unsparingly.</p> + +<p>It is improbable that the Diary can have been carried +on in the same single spirit in which it was begun. Pepys +was not such an ass, but he must have perceived, as he +went on, the extraordinary nature of the work he was +producing. He was a great reader, and he knew what +other books were like. It must, at least, have crossed his +mind that someone might ultimately decipher the manuscript, +and he himself, with all his pains and pleasures, be +resuscitated in some later day; and the thought, although +discouraged, must have warmed his heart. He was not +such an ass, besides, but he must have been conscious +of the deadly explosives, the gun-cotton and the giant +powder, he was hoarding in his drawer. Let some contemporary +light upon the Journal, and Pepys was plunged +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page214"></a>214</span> +for ever in social and political disgrace. We can trace the +growth of his terrors by two facts. In 1660, while the +Diary was still in its youth, he tells about it, as a matter +of course, to a lieutenant in the navy; but in 1669, when +it was already near an end, he could have bitten his tongue +out, as the saying is, because he had let slip his secret to +one so grave and friendly as Sir William Coventry. And +from two other facts I think we may infer that he had +entertained, even if he had not acquiesced in, the thought +of a far-distant publicity. The first is of capital importance: +the Diary was not destroyed. The second—that +he took unusual precautions to confound the cipher in +“rogueish” passages—proves, beyond question, that he +was thinking of some other reader besides himself. Perhaps +while his friends were admiring the “greatness of +his behaviour” at the approach of death, he may have +had a twinkling hope of immortality. <i>Mens cujusque is +est quisque</i>, said his chosen motto; and, as he had stamped +his mind with every crook and foible in the pages of the +Diary, he might feel that what he left behind him was +indeed himself. There is perhaps no other instance so +remarkable of the desire of man for publicity and an enduring +name. The greatness of his life was open, yet he longed +to communicate its smallness also; and, while contemporaries +bowed before him, he must buttonhole posterity with +the news that his periwig was once alive with nits. But +this thought, although I cannot doubt he had it, was neither +his first nor his deepest; it did not colour one word that +he wrote; and the Diary, for as long as he kept it, remained +what it was when he began, a private pleasure +for himself. It was his bosom secret; it added a zest +to all his pleasures; he lived in and for it, and might well +write these solemn words, when he closed that confidant +for ever: “And so I betake myself to that course which +is almost as much as to see myself go into the grave; for +which, and all the discomforts that will accompany my +being blind, the good God prepare me.”</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page215"></a>215</span></p> +<h5>A LIBERAL GENIUS</h5> + +<p>Pepys spent part of a certain winter Sunday, when he +had taken physic, composing “a song in praise of a liberal +genius (such as I take my own to be) to all studies and +pleasures.” The song was unsuccessful, but the Diary is, +in a sense, the very song that he was seeking; and his +portrait by Hales, so admirably reproduced in Mynors +Bright’s edition, is a confirmation of the Diary. Hales, it +would appear, had known his business; and though he +put his sitter to a deal of trouble, almost breaking his +neck “to have the portrait full of shadows,” and draping +him in an Indian gown hired expressly for the purpose, +he was preoccupied about no merely picturesque effects, +but to portray the essence of the man. Whether we read +the picture by the Diary or the Diary by the picture, we +shall at least agree that Hales was among the number of +those who can “surprise the manners in the face.” Here +we have a mouth pouting, moist with desires; eyes greedy, +protuberant, and yet apt for weeping too; a nose great +alike in character and dimensions; and altogether a most +fleshy, melting countenance. The face is attractive +by its promise of reciprocity. I have used the word <i>greedy</i>, +but the reader must not suppose that he can change it for +that closely kindred one of <i>hungry</i>, for there is here no +aspiration, no waiting for better things, but an animal +joy in all that comes. It could never be the face of an artist; +it is the face of a <i>viveur</i>—kindly, pleased and pleasing, +protected from excess and upheld in contentment by the +shifting versatility of his desires. For a single desire is +more rightly to be called a lust; but there is health in a +variety, where one may balance and control another.</p> + +<p>The whole world, town or country, was to Pepys a +garden of Armida. Wherever he went, his steps were +winged with the most eager expectation; whatever he did, +it was done with the most lively pleasure. An insatiable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216"></a>216</span> +curiosity in all the shows of the world and all the secrets of +knowledge filled him brimful of the longing to travel, and +supported him in the toils of study. Rome was the dream +of his life; he was never happier than when he read or +talked of the Eternal City. When he was in Holland he +was “with child” to see any strange thing. Meeting some +friends and singing with them in a palace near the Hague, +his pen fails him to express his passion of delight, “the more +so because in a heaven of pleasure and in a strange country.” +He must go to see all famous executions. He must needs +visit the body of a murdered man, defaced “with a broad +wound,” he says, “that makes my hand now shake to write of +it.” He learned to dance, and was “like to make a dancer.” +He learned to sing, and walked about Gray’s Inn Fields +“humming to myself (which is now my constant practice) +the trillo.” He learned to play the lute, the flute, the +flageolet, and the theorbo, and it was not the fault of his +intention if he did not learn the harpsichord or the spinet. +He learned to compose songs, and burned to give forth “a +scheme and theory of music not yet ever made in the +world.” When he heard “a fellow whistle like a bird +exceeding well,” he promised to return another day and +give an angel for a lesson in the art. Once, he writes, “I +took the Bezan back with me, and with a brave gale and +tide reached up that night to the Hope, taking great +pleasure in learning the seamen’s manner of singing when +they sound the depths.” If he found himself rusty in his +Latin grammar, he must fall to it like a schoolboy. He +was a member of Harrington’s Club till its dissolution, and +of the Royal Society before it had received the name. +Boyle’s “Hydrostatics” was “of infinite delight” to him, +walking in Barnes Elms. We find him comparing Bible +concordances, a captious judge of sermons, deep in Descartes +and Aristotle. We find him, in a single year, studying +timber and the measurement of timber; tar and oil, hemp, +and the process of preparing cordage; mathematics and +accounting; the hull and the rigging of ships from a model; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217"></a>217</span> +and “looking and informing himself of the (naval) stores +with“—hark to the fellow!—“great delight.” His +familiar spirit of delight was not the same with Shelley’s; +but how true it was to him through life! He is only copying +something, and behold, he “takes great pleasure +to rule the lines, and have the capital words wrote with +red ink“; he has only had his coal-cellar emptied and +cleaned, and behold, “it do please him exceedingly.” A +hog’s harslett is “a piece of meat he loves.” He cannot +ride home in my Lord Sandwich’s coach, but he must +exclaim, with breathless gusto, “his noble, rich coach.” +When he is bound for a supper-party, he anticipates a +“glut of pleasure.” When he has a new watch, “to see +my childishness,” says he, “I could not forbear carrying it +in my hand and seeing what o’clock it was an hundred +times.” To go to Vauxhall, he says, and “to hear the +nightingales and other birds, hear fiddles, and there a harp +and here a Jew’s trump, and here laughing, and there fine +people walking, is mighty divertising.” And the nightingales, +I take it, were particularly dear to him; and it was +again “with great pleasure” that he paused to hear them +as he walked to Woolwich, while the fog was rising and +the April sun broke through.</p> + +<p>He must always be doing something agreeable, and, by +preference, two agreeable things at once. In his house +he had a box of carpenter’s tools, two dogs, an eagle, a +canary, and a blackbird that whistled tunes, lest, even in +that full life, he should chance upon an empty moment. +If he had to wait for a dish of poached eggs, he must put +in the time by playing on the flageolet; if a sermon were +dull, he must read in the book of Tobit or divert his mind +with sly advances on the nearest women. When he walked, +it must be with a book in his pocket to beguile the way in +case the nightingales were silent; and even along the streets +of London, with so many pretty faces to be spied for and +dignitaries to be saluted, his trail was marked by little debts +“for wine, pictures, etc.,” the true headmark of a life intolerant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page218"></a>218</span> +of any joyless passage. He had a kind of idealism +in pleasure; like the princess in the fairy story, he was +conscious of a rose-leaf out of place. Dearly as he loved to +talk, he could not enjoy nor shine in a conversation when he +thought himself unsuitably dressed. Dearly as he loved +eating, he “knew not how to eat alone“; pleasure for him +must heighten pleasure; and the eye and ear must be flattered +like the palate ere he avow himself content. He had no zest +in a good dinner when it fell to be eaten “in a bad street and +in a periwig-maker’s house“; and a collation was spoiled +for him by indifferent music. His body was indefatigable, +doing him yeoman’s service in this breathless chase of +pleasures. On April 11, 1662, he mentions that he went +to bed “weary, <i>which I seldom am</i>“; and already over +thirty, he would sit up all night cheerfully to see a comet. +But it is never pleasure that exhausts the pleasure-seeker; +for in that career, as in all others, it is failure that kills. +The man who enjoys so wholly, and bears so impatiently +the slightest widowhood from joy, is just the man to lose +a night’s rest over some paltry question of his right to +fiddle on the leads, or to be “vexed to the blood” by +a solecism in his wife’s attire; and we find in consequence +that he was always peevish when he was hungry, and that +his head “aked mightily” after a dispute. But nothing +could divert him from his aim in life; his remedy in care +was the same as his delight in prosperity: it was with +pleasure, and with pleasure only, that he sought to drive +out sorrow; and, whether he was jealous of his wife or +skulking from a bailiff, he would equally take refuge in a +theatre. There, if the house be full and the company +noble, if the songs be tunable, the actors perfect, and the +play diverting, this odd hero of the secret Diary, this +private self-adorer, will speedily be healed of his distresses.</p> + +<p>Equally pleased with a watch, a coach, a piece of +meat, a tune upon the fiddle, or a fact in hydrostatics, +Pepys was pleased yet more by the beauty, the worth, +the mirth, or the mere scenic attitude in life of his fellow-creatures. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page219"></a>219</span> +He shows himself throughout a sterling +humanist. Indeed, he who loves himself, not in idle +vanity, but with a plenitude of knowledge, is the best +equipped of all to love his neighbours. And perhaps +it is in this sense that charity may be most properly said +to begin at home. It does not matter what quality a person +has: Pepys can appreciate and love him for it. He “fills +his eyes” with the beauty of Lady Castlemaine; indeed, +he may be said to dote upon the thought of her for years; if +a woman be good-looking and not painted, he will walk +miles to have another sight of her; and even when a lady +by a mischance spat upon his clothes, he was immediately +consoled when he had observed that she was pretty. But, +on the other hand, he is delighted to see Mrs. Pett upon her +knees, and speaks thus of his Aunt James: “a poor, religious, +well-meaning, good soul, talking of nothing but God +Almighty, and that with so much innocence that mightily +pleased me.” He is taken with Pen’s merriment and +loose songs, but not less taken with the sterling worth +of Coventry. He is jolly with a drunken sailor, but listens +with interest and patience, as he rides the Essex roads, to +the story of a Quaker’s spiritual trials and convictions. +He lends a critical ear to the discourse of kings and royal +dukes. He spends an evening at Vauxhall with “Killigrew +and young Newport—loose company,” says he, “but worth +a man’s being in for once, to know the nature of it, and their +manner of talk and lives.” And when a rag-boy lights him +home, he examines him about his business and other ways +of livelihood for destitute children. This is almost half-way +to the beginning of philanthropy; had it only been the +fashion, as it is at present, Pepys had perhaps been a man +famous for good deeds. And it is through this quality that +he rises, at times, superior to his surprising egotism; his +interest in the love affairs of others is, indeed, impersonal; +he is filled with concern for my Lady Castlemaine, whom +he only knows by sight, shares in her very jealousies, +joys with her in her successes; and it is not untrue, however +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page220"></a>220</span> +strange it seems in his abrupt presentment, that he +loved his maid Jane because she was in love with his man +Tom.</p> + +<p>Let us hear him, for once, at length: “So the women +and W. Hewer and I walked upon the Downes, where +a flock of sheep was; and the most pleasant and innocent +sight that ever I saw in my life. We found a shepherd +and his little boy reading, far from any houses or sight +of people, the Bible to him; so I made the boy read to me, +which he did with the forced tone that children do usually +read, that was mighty pretty; and then I did give him +something, and went to the father, and talked with him. +He did content himself mightily in my liking his boy’s reading, +and did bless God for him, the most like one of the old +patriarchs that ever I saw in my life, and it brought those +thoughts of the old age of the world in my mind for two or +three days after. We took notice of his woolen knit stockings +of two colours mixed, and of his shoes shod with iron, +both at the toe and heels, and with great nails in the +soles of his feet, which was mighty pretty; and taking +notice of them, ‘Why,’ says the poor man, ‘the downes, +you see, are full of stones, and we are faine to shoe ourselves +thus; and these,’ says he, ‘will make the stones +fly till they ring before me.’ I did give the poor man +something, for which he was mighty thankful, and I tried +to cast stones with his horne crooke. He values his dog +mightily, that would turn a sheep any way which he would +have him, when he goes to fold them; told me there was +about eighteen score sheep in his flock, and that he hath +four shillings a week the year round for keeping of them; +and Mrs. Turner, in the common fields here, did gather one +of the prettiest nosegays that ever I saw in my life.”</p> + +<p>And so the story rambles on to the end of that day’s +pleasuring; with cups of milk, and glowworms, and people +walking at sundown with their wives and children, and +all the way home Pepys still dreaming “of the old age +of the world” and the early innocence of man. This +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221"></a>221</span> +was how he walked through life, his eyes and ears wide +open, and his hand, you will observe, not shut; and thus +he observed the lives, the speech, and the manners of his +fellow-men, with prose fidelity of detail and yet a lingering +glamour of romance.</p> + +<p>It was “two or three days after” that he extended +this passage in the pages of his Journal, and the style +has thus the benefit of some reflection. It is generally +supposed that, as a writer, Pepys must rank at the bottom +of the scale of merit. But a style which is indefatigably +lively, telling, and picturesque through six large volumes +of everyday experience, which deals with the whole matter +of a life, and yet is rarely wearisome, which condescends +to the most fastidious particulars, and yet sweeps all away +in the forthright current of the narrative,—such a style may +be ungrammatical, it may be inelegant, it may be one tissue +of mistakes, but it can never be devoid of merit. The first +and the true function of the writer has been thoroughly +performed throughout; and though the manner of his +utterance may be childishly awkward, the matter has been +transformed and assimilated by his unfeigned interest and +delight. The gusto of the man speaks out fierily after all +these years. For the difference between Pepys and Shelley, +to return to that half-whimsical approximation, is one of +quality but not one of degree; in his sphere, Pepys felt as +keenly, and his is the true prose of poetry—prose because +the spirit of the man was narrow and earthly, but poetry +because he was delightedly alive. Hence, in such a passage +as this about the Epsom shepherd, the result upon the +reader’s mind is entire conviction and unmingled pleasure. +So, you feel, the thing fell out, not otherwise; and you +would no more change it than you would change a sublimity +of Shakespeare’s, a homely touch of Bunyan’s, or a favoured +reminiscence of your own.</p> + +<p>There never was a man nearer being an artist, who yet +was not one. The tang was in the family; while he was +writing the journal for our enjoyment in his comely house +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page222"></a>222</span> +in Navy Gardens, no fewer than two of his cousins were +tramping the fens, kit under arm, to make music to the +country girls. But he himself, though he could play so +many instruments, and pass judgment in so many fields +of art, remained an amateur. It is not given to any one +so keenly to enjoy, without some greater power to understand. +That he did not like Shakespeare as an artist for +the stage may be a fault, but it is not without either +parallel or excuse. He certainly admired him as a poet; +he was the first beyond mere actors on the rolls of that +innumerable army who have got “To be or not to be” by +heart. Nor was he content with that; it haunted his +mind; he quoted it to himself in the pages of the Diary, +and, rushing in where angels fear to tread, he set it to +music. Nothing, indeed, is more notable than the heroic +quality of the verses that our little sensualist in a periwig +chose out to marry with his own mortal strains. Some +gust from brave Elizabethan times must have warmed his +spirit, as he sat tuning his sublime theorbo. “To be or +not to be. Whether ’tis nobler“—“Beauty retire, thou +dost my pity move“—“It is decreed, nor shall thy fate, +O Rome“;—open and dignified in the sound, various +and majestic in the sentiment, it was no inapt, as it was +certainly no timid, spirit that selected such a range of +themes. Of “Gaze not on Swans,” I know no more than +these four words; yet that also seems to promise well. +It was, however, on a probable suspicion, the work of +his master, Mr. Berkenshaw—as the drawings that figure +at the breaking up of a young ladies’ seminary are the +work of the professor attached to the establishment. Mr. +Berkenshaw was not altogether happy in his pupil. The +amateur cannot usually rise into the artist, some leaven of +the world still clogging him; and we find Pepys behaving +like a pickthank to the man who taught him composition. +In relation to the stage, which he so warmly loved and +understood, he was not only more hearty but more generous +to others. Thus he encounters Colonel Reames, “a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223"></a>223</span> +man,” says he, “who understands and loves a play as +well as I, and I love him for it.” And again, when he +and his wife had seen a most ridiculous insipid piece, +“Glad we were,” he writes, “that Betterton had no part +in it.” It is by such a zeal and loyalty to those who labour +for his delight that the amateur grows worthy of the artist. +And it should be kept in mind that, not only in art, but in +morals, Pepys rejoiced to recognise his betters. There was +not one speck of envy in the whole human-hearted egotist.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>RESPECTABILITY</h5> + +<p>When writers inveigh against respectability, in the +present degraded meaning of the word, they are usually +suspected of a taste for clay pipes and beer-cellars; and +their performances are thought to hail from the <i>Owl’s +Nest</i> of the comedy. They have something more, however, +in their eye than the dulness of a round million dinner-parties +that sit down yearly in Old England. For to do +anything because others do it, and not because the thing is +good, or kind, or honest in its own right, is to resign all +moral control and captaincy upon yourself, and go post-haste +to the devil with the greater number. We smile over +the ascendancy of priests; but I had rather follow a priest +than what they call the leaders of society. No life can +better than that of Pepys illustrate the dangers of this respectable +theory of living. For what can be more untoward +than the occurrence, at a critical period, and while +the habits are still pliable, of such a sweeping transformation +as the return of Charles the Second? Round went the +whole fleet of England on the other tack; and while a few +tall pintas, Milton or Pen, still sailed a lonely course by +the stars and their own private compass, the cock-boat, +Pepys, must go about with the majority among “the stupid +starers and the loud huzzas.”</p> + +<p>The respectable are not led so much by any desire of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224"></a>224</span> +applause as by a positive need for countenance. The +weaker and the tamer the man, the more will he require +this support; and any positive quality relieves him, by +just so much, of this dependence. In a dozen ways, Pepys +was quite strong enough to please himself without regard +for others; but his positive qualities were not co-extensive +with the field of conduct; and in many parts of life he +followed, with gleeful precision, in the footprints of the +contemporary Mrs. Grundy. In morals, particularly, he +lived by the countenance of others; felt a slight from +another more keenly than a meanness in himself; and then +first repented when he was found out. You could talk of +religion or morality to such a man; and by the artist side +of him, by his lively sympathy and apprehension, he could +rise, as it were dramatically, to the significance of what you +said. All that matter in religion which has been nicknamed +other-worldliness was strictly in his gamut; but a rule of +life that should make a man rudely virtuous, following +right in good report and ill report, was foolishness and a +stumbling-block to Pepys. He was much thrown across +the Friends; and nothing can be more instructive than his +attitude towards these most interesting people of that age. +I have mentioned how he conversed with one as he rode; +when he saw some brought from a meeting under arrest, +“I would to God,” said he, “they would either conform, +or be more wise and not be catched“; and to a Quaker in +his own office he extended a timid though effectual protection. +Meanwhile there was growing up next door to him +that beautiful nature, William Pen. It is odd that Pepys +condemned him for a fop; odd, though natural enough +when you see Pen’s portrait, that Pepys was jealous of him +with his wife. But the cream of the story is when Pen +publishes his “Sandy Foundation Shaken,” and Pepys has +it read aloud by his wife. “I find it,” he says, “so well +writ as, I think, it is too good for him ever to have writ it; +and it is a serious sort of book, and <i>not fit for everybody to +read</i>.” Nothing is more galling to the merely respectable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page225"></a>225</span> +than to be brought in contact with religious ardour. Pepys +had his own foundation, sandy enough, but dear to him +from practical considerations, and he would read the book +with true uneasiness of spirit; for conceive the blow if, by +some plaguy accident, this Pen were to convert him! It +was a different kind of doctrine that he judged profitable +for himself and others. “A good sermon of Mr. Gifford’s +at our church, upon ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of heaven.’ +A very excellent and persuasive, good and moral sermon. +He showed, like a wise man, that righteousness is a surer +moral way of being rich than sin and villainy.” It is thus +that respectable people desire to have their Greathearts +address them, telling, in mild accents, how you may make +the best of both worlds, and be a moral hero without +courage, kindness, or troublesome reflection; and thus the +Gospel, cleared of Eastern metaphor, becomes a manual +of worldly prudence, and a handybook for Pepys and the +successful merchant.</p> + +<p>The respectability of Pepys was deeply grained. He +has no idea of truth except for the Diary. He has no care +that a thing shall be, if it but appear; gives out that he has +inherited a good estate, when he has seemingly got nothing +but a lawsuit; and is pleased to be thought liberal when he +knows he has been mean. He is conscientiously ostentatious. +I say conscientiously, with reason. He could never +have been taken for a fop, like Pen, but arrayed himself +in a manner nicely suitable to his position. For long he +hesitated to assume the famous periwig; for a public man +should travel gravely with the fashions, not foppishly +before, nor dowdily behind, the central movement of his +age. For long he durst not keep a carriage; that, in his +circumstances, would have been improper; but a time +comes, with the growth of his fortune, when the impropriety +has shifted to the other side, and he is “ashamed to +be seen in a hackney.” Pepys talked about being “a +Quaker or some very melancholy thing“; for my part, I +can imagine nothing so melancholy, because nothing half +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page226"></a>226</span> +so silly, as to be concerned about such problems. But such +respectability and the duties of society haunt and burden +their poor devotees; and what seems at first the very primrose +path of life, proves difficult and thorny like the rest. +And the time comes to Pepys, as to all the merely respectable, +when he must not only order his pleasures, but even +clip his virtuous movements, to the public pattern of the +age. There was some juggling among officials to avoid +direct taxation; and Pepys, with a noble impulse, growing +ashamed of this dishonesty, designed to charge himself with +£1000; but finding none to set him an example, “nobody +of our ablest merchants” with this moderate liking for +clean hands, he judged it “not decent“; he feared it would +“be thought vain glory“; and, rather than appear singular, +cheerfully remained a thief. One able merchant’s +countenance, and Pepys had dared to do an honest act! +Had he found one brave spirit, properly recognised by +society, he might have gone far as a disciple. Mrs. Turner, +it is true, can fill him full of sordid scandal, and make him +believe, against the testimony of his senses, that Pen’s +venison pasty stank like the devil; but, on the other hand, +Sir William Coventry can raise him by a word into another +being. Pepys, when he is with Coventry, talks in the vein +of an old Roman. What does he care for office or emolument? +“Thank God, I have enough of my own,” says he, +“to buy me a good book and a good fiddle, and I have a +good wife.” And again, we find this pair projecting an old +age when an ungrateful country shall have dismissed them +from the field of public service; Coventry living retired +in a fine house, and Pepys dropping in, “it may be, to read +a chapter of Seneca.”</p> + +<p>Under this influence, the only good one in his life, Pepys +continued zealous and, for the period, pure in his employment. +He would not be “bribed to be unjust,” he says, +though he was “not so squeamish as to refuse a present +after,” suppose the King to have received no wrong. His +new arrangement for the victualling of Tangier, he tells us +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227"></a>227</span> +with honest complacency, will save the King a thousand +and gain Pepys three hundred pounds a year—a statement +which exactly fixes the degree of the age’s enlightenment. +But for his industry and capacity no praise can be too high. +It was an unending struggle for the man to stick to his +business in such a garden of Armida as he found this life; +and the story of his oaths, so often broken, so courageously +renewed, is worthy rather of admiration that the contempt +it has received.</p> + +<p>Elsewhere, and beyond the sphere of Coventry’s influence, +we find him losing scruples and daily complying +further with the age. When he began the Journal, he was +a trifle prim and puritanic; merry enough, to be sure, over +his private cups, and still remembering Magdalene ale and +his acquaintance with Mrs. Ainsworth of Cambridge. But +youth is a hot season with all; when a man smells April +and May he is apt at times to stumble; and in spite of a +disordered practice, Pepys’s theory, the better things that +he approved and followed after, we may even say were +strict. Where there was “tag, rag, and bobtail, dancing, +singing, and drinking,” he felt “ashamed, and went away“; +and when he slept in church he prayed God forgive him. +In but a little while we find him with some ladies keeping +each other awake “from spite,” as though not to sleep in +church were an obvious hardship; and yet later he calmly +passes the time of service, looking about him, with a perspective-glass, +on all the pretty women. His favourite +ejaculation, “Lord!” occurs but once that I have observed +in 1660, never in ’61, twice in ’62, and at least five times in +’63; after which the “Lords” may be said to pullulate like +herrings, with here and there a solitary “damned,” as it +were a whale among the shoal. He and his wife, once filled +with dudgeon by some innocent freedoms at a marriage, +are soon content to go pleasuring with my Lord Brouncker’s +mistress, who was not even, by his own account, the most +discreet of mistresses. Tag, rag, and bobtail, dancing, +singing, and drinking, become his natural element; actors +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page228"></a>228</span> +and actresses and drunken, roaring courtiers are to be found +in his society; until the man grew so involved with +Saturnalian manners and companions that he was shot +almost unconsciously into the grand domestic crash of +1668.</p> + +<p>That was the legitimate issue and punishment of years +of staggering walk and conversation. The man who has +smoked his pipe for half a century in a powder-magazine +finds himself at last the author and the victim of a hideous +disaster. So with our pleasant-minded Pepys and his +peccadilloes. All of a sudden, as he still trips dexterously +enough among the dangers of a double-faced career, thinking +no great evil, humming to himself the trillo, Fate takes +the further conduct of that matter from his hands, and +brings him face to face with the consequences of his acts. +For a man still, after so many years, the lover, although +not the constant lover, of his wife,—for a man, besides, +who was so greatly careful of appearances,—the revelation +of his infidelities was a crushing blow. The tears that +he shed, the indignities that he endured, are not to be +measured. A vulgar woman, and now justly incensed, Mrs. +Pepys spared him no detail of suffering. She was violent, +threatening him with the tongs; she was careless of his +honour, driving him to insult the mistress whom she had +driven him to betray and to discard; worst of all, she was +hopelessly inconsequent in word and thought and deed, now +lulling him with reconciliations, and anon flaming forth +again with the original anger. Pepys had not used his +wife well; he had wearied her with jealousies, even while +himself unfaithful; he had grudged her clothes and pleasures, +while lavishing both upon himself; he had abused her in +words; he had bent his fist at her in anger; he had once +blacked her eye; and it is one of the oddest particulars in +that odd Diary of his, that, while the injury is referred to +once in passing, there is no hint as to the occasion or the +manner of the blow. But now, when he is in the wrong, +nothing can exceed the long-suffering affection of this impatient +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page229"></a>229</span> +husband. While he was still sinning and still undiscovered, +he seems not to have known a touch of penitence +stronger than what might lead him to take his wife to the +theatre, or for an airing, or to give her a new dress by way +of compensation. Once found out, however, and he seems +to himself to have lost all claim to decent usage. It is +perhaps the strongest instance of his externality. His +wife may do what she pleases, and though he may groan, +it will never occur to him to blame her; he has no weapon +left but tears and the most abject submission. We should +perhaps have respected him more had he not given way so +utterly—above all, had he refused to write, under his wife’s +dictation, an insulting letter to his unhappy fellow-culprit, +Miss Willet; but somehow I believe we like him better as +he was.</p> + +<p>The death of his wife, following so shortly after, must +have stamped the impression of this episode upon his mind. +For the remaining years of his long life we have no Diary +to help us, and we have seen already how little stress is to +be laid upon the tenor of his correspondence; but what +with the recollection of the catastrophe of his married life, +what with the natural influence of his advancing years and +reputation, it seems not unlikely that the period of gallantry +was at an end for Pepys; and it is beyond a doubt that he +sat down at last to an honoured and agreeable old age +among his books and music, the correspondent of Sir Isaac +Newton, and, in one instance at least, the poetical counsellor +of Dryden. Through all this period, that Diary which +contained the secret memoirs of his life, with all its inconsistencies +and escapades, had been religiously preserved; +nor, when he came to die, does he appear to have provided +for its destruction. So we may conceive him faithful to +the end to all his dear and early memories; still mindful +of Mrs. Hely in the woods at Epsom; still lighting at Islington +for a cup of kindness to the dead; still, if he heard again +that air that once so much disturbed him, thrilling at the +recollection of the love that bound him to his wife.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_59" href="#FnAnchor_59"><span class="fn">59</span></a> H. R. Wheatley, “Samuel Pepys and the World he Lived in.” +1880.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page230"></a>230</span></p> +<h5>IX</h5> + +<h3>JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN</h3> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>THE CONTROVERSY ABOUT FEMALE RULE</h5> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">When</span> first the idea became widely spread among men +that the Word of God, instead of being truly the foundation +of all existing institutions, was rather a stone which +the builders had rejected, it was but natural that the consequent +havoc among received opinions should be accompanied +by the generation of many new and lively hopes for +the future. Somewhat as in the early days of the French +Revolution, men must have looked for an immediate and +universal improvement in their condition. Christianity, +up to that time, had been somewhat of a failure politically. +The reason was now obvious, the capital flaw was detected, +the sickness of the body politic traced at last to its efficient +cause. It was only necessary to put the Bible thoroughly +into practice, to set themselves strenuously to realise in +life the Holy Commonwealth, and all abuses and iniquities +would surely pass away. Thus, in a pageant played at +Geneva in the year 1523, the world was represented as a +sick man at the end of his wits for help, to whom his doctor +recommends Lutheran specifics.<a name="FnAnchor_60" href="#Footnote_60"><span class="sp">60</span></a></p> + +<p>The Reformers themselves had set their affections in +a different world, and professed to look for the finished +result of their endeavours on the other side of death. They +took no interest in politics as such; they even condemned +political action as Antichristian: notably, Luther in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page231"></a>231</span> +case of the Peasants’ War. And yet, as the purely religious +question was inseparably complicated with political difficulties, +and they had to make opposition, from day to day, +against principalities and powers, they were led, one after +another, and again and again, to leave the sphere which +was more strictly their own, and meddle, for good and evil, +with the affairs of State. Not much was to be expected +from interference in such a spirit. Whenever a minister +found himself galled or hindered, he would be inclined to +suppose some contravention of the Bible. Whenever +Christian liberty was restrained (and Christian liberty for +each individual would be about co-extensive with what he +wished to do), it was obvious that the State was Antichristian. +The great thing, and the one thing, was to push +the Gospel and the Reformer’s own interpretation of it. +Whatever helped was good; whatever hindered was evil; +and if this simple classification proved inapplicable over +the whole field, it was no business of his to stop and reconcile +incongruities. He had more pressing concerns on hand; +he had to save souls; he had to be about his Father’s business. +This short-sighted view resulted in a doctrine that +was actually Jesuitical in application. They had no serious +ideas upon politics, and they were ready, nay, they +seemed almost bound, to adopt and support whichever +ensured for the moment the greatest benefit to the souls +of their fellow-men. They were dishonest in all sincerity. +Thus Labitte, in the introduction to a book<a name="FnAnchor_61" href="#Footnote_61"><span class="sp">61</span></a> in which he +exposes the hypocritical democracy of the Catholics under +the League, steps aside for a moment to stigmatise the +hypocritical democracy of the Protestants. And nowhere +was this expediency in political questions more apparent +than about the question of female sovereignty. So much +was this the case that one James Thomasius, of Leipsic, +wrote a little paper<a name="FnAnchor_62" href="#Footnote_62"><span class="sp">62</span></a> about the religious partialities of those +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page232"></a>232</span> +who took part in the controversy, in which some of these +learned disputants cut a very sorry figure.</p> + +<p>Now Knox has been from the first a man well hated; +and it is somewhat characteristic of his luck that he figures +here in the very forefront of the list of partial scribes who +trimmed their doctrine with the wind in all good conscience, +and were political weathercocks out of conviction. Not +only has Thomasius mentioned him, but Bayle has taken +the hint from Thomasius, and dedicated a long note to the +matter at the end of his article on the Scottish Reformer. +This is a little less than fair. If any one among the evangelists +of that period showed more serious political sense than +another, it was assuredly Knox; and even in this very +matter of female rule, although I do not suppose anyone +nowadays will feel inclined to endorse his sentiments, I +confess I can make great allowance for his conduct. The +controversy, besides, has an interest of its own, in view of +later controversies.</p> + +<p>John Knox, from 1556 to 1559, was resident in Geneva, +as minister, jointly with Goodman, of a little church of +English refugees. He and his congregation were banished +from England by one woman, Mary Tudor, and proscribed +in Scotland by another, the Regent Mary of Guise. The +coincidence was tempting; here were many abuses centring +about one abuse; here was Christ’s Gospel persecuted +in the two kingdoms by one anomalous power. He had +not far to go to find the idea that female government was +anomalous. It was an age, indeed, in which women, +capable and incapable, played a conspicuous part upon +the stage of European history; and yet their rule, whatever +may have been the opinion of here and there a wise man or +enthusiast, was regarded as an anomaly by the great bulk +of their contemporaries. It was defended as an anomaly. +It, and all that accompanied and sanctioned it, was set +aside as a single exception; and no one thought of reasoning +down from queens and extending their privileges to +ordinary women. Great ladies, as we know, had the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page233"></a>233</span> +privilege of entering into monasteries and cloisters, otherwise +forbidden to their sex. As with one thing, so with +another. Thus, Margaret of Navarre wrote books with +great acclamation, and no one, seemingly, saw fit to call +her conduct in question; but Mademoiselle de Gournay, +Montaigne’s adopted daughter, was in a controversy with +the world as to whether a woman might be an author without +incongruity. Thus, too, we have Théodore Agrippa +d’Aubigné writing to his daughters about the learned +women of his century, and cautioning them, in conclusion, +that the study of letters was unsuited to ladies of a middling +station, and should be reserved for princesses.<a name="FnAnchor_63" href="#Footnote_63"><span class="sp">63</span></a> And once +more, if we desire to see the same principle carried to ludicrous +extreme, we shall find that Reverend Father in God, +the Abbot of Brantôme, claiming, on the authority of some +lord of his acquaintance, a privilege, or rather a duty, of +free love for great princesses, and carefully excluding other +ladies from the same gallant dispensation.<a name="FnAnchor_64" href="#Footnote_64"><span class="sp">64</span></a> One sees the +spirit in which these immunities were granted; and how +they were but the natural consequence of that awe for +courts and kings that made the last writer tell us, with +simple wonder, how Catherine de Medici would “laugh her +fill just like another” over the humours of pantaloons and +zanies. And such servility was, of all things, what would +touch most nearly the republican spirit of Knox. It was +not difficult for him to set aside this weak scruple of loyalty. +The lantern of his analysis did not always shine with a very +serviceable light; but he had the virtue, at least, to carry +it into many places of fictitious holiness, and was not +abashed by the tinsel divinity that hedged kings and +queens from his contemporaries. And so he could put the +proposition in the form already mentioned: there was +Christ’s Gospel persecuted in the two kingdoms by one +anomalous power; plainly, then, the “regiment of women” +was Antichristian. Early in 1558 he communicated this +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page234"></a>234</span> +discovery to the world, by publishing at Geneva his notorious +book—“The First Blast of the Trumpet against the +Monstrous Regiment of Women.”<a name="FnAnchor_65" href="#Footnote_65"><span class="sp">65</span></a></p> + +<p>As a whole, it is a dull performance; but the preface, +as is usual with Knox, is both interesting and morally fine. +Knox was not one of those who are humble in the hour +of triumph; he was aggressive even when things were at +their worst. He had a grim reliance in himself, or rather +in his mission; if he were not sure that he was a great +man, he was at least sure that he was one set apart to do +great things. And he judged simply that whatever passed +in his mind, whatever moved him to flee from persecution +instead of constantly facing it out, or, as here, to publish +and withhold his name from the title-page of a critical work, +would not fail to be of interest, perhaps of benefit, to the +world. There may be something more finely sensitive +in the modern humour, that tends more and more to withdraw +a man’s personality from the lessons he inculcates +or the cause that he has espoused; but there is a loss herewith +of wholesome responsibility; and when we find in +the works of Knox, as in the Epistles of Paul, the man himself +standing nakedly forward, courting and anticipating +criticism, putting his character, as it were, in pledge for +the sincerity of his doctrine, we had best waive the question +of delicacy, and make our acknowledgments for a lesson +of courage, not unnecessary in these days of anonymous +criticism, and much light, otherwise unattainable, on the +spirit in which great movements were initiated and carried +forward. Knox’s personal revelations are always interesting; +and, in the case of the “First Blast,” as I have said, +there is no exception to the rule. He begins by stating +the solemn responsibility of all who are watchmen over +God’s flock; and all are watchmen (he goes on to explain, +with that fine breadth of spirit that characterises him even +when, as here, he shows himself most narrow), all are +watchmen “whose eyes God doth open, and whose conscience +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page235"></a>235</span> +he pricketh to admonish the ungodly.” And with +the full consciousness of this great duty before him, he sets +himself to answer the scruples of timorous or worldly-minded +people. How can a man repent, he asks, unless +the nature of his transgression is made plain to him? “And +therefore I say,” he continues, “that of necessity it is that +this monstriferous empire of women (which among all +enormities that this day do abound upon the face of the +whole earth, is most detestable and damnable) be openly +and plainly declared to the world, to the end that some may +repent and be saved.” To those who think the doctrine +useless, because it cannot be expected to amend those +princes whom it would dispossess if once accepted, he +makes answer in a strain that shows him at his greatest. +After having instanced how the rumour of Christ’s censures +found its way to Herod in his own court, “even so,” he +continues, “may the sound of our weak trumpet, by the +support of some wind (blow it from the south, or blow it +from the north, it is of no matter), come to the ears of the +chief offenders. <i>But whether it do or not, yet dare we not +cease to blow as God will give strength. For we are debtors +to more than to princes, to wit, to the great multitude of our +brethren</i>, of whom, no doubt, a great number have heretofore +offended by error and ignorance.”</p> + +<p>It is for the multitude, then, he writes; he does not +greatly hope that his trumpet will be audible in palaces, +or that crowned women will submissively discrown themselves +at his appeal; what he does hope, in plain English, +is to encourage and justify rebellion; and we shall see, +before we have done, that he can put his purpose into words +as roundly as I can put it for him. This he sees to be a +matter of much hazard; he is not “altogether so brutish +and insensible, but that he has laid his account what the +finishing of the work may cost.” He knows that he will +find many adversaries, since “to the most part of men, +lawful and godly appeareth whatsoever antiquity hath +received.” He looks for opposition, “not only of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page236"></a>236</span> +ignorant multitude, but of the wise, politic, and quiet +spirits of the earth.” He will be called foolish, curious, +despiteful, and a sower of sedition; and one day, perhaps, +for all he is now nameless, he may be attainted of treason. +Yet he has “determined to obey God, notwithstanding +that the world shall rage thereat.” Finally, he makes +some excuse for the anonymous appearance of this first +instalment: it is his purpose thrice to blow the trumpet +in this matter, if God so permit; twice he intends to do it +without name; but at the last blast to take the odium upon +himself, that all others may be purged.</p> + +<p>Thus he ends the preface, and enters upon his argument +with a secondary title: “The First Blast to awake Women +degenerate.” We are in the land of assertion without +delay. That a woman should bear rule, superiority, +dominion or empire over any realm, nation, or city, he tells +us, is repugnant to nature, contumely to God, and a subversion +of good order. Women are weak, frail, impatient, +feeble, and foolish. God has denied to woman wisdom to +consider, or providence to foresee, what is profitable to a +commonwealth. Women have been very lightly esteemed; +they have been denied the tutory of their own sons, and +subjected to the unquestionable sway of their husbands; +and surely it is irrational to give the greater where the less +has been withheld, and suffer a woman to reign supreme +over a great kingdom who would be allowed no authority +by her own fireside. He appeals to the Bible; but though +he makes much of the first transgression and certain strong +texts in Genesis and Paul’s Epistles, he does not appeal +with entire success. The cases of Deborah and Huldah +can be brought into no sort of harmony with his thesis. +Indeed, I may say that, logically, he left his bones there; +and that it is but the phantom of an argument that he +parades thenceforward to the end. Well was it for Knox +that he succeeded no better; it is under this very ambiguity +about Deborah that we shall find him fain to creep +for shelter before he is done with the regiment of women. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page237"></a>237</span> +After having thus exhausted Scripture, and formulated +its teaching in the somewhat blasphemous maxim that the +man is placed above the woman, even as God above the +angels, he goes on triumphantly to adduce the testimonies +of Tertullian, Augustine, Ambrose, Basil, Chrysostom, and +the Pandects; and having gathered this little cloud of +witnesses about him, like pursuivants about a herald, he +solemnly proclaims all reigning women to be traitoresses +and rebels against God; discharges all men thenceforward +from holding any office under such monstrous regiment, +and calls upon all the lieges with one consent to <i>“study +to repress the inordinate pride and tyranny” of queens</i>. If +this is not treasonable teaching, one would be glad to know +what is; and yet, as if he feared he had not made the case +plain enough against himself, he goes on to deduce the +startling corollary that all oaths of allegiance must be incontinently +broken. If it was sin thus to have sworn even +in ignorance, it were obstinate sin to continue to respect +them after fuller knowledge. Then comes the peroration, +in which he cries aloud against the cruelties of that cursed +Jezebel of England—that horrible monster Jezebel of +England; and after having predicted sudden destruction +to her rule and to the rule of all crowned women, and +warned all men that if they presume to defend the same +when any “noble heart” shall be raised up to vindicate +the liberty of his country, they shall not fail to perish themselves +in the ruin, he concludes with a last rhetorical flourish: +“And therefore let all men be advertised, for <span class="sc">the Trumpet +hath once blown</span>.”</p> + +<p>The capitals are his own. In writing, he probably felt +the want of some such reverberation of the pulpit under +strong hands as he was wont to emphasise his spoken utterances +withal; there would seem to him a want of passion +in the orderly lines of type; and I suppose we may take +the capitals as a mere substitute for the great voice with +which he would have given it forth, had we heard it from +his own lips. Indeed, as it is, in this little strain of rhetoric +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page238"></a>238</span> +about the trumpet, this current allusion to the fall of +Jericho, that alone distinguishes his bitter and hasty production, +he was probably right, according to all artistic +canon, thus to support and accentuate in conclusion the +sustained metaphor of a hostile proclamation. It is curious, +by the way, to note how favourite an image the trumpet +was with the Reformer. He returns to it again and again; +it is the Alpha and Omega of his rhetoric; it is to him what +a ship is to the stage sailor; and one would almost fancy +he had begun the world as a trumpeter’s apprentice. The +partiality is surely characteristic. All his life long he +was blowing summonses before various Jerichos, some of +which fell duly, but not all. Wherever he appears in +history his speech is loud, angry, and hostile; there is no +peace in his life, and little tenderness; he is always sounding +hopefully to the front for some rough enterprise. And +as his voice had something of the trumpet’s hardness, it +had something also of the trumpet’s warlike inspiration. +So Randolph, possibly fresh from the sound of the Reformer’s +preaching, writes of him to Cecil: “Where your +honour exhorteth us to stoutness, I assure you the voice +of one man is able, in an hour, to put more life in us than +six hundred trumpets continually blustering in our ears.”<a name="FnAnchor_66" href="#Footnote_66"><span class="sp">66</span></a></p> + +<p>Thus was the proclamation made. Nor was it long in +wakening all the echoes of Europe. What success might +have attended it, had the question decided been a purely +abstract question, it is difficult to say. As it was, it was +to stand or fall not by logic, but by political needs and +sympathies. Thus, in France, his doctrine was to have +some future, because Protestants suffered there under the +feeble and treacherous regency of Catherine de Medici; +and thus it was to have no future anywhere else, because +the Protestant interest was bound up with the prosperity +of Queen Elizabeth. This stumbling-block lay at the very +threshold of the matter; and Knox, in the text of the +“First Blast,” had set everybody the wrong example and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page239"></a>239</span> +gone to the ground himself. He finds occasion to regret +“the blood of innocent Lady Jane Dudley.” But Lady +Jane Dudley, or Lady Jane Grey, as we call her, was a +would-be traitoress and rebel against God, to use his own +expressions. If, therefore, political and religious sympathy +led Knox himself into so grave a partiality, what was he +to expect from his disciples? If the trumpet gave so +ambiguous a sound, who could heartily prepare himself +for the battle? The question whether Lady Jane Dudley +was an innocent martyr, or a traitoress against God, whose +inordinate pride and tyranny had been effectually repressed, +was thus left altogether in the wind; and it was +not, perhaps, wonderful if many of Knox’s readers concluded +that all right and wrong in the matter turned upon +the degree of the sovereign’s orthodoxy and possible helpfulness +to the Reformation. He should have been the +more careful of such an ambiguity of meaning, as he must +have known well the lukewarm indifference and dishonesty +of his fellow-reformers in political matters. He had already, +in 1556 or 1557, talked the matter over with his great +master, Calvin, in “a private conversation“; and the +interview<a name="FnAnchor_67" href="#Footnote_67"><span class="sp">67</span></a> must have been truly distasteful to both parties. +Calvin, indeed, went a far way with him in theory, and +owned that the “government of women was a deviation +from the original and proper order of nature, to be ranked, +no less than slavery, among the punishments consequent +upon the fall of man.” But, in practice, their two roads +separated. For the Man of Geneva saw difficulties in the +way of the Scripture proof in the cases of Deborah and +Huldah, and in the prophecy of Isaiah that queens should +be the nursing mothers of the Church. And as the Bible +was not decisive, he thought the subject should be let alone, +because, “by custom and public consent and long practice, +it has been established that realms and principalities may +descend to females by hereditary right, and it would not +be lawful to unsettle governments which are ordained by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page240"></a>240</span> +the peculiar providence of God.” I imagine Knox’s ears +must have burned during this interview. Think of him +listening dutifully to all this—how it would not do to meddle +with anointed kings—how there was a peculiar providence +in these great affairs; and then think of his own peroration, +and the “noble heart” whom he looks for “to vindicate +the liberty of his country“; or his answer to Queen Mary, +when she asked him who he was, to interfere in the affairs +of Scotland: “Madame, a subject born within the same!” +Indeed, the two doctors who differed at this private conversation +represented, at the moment, two principles of +enormous import in the subsequent history of Europe. +In Calvin we have represented that passive obedience, +that toleration of injustice and absurdity, that holding +back of the hand from political affairs as from something +unclean, which lost France, if we are to believe M. Michelet, +for the Reformation; a spirit necessarily fatal in the long-run +to the existence of any sect that may profess it; a +suicidal doctrine that survives among us to this day in +narrow views of personal duty, and the low political morality +of many virtuous men. In Knox, on the other hand, we +see foreshadowed the whole Puritan Revolution and the +scaffold of Charles I.</p> + +<p>There is little doubt in my mind that this interview +was what caused Knox to print his book without a name.<a name="FnAnchor_68" href="#Footnote_68"><span class="sp">68</span></a> +It was a dangerous thing to contradict the Man of Geneva, +and doubly so, surely, when one had had the advantage of +correction from him in a private conversation; and Knox +had his little flock of English refugees to consider. If +they had fallen into bad odour at Geneva, where else was +there left to flee to? It was printed, as I said, in 1558; +and, by a singular <i>mal-à-propos</i>, in that same year Mary +died, and Elizabeth succeeded to the throne of England. +And just as the accession of Catholic Queen Mary had condemned +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page241"></a>241</span> +female rule in the eyes of Knox, the accession of +Protestant Queen Elizabeth justified it in the eyes of his +colleagues. Female rule ceases to be an anomaly, not +because Elizabeth can “reply to eight ambassadors in one +day in their different languages,” but because she represents +for the moment the political future of the Reformation. +The exiles troop back to England with songs of praise in +their mouths. The bright occidental star, of which we +have all read in the Preface to the Bible, has risen over +the darkness of Europe. There is a thrill of hope through +the persecuted Churches of the Continent. Calvin writes +to Cecil, washing his hands of Knox and his political heresies. +The sale of the “First Blast” is prohibited in Geneva; +and along with it the bold book of Knox’s colleague, Goodman—a +book dear to Milton—where female rule was briefly +characterised as a “monster in nature and disorder among +men.”<a name="FnAnchor_69" href="#Footnote_69"><span class="sp">69</span></a> Any who may ever have doubted, or been for a +moment led away by Knox or Goodman, or their own +wicked imaginations, are now more than convinced. They +have seen the occidental star. Aylmer, with his eye +set greedily on a possible bishopric, and “the better to +obtain the favour of the new Queen,”<a name="FnAnchor_70" href="#Footnote_70"><span class="sp">70</span></a> sharpens his pen to +confound Knox by logic. What need? He has been confounded +by facts. “Thus what had been to the refugees +of Geneva as the very word of God, no sooner were they +back in England than, behold! it was the word of the +devil.”<a name="FnAnchor_71" href="#Footnote_71"><span class="sp">71</span></a></p> + +<p>Now, what of the real sentiments of these loyal subjects +of Elizabeth? They professed a holy horror for Knox’s +position: let us see if their own would please a modern +audience any better, or was, in substance, greatly +different.</p> + +<p>John Aylmer, afterwards Bishop of London, published +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page242"></a>242</span> +an answer to Knox, under the title of “An Harbour for +Faithful and true Subjects against the late Blown Blast +concerning the government of Women.”<a name="FnAnchor_72" href="#Footnote_72"><span class="sp">72</span></a> And certainly +he was a thought more acute, a thought less precipitate +and simple, than his adversary. He is not to be led away +by such captious terms as <i>natural</i> and <i>unnatural</i>. It is +obvious to him that a woman’s disability to rule is not +natural in the same sense in which it is natural for a stone +to fall or fire to burn. He is doubtful, on the whole, whether +this disability be natural at all; nay, when he is laying it +down that a woman should not be a priest, he shows some +elementary conception of what many of us now hold to be +the truth of the matter. “The bringing-up of women,” +he says, “is commonly such” that they cannot have the +necessary qualifications, “for they are not brought up in +learning in schools, nor trained in disputation.” And even +so, he can ask, “Are there not in England women, think +you, that for learning and wisdom could tell their household +and neighbours as good a tale as any Sir John there?” +For all that, his advocacy is weak. If women’s rule is not +unnatural in a sense preclusive of its very existence, it is +neither so convenient nor so profitable as the government +of men. He holds England to be specially suitable for the +government of women, because there the governor is more +limited and restrained by the other members of the constitution +than in other places; and this argument has kept his +book from being altogether forgotten. It is only in hereditary +monarchies that he will offer any defence of the +anomaly. “If rulers were to be chosen by lot or suffrage, +he would not that any women should stand in the election, +but men only.” The law of succession of crowns was a +law to him, in the same sense as the law of evolution is a +law to Mr. Herbert Spencer; and the one and the other +counsels his readers, in a spirit suggestively alike, not to +kick against the pricks or seek to be more wise than He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page243"></a>243</span> +who made them.<a name="FnAnchor_73" href="#Footnote_73"><span class="sp">73</span></a> If God has put a female child into the +direct line of inheritance, it is God’s affair. His strength +will be perfected in her weakness. He makes the Creator +address the objectors in this not very flattering vein: “I, +that could make Daniel, a sucking babe, to judge better +than the wisest lawyers; a brute beast to reprehend the +folly of a prophet; and poor fishers to confound the great +clerks of the world—cannot I make a woman to be a good +ruler over you?” This is the last word of his reasoning. +Although he was not altogether without Puritanic leaven, +shown particularly in what he says of the incomes of Bishops, +yet it was rather loyalty to the old order of things than +any generous belief in the capacity of women, that raised +up for them this clerical champion. His courtly spirit +contrasts singularly with the rude, bracing republicanism +of Knox. “Thy knee shall bow,” he says, “thy cap shall +off, thy tongue shall speak reverently of thy sovereign.” +For himself, his tongue is even more than reverent. Nothing +can stay the issue of his eloquent adulation. Again +and again, “the remembrance of Elizabeth’s virtues” +carries him away; and he has to hark back again to find +the scent of his argument. He is repressing his vehement +adoration throughout, until when the end comes, and he +feels his business at an end, he can indulge himself to his +heart’s content in indiscriminate laudation of his royal +mistress. It is humorous to think that this illustrious lady, +whom he here praises, among many other excellences, for +the simplicity of her attire and the “marvellous meekness +of her stomach,” threatened him, years after, in no very +meek terms, for a sermon against female vanity in dress, +which she held as a reflection on herself.<a name="FnAnchor_74" href="#Footnote_74"><span class="sp">74</span></a></p> + +<p>Whatever was wanting here in respect for women +generally, there was no want of respect for the Queen; and +one cannot very greatly wonder if these devoted servants +looked askance, not upon Knox only, but on his little flock, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page244"></a>244</span> +as they came back to England tainted with disloyal doctrine. +For them, as for him, the occidental star rose somewhat +red and angry. As for poor Knox, his position was the +saddest of all. For the juncture seemed to him of the +highest importance; it was the nick of time, the flood-water +of opportunity. Not only was there an opening for +him in Scotland, a smouldering brand of civil liberty and +religious enthusiasm which it should be for him to kindle +into flame with his powerful breath; but he had his eye +seemingly on an object of even higher worth. For now, +when religious sympathy ran so high that it could be set +against national aversion, he wished to begin the fusion +together of England and Scotland, and to begin it at the +sore place. If once the open wound were closed at the +Border, the work would be half done. Ministers placed +at Berwick and such places might seek their converts equally +on either side of the march; old enemies would sit together +to hear the gospel of peace, and forget the inherited jealousies +of many generations in the enthusiasm of a common faith; +or—let us say better—a common heresy. For people are +not most conscious of brotherhood when they continue +languidly together in one creed, but when, with some doubt, +with some danger perhaps, and certainly not without some +reluctance, they violently break with the tradition of the +past, and go forth from the sanctuary of their fathers to +worship under the bare heaven. A new creed, like a new +country, is an unhomely place of sojourn; but it makes +men lean on one another and join hands. It was on this +that Knox relied to begin the union of the English and the +Scottish. And he had, perhaps, better means of judging +than any even of his contemporaries. He knew the temper +of both nations; and already during his two years’ chaplaincy +at Berwick, he had seen his scheme put to the proof. +But whether practicable or not, the proposal does him much +honour. That he should thus have sought to make a love-match +of it between the two peoples, and tried to win their +inclination towards a union instead of simply transferring +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page245"></a>245</span> +them, like so many sheep, by a marriage, or testament, or +private treaty, is thoroughly characteristic of what is best +in the man. Nor was this all. He had, besides, to assure +himself of English support, secret or avowed, for the Reformation +party in Scotland; a delicate affair, trenching +upon treason. And so he had plenty to say to Cecil, plenty +that he did not care to “commit to paper neither yet to +the knowledge of many.” But his miserable publication +had shut the doors of England in his face. Summoned to +Edinburgh by the confederate lords, he waited at Dieppe, +anxiously praying for leave to journey through England. +The most dispiriting tidings reached him. His messengers, +coming from so obnoxious a quarter, narrowly escape +imprisonment. His old congregation are coldly received, +and even begin to look back again to their place of exile +with regret. “My First Blast,” he writes ruefully, “has +blown from me all my friends of England.” And then he +adds, with a snarl, “The Second Blast, I fear, shall sound +somewhat more sharp, except men be more moderate than +I hear they are.”<a name="FnAnchor_75" href="#Footnote_75"><span class="sp">75</span></a> But the threat is empty; there will +never be a second blast—he has had enough of that trumpet. +Nay, he begins to feel uneasily that, unless he is to be +rendered useless for the rest of his life, unless he is to lose +his right arm and go about his great work maimed and +impotent, he must find some way of making his peace with +England and the indignant Queen. The letter just quoted +was written on the 6th of April, 1559; and on the 10th, +after he had cooled his heels for four days more about the +streets of Dieppe, he gave in altogether, and writes a letter +of capitulation to Cecil. In this letter,<a name="FnAnchor_76" href="#Footnote_76"><span class="sp">76</span></a> which he kept +back until the 22nd, still hoping that things would come +right of themselves, he censures the great secretary for +having “followed the world in the way of perdition,” +characterises him as “worthy of hell,” and threatens him, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246"></a>246</span> +if he be not found simple, sincere, and fervent in the cause +of Christ’s gospel, that he shall “taste of the same cup that +politic heads have drunken in before him.” This is all, +I take it, out of respect for the Reformer’s own position; +if he is going to be humiliated, let others be humiliated +first; like a child who will not take his medicine until he +has made his nurse and his mother drink of it before him. +“But I have, say you, written a treasonable book against +the regiment and empire of women.... The writing of +that book I will not deny; but prove it treasonable I think +it shall be hard.... It is hinted that my book shall be +written against. If so be, sir, I greatly doubt they shall +rather hurt nor (than) mend the matter.” And here come +the terms of capitulation; for he does not surrender unconditionally, +even in this sore strait: “And yet if any,” he +goes on, “think me enemy to the person, or yet to the +regiment, of her whom God hath now promoted, they are +utterly deceived in me, <i>for the miraculous work of God, +comforting His afflicted by means of an infirm vessel, I do +acknowledge, and the power of his most potent hand I will +obey. More plainly to speak, if Queen Elizabeth shall confess, +that the extraordinary dispensation of God’s great mercy +maketh that lawful unto her which both nature and God’s law +do deny to all women</i>, then shall none in England be more +willing to maintain her lawful authority than I shall be. +But if (God’s wondrous work set aside) she ground (as God +forbid) the justness of her title upon consuetude, laws, or +ordinances of men, then“—Then Knox will denounce her? +Not so; he is more politic nowadays—then, he “greatly +fears” that her ingratitude to God will not go long without +punishment.</p> + +<p>His letter to Elizabeth, written some few months later, +was a mere amplification of the sentences quoted above. +She must base her title entirely upon the extraordinary +providence of God; but if she does this, “if thus, in God’s +presence, she humbles herself, so will he with tongue and +pen justify her authority, as the Holy Ghost hath justified +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247"></a>247</span> +the same in Deborah, that blessed mother in Israel.”<a name="FnAnchor_77" href="#Footnote_77"><span class="sp">77</span></a> And +so, you see, his consistency is preserved; he is merely applying +the doctrine of the “First Blast.” The argument goes +thus: The regiment of women is, as before noted in our +work, repugnant to nature, contumely to God, and a subversion +of good order. It has nevertheless pleased God to +raise up, as exceptions to this law, first Deborah, and afterward +Elizabeth Tudor—whose regiment we shall proceed +to celebrate.</p> + +<p>There is no evidence as to how the Reformer’s explanations +were received, and indeed it is most probable that the +letter was never shown to Elizabeth at all. For it was +sent under cover of another to Cecil, and as it was not of +a very courtly conception throughout, and was, of all things, +what would most excite the Queen’s uneasy jealousy about +her title, it is like enough that the secretary exercised his +discretion (he had Knox’s leave in this case, and did not +always wait for that, it is reputed) to put the letter harmlessly +away beside other valueless or unpresentable State +Papers. I wonder very much if he did the same with +another,<a name="FnAnchor_78" href="#Footnote_78"><span class="sp">78</span></a> written two years later, after Mary had come into +Scotland, in which Knox almost seeks to make Elizabeth +an accomplice with him in the matter of the “First Blast.” +The Queen of Scotland is going to have that work refuted, +he tells her; and “though it were but foolishness in him +to prescribe unto her Majesty what is to be done,” he would +yet remind her that Mary is neither so much alarmed about +her own security, nor so generously interested in Elizabeth’s, +“that she would take such pains, <i>unless her crafty counsel +in so doing shot at a further mark</i>.” There is something +really ingenious in this letter; it showed Knox in the double +capacity of the author of the “First Blast” and the faithful +friend of Elizabeth; and he combines them there so naturally, +that one would scarcely imagine the two to be incongruous.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page248"></a>248</span></p> + +<p>Twenty days later he was defending his intemperate +publication to another queen—his own queen, Mary Stuart. +This was on the first of those three interviews which he has +preserved for us with so much dramatic vigour in the picturesque +pages of his History. After he had avowed the +authorship in his usual haughty style, Mary asked: “You +think, then, that I have no just authority?” The question +was evaded. “Please your Majesty,” he answered, “that +learned men in all ages have had their judgments free, and +most commonly disagreeing from the common judgment +of the world; such also have they published by pen and +tongue; and yet notwithstanding they themselves have +lived in the common society with others, and have borne +patiently with the errors and imperfections which they +could not amend.” Thus did “Plato the philosopher“: +thus will do John Knox. “I have communicated my +judgment to the world: if the realm finds no inconvenience +from the regiment of a woman, that which they approve +shall I not further disallow than within my own breast; +but shall be as well content to live under your Grace as +Paul was to live under Nero. And my hope is, that so +long as ye defile not your hands with the blood of the saints +of God, neither I nor my book shall hurt either you or your +authority.” All this is admirable in wisdom and moderation, +and, except that he might have hit upon a comparison +less offensive than that with Paul and Nero, hardly to be +bettered. Having said thus much, he feels he needs say +no more; and so, when he is further pressed, he closes +that part of the discussion with an astonishing sally. If +he has been content to let this matter sleep, he would recommend +her Grace to follow his example with thankfulness +of heart; it is grimly to be understood which of them +has most to fear if the question should be reawakened. +So the talk wandered to other subjects. Only, when the +Queen was summoned at last to dinner (“for it was afternoon“) +Knox made his salutation in this form of words: +“I pray God, Madam, that you may be as much blessed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249"></a>249</span> +within the Commonwealth of Scotland, if it be the pleasure +of God, as ever Deborah was in the Commonwealth of +Israel.”<a name="FnAnchor_79" href="#Footnote_79"><span class="sp">79</span></a> Deborah again.</p> + +<p>But he was not yet done with the echoes of his own +“First Blast.” In 1571, when he was already near his +end, the old controversy was taken up in one of a series +of anonymous libels against the Reformer, affixed, Sunday +after Sunday, to the church door. The dilemma was fairly +enough stated. Either his doctrine is false, in which case +he is a “false doctor” and seditious; or, if it be true, why +does he “avow and approve the contrare, I mean that +regiment in the Queen of England’s person; which he +avoweth and approveth, not only praying for the maintenance +of her estate, but also procuring her aid and support +against his own native country?” Knox answered +the libel, as his wont was, next Sunday, from the pulpit. +He justified the “First Blast” with all the old arrogance; +there is no drawing back there. The regiment of women +is repugnant to nature, contumely to God, and a subversion +of good order, as before. When he prays for the +maintenance of Elizabeth’s estate, he is only following the +example of those prophets of God who warned and comforted +the wicked kings of Israel; or of Jeremiah, who +bade the Jews pray for the prosperity of Nebuchadnezzar. +As for the Queen’s aid, there is no harm in that: <i>quia</i> (these +are his own words) <i>quia omnia munda mundis</i>: because +to the pure all things are pure. One thing, in conclusion, +he “may not pretermit“; to give the lie in the throat to +his accuser, where he charges him with seeking support +against his native country. “What I have been to my +country,” said the old Reformer, “What I have been to +my country, albeit this unthankful age will not know, yet +the ages to come will be compelled to bear witness to the +truth. And thus I cease, requiring of all men that have +anything to oppone against me, that he may (they may) +do it so plainly, as that I may make myself and all my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page250"></a>250</span> +doings manifest to the world. For to me it seemeth a +thing unreasonable, that, in this my decrepit age, I shall +be compelled to fight against shadows, and howlets that +dare not abide the light.”<a name="FnAnchor_80" href="#Footnote_80"><span class="sp">80</span></a></p> + +<p>Now, in this, which may be called his “Last Blast,” +there is as sharp speaking as any in the “First Blast” +itself. He is of the same opinion to the end, you see, +although he has been obliged to cloak and garble that +opinion for political ends. He has been tacking indeed, +and he has indeed been seeking the favour of a queen; +but what man ever sought a queen’s favour with a more +virtuous purpose, or with as little courtly policy? The +question of consistency is delicate, and must be made +plain. Knox never changed his opinion about female rule, +but lived to regret that he had published that opinion. +Doubtless he had many thoughts so far out of the range +of public sympathy, that he could only keep them to himself, +and, in his own words, bear patiently with the errors +and imperfections that he could not amend. For example, +I make no doubt myself that, in his own heart, he did hold +the shocking dogma attributed to him by more than one +calumniator; and that, had the time been ripe, had there +been aught to gain by it, instead of all to lose, he would +have been the first to assert that Scotland was elective +instead of hereditary—“elective as in the days of paganism,” +as one Thevet says in holy horror.<a name="FnAnchor_81" href="#Footnote_81"><span class="sp">81</span></a> And yet, because +the time was not ripe, I find no hint of such an idea in his +collected works. Now, the regiment of women was another +matter that he should have kept to himself; right or wrong, +his opinion did not fit the moment; right or wrong, as +Aylmer puts it, “the ‘Blast’ was blown out of season.” +And this it was that he began to perceive after the accession +of Elizabeth: not that he had been wrong, and that +female rule was a good thing, for he had said from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page251"></a>251</span> +first that “the felicity of some women in their empires” +could not change the law of God and the nature of created +things; not this, but that the regiment of women was one +of those imperfections of society which must be borne with +because yet they cannot be remedied. The thing had +seemed so obvious to him, in his sense of unspeakable +masculine superiority, and in his fine contempt for what +is only sanctioned by antiquity and common consent, he +had imagined that, at the first hint, men would arise and +shake off the debasing tyranny. He found himself wrong, +and he showed that he could be moderate in his own fashion, +and understood the spirit of true compromise. He came +round to Calvin’s position, in fact, but by a different way. +And it derogates nothing from the merit of this wise attitude +that it was the consequence of a change of interest. +We are all taught by interest; and if the interest be not +merely selfish, there is no wiser preceptor under heaven, +and perhaps no sterner.</p> + +<p>Such is the history of John Knox’s connection with the +controversy about female rule. In itself, this is obviously +an incomplete study; not fully to be understood, without +a knowledge of his private relations with the other sex, +and what he thought of their position in domestic life. +This shall be dealt with in another paper.</p> + +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h5>PRIVATE LIFE</h5> + +<p>To those who know Knox by hearsay only, I believe +the matter of this paper will be somewhat astonishing. +For the hard energy of the man in all public matters has +possessed the imagination of the world; he remains for +posterity in certain traditional phrases, browbeating Queen +Mary, or breaking beautiful carved work in abbeys and +cathedrals, that had long smoked themselves out and were +no more than sorry ruins, while he was still quietly teaching +children in a country gentleman’s family. It does not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252"></a>252</span> +consist with the common acceptation of his character to +fancy him much moved, except with anger. And yet the +language of passion came to his pen as readily, whether it +was a passion of denunciation against some of the abuses +that vexed his righteous spirit, or of yearning for the +society of an absent friend. He was vehement in affection, +as in doctrine. I will not deny that there may have been, +along with his vehemence, something shifty, and for the +moment only; that, like many men, and many Scotsmen, +he saw the world and his own heart, not so much under +any very steady, equable light, as by extreme flashes of +passion, true for the moment, but not true in the long-run. +There does seem to me to be something of this traceable +in the Reformer’s utterances: precipitation and repentance, +hardy speech and action somewhat circumspect, a +strong tendency to see himself in a heroic light and to place +a ready belief in the disposition of the moment. Withal +he had considerable confidence in himself, and in the uprightness +of his own disciplined emotions, underlying much +sincere aspiration after spiritual humility. And it is this +confidence that makes his intercourse with women so interesting +to a modern. It would be easy, of course, to +make fun of the whole affair, to picture him strutting vaingloriously +among these inferior creatures, or compare a +religious friendship in the sixteenth century with what +was called, I think, a literary friendship in the eighteenth. +But it is more just and profitable to recognise what there +is sterling and human underneath all his theoretical affectations +of superiority. Women, he has said in his “First +Blast,” are “weak, frail, impatient, feeble, and foolish“; +and yet it does not appear that he was himself any less +dependent than other men upon the sympathy and affection +of these weak, frail, impatient, feeble, and foolish creatures; +it seems even as if he had been rather more dependent than +most.</p> + +<p>Of those who are to act influentially on their fellows, +we should expect always something large and public in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page253"></a>253</span> +their way of life, something more or less urbane and comprehensive +in their sentiment for others. We should not +expect to see them spend their sympathy in idyls, however +beautiful. We should not seek them among those +who, if they have but a wife to their bosom, ask no more +of womankind, just as they ask no more of their own sex, +if they can find a friend or two for their immediate need. +They will be quick to feel all the pleasures of our association—not +the great ones alone, but all. They will know +not love only, but all those other ways in which man and +woman mutually make each other happy—by sympathy, +by admiration, by the atmosphere they bear about them—down +to the mere impersonal pleasure of passing happy +faces in the street. For, through all this gradation, the +difference of sex makes itself pleasurably felt. Down to +the most lukewarm courtesies of life, there is a special +chivalry due and a special pleasure received, when the two +sexes are brought ever so lightly into contact. We love +our mothers otherwise than we love our fathers; a sister is +not as a brother to us; and friendship between man and +woman, be it never so unalloyed and innocent, is not the +same as friendship between man and man. Such friendship +is not even possible for all. To conjoin tenderness +for a woman that is not far short of passionate with such +disinterestedness and beautiful gratuity of affection as there +is between friends of the same sex, requires no ordinary +disposition in the man. For either it would presuppose +quite womanly delicacy of perception, and, as it were, a +curiosity in shades of differing sentiment; or it would +mean that he had accepted the large, simple divisions of +society: a strong and positive spirit robustly virtuous, who +has chosen a better part coarsely, and holds to it steadfastly, +with all its consequences of pain to himself and +others; as one who should go straight before him on a +journey, neither tempted by wayside flowers nor very +scrupulous of small lives under foot. It was in virtue of +this latter disposition that Knox was capable of those intimacies +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page254"></a>254</span> +with women that embellished his life; and we +find him preserved for us in old letters as a man of many +women friends; a man of some expansion toward the +other sex; a man ever ready to comfort weeping women, +and to weep along with them.</p> + +<p>Of such scraps and fragments of evidence as to his +private life and more intimate thoughts as have survived +to us from all the perils that environ written paper, an +astonishingly large proportion is in the shape of letters +to women of his familiarity. He was twice married, but +that is not greatly to the purpose; for the Turk, who thinks +even more meanly of women than John Knox, is none the +less given to marrying. What is really significant is quite +apart from marriage. For the man Knox was a true man, +and woman, the <i>ewig-weibliche</i>, was as necessary to him, +in spite of all low theories, as ever she was to Goethe. He +came to her in a certain halo of his own, as the minister of +truth, just as Goethe came to her in a glory of art; he made +himself necessary to troubled hearts and minds exercised +in the painful complications that naturally result from all +changes in the world’s way of thinking; and those whom +he had thus helped became dear to him, and were made the +chosen companions of his leisure if they were at hand, or +encouraged and comforted by letter if they were afar.</p> + +<p>It must not be forgotten that Knox had been a presbyter +of the old Church, and that the many women whom we +shall see gathering around him, as he goes through life, +had probably been accustomed, while still in the communion +of Rome, to rely much upon some chosen spiritual +director, so that the intimacies of which I propose to offer +some account, while testifying to a good heart in the Reformer, +testify also to a certain survival of the spirit of +the confessional in the Reformed Church, and are not +properly to be judged without this idea. There is no friendship +so noble, but it is the product of the time; and a world +of little finical observances, and little frail proprieties and +fashions of the hour, go to make or to mar, to stint or to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255"></a>255</span> +perfect, the union of spirits the most loving and the most +intolerant of such interference. The trick of the country +and the age steps in even between the mother and her +child, counts out their caresses upon niggardly fingers, and +says, in the voice of authority, that this one thing shall +be a matter of confidence between them, and this other +thing shall not. And thus it is that we must take into +reckoning whatever tended to modify the social atmosphere +in which Knox and his women friends met, and loved +and trusted each other. To the man who had been their +priest, and was now their minister, women would be able +to speak with a confidence quite impossible in these latter +days; the women would be able to speak, and the man to +hear. It was a beaten road just then; and I daresay we +should be no less scandalised at their plain speech than they, +if they could come back to earth, would be offended at +our waltzes and worldly fashions. This, then, was the footing +on which Knox stood with his many women friends. +The reader will see, as he goes on, how much of warmth, +of interest, and of that happy mutual dependence which +is the very gist of friendship, he contrived to ingraft upon +this somewhat dry relationship of penitent and confessor.</p> + +<p>It must be understood that we know nothing of his +intercourse with women (as indeed we know little at all +about his life) until he came to Berwick in 1549, when he +was already in the forty-fifth year of his age. At the same +time it is just possible that some of a little group at Edinburgh, +with whom he corresponded during his last absence, +may have been friends of an older standing. Certainly +they were, of all his female correspondents, the least personally +favoured. He treats them throughout in a comprehensive +sort of spirit that must at times have been a little +wounding. Thus, he remits one of them to his former +letters, “which I trust be common betwixt you and the +rest of our sisters, for to me ye are all equal in Christ.”<a name="FnAnchor_82" href="#Footnote_82"><span class="sp">82</span></a> +Another letter is a gem in this way. “Albeit,” it begins, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page256"></a>256</span> +“albeit I have no particular matter to write unto you, +beloved sister, yet I could not refrain to write these few +lines to you in declaration of my remembrance of you. +True it is that I have many whom I bear in equal remembrance +before God with you, to whom at present I write +nothing, either for that I esteem them stronger than you, +and therefore they need the less my rude labours, or else +because they have not provoked me by their writing to +recompense their remembrance.”<a name="FnAnchor_83" href="#Footnote_83"><span class="sp">83</span></a> His “sisters in Edinburgh” +had evidently to “provoke” his attention pretty +constantly; nearly all his letters are, on the face of them, +answers to questions, and the answers are given with a +certain crudity that I do not find repeated when he writes +to those he really cares for. So when they consult him +about women’s apparel (a subject on which his opinion +may be pretty correctly imagined by the ingenious reader +for himself) he takes occasion to anticipate some of the +most offensive matter of the “First Blast” in a style of +real brutality.<a name="FnAnchor_84" href="#Footnote_84"><span class="sp">84</span></a> It is not merely that he tells them “the +garments of women do declare their weakness and inability +to execute the office of man,” though that in itself is neither +very wise nor very opportune in such a correspondence, +one would think; but if the reader will take the trouble to +wade through the long, tedious sermon for himself, he will +see proof enough that Knox neither loved, nor very deeply +respected, the women he was then addressing. In very +truth, I believe these Edinburgh sisters simply bored him. +He had a certain interest in them as his children in the +Lord; they were continually “provoking him by their +writing“; and, if they handed his letters about, writing to +them was as good a form of publication as was then open +to him in Scotland. There is one letter, however, in this +budget, addressed to the wife of Clerk-Register Mackgil, +which is worthy of some further mention. The Clerk-Register +had not opened his heart, it would appear, to the +preaching of the Gospel, and Mrs. Mackgil has written +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page257"></a>257</span> +seeking the Reformer’s prayers in his behalf. “Your +husband,” he answers, “is dear to me for that he is a man +indued with some good gifts, but more dear for that he is +your husband. Charity moveth me to thirst his illumination, +both for his comfort and for the trouble which you +sustain by his coldness, which justly may be called infidelity.” +He wishes her, however, not to hope too much; +he can promise that his prayers will be earnest, but not +that they will be effectual; it is possible that this is to be +her “cross” in life; that “her head, appointed by God +for her comfort, should be her enemy.” And if this be so—well, +there is nothing for it; “with patience she must +abide God’s merciful deliverance,” taking heed only that +she does not “obey manifest iniquity for the pleasure of +any mortal man.”<a name="FnAnchor_85" href="#Footnote_85"><span class="sp">85</span></a> I conceive this epistle would have +given a very modified sort of pleasure to the Clerk-Register, +had it chanced to fall into his hands. Compare its tenor—the +dry resignation not without a hope of merciful deliverance +therein recommended—with these words from another +letter, written but the year before to two married women +of London: “Call first for grace by Jesus, and thereafter +communicate with your faithful husbands, and then shall +God, I doubt not, conduct your footsteps, and direct your +counsels to His glory.”<a name="FnAnchor_86" href="#Footnote_86"><span class="sp">86</span></a> Here the husbands are put in a +very high place; we can recognise here the same hand that +has written for our instruction how the man is set above +the woman, even as God above the angels. But the point +of the distinction is plain. For Clerk-Register Mackgil +was not a faithful husband; displayed, indeed, towards +religion, a “coldness which justly might be called infidelity.” +We shall see in more notable instances how much Knox’s +conception of the duty of wives varies according to the zeal +and orthodoxy of the husband.</p> + +<p>As I have said, he may possibly have made the acquaintance +of Mrs. Mackgil, Mrs. Guthrie, or some other, or all, +of these Edinburgh friends while he was still Douglas of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page258"></a>258</span> +Longniddry’s private tutor. But our certain knowledge +begins in 1549. He was then but newly escaped from his +captivity in France, after pulling an oar for nineteen months +on the benches of the galley <i>Nostre Dame</i>; now up the +rivers, holding stealthy intercourse with other Scottish +prisoners in the castle of Rouen; now out in the North +Sea, raising his sick head to catch a glimpse of the far-off +steeples of St. Andrews. And now he was sent down by +the English Privy Council as a preacher to Berwick-upon-Tweed; +somewhat shaken in health by all his hardships, +full of pains and agues, and tormented by gravel, that +sorrow of great men; altogether, what with his romantic +story, his weak health, and his great faculty of eloquence, +a very natural object for the sympathy of devout women. +At this happy juncture he fell into the company of a Mrs. +Elizabeth Bowes, wife of Richard Bowes, of Aske, in Yorkshire, +to whom she had borne twelve children. She was a +religious hypochondriac, a very weariful woman, full of +doubts and scruples, and giving no rest on earth either +to herself or to those whom she honoured with her confidence. +From the first time she heard Knox preach she +formed a high opinion of him, and was solicitous ever after +of his society.<a name="FnAnchor_87" href="#Footnote_87"><span class="sp">87</span></a> Nor was Knox unresponsive. “I have +always delighted in your company,” he writes, “and when +labours would permit, you know I have not spared hours +to talk and commune with you.” Often when they had +met in depression he reminds her, “God hath sent great +comfort unto both.”<a name="FnAnchor_88" href="#Footnote_88"><span class="sp">88</span></a> We can gather from such letters +as are yet extant how close and continuous was their intercourse. +“I think it best you remain till to-morrow,” he +writes once, “and so shall we commune at large at afternoon. +This day you know to be the day of my study and +prayer unto God; yet if your trouble be intolerable, or if +you think my presence may release your pain, do as the +Spirit shall move you.... Your messenger found me +in bed, after a sore trouble and most dolorous night, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page259"></a>259</span> +so dolour may complain to dolour when we two meet.... +And this is more plain than ever I spoke, to let you know +you have a companion in trouble.”<a name="FnAnchor_89" href="#Footnote_89"><span class="sp">89</span></a> Once we have the +curtain raised for a moment, and can look at the two together +for the length of a phrase. “After the writing of +this preceding,” writes Knox, “your brother and mine, +Harrie Wycliffe, did advertise me by writing, that your +adversary (the devil) took occasion to trouble you because +that <i>I did start back from you rehearsing your infirmities. I +remember myself so to have done, and that is my common +consuetude when anything pierceth or toucheth my heart. +Call to your mind what I did standing at the cupboard at +Alnwick</i>. In very deed I thought that no creature had +been tempted as I was; and when I heard proceed from +your mouth the very same words that he troubles me with, +I did wonder and from my heart lament your sore trouble, +knowing in myself the dolour thereof.”<a name="FnAnchor_90" href="#Footnote_90"><span class="sp">90</span></a> Now intercourse +of so very close a description, whether it be religious intercourse +or not, is apt to displease and disquiet a husband; +and we know incidentally from Knox himself that there +was some little scandal about his intimacy with Mrs. Bowes. +“The slander and fear of men,” he writes, “has impeded +me to exercise my pen so oft as I would; <i>yea, very shame +hath holden me from your company, when I was most surely +persuaded that God had appointed me at that time to comfort +and feed your hungry and afflicted soul. God in His infinite +mercy</i>,” he goes on, “<i>remove not only from me all fear that +tendeth not to godliness, but from others suspicion to judge +of me otherwise than it becometh one member to judge of +another</i>.”<a name="FnAnchor_91" href="#Footnote_91"><span class="sp">91</span></a> And the scandal, such as it was, would not be +allayed by the dissension in which Mrs. Bowes seems to +have lived with her family upon the matter of religion, and +the countenance shown by Knox to her resistance. Talking +of these conflicts, and her courage against “her own +flesh and most inward affections, yea, against some of her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page260"></a>260</span> +most natural friends” he writes it, “to the praise of God, +he has wondered at the bold constancy which he has found +in her when his own heart was faint.”<a name="FnAnchor_92" href="#Footnote_92"><span class="sp">92</span></a></p> + +<p>Now, perhaps in order to stop scandalous mouths, perhaps +out of a desire to bind the much-loved evangelist +nearer to her in the only manner possible, Mrs. Bowes conceived +the scheme of marrying him to her fifth daughter, +Marjorie; and the Reformer seems to have fallen in with +it readily enough. It seems to have been believed in the +family that the whole matter had been originally made up +between these two, with no very spontaneous inclination +on the part of the bride.<a name="FnAnchor_93" href="#Footnote_93"><span class="sp">93</span></a> Knox’s idea of marriage, as I +have said, was not the same for all men; but on the whole, +it was not lofty. We have a curious letter of his, written +at the request of Queen Mary, to the Earl of Argyle, on +very delicate household matters; which, as he tells us, +“was not well accepted of the said Earl.”<a name="FnAnchor_94" href="#Footnote_94"><span class="sp">94</span></a> We may suppose, +however, that his own home was regulated in a similar +spirit. I can fancy that for such a man, emotional, and +with a need, now and again, to exercise parsimony in emotions +not strictly needful, something a little mechanical, +something hard and fast and clearly understood, would +enter into his ideal of a home. There were storms enough +without, and equability was to be desired at the fireside +even at a sacrifice of deeper pleasures. So, from a wife, +of all women, he would not ask much. One letter to her +which has come down to us is, I had almost said, conspicuous +for coldness.<a name="FnAnchor_95" href="#Footnote_95"><span class="sp">95</span></a> He calls her, as he called other female +correspondents, “dearly beloved sister“; the epistle is +doctrinal, and nearly the half of it bears, not upon her own +case, but upon that of her mother. However, we know +what Heine wrote in his wife’s album; and there is, after +all, one passage that may be held to intimate some tenderness, +although even that admits of an amusingly opposite +construction. “I think,” he says, “I <i>think</i> this be the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261"></a>261</span> +first letter I ever wrote to you.” This, if we are to take it +literally, may pair off with the “two <i>or three</i> children“ +whom Montaigne mentions having lost at nurse; the one +is as eccentric in a lover as the other in a parent. Nevertheless, +he displayed more energy in the course of his +troubled wooing than might have been expected. The +whole Bowes family, angry enough already at the influence +he had obtained over the mother, set their faces obdurately +against the match. And I daresay the opposition quickened +his inclination. I find him writing to Mrs. Bowes that she +need not further trouble herself about the marriage; it should +now be his business altogether; it behoved him now to +jeopard his life “for the comfort of his own flesh, both fear +and friendship of all earthly creatures laid aside.”<a name="FnAnchor_96" href="#Footnote_96"><span class="sp">96</span></a> This +is a wonderfully chivalrous utterance for a Reformer forty-eight +years old; and it compares well with the leaden +coquetries of Calvin, not much over thirty, taking this and +that into consideration, weighing together dowries and +religious qualifications and the instancy of friends, and +exhibiting what M. Bungener calls “an honourable and +Christian difficulty” of choice, in frigid indecisions and +insincere proposals. But Knox’s next letter is in a humbler +tone; he has not found the negotiation so easy as he fancied; +he despairs of the marriage altogether, and talks of leaving +England,—regards not “what country consumes his wicked +carcass.” “You shall understand,” he says, “that this +sixth of November, I spoke with Sir Robert Bowes” (the +head of the family, his bride’s uncle) “in the matter you +know, according to your request; whose disdainful, yea, +despiteful, words hath so pierced my heart that my life is +bitter to me. I bear a good countenance with a sore-troubled +heart, because he that ought to consider matters +with a deep judgment is become not only a despiser, but +also a taunter of God’s messengers—God be merciful unto +him! Amongst others his most unpleasing words, while +that I was about to have declared my heart in the whole +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page262"></a>262</span> +matter, he said, ‘Away with your rhetorical reasons! for +I will not be persuaded with them.’ God knows I did use +no rhetoric nor coloured speech; but would have spoken +the truth, and that in most simple manner. I am not a +good orator in my own cause; but what he would not be +content to hear of me, God shall declare to him one day to +his displeasure, unless he repent.”<a name="FnAnchor_97" href="#Footnote_97"><span class="sp">97</span></a> Poor Knox, you see, +is quite commoved. It has been a very unpleasant interview. +And as it is the only sample that we have of how +things went with him during his courtship, we may infer +that the period was not as agreeable for Knox as it has been +for some others.</p> + +<p>However, when once they were married, I imagine he and +Marjorie Bowes hit it off together comfortably enough. The +little we know of it may be brought together in a very short +space. She bore him two sons. He seems to have kept +her pretty busy, and depended on her to some degree in his +work; so that when she fell ill, his papers got at once into +disorder.<a name="FnAnchor_98" href="#Footnote_98"><span class="sp">98</span></a> Certainly she sometimes wrote to his dictation; +and, in this capacity, he calls her “his left hand.”<a name="FnAnchor_99" href="#Footnote_99"><span class="sp">99</span></a> In +June, 1559, at the headiest moment of the Reformation in +Scotland, he writes regretting the absence of his helpful +colleague, Goodman, “whose presence” (this is the not +very grammatical form of his lament) “whose presence I +more thirst, than she that is my own flesh.”<a name="FnAnchor_100" href="#Footnote_100"><span class="sp">100</span></a> And this, +considering the source and the circumstances, may be held +as evidence of a very tender sentiment. He tells us himself +in his History, on the occasion of a certain meeting at the +Kirk of Field, that he was in no small heaviness by reason +of the late death of his “dear bedfellow, Marjorie Bowes.”<a name="FnAnchor_101" href="#Footnote_101"><span class="sp">101</span></a> +Calvin, condoling with him, speaks of her as “a wife whose +like is not to be found everywhere” (that is very like Calvin), +and again, as “the most delightful of wives.” We know +what Calvin thought desirable in a wife, “good humour, +chastity, thrift, patience, and solicitude for her husband’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page263"></a>263</span> +health,” and so we may suppose that the first Mrs. Knox fell +not far short of this ideal.</p> + +<p>The actual date of the marriage is uncertain; but by the +summer of 1554, at the latest, the Reformer was settled in +Geneva with his wife. There is no fear either that he will +be dull; even if the chaste, thrifty, patient Marjorie should +not altogether occupy his mind, he need not go out of the +house to seek more female sympathy; for behold! Mrs. +Bowes is duly domesticated with the young couple. Dr. +M’Crie imagined that Richard Bowes was now dead, and +his widow, consequently, free to live where she would; and +where could she go more naturally than to the house of a +married daughter? This, however, is not the case. +Richard Bowes did not die till at least two years later. It is +impossible to believe that he approved of his wife’s desertion, +after so many years of marriage, after twelve children had +been born to them; and accordingly we find in his will, +dated 1558, no mention either of her or of Knox’s wife.<a name="FnAnchor_102" href="#Footnote_102"><span class="sp">102</span></a> +This is plain sailing. It is easy enough to understand the +anger of Bowes against this interloper, who had come into +a quiet family, married the daughter in spite of the father’s +opposition, alienated the wife from the husband and the +husband’s religion, supported her in a long course of resistance +and rebellion, and, after years of intimacy, already too +close and tender for any jealous spirit to behold without +resentment, carried her away with him at last into a foreign +land. But it is not quite easy to understand how, except +out of sheer weariness and disgust, he was ever brought to +agree to the arrangement. Nor is it easy to square the +Reformer’s conduct with his public teaching. We have, +for instance, a letter addressed by him, Craig, and Spottiswood, +to the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, anent “a +wicked and rebellious woman,” one Anne Good, spouse to +“John Barron, a minister of Christ Jesus, his evangel,” +who, “after great rebellion shown unto him, and divers +admonitions given, as well by himself as by others in his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page264"></a>264</span> +name, that she should in no wise depart from this realm, +nor from his house without his licence, hath not the less +stubbornly and rebelliously departed, separated herself +from his society, left his house, and withdrawn herself from +this realm.”<a name="FnAnchor_103" href="#Footnote_103"><span class="sp">103</span></a> Perhaps some sort of licence was extorted, +as I have said, from Richard Bowes, weary with years of +domestic dissension; but setting that aside, the words +employed with so much righteous indignation by Knox, +Craig, and Spottiswood, to describe the conduct of that +wicked and rebellious woman, Mrs. Barron, would describe +nearly as exactly the conduct of the religious Mrs. Bowes. +It is a little bewildering, until we recollect the distinction +between faithful and unfaithful husbands; for Barron was +“a minister of Christ Jesus, his evangel,” while Richard +Bowes, besides being own brother to a despiser and taunter +of God’s messengers, is shrewdly suspected to have been “a +bigoted adherent of the Roman Catholic faith,” or, as +Knox himself would have expressed it, “a rotten Papist.”</p> + +<p>You would have thought that Knox was now pretty well +supplied with female society. But we are not yet at the end +of the roll. The last year of his sojourn in England had been +spent principally in London, where he was resident as one of +the chaplains of Edward the Sixth; and here he boasts, +although a stranger, he had, by God’s grace, found favour +before many.<a name="FnAnchor_104" href="#Footnote_104"><span class="sp">104</span></a> The godly women of the metropolis made +much of him; once he writes to Mrs. Bowes that her last +letter had found him closeted with three, and he and the +three women were all in tears.<a name="FnAnchor_105" href="#Footnote_105"><span class="sp">105</span></a> Out of all, however, he had +chosen two. “<i>God</i>,” he writes to them, “<i>brought us in such +familiar acquaintance, that your hearts were incensed and +kindled with a special care over me, as a mother useth to be over +her natural child</i>; and my heart was opened and compelled +in your presence to be more plain than ever I was to any.”<a name="FnAnchor_106" href="#Footnote_106"><span class="sp">106</span></a> +And out of the two even he had chosen one, Mrs. Anne Locke, +wife to Mr. Harry Locke, merchant, nigh to Bow Kirk, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page265"></a>265</span> +Cheapside, in London, as the address runs. If one may +venture to judge upon such imperfect evidence, this was the +woman he loved best. I have a difficulty in quite forming +to myself an idea of her character. She may have been one +of the three tearful visitors before alluded to; she may even +have been that one of them who was so profoundly moved +by some passages of Mrs. Bowes’s letter, which the Reformer +opened, and read aloud to them before they went. “O +would to God,” cried this impressionable matron, “would +to God that I might speak with that person, for I perceive +there are more tempted than I.”<a name="FnAnchor_107" href="#Footnote_107"><span class="sp">107</span></a> This <i>may</i> have been Mrs. +Locke, as I say; but even if it were, we must not conclude +from this one fact that she was such another as Mrs. +Bowes. All the evidence tends the other way. She was a +woman of understanding, plainly, who followed political +events with interest, and to whom Knox thought it worth +while to write, in detail, the history of his trials and successes. +She was religious, but without that morbid perversity of +spirit that made religion so heavy a burden for the poor-hearted +Mrs. Bowes. More of her I do not find, save testimony +to the profound affection that united her to the +Reformer. So we find him writing to her from Geneva, in +such terms as these:—“You write that your desire is +earnest to see me. <i>Dear sister, if I should express the thirst +and languor which I have had for your presence, I should +appear to pass measure.... Yea, I weep and rejoice in +remembrance of you</i>; but that would evanish by the comfort +of your presence, which I assure you is so dear to me, that if +the charge of this little flock here, gathered together in +Christ’s name, did not impede me, my coming should prevent +my letter.”<a name="FnAnchor_108" href="#Footnote_108"><span class="sp">108</span></a> I say that this was written from Geneva; and +yet you will observe that it is no consideration for his wife or +mother-in-law, only the charge of his little flock, that keeps +him from setting out forthwith for London, to comfort himself +with the dear presence of Mrs. Locke. Remember that +was a certain plausible enough pretext for Mrs. Locke to come +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266"></a>266</span> +to Geneva—“the most perfect school of Christ that ever +was on earth since the days of the Apostles“—for we are +now under the reign of that “horrible monster Jezebel of +England,” when a lady of good orthodox sentiments was +better out of London. It was doubtful, however, whether +this was to be. She was detained in England, partly by +circumstances unknown, “partly by empire of her head,” +Mr. Harry Locke, the Cheapside merchant. It is somewhat +humorous to see Knox struggling for resignation, now that +he has to do with a faithful husband (for Mr. Harry Locke +was faithful). Had it been otherwise, “in my heart,” he +says, “I could have wished—yea,” here he breaks out, “yea, +and cannot cease to wish—that God would guide you to this +place.”<a name="FnAnchor_109" href="#Footnote_109"><span class="sp">109</span></a> And after all, he had not long to wait, for whether +Mr. Harry Locke died in the interval, or was wearied, he too, +into giving permission, five months after the date of the +letter last quoted, “Mrs. Anne Locke, Harry her son, and +Anne her daughter, and Katharine her maid,” arrived in +that perfect school of Christ, the Presbyterian paradise, +Geneva. So now, and for the next two years, the cup of +Knox’s happiness was surely full. Of an afternoon, when +the bells rang out for the sermon, the shops closed, and the +good folk gathered to the churches, psalm-book in hand, we +can imagine him drawing near to the English chapel in quite +patriarchal fashion, with Mrs. Knox and Mrs. Bowes and +Mrs. Locke, James his servant, Patrick his pupil, and a due +following of children and maids. He might be alone at work +all morning in his study, for he wrote much during these two +years; but at night, you may be sure there was a circle of +admiring women, eager to hear the new paragraph, and not +sparing of applause. And what work, among others, was +he elaborating at this time, but the notorious “First +Blast“? So that he may have rolled out in his big pulpit +voice, how women were weak, frail, impatient, feeble, foolish, +inconstant, variable, cruel, and lacking the spirit of counsel, +and how men were above them, even as God is above the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page267"></a>267</span> +angels, in the ears of his own wife, and the two dearest friends +on earth. But he had lost the sense of incongruity, and +continued to despise in theory the sex he honoured so much +in practice, of whom he chose his most intimate associates, +and whose courage he was compelled to wonder at, when his +own heart was faint.</p> + +<p>We may say that such a man was not worthy of his +fortune; and so, as he would not learn, he was taken away +from that agreeable school, and his fellowship of women was +broken up, not to be reunited. Called into Scotland to take +at last that strange position in history which is his best claim +to commemoration, he was followed thither by his wife and +his mother-in-law. The wife soon died. The death of her +daughter did not altogether separate Mrs. Bowes from Knox, +but she seems to have come and gone between his house and +England. In 1562, however, we find him characterised as “a +sole man by reason of the absence of his mother-in-law, Mrs. +Bowes,” and a passport is got for her, her man, a maid, and +“three horses, whereof two shall return,” as well as liberty +to take all her own money with her into Scotland. This +looks like a definite arrangement; but whether she died at +Edinburgh, or went back to England yet again, I cannot +find. With that great family of hers, unless in leaving her +husband she had quarrelled with them all, there must have +been frequent occasion for her presence, one would think. +Knox at least survived her; and we possess his epigraph to +their long intimacy, given to the world by him in an appendix +to his latest publication. I have said in a former +paper that Knox was not shy of personal revelations in his +published works. And the trick seems to have grown on +him. To this last tract, a controversial onslaught on a +Scottish Jesuit, he prefixed a prayer, not very pertinent to +the matter in hand, and containing references to his family +which were the occasion of some wit in his adversary’s +answer; and appended what seems equally irrelevant, one +of his devout letters to Mrs. Bowes, with an explanatory +preface. To say truth, I believe he had always felt uneasily +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page268"></a>268</span> +that the circumstances of this intimacy were very capable +of misconstruction; and now, when he was an old man, +taking “his good-night of all the faithful in both realms,” +and only desirous “that without any notable sclander to +the evangel of Jesus Christ, he might end his battle; for as +the world was weary of him, so was he of it“;—in such a +spirit it was not, perhaps, unnatural that he should return to +this old story, and seek to put it right in the eyes of all men, +ere he died. “Because that God,” he says, “because that +God now in His mercy hath put an end to the battle of my +dear mother, Mistress Elizabeth Bowes, before that He put +an end to my wretched life, I could not cease but declare to +the world what was the cause of our great familiarity and +long acquaintance; which was neither flesh nor blood, but a +troubled conscience upon her part, which never suffered her +to rest but when she was in the company of the faithful, of +whom (from the first hearing of the word at my mouth) she +judged me to be one.... Her company to me was comfortable +(yea, honourable and profitable, for she was to me +and mine a mother), but yet it was not without some cross; +for besides trouble and fashery of body sustained for her, my +mind was seldom quiet, for doing somewhat for the comfort +of her troubled conscience.”<a name="FnAnchor_110" href="#Footnote_110"><span class="sp">110</span></a> He had written to her years +before from his first exile in Dieppe, that “only God’s +hand” could withhold him from once more speaking with her +face to face; and now, when God’s hand has indeed interposed, +when there lies between them, instead of the voyageable +straits, that great gulf over which no man can pass, this +is the spirit in which he can look back upon their long acquaintance. +She was a religious hypochondriac, it appears, +whom, not without some cross and fashery of mind and +body, he was good enough to tend. He might have given a +truer character of their friendship had he thought less of his +own standing in public estimation, and more of the dead +woman. But he was in all things, as Burke said of his son +in that ever memorable passage, a public creature. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page269"></a>269</span> +wished that even into this private place of his affections +posterity should follow him with a complete approval; and +he was willing, in order that this might be so, to exhibit the +defects of his lost friend, and tell the world what weariness +he had sustained through her unhappy disposition. There +is something here that reminds one of Rousseau.</p> + +<p>I do not think he ever saw Mrs. Locke after he left Geneva; +but his correspondence with her continued for three years. +It may have continued longer, of course, but I think the last +letters we possess read like the last that would be written. +Perhaps Mrs. Locke was then re-married, for there is much +obscurity over her subsequent history. For as long as their +intimacy was kept up, at least, the human element remains +in the Reformer’s life. Here is one passage, for example, +the most likable utterance of Knox’s that I can quote:—Mrs. +Locke has been upbraiding him as a bad correspondent. +“My remembrance of you,” he answers, “is not so dead, +but I trust it shall be fresh enough, albeit it be renewed by +no outward token for one year. <i>Of nature, I am churlish; +yet one thing I ashame not to affirm, that familiarity once +thoroughly contracted was never yet broken on my default. The +cause may be that I have rather need of all, than that any have +need of me.</i> However it (<i>that</i>) be, it cannot be, as I say, the +corporal absence of one year or two that can quench in my +heart that familiar acquaintance in Christ Jesus, which half +a year did engender, and almost two years did nourish and +confirm. And therefore, whether I write or no, be assuredly +persuaded that I have you in such memory as becometh the +faithful to have of the faithful.”<a name="FnAnchor_111" href="#Footnote_111"><span class="sp">111</span></a> This is the truest touch +of personal humility that I can remember to have seen in all +the five volumes of the Reformer’s collected works: It is no +small honour to Mrs. Locke that his affection for her should +have brought home to him this unwonted feeling of dependence +upon others. Everything else in the course of the correspondence +testifies to a good, sound, downright sort of +friendship between the two, less ecstatic than it was at first, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page270"></a>270</span> +perhaps, but serviceable and very equal. He gives her ample +details as to the progress of the work of reformation; sends +her the sheets of the “Confession of Faith,” “in quairs,” as +he calls it; asks her to assist him with her prayers, to collect +money for the good cause in Scotland, and to send him books +for himself—books by Calvin especially, one on Isaiah, and +a new revised edition of the “Institutes.” “I must be bold +on your liberality,” he writes, “not only in that, but in +greater things as I shall need.”<a name="FnAnchor_112" href="#Footnote_112"><span class="sp">112</span></a> On her part she applies +to him for spiritual advice, not after the manner of the +drooping Mrs. Bowes, but in a more positive spirit,—advice +as to practical points, advice as to the Church of England, +for instance, whose ritual he condemns as a “mingle-mangle.”<a name="FnAnchor_113" href="#Footnote_113"><span class="sp">113</span></a> +Just at the end she ceases to write, sends him +“a token, without writing.” “I understand your impediment,” +he answers, “and therefore I cannot complain. Yet +if you understood the variety of my temptations, I doubt +not but you would have written somewhat.”<a name="FnAnchor_114" href="#Footnote_114"><span class="sp">114</span></a> One letter +more, and then silence.</p> + +<p>And I think the best of the Reformer died out with that +correspondence. It is after this, of course, that he wrote +that ungenerous description of his intercourse with Mrs. +Bowes. It is after this, also, that we come to the unlovely +episode of his second marriage. He had been left a widower +at the age of fifty-five. Three years after, it occurred apparently +to yet another pious parent to sacrifice a child upon +the altar of his respect for the Reformer. In January, 1563, +Randolph writes to Cecil: “Your Honour will take it for +a great wonder when I shall write unto you that Mr. Knox +shall marry a very near kinswoman of the Duke’s, a Lord’s +daughter, a young lass not above sixteen years of age.”<a name="FnAnchor_115" href="#Footnote_115"><span class="sp">115</span></a> +He adds that he fears he will be laughed at for reporting so +mad a story. And yet it was true; and on Palm Sunday, +1564, Margaret Stewart, daughter of Andrew Lord Stewart +of Ochiltree, aged seventeen, was duly united to John Knox, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page271"></a>271</span> +Minister of St. Giles’s Kirk, Edinburgh, aged fifty-nine,—to +the great disgust of Queen Mary from family pride, and I +would fain hope of many others for more humane considerations. +“In this,” as Randolph says, “I wish he had done +otherwise.” The Consistory of Geneva, “that most perfect +school of Christ that ever was on earth since the days of the +Apostles,” were wont to forbid marriages on the ground of +too great a disproportion in age. I cannot help wondering +whether the old Reformer’s conscience did not uneasily +remind him, now and again, of this good custom of his +religious metropolis, as he thought of the two-and-forty +years that separated him from his poor bride. Fitly enough, +we hear nothing of the second Mrs. Knox until she appears +at her husband’s deathbed, eight years after. She bore him +three daughters in the interval; and I suppose the poor +child’s martyrdom was made as easy for her as might be. +She was “extremely attentive to him” at the end, we read; +and he seems to have spoken to her with some confidence. +Moreover, and this is very characteristic, he had copied out +for her use a little volume of his own devotional letters to +other women.</p> + +<p>This is the end of the roll, unless we add to it Mrs. Adamson, +who had delighted much in his company “by reason +that she had a troubled conscience,” and whose deathbed +is commemorated at some length in the pages of his +history.<a name="FnAnchor_116" href="#Footnote_116"><span class="sp">116</span></a></p> + +<p>And now, looking back, it cannot be said that Knox’s +intercourse with women was quite of the highest sort. It is +characteristic that we find him more alarmed for his own +reputation than for the reputation of the women with whom +he was familiar. There was a fatal preponderance of self +in all his intimacies: many women came to learn from him, +but he never condescended to become a learner in his turn. +And so there is not anything idyllic in these intimacies of +his; and they were never so renovating to his spirit as they +might have been. But I believe they were good enough for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page272"></a>272</span> +the women. I fancy the women knew what they were about +when so many of them followed after Knox. It is not simply +because a man is always fully persuaded that he knows the +right from the wrong and sees his way plainly through the +maze of life, great qualities as these are, that people will love +and follow him, and write him letters full of their “earnest +desire for him” when he is absent. It is not over a man, +whose one characteristic is grim fixity of purpose, that the +hearts of women are “incensed and kindled with a special +care,” as it were over their natural children. In the strong +quiet patience of all his letters to the weariful Mrs. Bowes, +we may perhaps see one cause of the fascination he possessed +for these religious women. Here was one whom you +could besiege all the year round with inconsistent scruples +and complaints; you might write to him on Thursday that +you were so elated it was plain the devil was deceiving you, +and again on Friday that you were so depressed it was plain +God had cast you off for ever; and he would read all this +patiently and sympathetically, and give you an answer in +the most reassuring polysyllables, and all divided into +heads—who knows?—like a treatise on divinity. And +then, those easy tears of his. There are some women who +like to see men crying; and here was this great-voiced, +bearded man of God, who might be seen beating the solid +pulpit every Sunday, and casting abroad his clamorous denunciations +to the terror of all, and who on the Monday +would sit in their parlours by the hour, and weep with them +over their manifold trials and temptations. Nowadays, he +would have to drink a dish of tea with all these penitents.... +It sounds a little vulgar, as the past will do, if we look +into it too closely. We could not let these great folk of old +into our drawing-rooms. Queen Elizabeth would positively +not be eligible for a housemaid. The old manners and the +old customs go sinking from grade to grade, until, if some +mighty emperor revisited the glimpses of the moon, he would +not find any one of his way of thinking, any one he could +strike hands with and talk to freely and without offence, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page273"></a>273</span> +save perhaps the porter at the end of the street, or the fellow +with his elbows out who loafs all day before the public-house. +So that this little note of vulgarity is not a thing to +be dwelt upon; it is to be put away from us, as we recall the +fashion of these old intimacies; so that we may only remember +Knox as one who was very long-suffering with women, +kind to them in his own way, loving them in his own way—and +that not the worst way, if it was not the best—and once +at least, if not twice, moved to his heart of hearts by a +woman, and giving expression to the yearning he had for her +society in words that none of us need be ashamed to borrow.</p> + +<p>And let us bear in mind always that the period I have +gone over in this essay begins when the Reformer was +already beyond the middle age, and already broken in +bodily health: it has been the story of an old man’s friendships. +This it is that makes Knox enviable. Unknown +until past forty, he had then before him five-and-twenty +years of splendid and influential life, passed through uncommon +hardships to an uncommon degree of power, +lived in his own country as a sort of king, and did what he +would with the sound of his voice out of the pulpit. And +besides all this, such a following of faithful women! One +would take the first forty-two years gladly, if one could be +sure of the last twenty-five. Most of us, even if, by reason +of great strength and the dignity of grey hairs, we retain +some degree of public respect in the latter days of our existence, +will find a falling away of friends, and a solitude making +itself round about us day by day, until we are left alone +with the hired sick-nurse. For the attraction of a man’s +character is apt to be outlived, like the attraction of his +body; and the power to love grows feeble in its turn, as well +as the power to inspire love in others. It is only with a few +rare natures that friendship is added to friendship, love to +love, and the man keeps growing richer in affection—richer, +I mean, as a bank maybe said to grow richer, both giving and +receiving more—after his head is white and his back weary, +and he prepares to go down into the dust of death.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_60" href="#FnAnchor_60"><span class="fn">60</span></a> Gaberel’s “Église de Genève,” i. 88.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_61" href="#FnAnchor_61"><span class="fn">61</span></a> “La Démocratie chez les Prédicateurs de la Ligue.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_62" href="#FnAnchor_62"><span class="fn">62</span></a> “Historia affectuum se immiscentium controversiæ de gynæcocratia.” +It is in his collected prefaces; Leipsic, 1683.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_63" href="#FnAnchor_63"><span class="fn">63</span></a> “Œuvres de d’Aubigné,” i. 449.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_64" href="#FnAnchor_64"><span class="fn">64</span></a> “Dames Illustres,” pp. 358-360.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_65" href="#FnAnchor_65"><span class="fn">65</span></a> Works of John Knox, iv. 349.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_66" href="#FnAnchor_66"><span class="fn">66</span></a> M’Crie’s “Life of Knox,” ii. 41.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_67" href="#FnAnchor_67"><span class="fn">67</span></a> Described by Calvin in a letter to Cecil, Knox’s Works, vol. iv.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_68" href="#FnAnchor_68"><span class="fn">68</span></a> It was anonymously published, but no one seems to have been +in doubt about its authorship; he might as well have set his name +to it, for all the good he got by holding it back.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_69" href="#FnAnchor_69"><span class="fn">69</span></a> Knox’s Works, iv. 358.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_70" href="#FnAnchor_70"><span class="fn">70</span></a> Strype’s “Aylmer,” p. 16.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_71" href="#FnAnchor_71"><span class="fn">71</span></a> It may interest the reader to know that these (so says Thomasius) +are the “ipsissima verba Schlusselburgii.”</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_72" href="#FnAnchor_72"><span class="fn">72</span></a> I am indebted for a sight of this book to the kindness of Mr. +David Laing, the editor of Knox’s Works.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_73" href="#FnAnchor_73"><span class="fn">73</span></a> “Social Statics,” p. 64, etc.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_74" href="#FnAnchor_74"><span class="fn">74</span></a> Hallam’s “Const. Hist. of England,” i. 225, note <span class="sp">m</span>.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_75" href="#FnAnchor_75"><span class="fn">75</span></a> Knox to Mrs. Locke, 6th April, 1559.—Works, vi. 14.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_76" href="#FnAnchor_76"><span class="fn">76</span></a> Knox to Sir William Cecil, 10th April, 1559.—Works, ii. 16, or +vi. 15.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_77" href="#FnAnchor_77"><span class="fn">77</span></a> Knox to Queen Elizabeth, July 20th, 1559.—Works, vi. 47, or ii. 26.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_78" href="#FnAnchor_78"><span class="fn">78</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, August 6th, 1561.—Works, vi. 126.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_79" href="#FnAnchor_79"><span class="fn">79</span></a> Knox’s Works, ii. 278-280.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_80" href="#FnAnchor_80"><span class="fn">80</span></a> Calderwood’s “History of the Kirk of Scotland,” edition of the +Wodrow Society, iii. 51-54.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_81" href="#FnAnchor_81"><span class="fn">81</span></a> Bayle’s “Historical Dictionary,” art. <span class="sc">Knox</span>, remark G.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_82" href="#FnAnchor_82"><span class="fn">82</span></a> Works, iv. 244.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_83" href="#FnAnchor_83"><span class="fn">83</span></a> Works, iv. 246.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_84" href="#FnAnchor_84"><span class="fn">84</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, iv. 225.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_85" href="#FnAnchor_85"><span class="fn">85</span></a> Works, iv. 245.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_86" href="#FnAnchor_86"><span class="fn">86</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iv. 221.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_87" href="#FnAnchor_87"><span class="fn">87</span></a> Works, vi. 514.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_88" href="#FnAnchor_88"><span class="fn">88</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iii. 334.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_89" href="#FnAnchor_89"><span class="fn">89</span></a> Works, iii. 352, 353.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_90" href="#FnAnchor_90"><span class="fn">90</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iii. 350.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_91" href="#FnAnchor_91"><span class="fn">91</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iii. 390, 391.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_92" href="#FnAnchor_92"><span class="fn">92</span></a> Works, iii. 142.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_93" href="#FnAnchor_93"><span class="fn">93</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iii. 378.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_94" href="#FnAnchor_94"><span class="fn">94</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> ii. 379.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_95" href="#FnAnchor_95"><span class="fn">95</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iii. 394.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_96" href="#FnAnchor_96"><span class="fn">96</span></a> Works, iii. 376.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_97" href="#FnAnchor_97"><span class="fn">97</span></a> Works, iii. 378.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_98" href="#FnAnchor_98"><span class="fn">98</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> vi. 104.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_99" href="#FnAnchor_99"><span class="fn">99</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> v. 5.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_100" href="#FnAnchor_100"><span class="fn">100</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> vi. 27.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_101" href="#FnAnchor_101"><span class="fn">101</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> ii. 138.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_102" href="#FnAnchor_102"><span class="fn">102</span></a> Mr. Laing’s preface to the sixth volume of Knox’s Works, p. lxii.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_103" href="#FnAnchor_103"><span class="fn">103</span></a> Works, vi. 534.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_104" href="#FnAnchor_104"><span class="fn">104</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iv. 220.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_105" href="#FnAnchor_105"><span class="fn">105</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iii. 380.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_106" href="#FnAnchor_106"><span class="fn">106</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iv. 220.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_107" href="#FnAnchor_107"><span class="fn">107</span></a> Works, iii. 380.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_108" href="#FnAnchor_108"><span class="fn">108</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> iv. 238.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_109" href="#FnAnchor_109"><span class="fn">109</span></a> Works, iv. 240.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_110" href="#FnAnchor_110"><span class="fn">110</span></a> Works, vi. 513, 514.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_111" href="#FnAnchor_111"><span class="fn">111</span></a> Works, vi. 11.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_112" href="#FnAnchor_112"><span class="fn">112</span></a> Works, vi. 21, 101, 108, 130.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_113" href="#FnAnchor_113"><span class="fn">113</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> vi. 83.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_114" href="#FnAnchor_114"><span class="fn">114</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> vi. 129.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_115" href="#FnAnchor_115"><span class="fn">115</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> vi. 532.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_116" href="#FnAnchor_116"><span class="fn">116</span></a> Works, i. 246.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page274"></a>274</span></p> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page275"></a>275</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>THE BODY-SNATCHER</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page276"></a>276</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page277"></a>277</span></p> +<h2>THE BODY-SNATCHER</h2> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Every</span> night in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour +of the George at Debenham—the undertaker, and the landlord, +and Fettes, and myself. Sometimes there would be +more; but blow high, blow low, come rain or snow or frost, +we four would be each planted in his own particular armchair. +Fettes was an old drunken Scotchman, a man of +education obviously, and a man of some property, since +he lived in idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago, +while still young, and by a mere continuance of living had +grown to be an adopted townsman. His blue camlet cloak +was a local antiquity, like the church-spire. His place +in the parlour at the George, his absence from church, his +old, crapulous, disreputable vices, were all things of course +in Debenham. He had some vague Radical opinions and +some fleeting infidelities, which he would now and again +set forth and emphasise with tottering slaps upon the table. +He drank rum—five glasses regularly every evening; and +for the greater portion of his nightly visit to the George +sat, with his glass in his right hand, in a state of melancholy +alcoholic saturation. We called him the Doctor, for he +was supposed to have some special knowledge of medicine, +and had been known, upon a pinch, to set a fracture or +reduce a dislocation; but beyond these slight particulars, +we had no knowledge of his character and antecedents.</p> + +<p>One dark winter night—it had struck nine some time +before the landlord joined us—there was a sick man in +the George, a great neighbouring proprietor suddenly +struck down with apoplexy on his way to Parliament; and +the great man’s still greater London doctor had been telegraphed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278"></a>278</span> +to his bedside. It was the first time that such a +thing had happened in Debenham, for the railway was but +newly open, and we were all proportionately moved by +the occurrence.</p> + +<p>“He’s come,” said the landlord, after he had filled and +lighted his pipe.</p> + +<p>“He?” said I. “Who?—not the doctor?”</p> + +<p>“Himself,” replied our host.</p> + +<p>“What is his name?”</p> + +<p>“Doctor Macfarlane,” said the landlord.</p> + +<p>Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly +fuddled, now nodding over, now staring mazily around +him; but at the last word he seemed to awaken, and repeated +the name “Macfarlane” twice, quietly enough +the first time, but with sudden emotion at the second.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the landlord, “that’s his name, Doctor +Wolfe Macfarlane.”</p> + +<p>Fettes became instantly sober; his eyes awoke, his +voice became clear, loud, and steady, his language forcible +and earnest. We were all startled by the transformation, +as if a man had risen from the dead.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I am afraid I have +not been paying much attention to your talk. Who is +this Wolfe Macfarlane?” And then, when he had heard +the landlord out, “It cannot be, it cannot be,” he added; +“and yet I would like well to see him face to face.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know him, Doctor?” asked the undertaker, +with a gasp.</p> + +<p>“God forbid!” was the reply. “And yet the name +is a strange one; it were too much to fancy two. Tell me, +landlord, is he old?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the host, “he’s not a young man, to be +sure, and his hair is white; but he looks younger than you.”</p> + +<p>“He is older, though; years older. But,” with a +slap upon the table, “it’s the rum you see in my face—rum +and sin. This man, perhaps, may have an easy conscience +and a good digestion. Conscience! Hear me +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page279"></a>279</span> +speak. You would think I was some good, old, decent +Christian, would you not? But no, not I; I never canted. +Voltaire might have canted if he’d stood in my shoes; but +the brains“—with a rattling fillip on his bald head—“the +brains were clear and active, and I saw and made no deductions.”</p> + +<p>“If you know this doctor,” I ventured to remark, +after a somewhat awful pause, “I should gather that you +do not share the landlord’s good opinion.”</p> + +<p>Fettes paid no regard to me.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, with sudden decision, “I must see +him face to face.”</p> + +<p>There was another pause, and then a door was closed +rather sharply on the first floor, and a step was heard upon +the stair.</p> + +<p>“That’s the doctor,” cried the landlord. “Look +sharp, and you can catch him.”</p> + +<p>It was but two steps from the small parlour to the +door of the old George Inn; the wide oak staircase landed +almost in the street; there was room for a Turkey rug and +nothing more between the threshold and the last round of +the descent; but this little space was every evening +brilliantly lit up, not only by the light upon the stair and +the great signal lamp below the sign, but by the warm +radiance of the bar-room window. The George thus +brightly advertised itself to passers-by in the cold street. +Fettes walked steadily to the spot, and we, who were hanging +behind, beheld the two men meet, as one of them had +phrased it, face to face. Dr. Macfarlane was alert and +vigorous. His white hair set off his pale and placid, +although energetic, countenance. He was richly dressed +in the finest of broadcloth and the whitest of linen, with a +great gold watch-chain, and studs and spectacles of the +same precious material. He wore a broad-folded tie, +white and speckled with lilac, and he carried on his arm a +comfortable driving-coat of fur. There was no doubt but +he became his years, breathing, as he did, of wealth and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page280"></a>280</span> +consideration; and it was a surprising contrast to see our +parlour sot—bald, dirty, pimpled, and robed in his old +camlet cloak—confront him at the bottom of the stairs.</p> + +<p>“Macfarlane!” he said somewhat loudly, more like +a herald than a friend.</p> + +<p>The great doctor pulled up short on the fourth step, +as though the familiarity of the address surprised and +somewhat shocked his dignity.</p> + +<p>“Toddy Macfarlane!” repeated Fettes.</p> + +<p>The London man almost staggered. He stared for +the swiftest of seconds at the man before him, glanced +behind him with a sort of scare, and then in a startled +whisper, “Fettes!” he said, “you!”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” said the other, “me! Did you think I was +dead too? We are not so easy shut of our acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“Hush, hush!” exclaimed the doctor. “Hush, hush! +this meeting is so unexpected—I can see you are unmanned. +I hardly knew you, I confess, at first; but I am overjoyed—overjoyed +to have this opportunity. For the present it +must be how-d’ye-do and good-bye in one, for my fly is +waiting, and I must not fail the train; but you shall—let +me see—yes—you shall give me your address, and you can +count on early news of me. We must do something for +you, Fettes. I fear you are out at elbows; but we must +see to that for auld lang syne, as once we sang at suppers.”</p> + +<p>“Money!” cried Fettes; “money from you! The +money that I had from you is lying where I cast it in the +rain.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Macfarlane had talked himself into some measure +of superiority and confidence, but the uncommon energy +of this refusal cast him back into his first confusion.</p> + +<p>A horrible, ugly look came and went across his almost +venerable countenance. “My dear fellow,” he said, +“be it as you please; my last thought is to offend you. I +would intrude on none. I will leave you my address, +however—”</p> + +<p>“I do not wish it—I do not wish to know the roof that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page281"></a>281</span> +shelters you,” interrupted the other. “I heard your +name; I feared it might be you; I wished to know if, +after all, there were a God; I know now that there is none. +Begone!”</p> + +<p>He still stood in the middle of the rug, between the +stair and doorway; and the great London physician, in +order to escape, would be forced to step to one side. It +was plain that he hesitated before the thought of this +humiliation. White as he was, there was a dangerous +glitter in his spectacles; but while he still paused uncertain, +he became aware that the driver of his fly was peering +in from the street at this unusual scene and caught a +glimpse at the same time of our little body from the parlour, +huddled by the corner of the bar. The presence of so +many witnesses decided him at once to flee. He crouched +together, brushing on the wainscot, and made a dart like +a serpent, striking for the door. But his tribulation was +not entirely at an end, for even as he was passing Fettes +clutched him by the arm and these words came in a whisper, +and yet painfully distinct, “Have you seen it again?”</p> + +<p>The great rich London doctor cried out aloud with a +sharp, throttling cry; he dashed his questioner across the +open space, and, with his hands over his head, fled out of +the door like a detected thief. Before it had occurred to +one of us to make a movement the fly was already rattling +toward the station. The scene was over like a dream, but +the dream had left proofs and traces of its passage. Next +day the servant found the fine gold spectacles broken on +the threshold, and that very night we were all standing +breathless by the bar-room window, and Fettes at our side, +sober, pale, and resolute in look.</p> + +<p>“God protect us, Mr. Fettes!” said the landlord, +coming first into possession of his customary senses. +“What in the universe is all this? These are strange +things you have been saying.”</p> + +<p>Fettes turned toward us; he looked us each in succession +in the face. “See if you can hold your tongues,” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page282"></a>282</span> +said he. “That man Macfarlane is not safe to cross; those +that have done so already have repented it too late.”</p> + +<p>And then, without so much as finishing his third glass, +far less waiting for the other two, he bade us good-bye and +went forth, under the lamp of the hotel, into the black +night.</p> + +<p>We three turned to our places in the parlour, with the +big red fire and four clear candles; and as we recapitulated +what had passed, the first chill of our surprise soon changed +into a glow of curiosity. We sat late; it was the latest +session I have known in the old George. Each man, before +we parted, had his theory that he was bound to prove; +and none of us had any nearer business in this world than +to track out the past of our condemned companion, and +surprise the secret that he shared with the great London +doctor. It is no great boast, but I believe I was a better +hand at worming out a story than either of my fellows at +the George; and perhaps there is now no other man alive +who could narrate to you the following foul and unnatural +events.</p> + +<p>In his young days Fettes studied medicine in the schools +of Edinburgh. He had talent of a kind, the talent that +picks up swiftly what it hears and readily retails it for its +own. He worked little at home; but he was civil, attentive, +and intelligent in the presence of his masters. They soon +picked him out as a lad who listened closely and remembered +well; nay, strange as it seemed to me when I first +heard it, he was in those days well favoured, and pleased +by his exterior. There was, at that period, a certain extramural +teacher of anatomy, whom I shall here designate +by the letter K. His name was subsequently too well +known. The man who bore it skulked through the streets +of Edinburgh in disguise, while the mob that applauded +at the execution of Burke called loudly for the blood of his +employer. But Mr. K—— was then at the top of his +vogue; he enjoyed a popularity due partly to his own +talent and address, partly to the incapacity of his rival, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page283"></a>283</span> +the university professor. The students, at least, swore +by his name, and Fettes believed himself, and was believed +by others, to have laid the foundations of success when he +acquired the favour of this meteorically famous man. +Mr. K—— was a <i>bon vivant</i> as well as an accomplished +teacher; he liked a sly illusion no less than a careful preparation. +In both capacities Fettes enjoyed and deserved +his notice, and by the second year of his attendance he held +the half-regular position of second demonstrator, or sub-assistant +in his class.</p> + +<p>In this capacity the charge of the theatre and lecture-room +devolved in particular upon his shoulders. He had +to answer for the cleanliness of the premises and the conduct +of the other students, and it was a part of his duty +to supply, receive, and divide the various subjects. It +was with a view to this last—at that time very delicate—affair +that he was lodged by Mr. K—— in the same wynd, +and at last in the same building, with the dissecting-rooms. +Here, after a night of turbulent pleasures, his hand still +tottering, his sight still misty and confused, he would be +called out of bed in the black hours before the winter dawn +by the unclean and desperate interlopers who supplied +the table. He would open the door to these men, since +infamous throughout the land. He would help them with +their tragic burden, pay them their sordid price, and remain +alone, when they were gone, with the unfriendly +relics of humanity. From such a scene he would return +to snatch another hour or two of slumber, to repair the +abuses of the night, and refresh himself for the labours +of the day.</p> + +<p>Few lads could have been more insensible to the impressions +of a life thus passed among the ensigns of mortality. +His mind was closed against all general considerations. +He was incapable of interest in the fate and fortunes of +another, the slave of his own desires and low ambitions. +Cold, light, and selfish in the last resort, he had that modicum +of prudence, miscalled morality, which keeps a man +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284"></a>284</span> +from inconvenient drunkenness or punishable theft. He +coveted, besides, a measure of consideration from his +masters and his fellow-pupils, and he had no desire to fail +conspicuously in the external parts of life. Thus he made +it his pleasure to gain some distinction in his studies, and +day after day rendered unimpeachable eye-service to his +employer, Mr. K——. For his day of work he indemnified +himself by nights of roaring, blackguardly enjoyment; +and when that balance had been struck, the organ that he +called his conscience declared itself content.</p> + +<p>The supply of subjects was a continual trouble to him +as well as to his master. In that large and busy class, the +raw material of the anatomist kept perpetually running +out; and the business thus rendered necessary was not +only unpleasant in itself, but threatened dangerous consequences +to all who were concerned. It was the policy +of Mr. K—— to ask no questions in his dealings with the +trade. “They bring the body, and we pay the price,” +he used to say, dwelling on the alliteration—“<i>quid pro +quo</i>.” And, again, and somewhat profanely, “Ask no +questions,” he would tell his assistants, “for conscience’ +sake.” There was no understanding that the subjects +were provided by the crime of murder. Had that idea +been broached to him in words, he would have recoiled +in horror; but the lightness of his speech upon so grave +a matter was, in itself, an offence against good manners, +and a temptation to the men with whom he dealt. Fettes, +for instance, had often remarked to himself upon the +singular freshness of the bodies. He had been struck +again and again by the hangdog, abominable looks of the +ruffians who came to him before the dawn; and putting +things together clearly in his private thoughts, he perhaps +attributed a meaning too immoral and too categorical to +the unguarded counsels of his master. He understood +his duty, in short, to have three branches: to take what +was brought, to pay the price, and to avert the eye from +any evidence of crime.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page285"></a>285</span></p> + +<p>One November morning this policy of silence was put +sharply to the test. He had been awake all night with +a racking toothache—pacing his room like a caged beast +or throwing himself in fury on his bed—and had fallen +at last into that profound, uneasy slumber that so often +follows on a night of pain, when he was awakened by the +third or fourth angry repetition of the concerted signal. +There was a thin, bright moonshine; it was bitter cold, +windy, and frosty; the town had not yet awakened, but +an indefinable stir already preluded the noise and business +of the day. The ghouls had come later than usual, and +they seemed more than usually eager to be gone. Fettes, +sick with sleep, lighted them upstairs. He heard their +grumbling Irish voices through a dream; and as they +stripped the sack from their sad merchandise he leaned +dozing, with his shoulder propped against the wall; he +had to shake himself to find the men their money. As +he did so his eyes lighted on the dead face. He started; +he took two steps nearer, with the candle raised.</p> + +<p>“God Almighty!” he cried. “That is Jane Galbraith!”</p> + +<p>The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer +the door.</p> + +<p>“I know her, I tell you,” he continued. “She was +alive and hearty yesterday. It’s impossible she can be +dead; it’s impossible you should have got this body fairly.”</p> + +<p>“Sure, sir, you’re mistaken entirely,” said one of the +men.</p> + +<p>But the other looked Fettes darkly in the eyes, and +demanded the money on the spot.</p> + +<p>It was impossible to misconceive the threat or to exaggerate +the danger. The lad’s heart failed him. He +stammered some excuses, counted out the sum, and saw +his hateful visitors depart. No sooner were they gone +than he hastened to confirm his doubts. By a dozen unquestionable +marks he identified the girl he had jested +with the day before. He saw, with horror, marks upon +her body that might well betoken violence. A panic +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page286"></a>286</span> +seized him, and he took refuge in his room. There he +reflected at length over the discovery that he had made; +considered soberly the bearing of Mr. K——’s instructions +and the danger to himself of interference in so serious a +business, and at last, in sore perplexity, determined to +wait for the advice of his immediate superior, the class +assistant.</p> + +<p>This was a young doctor, Wolfe Macfarlane, a high +favourite among all the reckless students, clever, dissipated, +and unscrupulous to the last degree. He had +travelled and studied abroad. His manners were agreeable +and a little forward. He was an authority on the +stage, skilful on the ice or the links with skate or golf-club; +he dressed with nice audacity, and, to put the finishing +touch upon his glory, he kept a gig and a strong trotting-horse. +With Fettes he was on terms of intimacy; indeed, +their relative positions called for some community of life; +and when subjects were scarce the pair would drive far +into the country in Macfarlane’s gig, visit and desecrate +some lonely graveyard, and return before dawn with their +booty to the door of the dissecting-room.</p> + +<p>On that particular morning Macfarlane arrived somewhat +earlier than his wont. Fettes heard him, and met +him on the stairs, told him his story, and showed him the +cause of his alarm, Macfarlane examined the marks on +her body.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, with a nod, “it looks fishy.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what should I do?” asked Fettes.</p> + +<p>“Do?” repeated the other. “Do you want to do +anything? Least said soonest mended, I should say.”</p> + +<p>“Some one else might recognise her,” objected Fettes. +“She was as well known as the Castle Rock.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll hope not,” said Macfarlane, “and if anybody +does—well, you didn’t, don’t you see, and there’s an end. +The fact is, this has been going on too long. Stir up the +mud, and you’ll get K—— into the most unholy trouble; +you’ll be in a shocking box yourself. So will I, if you +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page287"></a>287</span> +come to that. I should like to know how any one of us +would look, or what the devil we should have to say for +ourselves, in any Christian witness-box. For me, you +know there’s one thing certain—that, practically speaking, +all our subjects have been murdered.”</p> + +<p>“Macfarlane!” cried Fettes.</p> + +<p>“Come now!” sneered the other. “As if you hadn’t +suspected it yourself!”</p> + +<p>“Suspecting is one thing——”</p> + +<p>“And proof another. Yes, I know; and I’m as sorry +as you are this should have come here,” tapping the body +with his cane. “The next best thing for me is not to +recognise it; and,” he added coolly, “I don’t. You may, +if you please. I don’t dictate, but I think a man of the +world would do as I do; and I may add, I fancy that is +what K—— would look for at our hands. The question +is, Why did he choose us two for his assistants? And I +answer, Because he didn’t want old wives.”</p> + +<p>This was the tone of all others to affect the mind of a +lad like Fettes. He agreed to imitate Macfarlane. The +body of the unfortunate girl was duly dissected, and no +one remarked or appeared to recognise her.</p> + +<p>One afternoon, when his day’s work was over, Fettes +dropped into a popular tavern and found Macfarlane sitting +with a stranger. This was a small man, very pale +and dark, with coal-black eyes. The cut of his features +gave a promise of intellect and refinement which was but +feebly realised in his manners, for he proved, upon a nearer +acquaintance, coarse, vulgar, and stupid. He exercised, +however, a very remarkable control over Macfarlane; +issued orders like the Great Bashaw; became inflamed +at the least discussion or delay, and commented rudely +on the servility with which he was obeyed. This most +offensive person took a fancy to Fettes on the spot, plied +him with drinks, and honoured him with unusual confidences +on his past career. If a tenth part of what he confessed +were true, he was a very loathsome rogue; and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page288"></a>288</span> +lad’s vanity was tickled by the attention of so experienced +a man.</p> + +<p>“I’m a pretty bad fellow myself,” the stranger remarked, +“but Macfarlane is the boy—Toddy Macfarlane +I call him. Toddy, order your friend another glass.” Or +it might be, “Toddy, you jump up and shut the door.” +“Toddy hates me,” he said again. “Oh, yes, Toddy, +you do!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you call me that confounded name,” growled +Macfarlane.</p> + +<p>“Hear him! Did you ever see the lads play knife? +He would like to do that all over my body,” remarked +the stranger.</p> + +<p>“We medicals have a better way than that,” said +Fettes. “When we dislike a dead friend of ours, we dissect +him.”</p> + +<p>Macfarlane looked up sharply, as though this jest were +scarcely to his mind.</p> + +<p>The afternoon passed. Gray, for that was the stranger’s +name, invited Fettes to join them at dinner, ordered a +feast so sumptuous that the tavern was thrown into commotion, +and when all was done commanded Macfarlane to +settle the bill. It was late before they separated; the man +Gray was incapably drunk. Macfarlane, sobered by his +fury, chewed the cud of the money he had been forced to +squander and the slights he had been obliged to swallow. +Fettes, with various liquors singing in his head, returned +home with devious footsteps and a mind entirely in abeyance. +Next day Macfarlane was absent from the class, +and Fettes smiled to himself as he imagined him still squiring +the intolerable Gray from tavern to tavern. As soon +as the hour of liberty had struck he posted from place to +place in quest of his last night’s companions. He could +find them, however, nowhere; so returned early to his +rooms, went early to bed, and slept the sleep of the just.</p> + +<p>At four in the morning he was awakened by the well-known +signal. Descending to the door, he was filled with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page289"></a>289</span> +astonishment to find Macfarlane with his gig, and in the +gig one of those long and ghastly packages with which +he was so well acquainted.</p> + +<p>“What?” he cried. “Have you been out alone? +How did you manage?”</p> + +<p>But Macfarlane silenced him roughly, bidding him turn +to business. When they had got the body upstairs and +laid it on the table, Macfarlane made at first as if he were +going away. Then he paused and seemed to hesitate; +and then, “You had better look at the face,” said he, in +tones of some constraint. “You had better,” he repeated, +as Fettes only stared at him in wonder.</p> + +<p>“But where, and how, and when did you come by +it?” cried the other.</p> + +<p>“Look at the face,” was the only answer.</p> + +<p>Fettes was staggered; strange doubts assailed him. +He looked from the young doctor to the body, and then +back again. At last, with a start, he did as he was bidden. +He had almost expected the sight that met his eyes, and +yet the shock was cruel. To see, fixed in the rigidity of +death and naked on that coarse layer of sackcloth, the +man whom he had left well clad and full of meat and sin +upon the threshold of a tavern, awoke, even in the thoughtless +Fettes, some of the terrors of the conscience. It was +a <i>cras tibi</i> which re-echoed in his soul, that two whom he +had known should have come to lie upon these icy tables. +Yet these were only secondary thoughts. His first concern +regarded Wolfe. Unprepared for a challenge so +momentous, he knew not how to look his comrade in the +face. He durst not meet his eye, and he had neither words +nor voice at his command.</p> + +<p>It was Macfarlane himself who made the first advance. +He came up quietly behind and laid his hand gently but +firmly on the other’s shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Richardson,” said he, “may have the head.”</p> + +<p>Now Richardson was a student who had long been +anxious for that portion of the human subject to dissect. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page290"></a>290</span> +There was no answer, and the murderer resumed: “Talking +of business, you must pay me; your accounts, you see, +must tally.”</p> + +<p>Fettes found a voice, the ghost of his own: “Pay you!” +he cried. “Pay you for that?”</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, of course you must. By all means and +on every possible account, you must,” returned the other. +“I dare not give it for nothing, you dare not take it for +nothing; it would compromise us both. This is another +case like Jane Galbraith’s. The more things are wrong +the more we must act as if all were right. Where does +old K—— keep his money?”</p> + +<p>“There,” answered Fettes hoarsely, pointing to a cupboard +in the corner.</p> + +<p>“Give me the key, then,” said the other calmly, holding +out his hand.</p> + +<p>There was an instant’s hesitation, and the die was cast. +Macfarlane could not suppress a nervous twitch, the infinitesimal +mark of an immense relief, as he felt the key +between his fingers. He opened the cupboard, brought +out pen and ink and a paper-book that stood in one compartment, +and separated from the funds in a drawer a sum +suitable to the occasion.</p> + +<p>“Now, look here,” he said, “there is the payment +made—first proof of your good faith: first step to your +security. You have now to clinch it by a second. Enter +the payment in your book, and then you for your part may +defy the devil.”</p> + +<p>The next few seconds were for Fettes an agony of +thought; but in balancing his terrors it was the most +immediate that triumphed. Any future difficulty seemed +almost welcome if he could avoid a present quarrel with +Macfarlane. He set down the candle which he had been +carrying all this time, and with a steady hand entered the +date, the nature, and the amount of the transaction.</p> + +<p>“And now,” said Macfarlane, “it’s only fair that you +should pocket the lucre. I’ve had my share already. By-the-bye, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page291"></a>291</span> +when a man of the world falls into a bit of luck, +has a few shillings extra in his pocket—I’m ashamed to +speak of it, but there’s a rule of conduct in the case. No +treating, no purchase of expensive class-books, no squaring +of old debts; borrow, don’t lend.”</p> + +<p>“Macfarlane,” began Fettes, still somewhat hoarsely, +“I have put my neck in a halter to oblige you.”</p> + +<p>“To oblige me?” cried Wolfe. “Oh, come! You +did, as near as I can see the matter, what you downright +had to do in self-defence. Suppose I got into trouble, +where would you be? This second little matter flows +clearly from the first. Mr. Gray is the continuation of +Miss Galbraith. You can’t begin and then stop. If you +begin, you must keep on beginning; that’s the truth. No +rest for the wicked.”</p> + +<p>A horrible sense of blackness and the treachery of +fate seized hold upon the soul of the unhappy student.</p> + +<p>“My God!” he cried, “but what have I done? and +when did I begin? To be made a class assistant—in the +name of reason, where’s the harm in that? Service wanted +the position; Service might have got it. Would <i>he</i> have +been where <i>I</i> am now!”</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow,” said Macfarlane, “what a boy you +are! What harm <i>has</i> come to you? What harm <i>can</i> +come to you if you hold your tongue? Why, man, do you +know what this life is? There are two squads of us—the +lions and the lambs. If you’re a lamb, you’ll come to lie +upon these tables like Gray or Jane Galbraith; if you’re +a lion, you’ll live and drive a horse like me, like K——, +like all the world with any wit or courage. You’re staggered +at the first. But look at K——! My dear fellow, you’re +clever, you have pluck. I like you, and K—— likes you. +You were born to lead the hunt; and I tell you, on my +honour and my experience of life, three days from now +you’ll laugh at all these scarecrows like a High School boy +at a farce.”</p> + +<p>And with that Macfarlane took his departure and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page292"></a>292</span> +drove off up the wynd in his gig to get under cover before +daylight. Fettes was thus left alone with his regrets. +He saw the miserable peril in which he stood involved. +He saw, with inexpressible dismay, that there was no limit +to his weakness, and that, from concession to concession, +he had fallen from the arbiter of Macfarlane’s destiny to +his paid and helpless accomplice. He would have given +the world to have been a little braver at the time, but it +did not occur to him that he might still be brave. The +secret of Jane Galbraith and the cursed entry in the day-book +closed his mouth.</p> + +<p>Hours passed; the class began to arrive; the members +of the unhappy Gray were dealt out to one and to another, +and received without remark. Richardson was made +happy with the head; and before the hour of freedom rang +Fettes trembled with exultation to perceive how far they +had already gone toward safety.</p> + +<p>For two days he continued to watch, with increasing +joy, the dreadful process of disguise.</p> + +<p>On the third day Macfarlane made his appearance. +He had been ill, he said; but he made up for lost time by +the energy with which he directed the students. To +Richardson in particular he extended the most valuable +assistance and advice, and that student, encouraged by +the praise of the demonstrator, burned high with ambitious +hopes, and saw the medal already in his grasp.</p> + +<p>Before the week was out Macfarlane’s prophecy had +been fulfilled. Fettes had outlived his terrors and had +forgotten his baseness. He began to plume himself upon +his courage, and had so arranged the story in his mind that +he could look back on these events with an unhealthy +pride. Of his accomplice he saw but little. They met, +of course, in the business of the class; they received their +orders together from Mr. K——. At times they had a +word or two in private, and Macfarlane was from first to +last particularly kind and jovial. But it was plain that he +avoided any reference to their common secret; and even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page293"></a>293</span> +when Fettes whispered to him that he had cast in his lot +with the lions and forsworn the lambs, he only signed to +him smilingly to hold his peace.</p> + +<p>At length an occasion arose which threw the pair once +more into a closer union. Mr. K—— was again short of +subjects; pupils were eager, and it was a part of this +teacher’s pretensions to be always well supplied. At the +same time there came the news of a burial in the rustic +graveyard of Glencorse. Time has little changed the place +in question. It stood then, as now, upon a cross road, +out of call of human habitations, and buried fathom deep +in the foliage of six cedar trees. The cries of the sheep +upon the neighbouring hills, the streamlets upon either +hand, one loudly singing among pebbles, the other dripping +furtively from pond to pond, the stir of the wind in mountainous +old flowering chestnuts, and once in seven days +the voice of the bell and the old tunes of the precentor, +were the only sounds that disturbed the silence around +the rural church. The Resurrection Man—to use a by-name +of the period—was not to be deterred by any of the +sanctities of customary piety. It was part of his trade +to despise and desecrate the scrolls and trumpets of old +tombs, the paths worn by the feet of worshippers and +mourners, and the offerings and the inscriptions of bereaved +affection. To rustic neighbourhoods, where love +is more than commonly tenacious, and where some bonds +of blood or fellowship unite the entire society of a parish, +the body-snatcher, far from being repelled by natural respect, +was attracted by the ease and safety of the task. +To bodies that had been laid in earth, in joyful expectation +of a far different awakening, there came that hasty, lamp-lit, +terror-haunted resurrection of the spade and mattock. +The coffin was forced, the cerements torn, and the melancholy +relics, clad in sackcloth, after being rattled for hours +on moonless byways, were at length exposed to uttermost +indignities before a class of gaping boys.</p> + +<p>Somewhat as two vultures may swoop upon a dying +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page294"></a>294</span> +lamb, Fettes and Macfarlane were to be let loose upon a +grave in that green and quiet resting-place. The wife +of a farmer, a woman who had lived for sixty years, and +been known for nothing but good butter and a godly conversation, +was to be rooted from her grave at midnight +and carried, dead and naked, to that far-away city that she +had always honoured with her Sunday’s best; the place +beside her family was to be empty till the crack of doom; +her innocent and almost venerable members to be exposed +to that last curiosity of the anatomist.</p> + +<p>Late one afternoon the pair set forth, well wrapped in +cloaks and furnished with a formidable bottle. It rained +without remission—a cold, dense, lashing rain. Now and +again there blew a puff of wind, but these sheets of falling +water kept it down. Bottle and all, it was a sad and +silent drive as far as Penicuik, where they were to spend +the evening. They stopped once, to hide their implements +in a thick bush not far from the churchyard, and once +again at the Fisher’s Tryst, to have a toast before the +kitchen fire and vary their nips of whisky with a glass of +ale. When they reached their journey’s end the gig was +housed, the horse was fed and comforted, and the two +young doctors in a private room sat down to the best dinner +and the best wine the house afforded. The lights, the +fire, the beating rain upon the window, the cold, incongruous +work that lay before them, added zest to their enjoyment +of the meal. With every glass their cordiality increased. +Soon Macfarlane handed a little pile of gold to +his companion.</p> + +<p>“A compliment,” he said. “Between friends these +little d——d accommodations ought to fly like pipe-lights.”</p> + +<p>Fettes pocketed the money, and applauded the sentiment +to the echo. “You are a philosopher,” he cried. +“I was an ass till I knew you. You and K—— between +you, by the Lord Harry! but you’ll make a man of me.”</p> + +<p>“Of course we shall,” applauded Macfarlane. “A +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page295"></a>295</span> +man? I tell you, it required a man to back me up the +other morning. There are some big, brawling, forty-year-old +cowards who would have turned sick at the look of +the d——d thing; but not you—you kept your head. I +watched you.”</p> + +<p>“Well, and why not?” Fettes thus vaunted himself. +“It was no affair of mine. There was nothing to gain +on the one side but disturbance, and on the other I could +count on your gratitude, don’t you see?” And he slapped +his pocket till the gold pieces rang.</p> + +<p>Macfarlane somehow felt a certain touch of alarm at +these unpleasant words. He may have regretted that he +had taught his young companion so successfully, but he +had no time to interfere, for the other noisily continued +in this boastful strain:—</p> + +<p>“The great thing is not to be afraid. Now, between +you and me, I don’t want to hang—that’s practical; but +for all cant, Macfarlane, I was born with a contempt. +Hell, God, Devil, right, wrong, sin, crime, and all the old +gallery of curiosities—they may frighten boys, but men +of the world, like you and me, despise them. Here’s to +the memory of Gray!”</p> + +<p>It was by this time growing somewhat late. The gig, +according to order, was brought round to the door with +both lamps brightly shining, and the young men had to +pay their bill and take the road. They announced that +they were bound for Peebles, and drove in that direction +till they were clear of the last houses of the town; then, +extinguishing the lamps, returned upon their course, and +followed a by-road toward Glencorse. There was no sound +but that of their own passage, and the incessant, strident +pouring of the rain. It was pitch dark; here and there a +white gate or a white stone in the wall guided them for a +short space across the night; but for the most part it was +at a foot pace, and almost groping, that they picked their +way through that resonant blackness to their solemn and +isolated destination. In the sunken woods that traverse +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page296"></a>296</span> +the neighbourhood of the burying-ground the last glimmer +failed them, and it became necessary to kindle a match and +re-illumine one of the lanterns of the gig. Thus, under +the dripping trees, and environed by huge and moving +shadows, they reached the scene of their unhallowed +labours.</p> + +<p>They were both experienced in such affairs, and powerful +with the spade; and they had scarce been twenty +minutes at their task before they were rewarded by a dull +rattle on the coffin lid. At the same moment, Macfarlane, +having hurt his hand upon a stone, flung it carelessly above +his head. The grave, in which they now stood almost to +the shoulders, was close to the edge of the plateau of the +graveyard; and the gig lamp had been propped, the better +to illuminate their labours, against a tree, and on the immediate +verge of the steep bank descending to the stream. +Chance had taken a sure aim with the stone. Then came +a clang of broken glass; night fell upon them; sounds +alternately dull and ringing announced the bounding of +the lantern down the bank, and its occasional collision with +the trees. A stone or two, which it had dislodged in its +descent, rattled behind it into the profundities of the glen; +and then silence, like night, resumed its sway; and they +might bend their hearing to its utmost pitch, but naught +was to be heard except the rain, now marching to the wind, +now steadily falling over miles of open country.</p> + +<p>They were so nearly at an end of their abhorred task +that they judged it wisest to complete it in the dark. The +coffin was exhumed and broken open; the body inserted +in the dripping sack and carried between them to the gig; +one mounted to keep it in its place, and the other, taking +the horse by the mouth, groped along by wall and bush +until they reached the wider road by the Fisher’s Tryst. +Here was a faint, diffused radiancy, which they hailed like +daylight; by that they pushed the horse to a good pace +and began to rattle along merrily in the direction of the +town.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page297"></a>297</span></p> + +<p>They had both been wetted to the skin during their +operations, and now, as the gig jumped among the deep +ruts, the thing that stood propped between them fell now +upon one and now upon the other. At every repetition +of the horrid contact each instinctively repelled it with +the greater haste; and the process, natural although it +was, began to tell upon the nerves of the companions. +Macfarlane made some ill-favoured jest about the farmer’s +wife, but it came hollowly from his lips, and was allowed +to drop in silence. Still their unnatural burden bumped +from side to side; and now the head would be laid, as if +in confidence, upon their shoulders, and now the drenching +sackcloth would flap icily about their faces. A creeping +chill began to possess the soul of Fettes. He peered +at the bundle, and it seemed somehow larger than at first. +All over the country-side, and from every degree of distance, +the farm dogs accompanied their passage with tragic ululations; +and it grew and grew upon his mind that some unnatural +miracle had been accomplished, that some nameless +change had befallen the dead body, and that it was in +fear of their unholy burden that the dogs were howling.</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake,” said he, making a great effort to +arrive at speech, “for God’s sake, let’s have a light!”</p> + +<p>Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same direction; +for, though he made no reply, he stopped the horse, +passed the reins to his companion, got down, and proceeded +to kindle the remaining lamp. They had by that +time got no farther than the cross-road down to Auchenclinny. +The rain still poured as though the deluge were +returning, and it was no easy matter to make a light in +such a world of wet and darkness. When at last the +flickering blue flame had been transferred to the wick and +began to expand and clarify, and shed a wide circle of misty +brightness round the gig, it became possible for the two +young men to see each other and the thing they had along +with them. The rain had moulded the rough sacking to +the outlines of the body underneath; the head was distinct +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page298"></a>298</span> +from the trunk, the shoulders plainly modelled; something +at once spectral and human riveted their eyes upon the +ghastly comrade of their drive.</p> + +<p>For some time Macfarlane stood motionless, holding +up the lamp. A nameless dread was swathed, like a wet +sheet, about the body, and tightened the white skin upon +the face of Fettes; a fear that was meaningless, a horror +of what could not be, kept mounting to his brain. Another +beat of the watch, and he had spoken. But his comrade +forestalled him.</p> + +<p>“That is not a woman,” said Macfarlane, in a hushed +voice.</p> + +<p>“It was a woman when we put her in,” whispered +Fettes.</p> + +<p>“Hold that lamp,” said the other. “I must see her +face.”</p> + +<p>And as Fettes took the lamp his companion untied +the fastenings of the sack and drew down the cover from +the head. The light fell very clear upon the dark, well-moulded +features and smooth-shaven cheeks of a too +familiar countenance, often beheld in dreams of both of +these young men. A wild yell rang up into the night; each +leaped from his own side into the roadway: the lamp fell, +broke, and was extinguished; and the horse, terrified by +this unusual commotion, bounded and went oft toward +Edinburgh at a gallop, bearing along with it, sole occupant +of the gig, the body of the dead and long-dissected Gray.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<h5>END OF VOL. III</h5> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<hr class="full" /> +<p class="center noind" style="font-size: 65%;">PRINTED BY CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - +Swanston Edition Vol. 3 (of 25), by Robert Louis Stevenson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF STEVENSON *** + +***** This file should be named 30729-h.htm or 30729-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/7/2/30729/ + +Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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